Convening with the Gods

When I commune with the Gods, it does not feel like a one-sided conversation; rather, it is reciprocal, intimate, and profoundly alive. I do not merely speak to them – I feel their response resonating within the recesses of my heart. In those moments, I feel as though I stand with one foot in Heaven itself, suspended between mortal and transcendent, participating in something infinitely more authentic than the fleeting material world around me.

There is immeasurable solace in knowing the Gods are perpetually beside me; they are our celestial guardians, and I feel they rest upon my shoulder. I converse with them often, contemplating their presence and wondering how they are, whilst holding the unwavering conviction that they, too, look upon me with care and curiosity.

Every prayer I compose begins with the invocation, “Dear Gods of Heaven and Earth…,” a phrase which, through repetition, has become almost liturgical in its cadence, as though the mere act of writing it permits my consciousness to momentarily transcend the banalities of mortal existence. From there, my words unravel with candour and supplication alike, for I do not approach the Gods solely in moments of tranquillity, but equally amidst periods of affliction, despondency, and spiritual lassitude, when the weight of existence feels almost insurmountable. In such moments, I implore them

for guidance — to extricate me from the stagnation of my own melancholy, to fortify me through the attrition of a medical degree or even to soothe the headaches from my coffee drinking habit.

Yet even within these ostensibly worldly desires, I sense no divine reproach. Instead, I perceive an almost ineffable reassurance emanating from them, as though they understand the inescapable fragility intrinsic to human existence. They remind me that they are present to aid me in my goals, provided such desires are untainted by avarice or malice, but are instead rooted in an earnest aspiration to persevere and become the most compassionate and capable doctor I possess the fortitude to become. Their voices arrive as resonant intuitions: they desire only what is most benevolent for me. After all, I am simply human — finite, fallible, and vulnerable — whereas they are entities of incomprehensible divinity, vast beyond articulation and eternal beyond mortal conception. Every prayer concludes the same way: “My love, Etoku.”