It is late. The day’s events have delayed my attendance in shrine until long after dark, and as I light the main lamp of my shrine I find myself urged not to light any other candles. The room is dark and shadowy, and I hesitate to speak for fear my words might splinter in the silence.
In spite of the beauty and atmosphere of the shrine, I am struggling to focus. My mind is pulled several different directions. Busy days loom ahead; thoughts of Retreat rattle through my consciousness; concerns about my life drag me away from my center. I am absentminded as I tend to my Father’s Icon.
Look me in the Eyes.
I turn my gaze toward the Icon’s face, watching for a moment, then look to the next part of the Rite.
No. Look me in the Eyes.
I pause. I do.
“What if I drop something? I need to see what I’m doing, and it’s dark.”
Nonsense. You’ve done this Rite more than a hundred times. You could do it blindfolded. Keep your eyes on Mine.
I do. My hands move slowly, reaching with muscle memory for the tools of the Rite and my offerings. The words are formed carefully, with stolen glances at the ritual script to be sure I do not stumble. The face of the Icon is animated in the candle light: grinning and smirking and looking about; alive. The Rite goes flawlessly; in the darkness and silence of the shrine, Netjer is brilliant.