Divine Feminine and The Temple of Asherah

But temples crumble, and history is written by those who fear wild women and men who dare worship them.

So the stones were scattered, the goddess’ name whispered only in secret, and her altars left to gather dust.

Yet the Temple of Asherah survives—in the eyes of every woman who claims her own body, in the voice of every man who kneels before something greater than pride. It endures in every act of radical tenderness, every vow made not in shame but in truth.

You don’t need ruins or relics to find this temple.

You build it with every honest word, every sacred touch, every time you choose devotion over domination, creation over control.

The Temple of Asherah was never just a building.

It was a living body—a garden grown wild with sacred olive trees and fig vines, the air thick with incense and stories.

Here, priestesses and seekers would gather beneath moon and torchlight, their voices rising in song, prayer, and laughter. They washed away old wounds in milk and honey, spoke their deepest truths, and found strength in vulnerability.

Rituals of Asherah were a reclamation—a way to take back what the world had tried to shame or silence.

To kneel here was not to surrender power, but to join it.

To stand in her presence was to remember that love, desire, and creation itself are not sins, but sacred birthrights.

Asherah. Some call her the “Queen of Heaven,” others the lost Mother whose name was almost erased from every holy book. She was there before the ink dried, before gods went to war and stories were rewritten. In her temple, there was no shame in the feminine, no apology for power, hunger, or the full bloom of desire.

Men and women alike came to her sanctuaries—not with bowed heads and guilt, but with hearts hungry for healing, for truth, for the blessing of being seen. The pillars of her temple were carved not just with symbols, but with secrets—each one a promise, a memory, a whispered spell to call the lost and the longing back home.