Some will say this is idolatry, but they will happily plunge into a murky river or wash their faces with stale shady water dripping into a basin, from the stalactite growing underneath the plumbing of an old, very, very old ancient building, and call that blessing.
I call this being washed by my mom at the house my parents built, with sweet scented herbs and weeds from the land my ancestors could appreciate better than the people that enslaved them. The very same way their ancestors used to in the land they were stolen from.
This is my typa blessing
Afterward I washed my son
The same way my mom washed me
So this is his typa blessing too
