Her Wild Ways - Part VI
A 7-part series following a Modern Goddess-in-Training stumbling towards the Divine
Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil” - Translated from the original Aramaic:
Do not let us become lost in the illusion of separation from you, but free us from the immature consciousness that arises from that forgetting.
The final confrontation came on the last day of Iona. It was time for my un-binding ceremony. Around midday, four of us walked north toward the tallest point of the island. Our destination was Brigid’s Well. According to local lore, the Cailleach—the crone Goddess of winter and autumn—hands the seasons over to Brigid, the Goddess of spring and summer, at this sacred place.
When we arrived at the base of the mountain, the climb looked steep and intimidating. Helen decided it was too risky and stayed behind. We continued with three. The climb was practically vertical and our legs burned, hearts pounded. We followed the markers we had been looking for until we reached a small stone beehive mound, signaling that the well was nearby. Just beyond it, slightly downhill, we saw a couple taking photographs beside a small pool. We stalled a bit, then walked closer. And immediately I saw it. The shape of the water. The curve of the pond.
“Oh!” I said.
“It’s a heart!”
The man who had been photographing it turned and said:
“I didn’t even notice.”
The well sat between two enormous formations of Lewisian Gneiss, ancient metamorphic stone formed deep within the earth. A place shaped by pressure.
Heat.
Time.
Transformation.
We prepared for the ceremony. I took out the handmade journal Leslie had created for each of us and opened to the words I had written. Helen had given me the red thread. I wrapped it around my waist. I blessed it with the water from the well. The wind moved around me, but the rocks protected this small space so that it felt warm and safe. The clouds had been threatening rain. But then, as it happened again and again on this journey, the sky began to open into blue. I read:
The feeling of wanting and not receiving is ancient in me.
It started in my mother and father.
In The Mother and Father.
And it was passed down to me.
I made a good long life of it.
I danced it and I made dances for it.
I wrote books about it.
I over-functioned for it.
And I handed my husband the blame for it.
And oh, was he the perfect hook for me to hang that hat.
But today, today I forgive reality for not giving me what I want.
I forgive Mother and Father for not teaching me how to be still and whole.
Today, I love the part of me that has spent generations wanting and not receiving.
I love and unbind from wanting and not receiving.
I release myself to the island of Me.
Complete.
Surrounded by oceans.
But always steadfast and free.
With small scissors I had hidden in my pocket, I cut the thread and gathered it into a ball. Monette closed the ceremony. “You are unbound.” That was all. No thunder. No dramatic sign. Just those three words. We sat quietly beside the water. Wondering. Listening. Eventually, we gathered our things and prepared to leave. Then Nicole said softly: “I don’t really feel like leaving.” I immediately answered: “Neither do I!” Monette smiled. “Why don’t we put our feet in the water?”
The mood changed instantly. The heaviness dissolved. We laughed. We removed our shoes. We stepped into Brigid’s Well. As soon as my feet touched the water, I knew. “I’m going in!” I shouted. Looking over the hill for any unexpected visitors and finding none, I stripped off my layers and walked into the pool. The water was cool and gentle. Shallow enough that I could crawl in on my belly. I lowered myself into it completely, splashing my arms and legs, letting the water move over my head.
A baptism.
Not into a new self.
Into the self that was already there.
Soon the others joined me. Three naked women laughing and playing in a sacred spring. Three Cailleachs surrendering to Brigid. Nicole called out: “And of course the sun has come out!” She was right. The sky was open and the sun beamed on our bare breasts and bottoms.
Afterward, I wrapped my MacBean tartan scarf around my wet hair like a halo. The three of us lay on the warm earth beside the well. My feet rested near the water. My arms stretched outward. My palms faced the sky. For a moment, I noticed my body’s position. My ankle crossed over the other. My arms extended wide. Like Jesus on the cross. And then I heard a voice. Not outside me. Not exactly inside me.
Ahhh… Welcome, Sister.
Feel the blanket of love below you, on top of you, at your feet, above your head.
Sister.
Not daughter.
Not mother.
Sister.
Something shifted. She welcomed me as an equal. Not as someone searching for permission. Not as someone waiting to be chosen. My body felt every layer of the moment: The earth holding my back. The wind touching my face. The cool water lingering on my feet. The sun warming the scarf around my head. Her elements. My elements. No separation.
That afternoon in my small hotel room, I showered and slept. Twice, I woke from a deep sleep because my chest was gently shuddering. A low, involuntary trembling moved through my upper torso. I had never experienced anything like it, nor have I since. The shaking was strong enough to wake me but not frightening. It felt like a soft explosion—like a mini firework in the space around my heart going off and then sputtering out. I awoke to sunlight streaming in through my tiny vaulted hotel window.
Later, Helen, a massage therapist, explained that my chest shuddering was probably a neurogenic tremor—an involuntary muscular response associated with the body releasing tension and regulating itself. Whatever its name, I knew what it felt like. A settling. A deepening. A quieter frequency. It has stayed with me ever since.
“Something shifted. She welcomed me as an equal. Not as someone searching for permission. Not as someone waiting to be chosen.”
“Something shifted. She welcomed me as an equal. Not as someone searching for permission. Not as someone waiting to be chosen.”