I'm sure we've all seen or imagined the notion of initiation, whether it be through the lens of popular culture, or from perhaps more enlightened or experienced sources. The word relates to beginnings and conjures all sorts of images - dark rooms and robed individuals, candles and secrets or oaths bound in blood. The reality is rarely as theatrical or staged, though there are certainly traditions out there who swear their members to secrecy and may well engage in such practices. For me, though, initiations have always been about transitions. Thresholds and gateways I've moved through, sometimes consciously and sometimes not, delineating a before, and an after. The point of an initiation is, for me, that I am changed in some way.
It is common to think of initiation as a conscious choice. Often it is treated as a marker or a gateway. We might be showing our community that we have moved into a new phase of life. We might be marking a commitment - to a path, to another person or just to one's own community or self. These initiations can take many forms. They can be solitary, intimate a few words carefully chosen, perhaps a candle lit. They can also be ostentatious, community affairs - public rituals still exist for individuals to make their commitments.
The eve of the Summer Solstice - friends from our Grove have kept a vigil all night, and I have fasted for the previous day. It is 3 in the morning when we leave and we still have an hour before dawn as we arrive at Stonehenge - the giant's ring. The sunrise seems almost unremarkable being hidden behind cloud that stretches from horizon to horizon, but we meet the dawn with the crows nonetheless. The Gorsedd rite - familiar to me by now - is smoothly carried out. Offerings to the circle and to the season, poetry, song, handfastings... and initiations into the Gorsedd of Bards of Cor Gawr.
I take my place - a circle facing out within a circle of community, facing in. We take the pledge:
"We swear by peace and love to stand,
Heart to heart and hand in hand,
Mark, o Spirit and hear us now,
Confirming this, our sacred vow"
This marks one of my first and most significant steps into this tradition. I am not to know its significance at the time, but like a stone in water, its ripples spreading out, this marks a foundational transition in my life.
While we may think of initiation as a deliberate act, my experience is that it doesn't have to be. Life sometimes has a way of marking a change without a person's conscious intent. Sometimes circumstances just converge to create an act or a memory that serves, later in life, to similarly mark change.
The journey to Tintagel was madness - driving rain and wind - but the hotel has been warm and welcoming, the food good and the company better. Several talks later, the music began and is now winding down, it's an ending. The singer - a wild woman from the moors - gathers us into the central space. A dance floor. We stand in concentric wings, unsure what to expect. A rhythm starts, low and slow like the heartbeat of some great mammal, and is soon followed by a single chant:
Buzzard call you back to the wild land, heron fly you home.
Journey to the soul of your own land, where the mothers wait for your return,
Heron fly you home.
It repeats. Over and over. More voices join, harmonising. The refrain builds until it pours onto us like water, like rain. Finally we stop, and the air in the room clears. Something like a space opens above us, containing whatever it is we've woven together. Nobody speaks at first... and then the singer breaks the spell, releasing and thanking us. As we disperse, each of us carries that moment forward, perhaps unsure what it marks, but unmistakably different somehow.
Sometimes, life just gets big, and we find ourselves fumbling in the dark or falling through space. At times like this anchoring ourselves in space and time can give a sense of stability. If we discover that our life has changed around us - whether we agree with it or not - we might find that marking the change can help give us the tools to move through with some measure of grace.
Wittenham Clumps stand over the surrounding landscape. A pair of hills that once served as a fortress in the bronze and iron ages - their symbolism is unmistakable. I arrive in the early evening. It's late summer and the sun has not yet set as I make my way up the path into the beech wood. My mind is full - the last few months I have not stopped. A relationship unexpectedly ended means I've been trying to bring some sense of order to my life. I did not know how badly I need to find a space in the wild. The woods are blessedly empty and the space between the trees opens and holds me as I settle. No fires. No food or caffeine for the prior day. I settle in for the night.
The car park is full as the moon rises. A group of kids have driven up. They play music in their cars, unaware of me and unwilling to come further up into the woods. I'm anxious as I imagine what they might think, but eventually they leave and I'm alone. Just me, the owls and the full moon. I eventually fall asleep and I do not dream.
At some point I wake to the sound of a baby crying. Or is it a fox screaming? It's hard to say. I'm slightly delirious and unsure what the time is, but the stars are incredible.. I think I fall asleep again and wake some time before it's light, to the sound of the dawn chorus.
The light returns and the woods begin to wake up... I rouse myself and move, bringing warmth back to my limbs. As I drive away there are weasels in the road - a mother and babies. I find a friend's kitchen as the world begins to wake. We exchange few words over tea and bread with dates in, letting the experience settle. I am empty. I feel like a cracked egg. Marking the moment has allowed me to make space for what comes next, and there is no need yet to fill it.