The afternoon is crisp, and luminous.
It’s the kind of day that tricks you into thinking that you don’t need a coat, as the brightness of the sun betrays you into thinking it possess warmth.
The breeze is cool and invigorating. It whispers the promises of the coming change of season. Readying itself to begin the pollination of the fresh and fertile soil.
The window in the bathroom is slightly ajar, inviting the outside air in, like a gentle inhale.
The steam from the bath meets it, creating a mixture of aromas — wet moss, sandalwood, cedar, and hope.
There’s a quiet strength in the atmosphere. It overpowers me, as I ready myself to enter the bath to begin my blessed ritual.
I step in with bold intention.
The heat penetrates my skin, as I slowly lower myself — shins, thighs, hips, chest, hair, face, until I am completely submerged.
I linger there — my breath held steady, my heart beating like a drum in my ears. My thoughts focussed on the significance of the ritual ahead.
I emerge moments later from this baptism, breathlessly.
A sharp intake of breath brings me back into the room, and I am overcome with a feeling of anticipation, as I acknowledge beginning of the month of March.
The birth month of my long passed maternal and paternal grandmothers. The birth month of my Fairy — my soulfriend, and also that of her passing. On the 8th of March 2005. On International Women’s day.
I use the ritual to honour these three sacred souls. Honour their lives, their deaths, and the everlasting love and wisdom I continue to receive from them.
I feel their guidance, and their encouragement, with every drop of water that spills from my hands onto my bare and thirsty skin. It soaks into each and every pore, filling me with their acceptance.
I am entrenched with a feeling of immense peace with each and every penetrating wave.
If you were here, what would strike you most about this moment?
Would it be the sense of calm and stillness in the room?
The way each movement is charged with purpose? With intention?
Would you see the tears merged with the water cascading down my face as those of grief? Of mourning the lives of the loves that I have lost?
Or would you see them as an outpouring of celebration and gratitude for having experienced their nurturing for the decades I did when they were here, on this plane with me?
Who would you remember with such reverence?
Would the joy of having been loved by them outweigh the pain of having lost them?
I pick up the soap. I lather it in my hands with purpose.
I am transported back in time as I knead the soap into my shoulders, my elbows, and my underarms.
I am in Rocky Mount — North Carolina. I am in Devon — Pennsylvania. I am in Ardmore, Bryn Mywar, Mount Pleasant Avenue — all the places that informed my childhood with the strength of matriarchal power and discipline from the great women who came before me.
I am in Chiswick. 42 Silver Crescent. Whispering secrets and receiving confessions in the sunflower yellow bedroom, beneath the covers of my Fairy’s teenage bed.
I am safe.
I am nurtured.
I am held.
As my washcloth massages the suds into my skin, washing away the pressures of the day, I clearly hear my ancestors whispering messages of power into my ears.
Reminding me that I am of them. That I possess all the strength and power that I require to get me through the day, the week, the month, the year.
That they are ever present, walking alongside me.
Leading me.
Guiding me.
Allowing themselves to be guided by me through my life’s journey.
The water rushes over me, rinsing away the needless feelings that have built up over the week.
Guilt.
Shame.
Regret.
Sadness, and inadequacy, that I have allowed to permeate my body for far too long.
It replaces them with the truth.
The truth of power. Of strength. Of acceptance. Wisdom, knowledge, and courage.
Of the lessons learned through experience and teaching.
The water cleanses away the negative self perception that I as a woman burden myself with unnecessarily each and every day.
My hands move reverently across my body with self gratitude.
Gratitude for the women who have taught me grace. Compassion. Empathy, and nurturing.
Patience, and kindness.
I am reminded to take on these attributes for myself.
I allow the steam to fill me with the affirmations that my elders instilled in me during my times with them.
I am blessed.
I belong to my own becoming.
I am worthy of love.
I am deserving of respect.
I am woman in all her glory.
What would you celebrate about yourself if you were here with me now?
Who would you call upon to provide you with the reassurance that you are enough?
Would your heart and mind be ready to accept the wisdom they impart?
The light fades.
The air shifts.
My body relaxes further into the healing water.
My limbs feel weightless, as if the water has replaced gravity, and my body is able to float beneath the surface — Suspended in warmth and comfort, in this amniotic space.
It is in this moment that I acknowledge that love never dies.
That energy is eternal.
That my ancestors and loved ones who have physically left this realm, remain in the lessons they taught me. The knowledge they gave me. The love that I received from them and the love that emanates from me as a result.
Acceptance isn’t a destination, it’s a tangible thing that is chosen daily.
Compassion isn’t weakness, it’s the ultimate strength.
Kindness isn’t simply an adjective or a noun. It’s a verb. It’s an action.
As I pull the plug, I thank the water for what it has taught me. For holding me. Keeping me safe. Covering me in love and light.
I watch the water spiral down the drain, taking with it the junk I chose to unburden today.
I am left feeling lighter. Freer. Unburdened.
Safe in the knowledge that as long as I choose acceptance, compassion, and kindness, these attributes will be present in every interaction I find myself in.
As I stand next to the bath, bare, the water creating rivulets as it drips down my skin, I take in a deep, renewing breath. I allow the lessons that the bath taught to fill me entirely with each breath.
I’m left feeling content. Comfortable. Grounded.
Filled with gratitude for the time spent communing with my loved ones. With the women who have left an indelible mark on my heart through their legacy of strength and determination.
I whisper their names to myself, along with a reverent thank you.
For holding me.
For nurturing me.
For knowing me at my very core.
As the last of the water leaves the tub, I stand in the softened light.
The lessons of the bath cling to my skin like warmth —
ancestral, unwavering, alive.
This is the moment before sealing.
Before devotion becomes embodiment.
Before memory becomes touch.
The oil waits for me the way a blessing waits for an open palm —
patient, glowing, certain.
If you were here, standing in this quiet with me,
what would you want to seal into your skin today?
What wisdom would you carry forward with you?
I reach for the towel,
ready to begin the next part of the ritual —
the anointing,
the claiming,
the soft, deliberate choosing of myself.
The water has taught me.
Now the oil will remind me.