Wicca might be slightly disappointing if you’re looking for a grand initiation ceremony on which to hang your proverbial pointed hat. As I said before, there are as many ways to become a witch as there are witches. Don’t get too down in the dumps, though—there are a few traditions that are widely accepted. It’s up to you to find what fits best. In fact, if you Google “Wiccan initiation” you will find a bombardment of scripts, templates, and guidelines from which to choose. There are different tactics for different situations and different kinds of covens, as well as a number of options for solitary practitioners. These traditions do not vary much in the heart of what they are, but how detailed and involved they are depends on the witches carrying them out. Some ceremonies involve dedicating oneself to a specific god or goddess, some include a sort of personal introduction to the god and goddess, some are simply a welcome into the existing community. Most involve a core ritual of clearing a space, stating your intention, and declaring your willingness to continue a lifelong journey following the Wiccan creeds.
I had no ceremony that made it official. I hadn’t necessarily ever thought of creating such a moment; I didn’t start this journey with the intention of “ending” somewhere. However, as I became more and more comfortable with what I believed and how that belief was labeled, I became more comfortable with saying out loud that I was Wiccan. At that time and place in my life, those words didn’t always bring the warm and welcoming response I would have liked. More often than not, I was treated as if it were a passing phase or a trend I was following—not the true spiritual path I felt like I was on. At times, I let this shake me a bit, let it seep into those most vulnerable places in me and tell me that where I was finding my footing wasn’t really solid ground. Every time I felt my foundation shift a bit, I would be at once disappointed and angry at myself. I knew in my heart I had found a set of beliefs that felt true; I knew the path I was on was meant for me. I just needed to find the strength not to let the dismissiveness or derision of others make me feel lesser.
In most any other religion, I realized, there would have been a “moment”—a time when I formally decided to join the community, to proclaim my commitment to a set of beliefs. As a solitary practitioner, though, such a public ceremony wasn’t in the offing for me. But I thought perhaps the movement and meaning of that kind of ritual wasn’t about the outward declaration so much as the inward promise. I had been practicing for a handful of years, and I knew I wanted to continue. But thinking that to myself was different from taking the time to truly process what it meant and honoring that decision in a more formal way. So I began researching rituals of initiation into Wicca. As I mentioned earlier, I found no shortage of resources. I read books and looked through websites, but in the end I threw most of that research away.
In the end, in my quiet little house in the middle of a quiet little street, I just did what felt right.
With the Wiccan pentacle in mind, I carefully created five cairns in my backyard. I set out a small stack of stones for each point, representing the five elements: sky, earth, wind, water, and spirit, the topmost point. I sat down in the middle, the giant Kansas sky soaring above me. I stilled my body and breathed deep. I felt the earth anchor me and the stars pull me skyward. I felt my place.
I quieted my spirit and I honored it. I thanked what surrounded me for including me in the miracle of life, of creation and forward motion—for allowing me a place in the great turn of the wheel. I promised to walk that wheel as best I could, to recognize my place in this greater miracle, and to bring light and well-being to the world as best I could as I traveled my path. I promised the ground that held me and the sky that covered me that I would remember that I, in fact, possessed no special power, no access to ruling abundance. I was part of the turning wheel, a fragment of the greater abundance of nature. I would bring light wherever and whenever I could, as small as it might be; I would draw my strength from the moon and the stars and the sun. I would use the divinity within me to celebrate and honor the divinity that surrounded me. I would do no harm.
There was no one else present, no promises I made out loud. Yet from that moment on, I held in my heart the oath I had sworn to myself. I vowed to live what was true for me, to follow this path wherever it might lead, actively seeking peace and joy along the way.
It was all I needed. I had already lived a life surrounded by the kind of grand ceremonies that inspired awe, ones that took place in even grander settings: rites led by men in ceremonial garb holding up golden treasures and speaking in ancient languages I couldn’t understand. I had sat in the homes of gods, the archways soaring above me, their stories spelled out in giant statues surrounded by candles and windows of colored glass that made me feel small. I was ready to own my own power. I was ready to make a promise to myself that I would live in that power instead of seeking it outside of myself.
I would not ever let myself feel small again.
In the years since, I have faltered on that promise a number of times. I have, at times, let circumstances both within and without my control lessen me. I have let people make me feel unimportant and unnecessary.
And yet I come back to that long-ago promise again and again. It holds me up and reminds me of who I can be: I am divine. I am powerful. I am a vital part of an ever-expanding universe whose limits are unknown and indefinable. I am one child in a long line of survivors; my mere presence is their testament. I am made of the memories of trees, of the wind, of the sun as it shone upon generations of women and men who walked before me, leaving footsteps I never saw, but whose challenges and dilemmas, whose victories and triumphs were the foundation of who I was to become.
I am but a speck in a grand image I will never see the totality of, and yet I am a creator. I, too, am leaving footprints. I, too, am clearing the way for those who will come behind. I draw on the mothers who came before me; I reach toward the children ahead. I am not alone. I am not singular. I am worthy of the power of the universe. I am myself, and that is an amazing and fantastic thing to be.
When I falter, I call upon that, on the knowledge that I am a connection. I am part of something great and grand—not because I was placed here, not because I am a dream of someone’s fraught night, but simply because I have a place on the wheel of our world. I am intertwined with all before and all ahead of me. When I need strength, I call upon that.
Rarely has that strength served me as well, or been as important, as when I was in the hospital bringing my second child into the world. Up to that point, things had been pretty easy. Both of my pregnancies had made me feel more beautiful and more connected to the greater world around me than ever before. I was participating in the greatest cycle one could; I was growing life inside me. I reveled, amazed, in the fact that the love I shared with Sam had resulted in such a miraculous and extraordinary thing. I loved being pregnant; Sam joked, when our first child was weeks late, that I was refusing to share her with the world. He was not entirely wrong.
Samaire, our oldest, was born quickly, thanks to some encouraging via castor oil and my amazing midwife. I was only in labor for a few hours and only in the hospital for forty-five minutes before I was holding my small babe. The days following her birth were the most exhausting I have ever had, yet I remember moments in which I reminded myself that I was following a path that had been carved out by other women for millennia before. I was acutely aware as I rocked my babe, as I nursed her, as Sam danced her to sleep, that we were living out a story that had been written across the ages. We would survive, and we would thrive, as others were doing all around the world. That feeling was such a powerful thing: we were absolutely not alone.
Wylie’s birth was different. My labor with him was long and frightening. He was turned, essentially stuck, his heartbeat erratic. There were what felt like throngs of doctors and nurses in my hospital room, all ready to immediately jump into action once he was out. There was talk of prepping me for a C-section, then talk of it being too late. I was horrified and scared. I had torn a ligament in my rib cage and every push was