I broke an arrow with my neck...

“Arrow Breaking Ceremony” were the words I saw written on the festival’s itinerary.

Immediately I felt my bodily pendulum pull me towards an internal yes — and yet my heart raced.

I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew it would be big.

In the rain, a group of women arrived upon a grassy knoll awaiting instruction.

Elders, mothers, girls yet to have their first bleed, women of all ages gathered together;

the anticipatory energy of what was to come filling each of us.

In the centre was a patterned red fabric, upon which rested a collection of arrows, 5 wooden blocks, and a woven basket of different coloured thread.

Two women, a guide and her assistant, stood in the centre describing the process of ritual arrow breaking.

The leader, the guide, began — her voice calm, steady.

“The purpose of an Arrow Breaking Ceremony is to ritually break through what is obstructing your path forward.”

I nodded just to myself, reflecting on my journey up until this point.

All the pain, sorrow, grief, and trauma I had endured arising in my mind.

“You will come together in pairs” she continued.

“One of you will hold up a wooden block a few feet away, while the other will place the metal part of the arrow at the fleshy base of your neck.”

She went on to describe the intentions we were to set, the breathing practice we were to do, and the stance we were to take.

With her assistant standing beside her holding a 6 inch wooden block, she placed the arrow at her throat as she had previously described. The other end of the arrow was pressed against the wooded block holding it in place.

Breathing in, she raised her arms above her head, and upon her exhale, she stepped forward pressing her neck into the arrow with such a force that it bowed upwards until…

*SNAP!*

… the arrow broke in half.

“… And then you will switch places, and the other one of you will have the opportunity to break your own arrow.”

My eyes widened as I gazed at the red mark on her throat where the arrow had been.

Could I actually do this? Break an arrow with my neck?

Motioning to her assistant, they swapped positions while each of us watched as a new arrow was placed, demonstrating the initiatory ritual we were all about to do.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A sacred step forward before the arrow once again bowed upwards until…

*SNAP!*.

Laying on the ground at their feet were 2 arrows in 4 pieces.

I gulped.

“Once you have both completed your arrow break, you can each gather up the pieces, and use a string from the basket fasten them together.”

We looked around at one another. Anxiety pulsing through our veins.

It was time.

We took a moment to centre ourselves and connect with our intentions before the first 5 pairs stepped forward; 10 women grounding in the centre while the rest of us watched, holding the ceremonial space.

Here we were.

Some 40 women in a lush green mountainous forest.

Gathered to receive the medicine of what it means to face fear head on.

A ritual.

A ceremony.

A prayer.

To help each of us move passed a blockage —

a wound,

a fear;

something keeping us small, stuck, and immobile.

I stood still for a moment and allowed my mind to quiet itself.

What was my intention going to be?

What fears did I carry with me that I hadn’t already faced?

What is it that I desperately needed to call in?

Somewhere deep inside I heard an angelic voice ring out:

“hope”, was all it said.

Exhaling, I closed my eyes.

Yes. This was it.

Hope. The courage to dream a new dream, without the fear that I would be met with tragedy once again.

Hope. The mental action of releasing attachment to any outcomes,

to pray, wish, and dream again…

even If it does end in tragedy.

Hope. To try again. To stand back up. To continue living. To believe that there is still beauty to be seen, held, and experienced.

Waves of emotion rose within me as I understood what I was to ritually break through in just a few moments.

To move passed the fear shackling me in place.

With hope in my heart I could find out what lay on the other side, if only I had the courage to step forward and face what scared me.

It was clear to me in that moment:

The point wasn’t to avoid hard things at all costs —

it was to continue to dream,

to hope,

and so that’s what I prayed.

As I stepped up alongside another sister, I found myself with a nervous feeling in my belly.

My partner went first, bringing the arrow to the resting place upon her throat while I lifted up the wooden block.

We held one another’s gaze intently, not looking away for even a second.

Nodding to one another, we steadied our stance.

She inhaled, her piercing blue-green eyes gripping mine.

Exhaling, she stepped forward. The arrow bowed upwards before us, as we both waited for the snap we knew was to come.

Another breath, then another, and another — without a break.

Our eyes widened in fear.

The arrow still pressed up against her throat when finally…

*SNAP!*

the arrow fell to the Earth in two pieces.

Erupting in screams of celebration and amazement, we jumped into each others arms.

Waves of relief hit us both, but they did not last for long.

We were still in ceremony, and now it was time for her to hold the block for me.

In my hands held an arrow.

Dulled at the metal pointed end,

into my throat it was directed.

The woman in front of me held the 6 inch piece of wood so that the arrow could remain in place, acting as a grounding rod of stability connecting this ritual to the Earth.

A force that I were to push against with the base of my throat, breaking the arrow as I was about to step forward.

Millions of thoughts raced through my mind —

The one on repeat kept saying,

“It isn’t safe to have an arrow at my throat like this. I am going to die.”

Even though I knew it wouldn’t actually kill me — I still felt that it could and, under any other circumstances, likely would.

It’s not every day you put an arrow to your throat, and I could deeply feel the primal reactive force grew within me; the natural human desire to orient away from death was beyond deafening.

Still, I placed the arrow upon the soft spot at the base my neck, between my clavicles, just above my breast bone, and I readied myself to break the arrow.

I took a breath.

Then another.

And another.

Exhale.

Step forward.

And with the strength of my throat coupled with the conviction of hope in my heart, the arrow snapped — but not before bowing in-front of us, erupting a moment of doubt.

The thing that could have killed me —

this, now broken, arrow laying upon the Earth,

— didn’t.

It brought me back to 15 months earlier when I was dying of sepsis in childbirth…

with the knowledge that my first born son had already passed away inside of me.

The thing that almost killed me,

literally & figuratively,

didn’t.

The thing I never thought I could survive,

the loss of a child,

I am.

Why?

Because I stepped forward,

and continued to do so.

This arrow brought me right back to that —

This honouring of all that I have survived up until this point.

To continue to walk forward after a tragedy is to dream a new dream,

to have hope.

And hope is, in and of itself,

a prayer for a future that you know you will live to see —

To hope is to know that you WILL survive,

And I did,

And I am,

And so are you.

We screamed, and jumped, and cried as we held each other once we completed our arrow breaks.

Red marks left behind on our throats were the only evidence of our ritual,

of our courage,

— other than our broken arrow keepsakes of course.

Each woman showed up with their own fears, anxieties, and excitements.

For some, the break was easeful, while for others it took a few tries to really step into their strength.

Many cried afterwords, some had emotional releases beforehand, others stepped forward and found that the arrow didn’t break at all…

not this time anyway.

With each woman and girl that showed up to this ritual, we sang and chanted — cheering for every broken arrow as well as every arrow that was still intact.

We held each other in celebration, in sorrow, in grief, and in tenderness.

What could have killed us,

be it the arrows we faced on this day or some other tragic event beforehand,

didn’t.

Here each of us stood in strength.

A testament to the endurance of women —

to stretch beyond what we think we can,

to survive in the harshest of circumstances,

to expand our capacities and hold more depth,

to step forward even when we can barely crawl,

and to speak even when our voices shake.

The ritual finally came to a close with a prayer when the rain stopped.

Hugging one another and gathering up our things, we all headed back towards the main festival…

and as we looked up, decorating the sky before us, were 3 rainbows.

Howls of celebration could be heard echoing through the trees.

The beauty of colour after a storm.

Mother Nature herself, paining the sky with hope.

“Good things come in 3’s” I could hear my grandmother’s spirit whisper to me.

A woman who chose to dream, wish, and love after loss.

She dared to hope again, even after her 3rd son died of leukaemia…

she chose to have more children,

knowing just how painful it would be if she was to burry another one —

It was her hope that carried her forward,

— and good thing too,

because had she not, my mother would have never been born,

and neither would I …

or Floyd.