Rituals that Hold What Words Cannot
When the Ocean Calls Us Home
There are moments life shapes in such a way that they are impossible to plan for… moments stitched from love, loss, and the unshakable knowing that we are more than our time on earth.
Today marks one of those moments for me.
The day my son was welcomed by the Pacific Ocean.
I stood on the shore, as I had so many times before, watching the sea move in her ancient rhythm. In years past, I watched from this same place as he surfed, dove deep, and surfaced with joy in his hands. Sometimes a fish, sometimes just the delight of having been fully embraced by the water. I prayed for his safety then, holding space for his protection. Today, I held space for something greater: the continuation of his journey, the meeting of his spirit with the great, breathing body of the ocean.
The Teachings Hidden in Loss
Grief, in its purest form, is a teacher.
It strips away the unnecessary, the distractions, and the illusions we thought mattered. It asks us to live honestly, because every breath becomes more precious. It opens our eyes to what remains: connection, beauty, love and the sacredness in the most ordinary moments.
I have learned that grief is not something to “move on” from. It is something to move with. Like the tide, it rises and falls. And in its rhythm, it carves out a deeper capacity for compassion, patience, and presence.
Loss has taught me that the medicine we seek is often within us:
Our willingness to feel fully without trying to rush the ache away.
Our capacity to witness beauty even in the shadows.
Our choice to keep showing up for life, for each other, for the earth.
Ritual as a Bridge
The day I returned my son to the Pacific was a ritual. Not because I followed a prescribed set of steps, but because I entered it with intention. Ritual is not only ceremony, it is the act of crossing into a moment aware, awake, and willing to meet it with our whole self.
When we approach life this way, everyday actions become sacred:
lighting a candle at sunset, placing flowers on the water, breathing with the wind, speaking aloud the name of someone we love.
These acts do not heal us in the sense of erasing pain. Rather, they make space for the pain to live beside love. In this way, the medicine is not the candle, or the flower, or the water. The medicine is us. Our presence, our courage, our choice to open.
How to Honour Through Your Own Medicine
Listen to Your Heart’s Timing
There is no right day or hour to honour someone or something you’ve lost. Notice when your body and spirit feel called, and respond.Choose an Element That Speaks to You
For me, it was the ocean. For you, it may be earth, fire, wind, or sky. Let nature hold what words cannot.Bring a Piece of Yourself
This could be a story, a song, a poem, a prayer. It could be your bare feet on the earth, your breath moving with the waves, or tears that fall like rain.Acknowledge the Ripple
Speak aloud how the person or experience touched others, directly and indirectly. This keeps the thread of connection alive.Stay a While
Ritual is not rushed. Allow yourself time to simply be, without expecting a “result.” The medicine is in the being.
The Ocean Keeps Him
When I meet the ocean now, I feel him…playful, free, and whole. I see him in the light dancing on the waves, in the strength of the swell, in the endless pull of the tide. I remember that he is not gone; he is simply shared woven now into water, into air, into every place love is felt.
May we each remember that our presence, our choice to meet life with reverence, and our willingness to love deeply… are all the medicine we need. Love heals.
