Seeds and Ceremonies

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”  This ancient proverb, attributed to the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, resonates deeply with me right now.  Last autumn, I took that step by applying to Rites and Rituals Scotland, hoping to join their training and become a ceremonialist.  Acceptance opened new doors, leading to last month’s first session: learning about the ‘Art of Ceremony & Ritual.’

Not starting from scratch

Every new undertaking has a learning curve, and this is no exception.  As a funeral celebrant, I’m not starting from scratch; I know how to hold space for people in vulnerable moments.  Still, the Rites and Rituals training asks something new of me - something I can’t define yet.  It’s not just about skills, but also peeling back layers, exploring new questions, and discovering unseen parts of myself - spiritually, creatively, and professionally.njoys stepping into a character, this was a different level of challenge, because the stakes, even in practice, feel surprisingly real.  We met a couple for the first time (or rather, we played at meeting a couple for the first time), and immediately I understood why this is another skill that needs to be practised and honed.  How do you put two people at ease?  How do you listen not just to what they're saying but to what they're not saying?

An altar built on trust

Part two of the training took place in late February, under the theme ‘New Beginnings.’  My fellow trainee, Fleur, and I were tasked with creating an altar.  The lead-up involved no small amount of handwringing and gnashing of teeth.  We worried about doing it right and making it meaningful.  In the end, we set aside the overthinking and trusted ourselves, and that was the lesson.  Our altar became meaningful and reminded me that when it comes to things rooted in feeling and intention, I need to trust myself - the natural way usually works best.

Childhood memories

The first day was one of introspection, and, if I can coin a word, outrospection too.  We were asked to bring a childhood photograph and an object that represents who we are now.  I chose a photo of myself at around nine or ten, performing a skit with my sister and two friends who were as close to us as a sister and brother.  Looking at it brought back happy memories of a genuinely happy childhood, but it also stirred something else - a reminder that I was often a confused and shy child, not always sure of what was happening around me or why.

Meeting my younger self

Following the photo reflection, what happened next was unexpected: Lindy guided us through a meditation and took us to meet our younger selves, and what unfolded was nothing short of a revelation.  There I was, sitting with wee me, holding her hands, the two of us grinning like fools at each other.  I got to speak to her and thank her for being the clever, brave girl she was.  She gave me the answer to my childhood confusion, which, if you'll forgive me, I'll keep to myself for now.  I didn't want to come back into the room, and I've made a vow to return to her more often.  It was a beautiful and poignant few minutes.  We wrote letters to our younger selves and burned them in ceremony.

Planting my words

We then shared our present-day objects with each other before sitting down to write a letter to our future selves.  And true to the ethos of Rites and Rituals, a ceremony was built around the moment.  When our letters were written, we planted them beneath freshly sown seeds of our own choosing (mine, a giant sunflower), blessing them and tucking them below the soil to take root alongside whatever was about to grow.

To me, the symbolism was powerful: a seed doesn't force itself into bloom - it surrenders to the conditions around it, trusts the process, and grows in its own time.  Placing my words and intentions into that earth felt like an act of faith; a promise to myself that I am also in the process of becoming something and making the right choices.  The past, the present, the future - all held together in a single small pot of soil.

None of it is filler

And this is what I would like to say about this training: none of it is filler.  There is no tokenism here, no activities crowbarred in to pad out a weekend.  Every single element is intentional and designed to teach us, from the inside out, what 'intention' actually means.  What ceremony feels like when it's authentic.  How to create a moment that lands in the body and in the heart, as well as the mind.  We're not just being taught about ceremony - we are living it.

Day one ended with Fleur and me practising our New Beginnings ceremonies by Loch Long in Arrochar.  We laughed, teared up, reassured each other, and even entertained some locals with our off-key singing.

Storytelling for ceremonialists: a lesson in humility

Day two focused on storytelling and ceremony, and if day one cracked me open emotionally, day two humbled me professionally.  Storytelling seems simple, but crafting a compelling narrative on the spot is a real skill for a ceremonialist.  It's not just about the words on the page - it's about the movement of the body, the rise and fall of the voice, the pace, the pause, the sprinkle of drama.  I should know all this as I attend a Toastmasters speaking club, but it’s easier said than done when unplanned.  I came away from the day with a healthy respect, a healthy dose of humility, and the determination to practise storytelling - aloud and often.

Step away from the notes

And then came the moment we'd been building towards - our New Beginnings ceremonies.  I had written mine for a dear friend who is about to make the bold move from the mainland to Shetland, and I had prepared my opening carefully, chosen my words with intention, felt quietly confident about where I was going to begin.

And then Lindy told us to put our notes to one side.  Of course she did.

What's the lesson?  That ceremony lives in the space between the words, as much as in the words themselves.  The opening moments of any ceremony are everything.  They are where you gather your people, where you bring them out of their busy heads and into the present moment, where you ground them, centre them, and set the intention for everything that is about to unfold.  That cannot be read from a page.  It must come from somewhere far more instinctive than that.

Climbing the learning curve

So yes, the learning curve is steep, but despite the challenges, I find that I'm climbing toward something, and, thankfully, so far, I don't feel I'm struggling to keep up.

So, advance warning to all majestic trees in my local park and Izzy dog – get your listening ears on cause I’m gonna be telling you stories.

And Weekend Three, I'm coming for you!