A body oil ritual story of blessing, acceptance, lineage and sealing softness into the skin.
The Anointing is the second story in The Ritual Notes circle — a written ritual for the moment after the bath, when the body is warm, open and ready to be honoured.
Read slowly. Let the oil become memory, blessing and choice.
Alternatively scroll to the end of the story to listen to the audio version
The air still holds the warmth of the bath. It clings to my skin like a memory, like a blessing.
Droplets trail slowly down my body. Each one carrying a piece of the truth the water whispered to me.
The room feels different now. It's calmer. Brighter.
It's as if my Grandmothers and my Fairy are here.
Watching.
Smiling.
Waiting for me to take the next step.
I reach for the oil.
The bottle is warm in my hands.
Golden in the softened light.
It's as if the sunlight has been captured within it, like lineage preserved.
If you were here, sitting here in the quiet with me, What part of yourself would you honour first?
What truth would you ask the oil to seal permanently into your skin?
I take a slow, deep breath, and allow the aromas of the oil to flood my senses.
This blend is sharp with citrus notes.
Grapefruit, lime, and clementine, with delicate lemon undertones.
A faint hint of basil teases through, tickling my nostrils with each intake of breath.
As I exhale, I ready myself to begin the ritual of anointing.
Of accepting.
Of becoming.
Of blessing the woman I am and the women from whom I came.
I pour the oil into my hands.
I send a silent prayer to my feminine lineage.
As I rub my hands together, I call these women to the space surrounding me.
I ask them to guide me.
To bear witness to the sealing of the gifts of comfort and care that the water bestowed upon me.
I begin by tracing a small cross in the centre of my forehead.
Anointing myself the way my paternal Grandmother did, each and every time she saw me.
It's my way of honouring her.
Letting her know that I am aware of her everlasting presence in my life.
With that simple gesture, I am further grounded.
Further reminded that this practice is entirely for me.
It is my sacred exercise in releasing the things that no longer serve me, no longer bring value to my being, or peace to my soul.
A reminder to discard the lies that expectation has placed upon me.
That my value lies solely in what I can offer to others.
That my acceptance is contingent on the opinions of my peers.
That I must give wholly of myself, in order to deserve abundance.
If you were here with me, in this sacred space, what lies about yourself would you choose to confront?
What would that confrontation look like?
What would it sound like?
Would it be fierce and overt, like the roar of a lioness?
Or would it be steadfast and delicate? Floating through the air like the wings of a hummingbird?
I oil my stomach first.
The part of my body that has endured the most.
The agony of disease.
The fear of uncertainty.
As I tenderly rub the oil into each fold, each crease, each crevice, I visualise the agony and the fear dissipating.
Evaporating.
Melting away into the ether, as the oil penetrates through my skin.
I rub until the feelings of fear and agony are replaced with feelings of certainty.
Of healing.
I accept that this is the source of intuition and
the blessing of creation.
I send out words of forgiveness to my long departed colon.
I acknowledge that it served a vital function until it stopped working for me.
Until it started to kill me, slowly, from the inside.
I bid it farewell, and thank it for serving its purpose for the years that it did.
Next, my hands hover above my ileostomy.
My Ruby Red Stoma, that saved and changed my life.
I am immediately filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
It's visceral, like a punch to the guts, in the most ironic of ways.
The love I feel for this artificial opening in my abdomen, concealed by my black satin pouch, is all consuming.
The sheer intensity of this love emanating from my stomach causes me to smile. Then giggle, then laugh out loud, uncontrollably until my abdominal muscles are pleading with my brain to stop.
I am reminded of the decades of pain and discomfort that I was forced to endure, as my ailments were reduced to me "seeking attention".
The countless doctors who couldn't see past the archetypal hypochondriac woman, hysterical in the recounting of her pain.
As I rub the oil into the part of my body which has been the cause of such turmoil, such trauma, I am reminded that it also grew two perfectly imperfect humans from scratch.
And with this I am able to I massage my stomach with the love and tenderness it deserves.
Do you ever give thanks to the parts of your body that cause you pain?
Are you able to acknowledge how your body continues to work for you, even when it feels like it's your sworn enemy?
How do you reconcile that constant contradiction?
Is it even possible?
I move to my legs.
The oil is warm and slick.
My hands transfer the affirmations from my subconscious into my muscles.
I am strong.
I am powerful.
I carry the wisdom of a millennia of women.
Their ability to overcome hardships and adversity is present and alive in me.
If you were here I would ask you to tell me
what strengths inside you go unnoticed by the world?
How does the discovery of that strength feel on your skin?
Does it burn with the fire of certainty, or does it cool with the sense of acknowledgement?
I pause with my hands resting gently on my thighs,
the oil glowing softly where the light touches it.
My skin feels warm, alive, awake —
as if every drop has travelled deeper than muscle,
deeper than bone,
into the parts of me that needed to be reminded
that I am still here.
Still whole.
Still worthy.
The room is quiet again,
but it is not the same quiet I stepped into earlier.
This quiet feels inhabited —
by memory,
by strength,
by the women who carried me,
and the woman I am still becoming.
My palms settle on my hips,
feeling the heat I've coaxed into my own skin.
This is love.
This is gratitude.
This is worship in its purest form.
If you were here beside me,
I would ask you:
What truth is rising in you now?
What part of your body is finally ready
to be met with softness?
What story would you bless,
if you let your own hands speak to your skin the way mine are speaking to me?
I smooth the last of the oil over my arms,
from shoulder to wrist,
slow, steady, intentional —
anchoring the warmth,
sealing the lessons,
claiming the body that carries my lineage forward.
The air shifts.
The light deepens.
A calm settles over me like a shawl.
I whisper a final thank you —
to my ancestors,
to my organs,
to the body that stayed,
to the woman who survived enough to be standing here,
glistening,
breathing,
ready.
The oil has finished its work.
My skin hums with remembrance and renewal.
And as the ritual draws to its close,
I feel the gentle pull of what comes next.
The dressing.
The becoming.
The honouring of this beautifully human form
with fabric chosen not out of obligation
but devotion.
If you were here, watching me take this next breath,
what would you choose to wrap yourself in today?
What layer would help you meet the world
with softness,
with strength,
with the quiet confidence of a human who knows their worth?
I reach for the first piece of clothing,
its colour deep,
its texture sure,
and I smile to myself.
The oil has taught me.
Now the fabric will remind me.
If you'd like to move deeper into this ritual, a small collection of complementary pieces has been gathered for you.