Bridgets Well

The road to Liscannor, where Bridgets “original” well was said to be, was long and winding.  The final mile or so completed when we asked the bus driver to drop us where there was no stop, and pick us back up in 2 hours time, again, where there is no scheduled stop.  Bridgets well was the one place I wanted to be sure we visited on our short and spontaneous trip to Ireland. This was a small well, and not one on the marked tourist map.  We found it by asking a lady back at the gallery in town where and how we might get there. She suggested the bus drivers were usually accommodating when possible.

Brigid — Saint, Goddess, keeper of fire and water, midwife of rebirth — lives in those waters. The air hums with prayer — thick, living prayer. The flowing water glistens with tears left behind. Every stone carries a story. Every ribbon tied to a branch is a small act of faith fluttering in the wind. The entry way was filled with photos, mementos, ribbons, prayer beads, deities, and all manner of personal objects of love.  

After acknowledging and praying at all the beautiful prayers  and items left behind, I slipped off my shoes and stepped into the well.  I felt transported to another place and time.  I felt the grief, the gratitude, the mystery, the fear. All the things!  With a prayer and a song I began to submerge all the sacred items I’d brought with me.

First, all thirteen white, embroidered hankies (thank you Mimi!) A few for me, and the bulk for my dear group of my ladies back home praying for my recovery.  I dunked them into the the water and let it soak up healing.  I immersed a small bag filled with rose quartz, crystals and stones and a couple precious rings of my beloved back home.  Hoping to imbue them with the vibration of this place — that fierce, tender love that knows no separation.  And then, my prayer ties — small bundles of color and intention, then tied to the surrounding trees with breath and prayer.

The longer I stood in that sacred pool, the less I felt like a visitor and the more I felt like a remembering.  I swear the veil thinned — and I could sense the women before me, centuries of pilgrims, priestesses, mothers, and healers, all stepping barefoot into this same current, all asking to be made whole again.

I stood there for a long while , feeling the boundary between me and the sacred dissolve. It wasn’t about asking for healing anymore. It was about remembering that I already belong to it.

When I finally stepped back onto land, I didn’t exactly feel cured, but I felt and ancient spirit, I felt both held and received.

Somewhere deep within, Brigid placed a hand on my heart and reminded me of what I have be journaling about since the beginning this cancer journey, “You were never broken. You were becoming.”