The Womb as the First Altar

Opening Reflection

I have come to understand that before we ever built altars of stone or covered tables with white cloth,
there was the altar of the womb.
She is the first magical portal, the co-creator, the original cauldron.

I didn’t understand this in my younger years.
When I began my spiritual journey and learned about altars and shrines,
I had no womb connection.
I prayed at altars, but rarely prayed as one.

By the time I recognized that my womb held power, she was gone—
and in my mind, my power had been sealed away somewhere in a surgery-room memory.
I still saw my womb as an organ lost, instead of what she truly is: Spirit.

Now I know—Spirit never left me.
She simply waited for me to remember.

The womb is not just a place within the body.
She is the first altar—
the holy rhythm of becoming and unbecoming,
the keeper of cycles,
the echo of every woman who has ever created, carried, or dreamed life into being.

Even without her physical walls, her current moves through me still—
in my words, in my healing,
in every small act of tending to myself as sacred ground.

It is no mistake that Yemoja—the Orisa of the womb and its waters—is my mother.
She is the perfect embodiment of the womb in spirit.
Through Her, I’ve learned that the womb is not bound by flesh or form.
It is fluid, expansive, eternal—flowing through all who are born of Her waters.

Living Devotion

Once I accepted that my womb was not gone but transformed,
I started living with more intention—
seeing every act of care as an offering.

I no longer reserved devotion for ritual days or shrine work.
It became woven into the rhythm of my life.
When I cook, I bless the food with peace.
When I clean, I am clearing space for Spirit to flow.
When I rest, I honor my body as sacred ground.

This is what womb healing looks like now—
not the return of what was lost, but the remembrance of what has always been holy.

It taught me that devotion doesn’t require perfection.
It requires participation.
It means showing up for my life, even when I am tired, unsure, or still healing.
Because the altar is not outside of me—it is the way I live, breathe, and choose to begin again every day.

The womb, in her eternal form, is rhythm and resilience.
She is the pulse that reminds me: I am both the vessel and the offering.

Finding Your Own Rhythm

I believe every healing journey must begin with compassion.
There are so many thoughts that rise when we enter this stage of life—
questions, reflections, what-ifs, and sometimes quiet grief.

We think about what we’ve accomplished and what we haven’t.
We wonder if we’re truly doing what we were called here to do.
We revisit old choices, missed opportunities, and the moments that changed us.

But somewhere in that reflection, I hope we also remember our wins—
the laughter, the love, the things that made us feel alive.
Because our purpose was never to live in perfection,
but to learn how to flow—
to bend, to evolve, and to become what destiny has been shaping in us all along.

Even as I share what I’ve learned, your job is not to emulate me.
Your job is to use what I offer as a resource—a doorway that gives you permission to explore, to question, and to discover your own rhythm.

Some things I share may resonate.
Others may simply open your mind to new possibilities.
And some may not be your cup of tea—and that’s perfectly fine.

Healing is not one-size-fits-all.
There are rituals and practices that once served me but no longer fit who I am now.
I give thanks for them—for how they guided me when I needed them most—and then I release them.

There’s also wisdom I’ve received that wasn’t for me,
but if it could serve someone else on their path, then it still had purpose.
That, too, is part of the rhythm—learning, releasing, and allowing the flow of knowledge to move where it’s needed most.

Beginning the Journey

The first step toward finding your rhythm isn’t about doing more—
it’s about listening more deeply.
Your body, your spirit, and your emotions already know what you need.
You just have to slow down long enough to hear them speak.

Here are some gentle ways to begin reconnecting to your rhythm—
simple, sacred practices that invite you back into balance:

1. Begin with Stillness.
Find five quiet minutes each morning to place your hand over your lower belly and breathe.
Don’t force meaning. Don’t search for magic.
Just listen.
That space under your hand is ancient—it remembers you even when you’ve forgotten yourself.

2. Keep a Womb Journal.
Write what you feel in your body—the heaviness, the joy, the shifts, the dreams.
Over time, you’ll start to notice patterns.
This is how Spirit teaches you your language again.

3. Move with Intention.
Movement stirs what stagnation silences.
You don’t need a workout plan—you need presence.
Walk, dance, stretch, sway.
Let your body pray for you.

4. Tend to Your Inner Waters.
Drink more water. Cry freely.
Take spiritual baths, pour libations, or simply sit near a body of water when you can.
Water remembers. She will remind you of who you are.

5. Create Simple Rituals.
It doesn’t have to look grand or ceremonial.
Maybe it’s lighting a candle while you cook dinner.
Maybe it’s blessing your morning tea.
Maybe it’s whispering gratitude before bed.
These small acts are powerful—they teach your spirit consistency over perfection.

6. Practice Grace.
Some days you’ll flow easily; others you’ll stumble.
You’ll forget your rituals, skip your journaling, or just need to rest.
That’s okay.
Healing is a spiral, not a straight line.
Return gently. Spirit will always meet you where you are.

Just try one of these and let it build.
Create a sustainable rhythm and pair it with something you’re already doing.
That’s how healing becomes part of your life—not an interruption to it.

I’ve created sustainable healing routines because I don’t fight my flow; I build around it.
Between 7–8 a.m. I wake up, say my Ori prayers, and do light joint movements.
Sometimes I just lie still afterward and enjoy the quiet before the world opens.

Between 8:30–10 a.m. is my Sacred Temple Time.
I greet my shrines, give them their due, and then move my body.

Between 10:30–11:30 a.m. I feed my body and prepare my meal for work.

This is a guideline—not a law written in stone.
There are days I sleep longer, days when appointments pull me out early,
or mornings when the cold air keeps me under the covers a little longer.
Life will keep happening even as you heal.

The key is to stay flexible—to weave your practices into your real life.
If you can’t pray in bed, pray in the shower.
If you can’t make time for a full workout, let movement come through your errands.
If the day takes a different shape, adjust.
Healing doesn’t ask for perfection—only participation.

This is a simple awareness when you read it, but it’s easier said than done.
I know it to be true, but it’s something I’ve had to—and continue to—work on.
From my experience, I can say these routines have brought me a more stable mind and spirit.
They are helping me find my way back to my purpose.

Transition

Healing is not something that happens in isolation.
It lives in the rhythm of your real life—
in the moments between work and prayer, between laughter and tears,
between all the things you have to do and the things your spirit longs to do.

When you begin to see your routines not as obligations but as opportunities for communion, everything shifts.
That’s when devotion becomes natural.
That’s when the sacred returns to the ordinary.

You don’t need a perfect morning, a spotless home, or an elaborate altar to walk in alignment.
You only need intention, breath, and the willingness to keep showing up.

Every act of care is a small prayer.
Every choice to begin again is a sacred offering.
And every time you honor your rhythm—even imperfectly—you open the way for Spirit to flow more freely through your life.

Closing Reflection

You don’t have to know every step before you begin.
You just have to begin.

The womb—whether present in body or alive only in spirit—is patient.
She doesn’t demand perfection; she asks for presence.
She’s not waiting for you to become worthy—she’s waiting for you to show up.

Healing isn’t about recreating what was lost.
It’s about remembering what’s eternal.
Your womb energy still flows—through your breath, your compassion, your creativity, and your courage to keep becoming.

So start where you are.
Be gentle with yourself.
Light one candle, take one breath, write one truth.
And as you do, remember:

You are not learning the rhythm—
you are remembering it.
Because your body was always the altar,
and your spirit has always known the way home.