Standing at the shore of your own life, wondering if you're brave enough to cross
You know that feeling when you're standing at the edge of something and your stomach does that little flip?
That moment when the GPS stops working and you realize you're about to go somewhere completely unmapped?
That's Laguz.
And it's laughing at you.
Not cruelly, mind you. More like the way a good friend laughs when you're standing at the edge of the diving board, frozen, while everyone waits. It's the laugh that says: "Yeah, I know you're scared. Do it anyway."
Water Is a Terrible Liar
The Old Icelandic Rune Poem calls Laguz "a churning lake and a wide kettle and the land of fish." Which is basically ancient Norse for "this is where things get interesting and also maybe you'll get eaten."
The Old English version is even better: water is "seemingly unending if they should venture out on an unsteady ship, and the sea-waves frighten them very much, and the brine-stallion does not mind his bridle."
Translation: The ocean doesn't care about your feelings.
Here's what the ancestors understood that we keep forgetting: water tells the truth. It doesn't pretend to be solid ground. It doesn't offer guarantees. It says right up front: "I'm going to move. I'm going to shift. You're going to get wet. And no, I can't promise what's on the other side."
And yet we have to cross it anyway.
The Ferryman Knows Nothing (And That's the Point)
Picture this: You've been walking your whole life. The path has been clear, mostly. You know where the coffee shop is. You know which route to take to work. You know the comfortable groove of your daily existence.
Then you arrive at a lake.
Mist obscures the far shore. You can't see what's over there. There's a ferryman with a small boat, but when you ask him what's on the other side, he just shrugs. He can get you there, but he can't tell you what you'll find.
Oh, and there's no guarantee there's anyone on the far shore to bring you back.
This is every major life transition you've ever faced or will face. Laguz is the rune of those moments when the easy path ends and you have to trust something that moves, something fluid, something that offers zero certainty except the certainty that staying put is its own kind of death.
Leaving home for the first time. Starting a new job where you don't know anyone. Getting married or ending a marriage. Having a kid. Retiring. All the big passages where you can't take your comfort zone with you because comfort zones don't float.
Baptism by Uncertainty
Here's where it gets really interesting.
Laguz isn't just about external crossings like moving to a new city or changing careers. It's also about the terrifying journey into your own depths. Those moments when you realize there's a whole underwater world inside you that you've been avoiding.
You know the drill. You're going along fine, everything's manageable, and then suddenly you sense there are things moving beneath the surface. Patterns you don't understand. Emotions you can't name. Parts of yourself you've never met.
The lake isn't just out there. It's in here.
And crossing it means being willing to not know yourself for a while. To step into the internal unknown and see what's actually there instead of what you've been telling yourself is there.
This is baptism in the truest sense: going under the water and coming up different. Not because someone splashed your forehead, but because you dove into your own depths and discovered you could swim.
The Binary Choice Nobody Wants
Laguz doesn't do half measures.
You can't dip one toe in and call it good. You can't wade in knee-deep and then retreat. The lake is a binary proposition: cross or don't cross.
Stay or go. Remain or risk. Known or unknown.
And here's the kicker: refusing to choose IS choosing. Standing on the shore, dithering, analyzing, gathering more information, waiting for conditions to be perfect... that's choosing to stay. That's choosing the slow death of never discovering what's on the other side.
The ancient text puts it bluntly: "To cross may be to risk death. To turn back is to embrace death."
One is the quick, scary death of transformation. The other is the slow, comfortable death of staying exactly who you've always been.
Laguz asks: which death do you prefer?
Every Job Change Is a Mini-Odyssey
Let's get practical for a second.
You know that weird feeling on your first day at a new job? When you don't know where the bathroom is, you don't recognize anyone, the coffee machine is different, and you're pretty sure you're going to mess everything up?
That's Laguz.
You crossed the lake. Now you're standing on unfamiliar shore, and it's going to take a while before you know the landscape. Before you know who to trust, what the unwritten rules are, where the good lunch spots are hiding.
This applies to every transition. New relationship. New city. New phase of life. You can't know the other side until you cross. You can't feel at home until you've been a stranger for a while.
The only people who find new opportunities and new experiences are the ones who step beyond the furthest point they've been before. (Obvious when you say it like that, but we still resist it with everything we've got.)
The Shadow in the Shallows
Here's what nobody tells you about Laguz: it's not just about courage. It's about what you discover when you're actually IN the water.
Because once you're crossing, once you're committed, all the stuff you could ignore on solid ground starts floating to the surface. Fears you didn't know you had. Strengths you never needed before. Parts of yourself that only show up when you're out of your depth.
This is where shadow work and Laguz intersect. The crossing reveals what was always there but hidden. The unknown outside mirrors the unknown inside.
You think you're just changing jobs, but really you're discovering how you handle uncertainty. You think you're just moving to a new place, but really you're finding out who you are without your familiar supports. You think you're just entering a new relationship, but really you're confronting every old pattern you brought with you.
Laguz doesn't just transport you. It transforms you. The person who arrives on the far shore is never quite the same as the person who stepped into the boat.
The Call You Can't Unhear
There's something calling you across that lake.
You know what I'm talking about. That nagging sense that there's something more. That persistent itch that won't let you settle completely. That voice that keeps asking "what if?"
Laguz embodies the direct challenge and call of the runes themselves. It's the universe basically saying: "I dare you to find out what you're actually capable of."
You can block your ears. You can turn around and walk back to familiar ground. You can pretend you never heard it.
But you did hear it. And now you have to live with knowing you chose comfort over discovery. Safety over mystery. The known over the possible.
Or you can step into the boat.
The Gift Hidden in the Crossing
Here's the secret nobody mentions about rites of passage: they're designed to be impossible to complete as your current self.
That's the whole point.
You can't graduate from who you are. You can't earn a degree in staying the same. The passage demands that you become something new, and the only way to do that is to surrender what you were.
This is the exchange that Laguz requires. You give up your familiar way of life. In return, you receive... well, you don't know what you receive until you get there. That's why it's scary. That's why most people don't do it.
But the ones who do, the ones who trust the metaphorical boat and set forth, they discover something essential: you're more capable than you knew. The world is bigger than you imagined. And the person you become on the far shore has access to experiences and wisdom that the person on the near shore could never have touched.
How to Actually Work With This
Okay, jester wisdom time. Here's how you engage with Laguz without drowning:
Recognize the shores. Where are you standing at a crossing right now? What lake is in front of you? What's calling you to the other side? Name it. Out loud if necessary.
Stop gathering more information. You'll never have enough. The ferryman doesn't know what's over there. Google can't help you. Your therapist can only take you so far. At some point, you just have to get in the boat.
Make the crossing conscious. This is the difference between being swept away by life changes and choosing them as initiatory experiences. When you cross, know you're crossing. Mark it. Ritualize it. Make it matter.
Feel the fear and cross anyway. The waves will frighten you. The brine-stallion won't mind his bridle. You'll feel unsteady. Good. That means you're doing it right.
Trust the process of not knowing. You're supposed to be disoriented on the far shore. You're supposed to not have your routine figured out yet. That awkward phase IS the transformation, not something to rush through.
A Laguz Rite for Your Next Crossing
Want to make your next life transition actually mean something? Here's the thing: most people stumble through major life changes like they're sleepwalking. They get the new job, move to the new city, start the new relationship, and then wonder why it feels so disorienting and empty.
It's because they forgot to mark the passage. They forgot to make it sacred.
Not sacred in the stuffy, church-on-Sunday way. Sacred in the "this matters to my soul" way. Sacred in the "I'm witnessing my own transformation" way.
So let's do this right. Let's make your crossing count.
The Preparation: Before You Even See the Water
First, you need to get clear on what crossing you're actually making. This isn't the time for vague wishes or general life improvements. Laguz demands specificity.
Are you leaving a job that's been slowly killing your spirit? Name it.
Are you ending a relationship that stopped growing three years ago? Acknowledge it.
Are you stepping into parenthood and leaving behind your freedom to be spontaneous and irresponsible? Own it.
Are you retiring and releasing the identity you've worn for decades? Feel it.
Write it down. Use a whole page if you need to. What specific shore are you standing on right now, and what specific shore are you being called toward?
And here's the crucial part: don't sanitize it. Don't write "I'm moving toward new opportunities." Write "I'm scared out of my mind but I can't keep pretending this job doesn't make me want to scream into a pillow every Sunday night."
The water responds to truth, not platitudes.
Finding Your Water: Location Matters
Now, find actual water.
If you live near the ocean, use the ocean. There's something about tidal water, about forces bigger than you could ever control, that mirrors major life transitions perfectly. The ocean doesn't care about your plans. It just keeps moving. That's Laguz.
If you've got a river nearby, even better in some ways. Rivers are literally about flow, about moving from one place to another, about current carrying you forward whether you're ready or not.
A lake works beautifully too. Remember, the old poems specifically mention lakes. There's something about standing at the edge of still water, looking across to a far shore you can barely see, that captures the essence of not knowing what comes next.
Don't have access to natural water? A public pool at dawn before anyone else arrives. A fountain in a park. Your own bathtub with the lights dimmed and a candle burning.
Yes, really. The bathtub counts.
This isn't about Instagram-worthy ritual locations. This is about you, water, and a threshold. The water doesn't care if it's the Pacific Ocean or your bathroom. What matters is your intention and your willingness to get wet.
One practical note: make sure you can actually get IN the water. Standing at the edge is part of it, but at some point you need to immerse. So pick water you can actually enter, even if it's just ankle-deep.
The Edge: What You're Leaving Behind
Go to your water. Ideally alone. Definitely undistracted. Turn off your phone. This isn't content for social media. This is a conversation between you and the mystery of your own becoming.
Stand at the very edge.
If it's the ocean, let the waves touch your toes. If it's a river, feel the current pull at your ankles. If it's your bathtub, sit on the edge with your feet hovering over the surface.
This is where you speak what you're leaving behind.
Say it out loud. Seriously. Out loud. Not in your head where you can edit it and make it sound reasonable. Out loud where it becomes real, where the words hit the air and you can't take them back.
"I'm leaving behind the version of me who stayed small to make other people comfortable."
"I'm releasing the identity I built around being needed, even when it exhausted me."
"I'm saying goodbye to the safety of knowing exactly what each day would bring."
"I'm letting go of the relationship that we both outgrew but were too scared to name."
Be specific. Be honest. Be thorough.
And here's the part people skip: thank it.
Thank the job you're leaving, even if it sucked. It paid your bills. It taught you what you don't want. It brought you to this threshold.
Thank the old version of yourself, even if you're ashamed of her or frustrated with him. That version got you here. That version survived until you were ready to cross.
Thank the identity you're shedding, even if it constrained you. It protected you when you needed protection. It gave you a place to stand.
This matters more than you think. If you don't honor what came before, you drag it with you into the water like deadweight. But if you thank it and release it, you can let it stay on the shore where it belongs.
Take your time with this part. You might cry. You might laugh. You might feel ridiculous standing by yourself talking to a river. Good. That means you're actually doing it.
When you've said everything that needs saying, take a breath. Feel the difference between the solid ground beneath your feet and the water ahead.
This is the last moment you'll be the person you are right now.
The Immersion: Into the Unknown
Now step in.
Not timidly. Not tentatively. Not with one toe testing the temperature.
Step into the water like you mean it.
If you're in the ocean, walk in until the waves are hitting your knees, your hips, your chest. If you're in a river, wade in until you feel the current trying to move you. If you're in a lake, walk forward until the bottom drops away a little and you have to adjust your balance. If you're in your bathtub, sink all the way in until the water covers your shoulders.
Feel the temperature shock. Cold is good. Cold wakes you up. Cold reminds you that this is real, that you're actually doing this, that you're in the liminal space now.
This is the moment where you let yourself not know.
Not know what happens next. Not know who you'll be on the other side. Not know if you're making the right choice. Not know if you're ready.
Just be in the water. Be in the not-knowing. Be in the space between shores.
If you want to dunk yourself completely, do it. Baptism by total immersion. Go under. Hold your breath. Feel the weightlessness, the disorientation, the surrender.
When you come up, gasp. Let yourself be shocked. Let yourself be vulnerable. You're in the middle of the crossing now. You're neither who you were nor who you're becoming. You're in the fluid space where transformation actually happens.
Stay in the water for a while. Don't rush this.
Let it be awkward. Let it be uncomfortable. Let it be strange. That's the whole point. You're practicing being okay with not being okay, with not having solid ground under your feet, with trusting something that moves.
Notice what comes up. Fear? Excitement? Grief? Relief? All of the above simultaneously? Welcome it. This is the truth of the crossing revealing itself.
You might want to say something here, or you might want to just be silent. Both work. Sometimes the water needs words, sometimes it just needs your presence and your willingness to be transformed.
When you feel the shift (and you'll know when you feel it), it's time to move toward the other shore.
The Far Shore: Who You're Becoming
Step out of the water. Deliberately. Consciously. Like you're being born.
Find solid ground. Stand on the other shore (or on the other side of the bathtub, or on the opposite bank). Feel the difference. You're wet. You're changed. The air feels different on your skin.
This is where you speak who you're becoming.
Not who you think you should be. Not who your parents want you to be. Not who your career counselor or your therapist or your friends think would be good for you.
Who you sense calling you forward.
This is harder than it sounds because we're so conditioned to perform, to meet expectations, to be reasonable. But Laguz doesn't traffic in reasonable. It traffics in transformation.
So speak the truth that's emerging, even if it sounds crazy. Even if it scares you. Even if you're not sure you can actually become that person.
"I'm becoming someone who trusts their own instincts more than other people's opinions."
"I'm becoming someone who chooses growth over comfort, even when it hurts."
"I'm becoming a person who can hold complexity, who doesn't need everything to be simple or certain."
"I'm becoming someone who knows their worth and doesn't negotiate it down to make others comfortable."
Say it like a vow. Say it like a promise to yourself. Say it like you're calling this version of yourself into being through the sheer force of naming it.
And then, here's the part that seals it: make a mark.
If you're outside, find a stone and leave it on the shore. Stack a few rocks into a tiny cairn. Draw a symbol in the sand or mud. Carve your initials into a piece of driftwood.
If you're in your bathtub, light a candle now that you're out. Anoint yourself with oil. Put on a piece of jewelry that marks this moment.
Physical markers matter. Your body needs to remember this crossing. Future-you needs to be able to point back to this moment and say "that's when I chose to become who I am."
After the Crossing: Living the Transition
Here's what nobody tells you: the ritual isn't the end. It's the beginning.
You've done the inner crossing. You've marked the passage. You've spoken the old and the new out loud. Now you have to actually do the life change and remember what you just enacted.
When you walk into that new job on the first day and your stomach is doing flips and you don't know anyone and you're sure you're going to mess everything up, remember: you already crossed the lake. This is just your life catching up to your soul.
When you're lying in bed next to someone new and it feels vulnerable and scary and you don't know the rhythms yet, remember: you already stepped into the water. You already chose not-knowing over false certainty.
When you're sitting in your new apartment in your new city surrounded by boxes and you feel completely alone and wonder what the heck you were thinking, remember: you already made it to the far shore. You already spoke who you're becoming. Now you're just living into it.
The ritual doesn't make the transition easy. It makes it meaningful.
It transforms a random life event into a conscious rite of passage. It turns chaos into initiation. It gives you something to return to when the crossing gets rough and you wonder if you should turn back.
Because you will wonder. There will be moments when you desperately want to go back to the familiar shore, back to the life you knew, back to the person you were.
And that's when you remember: you already released that life. You thanked it. You spoke it out loud to the water. It's not yours anymore. You gave it back.
The only direction is forward into who you're becoming.
The Shadow Side: When You Don't Want to Cross
Sometimes you'll know you need to do this ritual and you'll resist like crazy.
You'll tell yourself you don't have time. You'll convince yourself it's silly. You'll decide it's too cold, too public, too weird, too much.
That resistance is information.
It's telling you that part of you really, really doesn't want to cross. Part of you would rather stay on the familiar shore forever, thank you very much, even if that shore is slowly sinking into the sea.
Do the ritual anyway. Especially then.
The times when you most resist marking the passage are the times when you most need to mark it. Because unmarked passages leave you half-crossed, stranded in the middle of the lake, neither here nor there, indefinitely confused about who you are.
Better to feel the fear, speak it to the water, and cross anyway than to spend years in liminal drift.
The Integration: Living as Someone Who Crossed
After you do this ritual, you'll notice something shift.
You'll carry yourself differently. You'll reference the crossing in your mind when things get hard. You'll have a before and an after, a moment in time where you chose transformation over stagnation.
Keep connecting back to it. Return to the same body of water if you can, especially when you're feeling lost in the transition. Stand at the edge again and remember what you spoke into being.
Tell someone about it if you want, but be selective. Not everyone will understand. Some people will think you're being dramatic or weird. Those are the people who haven't learned to mark their own passages, who stumble through life changes without witnesses or meaning.
Find the ones who get it. The ones who've done their own version of this. The ones who understand that rituals aren't entertainment, they're technology for making the invisible visible and the unconscious conscious.
And when someone you love is standing at their own lake, about to make their own crossing, tell them about yours. Pass it on. This is how we remember how to be human, how to mark our passages, how to transform instead of just change.
You've already crossed the inner lake. The outer one is just making it real.
Now go get wet.
This article is part of our Runes collection. Read our comprehensive Runes guide to explore the ancient wisdom and mystical power of runic symbols.
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