8 Year Anniversary


In celebration of my 8 year Anniversary with WordPress, I’m feeling inspired to share a segment of a short story I began almost 7 years ago and edited recently. The title is “Chamomile”. Character with my name not necessarily inspired by me. The full story is 10 pages.


My mother would coat the bottom of two mugs with honey and squeeze a fourth lemon into both, then carefully pour chamomile tea from her sunflower tea pot into them. We drank this nightly beginning with the first snow of the season that would occasionally fall in late August, ending whenever we didn’t need two heavy quilts to sleep at night, which usually didn’t come until early June. We would stare out the frosted window with five candles lit along its sill, out into the dark Wyoming sky. Her squinted eyes were usually fixated on nothing in particular that I could see, but clearly she was always focused on something significant.

She wore dark half moons under her eyes that revealed her deep exhaustion—not only from weeks of prolonged insomnia, but also from her exhaustion with the place itself.

            “This is such a sad place to live,” she once muttered while we were sitting inside watching a snowfall cascade down on one of those September nights, sipping our soul-warming tea which she believed was also responsible for us never catching any sicknesses that seemed to latch on to everyone else around us in that town. I called it Magic Tea before I even became aware of the healing and magical properties of chamomile. It sounded almost identical to my mother’s name, Camille, and for the longest time I believed that was the primary reason we drank it every night.

When I finally asked her, she told me we drank it because of its color: yellow.

“And did you ever wonder why we drink our chamomile with lemon and honey?”

she asked with a wink. They were all the same color as the sun, of course. She believed these yellow ingredients would infuse a kind of sunshine-y light into our souls when the sun went away for the better half of the year. When the first snow of the season came, we both knew we would not be seeing that mystical yellow sphere or absorbing its healing rays for at least eight and a half months. If we could not sit underneath the sun and absorb its healing light for this long, she said, at least we could drink the sun and have it shine from within us.

            I grew up with such beautiful thoughts as these planted in my head. She was a small woman with an enormous imagination and grand ideas. But for this reason, she swore we would abandon Laramie eventually. (Soon as possible, preferably.) I didn’t mind our “sad town”, because I’d grown up listening to stories of its beauty through my mother’s articulate narrations– yet she was completely oblivious to how the beauty of her words shaped my perspective of home. Whenever we took walks to the far side of town where weeds grew on the horizon of the pink and gold sunsets, she would point out specific wild plants and ramble on about their qualities and laugh when I called them weeds. “Oh, sweet Melody. These are medicinal plants, not weeds. When will you ever learn to use the correct vocabulary for such important beings in our ecosystem?”

            She was not a botanist. She did not even graduate from college at the University. She did, however, spend all of her life studying plants and herbs and all good things that come from the Earth. People adored her, generally, although some may have thought her crazy for believing in all she did.  On the way back from those walks to the far side of town, I was always exhausted. My mother, however, always seemed even more stimulated with energy, after having absorbed Mother Earth’s cool winds, energy surging through her veins. The wind blew the Earth’s life force into her lungs and it spread throughout her body, she said, which was the only reason she tolerated long walks in the wind. I enjoyed how the wind tangled my long hair around my head when we did this. Mother had always offered to braid my hair, but smiled satisfactorily when I finally admitted that I loved the wind’s embrace at such a young age—maybe seven.

® Camille M. Garcia

The Magic of Rewriting “Fictional” Stories

Soul heartedly

It’s barely a secret by now that my current reality, today at twenty-four, often begins to reflect and merge with stories I wrote when I was ten years younger. Fiction stories.

Though I was merely fourteen to sixteen years old at the time I wrote most of my best story beginnings, they were unusually mature. It turns out, as evidence would show, that the subjects don’t even have to represent ME to begin seeping into my life. And typically, my stories would include a character who represented me– whether at that current younger age, or [usually] older than that. I would have never imagined my life beginning to reflect the second beginning I once wrote in a completely different composition notebook. It was the second beginning to my first novel I ever started, called (tentatively) To Be Someone.

When I found that composition book among other books and papers on my bookshelf on January 1st of this year in my spacious and sunny room in Evergreen, CO (that I’d been renting for an absurdly lucky price) I shed some tears of disbelief upon opening it and reading the first story. It was a sad story; sadder than any I’d ever found written by my own hand before. I was in shock to find so many unfortunate parallels between my current feelings and this simple fictional journal entry from the 1960s that my original protagonist found on her taxi ride to the airport. Though it was entirely too sad and depressing to share fully, I thought that I had no choice but to attempt rewriting the story in order to reverse the effects.

But first– I suspected I would need to discard that story and rebirth it, sending it downstream to be reincarnated as something else. And I didn’t know exactly how long that process would take, though I hoped it would be immediately.

I once heard of a message in a bottle that my great-grandmother wrote, that was returned to her address, as she’d included that on her message. It was a brown scrap piece of paper, sent down a North Dakota river, found by a man with uncannily elegant writing in one state over. I thought how interesting and unlikely it was for someone in that time period to have a message actually returned to her, from one state over! I remembered hearing this but didn’t think of it when I had the idea to stuff my sad story into a former roommate’s mead bottle and send it down a river. Imagining this, I felt it would be a relief and a release, so that I could have freedom to create something new out of it instead of being tied to a story with a terrible ending.

I didn’t have any intentions of the finder, if any, returning the story to me… I only included some scrap pieces of paper with intentions for the finder (if any) to have peace, love, and harmony with the world. The opposite of what I’d created for myself with this subconscious story. Being so appalled by its relatable heart-wrenching contents, I tore it into thirds and stuffed it into a blue mead bottle with a tight metal wire latch cap that would definitely hold it for as long as needed. Years, or eternity, as long as the bottle held together. It was a sturdy bottle, after all. I thought that if I’d been able to fit the scroll of paper into the bottle as a whole, the finder could finish the story with a better ending. But I’d needed to tear the story in order to fit it into the bottle, and doing this, no one could ever rewrite it except for me.

I waited until one day when my friend from Bailey invited me to hang out by the North Fork South Platte River with her. It was the second week of January. Standing near the river, and then standing on the tall bridge, I thought I could remember distinctly scenes that I hadn’t yet written being part of this novel– perhaps something that had happened to a real-life characters in their youth in Colorado Springs in that time period, though I hadn’t done any research or heard of anything like it before. I could imagine their closeness and feel their presences, as though from past lives, as I tossed the bottle from the high bridge with the torn scraps of my story, intentions for the finder, and tokens such as small crystals packed inside into a crevice of freezing water between two strips of thick ice. I’d made a perfect basket (as if I’d ever played basketball) and my friend was impressed. She gave me a hug, excited that I had intentionally changed the storyline by discarding what I didn’t like didn’t have to die like– hopefully altering my destiny in a positive way.

I hoped that this simple but memorable action would heal a relationship and and create peace and stability in my life– with all those intentions I packed in there, gems included! It seems, however, that there is still something needed to tear through the cracks of myself to recreate the new future. Or, how do I separate myself from the characters in this story?? I didn’t know for sure how I would do that, and it didn’t occur to me that I had tied in aspects of myself to this story about two girls in the 1960s. Maybe I hadn’t chosen it; maybe it had been a part of me in a past life, or maybe I was sent to finish this story so that it didn’t happen again in the future (granted, the testing subject was myself, so I had all the freedom to color in as many various colors I wanted outside the box as needed).

The only other option that made sense to me in order to alter this devastating “destiny” was to literally rewrite that story, based on the entries I’d written from a lost journal that my fictional protagonist finds on her taxi ride to the airport. I’d planned on incorporating the journal entry, though I hadn’t typed it yet like most other segments, into the intended (still yet unfinished) first novel. But I’d never made it that far and for some reason could never bare to do it. I was always forgetting, or hesitating… and now I can gather that it may have been for good reason.

So I included in a separate journal some similar first entries from a missing girl’s best friend, and made sure to leave the plot line open for a more positive ending this time. And writing that, I was inspired to completely amend the entire story~~ weaving this into a new novel based in the 1960s. I hope to energetically separate myself from this one: a lesson I should have learned from writing my first novel at fourteen and being energetically vulnerable– but if I for some reason fail to do so, I will write a much better ending. It’s amazing to me how naturally and organically words and story lines come when they’re meant to be. It was devastating for me to see my life unfolding in such a way that I had no other choice but to attempt rewriting an entirely new novel… but at the same time, intriguing and meaningful– as though I’m on a mission for change.

The missing girl in the story is, after all, an inspiration and role model of adventure, women’s rights, and hope. I do have a title for this that I will probably not share until it is somewhat finished! I am looking forward to sharing more of my stories professionally, and maybe I should include segments of my novels here on my blog for you to visit.

Sally’s Angel

nonfiction, Small Miracles

Every Christmas season, my mother’s family hosts a traditional white elephant party. We exchange creative leftovers of the lowest-scale junk from the depths of our darkest closest, including: old Barbies, meaningless or useless kid’s toys, horrible ancient sweaters, and comical party favors.

Though these items are predictable, they typically vary in some way each year. In other words, I wouldn’t receive the same ugly sweater as someone else received the year before. No– there is only one item sacred enough to be worthy of recycling itself among the same circle each year, and that is “Sally’s Angel”.

When the Angel was born unto this Earth, finished with a careless brushstroke atop a navy blue canvas, she was not blessed. Instead, the ear was dotted on the side of her face just in time for her to be welcomed with a condescending chuckle and the cruel proclamation: “This is the ugliest angel I’ve ever seen.” And how could an insult like this be any more condemning, coming as an utterance from the mouth of no other than that of her Creator??

The Creator didn’t even have the wit to sign her own initials; instead, she forged a crooked “HP” near the Angel’s head. If I hadn’t been there during the time of her creation, I would have been among those pondering the origin of this great mystery. Each year, the chosen one tears off the last of the wrapping paper and comes face to face with the glory of the strange angel.

The first reaction is always hysterical laughter, followed by a solemn gaze of pure confusion, and finally, the question:

“What’s HP?”

It was always my grandmother– never the true Creator– who would have to attempt explaining the details of the story to the group. She confessed it was a mock painting, not the original. My grandmother’s friend, Sally the artist and what some would consider a hoarder, had given her a painting of an “ugly” angel on canvas for Christmas one year. When my grandmother asked Sally what her inspiration was for this “lovely painting”, Sally poked her thumb up in the air a few times and whispered with divine force, “H.P..”

“What’s H.P.?” Grandma had asked.

“You know…” Sally responded, a solemn and secretive tone to her voice, “Higher Power.”

I could have never forseen myself becoming anything like Sally the artist, the hoarder, and the angel whisperer years later… but not long after the first year of her rotation, I began noticing signs. I could only take an educational gander at the giver of these signs, and I’m not sure how to explain it any better than H.P. (You know– Higher Power.)

And so there I found myself in a tiny apartment hoarding blank canvases and waiting for signs from H.P. to tell me what needed to be painted. I hoarded blank notebooks, mystically awaiting signs from H.P. to inspire my words. Then, there were those instruments basking in the dark corners of my rooms, some of which had gone untouched — waiting for H.P. to possess my fingertips and strum.

I commend Sally for her pseudo-humor, the seriousness with which she acknowledged Higher Power.

(Many thanks to Sally with your wisdom, Higher Power, and my grandmother for this inspiration of this post.💗❤️)


Tearing off the Masks

Soul heartedly

Do we really grow into ourselves as time passes by? Or do we draw further away from our true selves continually?

We are, essentially, the same person and the same soul as we were born as infants fresh into the world. We pollute, we embellish, we alter ourselves in nearly every way to perfection (society’s), heaping paint among the already heavy mask we wear. However, the paint becomes musty and the masks begin to collect dust as we think our way out of our hearts and into some kind of fogged-over reality.

We think that in order to have authority, we must have completed doctoral degrees, even if we’re dead by the time we achieve them. Even to write this essay, I’m clouded over by guilt of not yet having a completed degree in English. However, it’s probably best, in my opinion, to draw your words from the one true Source of your soul; your intuition, and document them that way— for this is baring the bare essence of your depth. We’ve forgotten that we have always had authority. When words come out of our mouths, they are best taken seriously because they are pure, raw, and from the Source.

After we take a walk, for example, and are inspired to take action upon something, we must be disciplined enough to take that action, because that action is under pure consciousness and is the only action that will positively impact the world at that moment, like a wave or a ripple. We, after all, are a part of the light, the Earth, the air, and all the elements. We have a part in creating energy on this planet. We have authority. To speak, to write, to play music to reflect the sounds of our own souls— or that of others, the planet, etc.

We don’t see our “growth” sometimes until we look back and compare 10 year increments. I came across a photo album which contained a photo of my 5th birthday party, along with a photo of my 15th birthday party below that. This year will be my 25th. These days, it’s easy to fall into the category of “nothingness” if one has been alive and breathing, contributing to the carbon dioxide on the planet for less than 30 years.

5th Birthday Party
15th Birthday Party

However, there was a time when 30 years was a common lifespan (in some places, right?). There was a time when 14 was the primary age for motherhood instead of 26.

What happens, exactly, in the space between those ten years now? Yes, growth is always occurring at any interval. In all your photo comparisons, growth is obvious. But are you simply carving your face, your hair, your body to society’s ideal of perfectionism, or is it your own? Yes, we are all shaped by societal norms. But are you, deep down, covering up the sparkles inside your soul that so desperately want to emerge to the surface? Are you so consumed by your idea of perfection that you have forgotten your original experience of true bliss —of being one with all that is, as you were, when you escaped the womb?

As I become more in tune with my soul self and quit the habit of suppressing the truth of my soul, I am able to recognize a photo of myself as a baby better than I ever have before. I begin to see myself as I really am, holding that picture of my infant self in my hands— honoring that life is really just about returning to one’s state of living judgment-free, seeing the world vividly and not being afraid to be alive— just like that baby.

Notice that I recall my baby self in first person possessive because I am beginning to remember that I really am the same person. Are you? Do you remember? Yes, I still detect some fear in my baby eyes. However, I also see a deep sense of wonder and curiosity, a willingness to go test out the world even if I just dipped one of those baby toes into the water at first. Even if the world was encompassed with copious amounts of fear and trepidation, I was still willing to go out and remember how to activate my own inner light to heal that in myself and in others.

I came to the realization, looking at the comparison of these past birthday parties, that life is just as expansive as you can make it. Days can be a little fuller with each one that passes. I, for instance, can choose to create opportunities for myself, as many as I want, in ONE day— which could have been equivalent to the experiences combined in one full year.

We need to savor the moments, the energy, the beauty, the ideas and synchronicities we come across. While it may not be clear what is truly meant by “you only live once”— because perhaps that is a personal belief and maybe even a choice—well, we can choose as much life as we want in one day. And in referencing “this day”, I constitute the entire 24 hours— the entire span of 1440 minutes.

It is true that life is not always as long as we anticipate it to be— but this does not mean that life ends. Death is sometimes terrifying to think about though it does offer the truest liberation from all fears, from all distress, from all sinking pain that holds us down from living life to its fullest. Death, I can imagine, is the ultimate celebration of freedom and life— for one is never truly free until one departs from the physical body and is free to inhabit as much space as possible in spirit. There is beauty in this, and there is expansiveness.

We must take the initiative to hold ourselves as babies in the palms of our hands, remembering who we were— who we still are— before death. We can revert to that inner child, possibly incorporating that self throughout our days. Blessing our child self, honoring that child self, and remembering that we’re not so different than we used to be, though years have passed in between. What is inside of you will only shine on to the outside if you allow the flow of your voice that way, into the eternal.

Follow the flow of life with each breath. Don’t stop trusting your essence when clouds of limiting perceptions elude to overtaking you. Look into the mirror and see yourself without the illusions. Without the heavy mask of who others say you’re supposed to be. Look into a body of water and maybe you will find a reflection of Yourself, knowing that you are not so different from Water itself. We are, in essence, 60% water. So, what are the illusory barriers? Why can’t we see ourselves as transparent as water, since that’s what we are? The barriers of outer influences can be knocked down only when we are acting and living from the Core of our hearts.

When living from the core of our hearts, we can shatter all false perceptions of self and breathe fully. We can take off the masks we wear and live comfortably without them.

I was astonished when I found this drawing by Marilyn Zapp in a bathroom of a convenient store in between two forest towns, and upon inquiring further information it had serendipitously arrived two days before I stumbled upon it, goosebump and tear-stricken. Though I had finished this draft in November 2019, I found this on 2/21/20 displaying the uncanny quote: “Do we become the masks we wear?” Not only did this speak to my soul and parallel the essay I had drafted; I had been seeking a drawing just like it to complete the feng shui of my new space since January. I’ll have to continue to visit this drawing in the bathroom since the new owner is not giving it up.

With love,

Camille M. Garcia

A Challenge to Shine


After realizing that instead of growing into the most ideal version of my soul self I always imagined I’d be at this time, I’ve been losing more and more of my essence throughout the past six or more years, I am coming to the realization that something has to change dramatically. I would have never, as an old soul in a younger body, wanted for myself to lose so many of my values which also happened to be my favorite words at the time: zeal, originality, and vibrancy for and about life.

It has to be more than just a DailyOm course (I’ve purchased plenty and I still haven’t been able to finish any of them so far). It has to not only be a daily attempt… but a moment to moment determination to act from a place of originality and soul, rather than from the dusty old fears I’ve been “conditioned” with. One would think that by this time, I’d be able to lose the dust permanently, or simply flick them off to land on the forest floor and decompose. There is no reason, one would think, to NOT be living the most glorious lifestyle.

Especially because I am, in some ways, living the ideal life in the ideal location, surrounded by the most ideal jobs and people. But I’m not letting that seep into my soul. What, I have to ask myself, have I lost? What is it that I have forgotten? Something I’m missing? What am I not contributing to the world?

It’s something that I’m not picking up from day to day. This is me declaring, vulnerably enough, that I’m not reflecting my true colors and shining everywhere I go, though it may appear from the outside that I’m doing my best. The colors have lost their vibrancy. It’s sad, but a good revelation to have. Because otherwise, how would I be able to turn this around? I’m sharing this partly to hear insight from you, who was magically drawn to reading this post, and your challenges with maintaining your true colors from day to day. And so, what challenges do you face, and what do you challenge yourself with to test those challenges? Please help me remember.

I know, I know. TRUST has a lot to do with it… one of my weakest qualities. Trust is a muscle I need to build as much as any other muscle. This one, I believe, is especially important.

How can I intentionally go through each day with a zest for life in each second, building up my energy and health instead of destroying it? How do you build yourself up each day? What is your routine, and what are your methods out of your routine to gain just enough creativity to carry on with your days with a more beautiful essence than what you’d started with? What are your favorite quotes, favorite rules to live by? Best risks you’ve recently taken that made you feel more alive? What are your most inspiring moments? Most essential habits? Music that resonates with your soul the most?

And how can we challenge one another to feel our best and grow in a positive direction with each passing day? Just for this week, I want to keep track of this challenge and check in at the end of the week with other challenge undertakers. Perhaps even with a post per day…


Mountaintop Hop

Cultured Narratives, Soul heartedly

On a midsummer day around the Evergreen, CO area, I never would have suspected I’d be invited to so many rare opportune events occurring the same day. First, the occasion arose of singing my songs in an enchanting style over the vast mountainous valley backdrop of Genesse, CO for a garden tour outside the most beautiful dream-like home. Literally dream-like. Just from glancing at it upon first sight, I recognized the exterior portion of Barbara Stanton’s home from dreams I’ve had in the past. How could this be?

I’ve found, however, this occurrence of ending up living through dreamlike states to be more frequent than one would expect. Throughout the past few years, I’ve recognized a few select special places in this particular mountain area from dreams– or somewhere deeply ingrained in my subconscious. When stepping inside Barbara’s home to take a look, it was just as familiar! It was as if this had been my home once before. The spaciousness of the valley, looking out the large windows, had an almost blue hue to it– a particular hue that I’d only seen before in dreams. I was enamored as much as I was honored to have been invited, serendipitously, by a friend (Carol) to this beautiful mountain to play my songs for all the garden club members and visitors from around the area.


Suntanned and sunhat-topped gardeners and visitors passed by, walking down the Spanish-style steps to the “ground-level” gardens, stopping to hear my music along their way. Halfway into the set, sitting on the bench, I was singing my song, Oh, Love: “Oh, love, tell me which way to go/ How else am I supposed to know?” when I got a notification, an invitation to a music festival happening on another mountain miles west of where I was. At the same time I received this invitation by phone, I ran into a familiar face, Mercedes, who had been introduced to me by another friend recently. I was surprised when she asked me if I was also coming to the festival on the other mountain. We’d been invited by the same person (Sheana)! I had never been to this “party” or festival before, but remembered the mention of it from years ago.

Butterflies fluttered around my face as I played the last hour in the perfect rays of sunlight peeking out behind the shade of the aspens and pines surrounding me on the bench. Around the corner of the bench from me was local artist Ted Garcia, doing a live painting for all the viewers to enjoy. With the art, music, vast array of flowers and plants, and the scent of incoming rain about to fall, to be at this picturesque location in Genesse was enlightening to all the senses.

After basking in the radiance of the sun all afternoon in the loveliest of gardens, we drove up separately to Idaho Springs and then Mercedes, Sheana and I rode together up the winding, muddy dirt road in Sheana’s Honda CR-V all the way to the haunting, enchanting mountaintop. Though it was beautiful, the rain was so heavy that Sheana wasn’t even able to bring Baxter, her infamous and beautiful rag doll cat who normally accompanies her to all her events.   A pirate ship stage was set up and Carla Vanessa was performing her unique versions of Top 40s’ hits, in both English and Spanish– a light haze amongst the distant mountains in the backdrop. Her style could be heard as a classic pop with a flare of rock. (Her whole repertoire of performing includes everything from coffee shop acoustic to pop rock to jazz.)


Carla Vanessa and her band, 9420 Music Festival 2018. Photo by me.

Every summer since 2013, Dave had been hosting festivals near the end of July or August on top of his mountain with a scenic view at 9,420 feet– hence the given name of the festival, 9420 Music Festival. It began as a showcase for his friends to perform, as well as himself, being a musician. In 2014, the festival turned into a fundraiser to support a neighbor going through a health crisis. It has been a fundraiser ever since– in 2015, the fundraiser helped support Dave in funding after his house burnt down due to a sudden forest fire (which have unfortunately been common experiences for many homeowners in this area of Idaho Springs). He says that this year, he will continue with the festival this year, but it will not be a fundraiser.

The coolness of the rain was refreshing, although our feet were cold and wet. We stood by the fire, where we made a few new friends and listened to music by local and up and coming rock n roll artists: Slithy Tove, Chris Daniels & the Kings, Band of Brothers, Mesmerized, and other local artists. I remember spending the most time listening to Slithy Tove, getting submerged into their rock n roll covers and originals. We could feel the rush of the subversive energy, just as the band could, as Patrick O’Hara (lead guitarist) described. Familiar faces surrounded us in all directions, smiling despite the rain. Even on the wet grass, we gave up our standing positions by the fire and chose to dance barefoot in front of the stage. There is hardly a more liberating act than dancing on cool, wet grass.



To Surrender




As water rolls rapidly down the creek, I, too, am inspired to fall into its embrace and flow with the current. The extent to which our personal current can excel or suddenly come to a halt is truly intriguing; our entire reality can change in the blink of an eye… with every simple choice we make, with every thought, every action. Everything we do not only affects our health, and our personal reality, but everything and everyone around us. We don’t have to be the same person as we were yesterday, and in truth, we never are the same person. Moment to moment, our breath changes as something catches our eye, or our heart. We will never be the same as we were one moment ago. As our perceptions change, whether a choice, or by something that stirs our spirit in a more positive direction, the entirety of Life can also switch from darkness to lightness.

I write about Oneness often, because I know it exists. I know that Oneness is all there is– I found myself saying, this week, “To live the Truth is the only way to live.” Still, I find it a struggle to trust and flow with the simple movement of messages from the Universe that are gently- or not so gently- tugging us along, catching our attention and bringing to light our actions, or our inactions. Why, the River calls, why do you resist the simple callings of your heart, why must you create barriers with your thoughts against the reality of your essence?

I will try not to make excuses, but I have some. The fear of not being heard, the constant projection of negative outcomes. To think of where these excuses might originate is a dangerous topic, one which is better to be left alone. We can pray for these to be shifted by the Being larger than us, we can give our worries to the Earth for transmutation. We can simply surrender to our flow, regardless of the outcome. It is a magical mystery that our Godly messages continue to push us forward towards greater healing, towards our truest core self. After being immersed, however, in the muddy landslide of our previous realities for lifetimes, No One Said It Would Be Easy. (In fact, there are a couple more old Sheryl Crow songs that come to mind regarding this current post that I will mention.)

Though we may be given various Godly messages throughout the day, and whether we trust them or not, whether or not we follow through; we still have to face the diversity of whether these messages will get through to the others involved. (Am I Getting Through?) Though we are all one, I have to ask myself if it is the thought of one or the other person… or is it something, some unseen force, between either of us that prevents the message from truly getting through? Is it the fear of not being able to face a reality that is so transparent, so Heavenly, that creates a discord and illusion of neglect~ not only in one on one connections, but the larger World? The greater cause?

If we ask ourselves, what is our mission, honestly? We may get answers, though sometimes daunting at first. If I can write bright light through all the discords of tension and fear, I will attempt to do that. The more we realize that of course, we are not the only ones who struggle and fight for truth, but that everyone is called to do so, the easier it will become. I have learned to rely more on the slightest internal messages, and trusting those, more so than outside influences or messages, however divine they may be.

It is comforting to know that those are always there, that we can always close our eyes and fall back, then be lifted up by something that shows us the answer we were looking for. I think it is a terrifying truth to know that perfection of a heavenly reality can exist suddenly, through the surrender and release of thoughts. To suddenly trust, and to suddenly fall, into the warm embrace of Unity into the wheel of life that is spinning, constant, and ever-changing… into the stream.



The Divine Authority to BE Magic

intuition, Soul heartedly

We’re afraid of coming across as too much, due to past limited perceptions we’ve held of ourselves. We’re afraid to come across as too little, conforming to the standards of the typical societal norms for our ages, genders, and towns. We’re afraid of expressing the divine magical essence that lives within us and between us. We’re afraid of that for some reason.

We become consumed and forget that there are golden threads connecting all of us for grander purposes. We forget that beyond the perceptions we’ve held of our bodies and minds, that our hearts hold the greatest wisdom of all… that of all things to confuse or doubt, love is undoubtedly the most difficult of them all. To love is to see clearly. To see clearly is to love. To feel is to be real.

Yet in the midst and under the clouded doubt of fear and past perceptions, we could miss that. Or maybe we THINK we have to navigate and manipulate the clear threads of destiny that connect us. It seems so easy and so simple to lose the mind and the chaos of it all… but there must be something to the mind, some kind of benefit we’re getting out of that habit… right?

At some point in life, under the clouds of boredom, we step outside the limits of the cages that have confined us and define our own destinies. We must be true to our hearts even in times of difficulty. We must cast out the shame (that is not of our own, by the way) and live in the moment, in the essence, that is Life. To live is to be someone, to create something out of nothing, to be like nobody else because that’s what everyone else wants you to be. Because no one else in the world has your same heart. It’s fine. Your heart is unique to you, and to repress that is detrimental to the mind and body in more ways than one. This is a mandatory need that goes unnoticed by most, which is bothersome.

Some may call you a “soul warrior”. Some may call it being honest. Some may say you’re absolutely crazy and that your divine rights are not of any importance.

And when you begin taking the steps to release the fog in your mind, your clouds of fear and doubt, and begin courageously taking steps towards the light of connectivity and beauty… suddenly, even after- say, four years (or longer…)- of soul repression, you may notice things beginning to resurface. And you realize, in remorse, how much time has really passed and how long you’ve been living in bondage of threads of false perceptions and judgment that linger around your aura. It’s difficult to breathe this way, and sometimes one may completely lose himself, herself… drowning in muddy waters. Muddy waters of lies, derived from thoughts of some awful periods of misperceptions in the eyes of others.

When the light resurfaces, you almost wonder what it is. What do you even make of the newfound clarity, and the weight in your chest released, at long last?? Why don’t your feet ache constantly, why is your head less heavy? What ARE these free spaces of seemingly limitless, liberated TIME– an essence in the air that is so unfamiliar but so expansive that is like nothing you’ve ever experienced? And suddenly, after continually taking the steps you’re feeling called to do, after one day, your life suddenly FALLS into place and you’re wondering why you hadn’t thought of any of those ideas about “taking action” for the past few years??

It’s because you didn’t perceive those thoughts of a reality based in love to be real. It was almost something you didn’t believe belonged to you. But it does. It always has. We have always been the same soul throughout our lives, despite false perceptions and judgements that have been placed upon us by some other unknown force. It is time, if we haven’t been awakened to the divine magic that lies between us, to begin living that kind of authentic lifestyle. It is time to start believing in magic, and believing in the eternal force that binds us together. It is time to recognize that we have always had the authority to become real. It is time to reveal our internal essence of bravery and light out into the external world… through words, communication, writing, beauty, and all other expressions of love. It is time to simply be– be in the presence of life, taking action whenever the divine calls to you, and to eliminate forces of negativity that cause harm and separation.

Behind the darkness, after the landslide, between the veil, lies something stronger that cannot be destroyed. It is love and it is magic.

Ride Away, Ride the Wave

intuition, Small Miracles, Soul heartedly

I woke up in a fog– a fog of uncertainty, self-doubt, and confusion much like a hangover of such things that I’d been experiencing for quite awhile– years, perhaps.

I had been attempting to pave a smooth and straight path, even though all I’d ever known were multiple scattered paths, octopus paths. Multiple pathways springing from one source, yet none of them getting accomplished. The previous night, I’d been communing with the deepest source of my soul through writing– my last resort– asking for a path to unfold.

As I headed out to the natural foods market in search of a yoga mat and some fruit on a morning of dog-sitting in a forest neighborhood that had become like home after many visits, I had forgotten about that intention.

My yoga mat was a torn-out disaster, and I really was in desperate need of doing yoga. Upon entering the store, I turned the corner towards the yoga mats and ran into a friend who embraced me and asked about my intentions of this early morning grocery store trip. I told her about the dog-sitting and about how yoga-deprived I was. She told me she’d give me a new yoga mat for free– which, of course, was a divine opportunity I couldn’t logically pass up. I thanked her, gratefully.

When I got in line at the checkout, I turned my head to the left only to notice Sadie, a friend from yoga class, appearing in the corner of my eye. I turned to greet her, mentioning what a coincidence it was that we kept repeatedly running into one another. For about nine months consistently, that is. I told her about my recent dog-sitting gig, to which she responded, “I could use you for dog sitting, because I’m going to Mexico to swim in some cénotes and maybe find some traditional healers to talk with,” she paused in optimistic contemplation, “Unless you want to come with me.”

Despite the wildly painful overthinking pattern that has run my life for so long, I eagerly booked the ticket to Cancún the next day with little hesitation. I tried to ignore the slight anxieties I held about losing possessions during flights to foreign countries, and just trust that it would be a good, smooth experience. As it would happen, we were both sending intentions of a smooth trip into our journey while conversing with angels, and so that’s exactly how it transpired.

We sat in the airport eating fruit and drinking coffee at 5 a.m., having a spiritually uplifting conversation. I was feeling grateful and amazed that of all people, having planned this less than a month in advance, I would be joining Sadie on a venture to Valladolid and Tulúm, Yucatan, Mexico. I could feel Gravity pulling me with an exerting force back to this sacred, ancient land which felt so much like a second home to me ever since my six-week summer trip in 2014. It was a study abroad course with University of Wyoming titled Mayan Art & Culture, in which 12 students including myself visited ancient ruins and studied Yucatec architecture, art, and culture throughout a few traditional villages, mostly Santa Elena. We each apprenticed with a mentor here; I studied with a Mayan herbalist and also gathered data from other shamans on the Peninsula.

With these ties to the culture, I was exhilarated about coming back to experience it again, as was Sadie, with her similar interests. We took our seats in the plane. As I sat down in the aisle seat, my seatmate was getting up to switch seats with another woman. The woman who sat down next to me in the center seat was relatively familiar looking, and we instantly connected. She was also a blogger and began telling me the themes of the entries on her blog… which were all coincidentally in alignment with my recent experiences.

The entry she explained most in depth was one on grief– not necessarily the death of a person, but rather the death of an idea of some important endeavor one may have an attachment to– hence, the necessity to bury the idea and seek a new life purpose. Our next seat mate, a tall, gangly man was also a blogger. Together, we shared our stories of synchronicity and unity. We highlighted the significances beyond coincidence in human interactions. Our conversation outshone all other sleeping passengers on Flight 71. When we were served plastic cups of water, I made a toast with both seat mates to Synchronicity.

The familiar yet exotic aura of Valladolid was comforting and enticing as Sadie and I entered it in the rental car. Even the scent of this traditional Mayan city warmed my heart and comforted my soul. We navigated the series of one-way roads towards the hotel, which was a magical cove of jungle plants and antique brick walls painted in ancient Mayan-Mexican styles. Shortly after arriving, we walked the village streets towards downtown, asking for directions from other visitors in Spanish. However, we quickly noticed that those visitors were the only other tourists to be seen.

To be among the Valladolid villagers and immersed in this culture with Yucatecan aromas steaming from every other door we walked past was enchanting. To take in this culture fully without the extra perceptions of any other foreigner is to take it in clearly in a new sense that nobody has yet discovered. Like first impressions: to be looked upon for the first time without hindrance of a third party is to see clearly. To smell clearly, and to think clearly.

An exuberant energy vibrated from every carefree child and into the air of the Plaza, which reflected other Yucatecan plazas with their historic fountain centerpieces and white-stone loveseats along the edges; tall shadowy trees, and the enchanting sound of the Spanish and Mayan languages escalating in laughter. We ate at a traditional Yucatecan open-air restaurant with neon colored lights penetrating the dark evening air. In any Yucatecan meal, I most look forward to the homemade cornflour tortillas hopefully cooked on limestone (“kal”), and so was delighted to have an entire stack of them sitting in front of me covered in a creatively patterned hand-woven basket.


After sleeping in a beautiful silky hammock which I swore somehow changed colors from yellow to pink overnight, I awoke to roosters reminding me of when I would do my writing in the mornings on the balcony of Chacmool Hotel my first trip to Yucatan, the natural alarm clock of the day for all the villagers to awake simultaneously (unless they were already awake, for many villagers passionately await the morning hype). All the town comes to life and breakfast aromas of the most natural, finest, and simplest foods seep out into the open air from kitchens all over. We could smell ours, and headed to our open-air table served with fresh fruit and fresh bread with local coffee, black,.

We walked around town for a few minutes in the early sunshine upon which everything seemed to dazzle and everyone seemed to be so content, so happy. Though daily work for the artisans in their shops is not so simple as they would have it seem, each shop owner at every storefront was beaming a smile of welcome. There were women setting up a market on the sidewalk full of vivid vegetables and fruits; the girl offered me half an orange which I gratefully savored. Sharing flavors of the culture.

IMG_6030We set out in search of some cénotes after collecting some directions from the hotel attendant on which ones might be best. Tunneling down the roads outlined with jungle trees was such a restoration to the soul… blurring greenery and refinement across all the soul’s hidden aspects, as jungles of Mexico always have a tendency to do.

Descending down the steps into the cave, we entered a cool and mystical atmosphere. We were the only two swimmers in the large cenote, granting us time and freedom for spiritual and physical healing in the magical, deep waters. Catfish occasionally could be spotted. Birds fluttered in and out of crevices within the stone walls. I spent time floating, reflecting in one specific pool illuminated by strong rays of sunlight, making visible the depth of the cenote. I asked for a clear answer, and as I emerged out into the hotness and newfound clarity of the day, a multitude of butterflies in varieties of different colors fluttered around my face.


There is only one other natural resource, in my opinion, that has more healing power than a cenote– and that is the Ocean. Before arriving in Tulum, we made a stop at the ruins in Coba. I was reminded of my song I started writing, in Spanish, the last time I had been in Yucatan. We sat on a log and connected with the roots of this land, the ancient mysticism of the Mayans and secrets of the Sun which they held. I purchased a hand-woven dreamcatcher with an owl woven within the center. Just being present here, I could sense the humidity of the Ocean and the mysteries of the Mayans pulling me in further to their homeland.

As we drove into the village of Tulum with the windows rolled down, the air was vibrant with exuberance and joy that only a special place such as this would exhibit. There was something particularly magical about the warm, clear waters of this coast. We settled into the cabana loft with shimmering dark wooden floors. Next, we walked through the village radiating with love and humidity, a shimmering happiness that could only be found on a coast such as this one… the street hazard signs displayed messages in segments: “If not now…” ,”When?” Though it was a touristy atmosphere, everyone seemed perfectly content. Exiting the car, we made our way to the beach and walked on the sand to the cabana loft.

I pulled out a book to read on the beach for the first night, but soon couldn’t contain the urge to run along the coast. I started out running, deeply inhaling the warm, humid, salty air. This was my first trip to the beach in nine years, and to be near the water felt so liberating to the soul. I paused occasionally to step into the water and allowed the waves to wash over me, cleansing my heart and mind. I sent out healing intentions through the palms of my hand, directed into the ocean to be washed up onto every other shore in all directions. I ran all the way to the opposite side of the coast, to which I couldn’t count the number of miles and instead was only blinded by the sunshine shimmering across my skin. I observed all the people who were laying out along the beach, soaking in the vastness of this sea and sky.

The full moon on the last night was radiant and shone upon dark waves of ocean. Along with the sound of a wedding DJ playing rock ‘n’ roll tunes and the aromas of the finest seafood in the near distance, the atmosphere was magical and inspirational. The intentions I had cast were now pouring into my own being and radiating along the atmosphere of all other beings. I was absorbing the beauty and magic of this land as it was absorbing me. This was the most peaceful setting on such a full moon… one in which I could remember myself and forget all other false perceptions. Especially while swinging on a wooden swing overlooking the ocean.

I was carried back from this ancient, tropical land with a state of clarity and renewal; a sense of strength obtained from breathing in the ocean and walking upon the sand. My normally constricted nasal passages were suddenly clear, and I could breathe life in to such a greater state of fullness. I stared out into the morning waves of the ocean for awhile before departure. I awaited the newer, much clearer state of living that I was about to enter upon returning to the Colorado snow. I remember striking up conversation with two elderly passengers who resembled family members of mine on the shuttle back from the airport. We talked about living in the area and found we had some mutual connections in the music community and also commonalities in areas of living. The energy upon arrival was evident that life was changing for us in positive ways– big ways.

I reminisced about the sun and the people I encountered during this journey, and would reflect on bringing that energy into the everchanging, sometimes terrifying, uncertainties in my life to move forward with, despite the “grief” of my missing pieces to my life purpose puzzle. Somehow, with the renewed sense of resilience within me, I felt motivated to restore them. The path felt open, as the sun shone upon my face and as the rays pierced their strength through my skin.

Dreaming Prophetically, Profusely


When a song doesn’t immediately come of such a profound statement, a blog post must arise as an adequate substitute.

In such short, fleeting encounters that I have with customers at my job, it’s quite the miracle that I was fortunate enough to capture this phrase being born into the audible world from my new friend, Christina. While checking out her organic groceries in a rushed frenzy, I’m not sure how we stumbled across the subject of dreaming– and not simply dreaming– but “dreaming prophetically, profusely”. Perhaps the problem is that I shouldn’t flaunt my ability to stare into souls as I noticed that her left eye is half blue and half brown. Nevertheless, she shared with me her divine gift of being able to analyze and  relay answers to real-life daily dilemmas through the power of dreams and trusting our innate wisdom coming through to us from a higher power, aka (HP) 😉 .

Though our belief systems are perhaps driven by different perspectives of divine forces, still equally divine, the lesson I was inspired to relay is the importance of building our intuition by beginning to trust our dreams. I find it also highly important to hang dreamcatchers in as many locations as desirable, especially in the center of the window closest to your bed. I have not remembered my nightmares since as long as I have been doing this. Recognize the fact that your dreams may not immediately blossom into full fruition and sense until you begin keeping detailed track of them.

Eventually, one reaches the state of dreaming prophetically: dreaming of clues to tap into hidden secrets when they occur later on in future waking-world, or possibly even the next day. You can ask your divine source questions to be revealed to you through dreams in order to help you get through any situation you may feel bogged down by. When you do this, you may charge certain gems with intentions and place them under your pillow for vivid dreaming. Even better, experiment with herbal allies known for enhancing dreams such as mugwort, motherwort, elderberry flowers, juniper, etc… I always sleep better and remember dreams after a glass of wine, but trust in the power of herbs first before alcohol. 😉

I have a dream journal in which I document my dreams. I’ve noticed that when I first wake up, sometimes I’m not able to grasp the significance or the vividness… but I have always regretted not jotting them down regardless because I will remember intriguing snippets throughout the day and not remember the whole picture.

Sometimes, snippets are enough even if you don’t remember the whole picture.

Examples of my snippets include:

(1) Snapping open a nettle capsule and drinking it with water. I happened to catch a glimpse of this dream memory that morning, and so I attempted snapping open a nettle capsule but failed, so I simply swallowed the capsule with water. It was my subconscious/ higher self telling me I needed more green antioxidants for detoxification and purification. Without the capsule, it is probably more highly absorbable.

(2) Sticking the world peace sign bumper sticker (a gift) I’ve held captive for at least three years in my art box on my laptop. Perhaps as I’m out writing at a coffee shop like I am today, somebody special will notice. Or perhaps it is an ornament to inspire me to get out my laptop and write more creative blog posts.

(3) A brief spotting of a labyrinth inside a church in my town after asking my dreams how my life could unfold more easily. Walking labyrinths is an act of doing just that. A woman also appeared in this dream, who has appeared before whenever I ask questions. Today, I walked the labyrinth with her and experienced an explosion of highly creative, divine energy. So far, it has been very healing and I can sense greater things unfolding.

(4) A vision of my best friend and I at a beach in Florida, holding a treasure chest full of gold tokens and making wishes with the tokens by throwing them into the sea. Today– (apologies for the misuse of ‘today’, as this entire post has been written in so far three different days which distorts your perspective of time… but time is a false concept, anyway, right?) — I called her to ask if she was going to Florida this summer. It happens that she is currently there this moment, and she suggested I get a ticket to visit her while she’s still there. This is very possible and I may be able to do this next week.

Sometimes dreams will give you hints of what you should or could do to enhance your life… the next day, or into the future. But if you ever get into a stuck crisis, remember that you can always ask your inner divine self what the next movement or action should be. I have always received accurate guidance, or foresights into events that end up happening in the future which I can later reference to a certain dream to find meaning.

Resistance to following your intuitive dreaming- especially if you decide to ask your dreams and then refusing to follow your own guidance- may cause confusion, weariness, feelings of stagnancy, and lack. This, however, can be a very enlightening– though very painful– path to take. If you’re ever in this state, try to be still and notice what memories come to mind. Any dreams? It wasn’t until I felt I was clawing at the cage that I had the courage to act upon certain dreams that I knew would get me out of that hole. Don’t be afraid to follow your dreams. Follow them out of curiosity, and keep a journal of what happens. As long as the intention is out of curiosity rather than fear, you won’t steer yourself wrong unless it feels utterly wrong to take any action towards it.

Christina’s last words to me in our previous encounter were, “Dream on, and be blessed.”

If you follow every dream, you might get lost…

Remember to be here now, not lost in your mind. But still begin to recognize the divine miracles that can occur and WILL occur if you are brave enough to follow your positive inspiration you receive through the sleeping state.