The woods behind my house are my sanctuary — my church, my comedy stage, and my cosmic council chamber.
It’s where I talk to everyone: my ancestors, my spirit team, the Archangels, the Sirians, the Arcadians, Ascended Masters, Priestesses, the Andromedans… basically, all the celestial friends who signed up to help me “evolve.”
Sometimes they help. Sometimes they just laugh at me.
The Sacred (and Slightly Chaotic) Woods
If you’ve ever wondered what a spiritual awakening looks like in real life, imagine this:
Me, barefoot in the grass, trying to feel grounded… and then realizing I’ve just stepped in poison ivy.
Me, calling in the Light of Source… and then screaming at my dog to stop eating animal poo.
Somewhere between the Archangels’ guidance and my dog’s digestive choices, I find balance.
It’s messy. It’s magical. And it’s mine.
The Ghost of My Medicine Woman Past
Every day, when I walk these woods, I can feel them, the hundreds of Native American spirits who walked this land with me and before me.
They know me.
We’ve done this before.
They remind me of the time I was one of them, though honestly, I still don’t understand how I survived it, considering I can’t even identify poison ivy, I hibernate when it gets to be 50 degrees, and I have no sense of direction.
I’ll catch myself muttering, “Really, Spirit? You're sure I was a magnificent medicine woman? Because right now, I’m itching and confused.”
They laugh. I swear I can hear them.
The Overachiever’s Contract
Some days, I stop in the middle of the path and just talk out loud:
“Alright, Team. I’m done overachieving. I take back that soul contract where I said I’d heal every ancestral line. That was a terrible idea. Who approved that?”
The wind rustles. The hawk circles overhead. I swear the Archangels sigh in relief.
“Good,” they whisper. “We were wondering when you’d realize that it was too much.”
Apparently, free will means we’re allowed to edit our spiritual job descriptions.
Cosmic Conversations and Sarcastic Prayers
I talk to them about everything — the aches in my body, the weird synchronicities, the neighbor’s lawn mower that ruins the vibe of my angelic reiki classes.
I remind them:
“I remember who I am now, so please stop with the physical pain as a lesson. I get it. I’m divine. I’m human. I’m tired.”
They laugh again. Apparently enlightenment doesn’t come with an “unsubscribe” button.
But somehow, between the sarcasm and the sincerity, something real happens: I soften. I breathe. I feel the earth humming beneath me — alive, forgiving, patient.
Ceremony in the Cornfields
There’s ceremony even in the absurd.
In the dirt on my feet.
In the laughter that follows my frustration.
In the sunlight that filters through the trees like a blessing I didn’t have to earn.
Out here, spirituality isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present.
It’s about remembering that the divine doesn’t need incense and robes — sometimes, it just needs you, the trees, and a dog who’s definitely not listening.
đź’› Final Note
If you’ve ever felt like you’re failing at being “spiritual,” you’re not.
You’re just alive.
And being human is the ceremony.
When the woods call you — go. Laugh. Complain. Revoke a few soul contracts. Talk to your team, your angels, your dog.
They’ll all listen.
And they’ll laugh with you, too.