The Path Not Yet Written

I’m home from our Return to Lemuria weekend, feeling grateful for the magic we experienced together.

We spent time connecting with the energy of the elements in the body, the symbols, and the shamanic journeys brought so many insights. What I loved most was seeing people discover their own extraordinary capacities. There is something beautiful about witnessing someone begin to trust what they can feel and perceive, and recognize the wisdom they have access to within themselves. (btw, I will be offering it again in June 2027 at my new place in Lunenburg, stay tuned for more details)

For me, the weekend deepened my trust in the body of wisdom that is Lemurian Huna. Each time I teach it, I discover more within it. The teachings continue to unfold through our bodies, through the experience of being together, and through what each person brings.

One practice in particular has stayed with me.

During the one of the practices, we visualized the edges of our bodies softening and becoming one with the earth beneath us. We let the ground receive what had run its course, surrendering something old and making space for what might want to emerge.

A kind of composting.

Honouring an ending

I’ve been thinking about how much wisdom there is in giving something back to the earth, and how rarely we give ourselves time to honour an ending.

Endings come in so many forms. A season changes, child leaves home (I know this one deeply right now ; ), a relationship changes shape, someone we love dies... sometimes an ending happens quietly within us, a familiar way of being no longer feels true, even though we don’t yet know who we are becoming.

We may sense that something has reached completion long before we are ready to acknowledge it. There can be sadness we haven’t had time to feel, or uncertainty about what will take its place. And life keeps asking things of us, so we carry on.

Sometimes, we also forget to recognize the fulfillment within an ending. Something has given us what it could. We have grown through it. We can honour what it has meant to us while allowing it to come to a close.

Nature knows the importance of endings. The rose releases its petals. Leaves fall and become part of the soil that will nourish another season of growth. It is impossible to be in full expansion all year round.

We belong to these rhythms too.

The cocoon of no-thing

Perhaps you are feeling something like this in your own life. You sense that you cannot quite go back to the way things were. Something has been seen, felt, or understood, and it has changed you. Yet the way forward is still unclear.

I think of this as the cocoon of no-thing.

It asks for patience, for rest, for room to feel what we are leaving behind without needing to explain what will come next.

When we look at the soil in late autumn, we see very little of the life unfolding beneath the surface. Still, the earth is receiving, breaking down, transforming. What has fallen is becoming nourishment.

I find comfort in remembering that I belong to this intelligence too. I can give my attention to what is happening within me and allow some of it to unfold in its own time.

And sometimes, as I settle into that listening, something begins to make itself known; a feeling, an image, curiosity about a possibility I hadn’t considered.

I don’t have to know what it means right away. I can let it accompany me.

A practice for you: The Path Not Yet Written

This month, I’m sharing a guided visualization from my teachings called The Path Not Yet Written.

 We begin by bringing our attention into the body and connecting with the wisdom we can sense there. From that connection, I invite you to explore an emerging path through your intuitive imagination: how you move, how you feel, what surrounds you, and what you notice about yourself.

You can enter this practice without knowing what you want your next chapter to look like. Whatever arises; a sensation, an image, a few words... is something to be curious about. There is no need to turn it into a plan or take it as a prediction.

Give yourself about ten quiet minutes, with a journal nearby if you’d like to write afterward.