These days, as the veil between worlds feels thinner
and we honour our ancestors,
I feel called to share something close to my heart.
Maybe it’s because their voices feel nearer —
or because this time invites all of us
to remember what truly sustains us
when the old structures fall away
and the new has not yet taken form.
Much is shifting for me, too.
I’ve noticed how easily my sense of trust begins to shake
when outer abundance wavers —
how quickly fear or doubt can return
when financial stability feels uncertain.
And then, a clear message came through —
simple and true:
“You are still living in survival, not in abundance.”
Those words struck me deeply.
Because I knew they were right.
I had been looking outward again,
instead of letting the Earth hold me.
As I stood in my field,
watching the corn grow —
this ancient Andean symbol of life and abundance —
I remembered:
abundance is not something we have.
It’s something we are.
The Earth keeps giving,
even when the surface trembles.
The breath remains.
Life continues to pulse.
And within that simplicity
lies a fullness that can never be lost.
When I see the birds building their nests,
when I feel my body — this sacred temple —
when I play my guitar and the sound meets the air,
when I connect to everything within and around me
I know:
I am carried.
I belong.
I am life itself.
Maybe this is what these times are asking of us —
to remember that true abundance is not to be found,
but to be felt.
I’m writing this not from a place of distance,
but from the heart of my own process.
Because I believe that in this collective transformation,
we need one another —
to keep remembering
what truly nourishes and sustains us.
With love and gratitude
for the Earth, our ancestors,
and this sacred life we share.