Returning from the Sacred: A Prayer Completed, A Sanctuary Born

I just returned from Wirikuta. My second trip in two months.

This wasn’t a journey of curiosity or coincidence. It was the completion of a prayer. Honoring a commitment to life.

When my nephew was in the hospital, I was brought to my knees. In that place of desperation, I reached deeper into my prayers than I ever had before. I cried out to God with everything I had—pleading, begging, trembling. I called on the strongest prayer warriors I know, those who have walked with me in ceremony and silence. One of them heard my cry and responded with a powerful offering: a deer spirit to amplify the prayer.

With that sacred offering came a responsibility. A living prayer had been made, and I was its carrier.

So I returned to Wirikuta—to the gardens, to the land that remembers—not for more, but to give back. To return the offering. To express my gratitude. To give life back to the spirit of the land that had heard our cry.

Being there again, in such a short time, was beyond this world. The land held me like a child. Like a grandchild, coming home for the first time again. I felt nourished and held. The visions of beauty, wonder, magic, and gratitude washed over me. Gratitude for the power of prayer, for the sacred medicine, for the ancestors who walked these lands for centuries. For the medicine people who continue to carry their traditions so that I could be here today—so that future generations can still find beauty, love, and prayer in the midst of whatever changes come into this world.

My nephew is not alive in this world anymore. He passed away. The grief that overwhelmed my family was also beyond this world. It cracked us open. And somehow, through that heartbreak, his spirit continued to walk with me. It was his spirit that pushed me to go deeper into my ceremonial walk. It was his spirit, living on in a way I can only feel, that drew me back to Wirikuta.

Now I’m home again, and everything feels like a paradox. I am exhausted and full. Groundless and rooted. Inspired and overwhelmed.

The texture of my exhaustion is palpable. Yes, the trip, the travel, the constant being on the road for the last three years and not having my own space—all of that lives in my bones. But beyond that, it's the world. The violence. The injustices. The wars we are in now. It all weighs heavy on me.

All I can think of is sanctuary. Having a space. I finally got it. A sanctuary, a reward after my devout commitment to the land and being on the land. I found a space to retreat and to offer space for retreat.

I am happy and exhausted.

I found a new place to live—a steady roof, finally. And while I feel blessed by the possibility of landing, I also feel the weight of what it will take to stay. The bills. The work. The daily hustle that so often feels at odds with the slow, sacred rhythms of spirit.

Integration is its own ceremony. It doesn't come with drums or sage or a circle of witnesses. It comes in the quiet moments when I choose not to abandon myself. When I sit with the medicine long after it's been digested and ask: what now?

I don't have all the answers. But I know that the gardens received what I brought. I know that my nephew's spirit is still moving, still teaching, still loving. And I know that somehow, in this strange middle place between spirit and survival, I am still being held.

This, too, is sacred work.

And so, I return—not just from the desert gardens, but from the edge of myself. I return with gratitude, with grief, with sacred exhaustion and a quiet kind of joy.

This new sanctuary—this home I’ve landed in—isn’t just for me. It’s a place of rest, yes, but also a place of offering. A space to nourish others. To host prayer. To hold ceremony. To invite those who are weary, those who are seeking, to remember their own connection to the sacred. It is a reward and a responsibility. A seed of something much bigger.

We will hold our opening ceremony on August 30th. A day to mark this new beginning, to bless the space, and to gather in prayerful celebration.

To anyone walking between worlds, navigating ceremony and survival, spirit and sorrow: I see you. May you find pockets of sanctuary—within or around you. May you feel your prayers still moving, even when your body is tired.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I know this: the land remembers, and so do we. One prayer at a time, we make our way home.

At the sacred gardens in Wirikuta, Mexico, the land of the shimmering heart