Soul Rock Series

I didn’t plan to walk into the cemetery that day.

For almost two years, I had circled its edges—walking the Highline Canal Trail, drawn to the quiet streets and the way the trees held the sky. But a few months ago, two juvenile Cooper’s hawks led me deeper. They weren’t just raptors—they were messengers. Young, wild, and insistent. They flew low, circled, and perched until I followed. That’s how I found myself inside Fairmount Cemetery, not just walking near it, but within it.

Since then, I’ve returned often. I walk among the old graves—where most passed on from this lifetime in the early 1900s to the 1950s. There’s a stillness there, a kind of sacred hush. And I noticed something: as I would leave the cemetery, many of the graves toward the front had small stones placed on them. 

I didn’t understand at first. But I learned that leaving stones is an ancient ritual of remembrance—most widely known in Jewish tradition, where visitors place a pebble or stone on a grave to say: “You are not forgotten. I was here.” It’s a gesture of presence, of memory, of enduring love.

But the symbolism goes deeper—and it’s universal:

• Stones endure. Unlike flowers, they don’t fade. They remain through wind, rain, and time. They say: “This memory is lasting."

• Stones mark presence. Each one is a quiet witness. A soul signature. A way of saying: “I came. I remembered. I honored.”

• Stones build legacy. In ancient times, graves were marked by cairns—heaps of stones added to by each visitor. The more stones, the more remembered the soul.

• Stones carry intention. In spiritual practice, stones absorb energy. When placed with reverence, they become offerings—prayers made solid.

So I began doing it. Quietly. Reverently. I focused on the graves that seemed long-unvisited. I chose stones that felt right—smooth, humble, intentional. I placed them with care, like I was tucking in a name that hadn’t been spoken in decades.

Yesterday was my first day placing stones. But something happened that I didn’t expect.

The Mound

I came across a grave that stopped me cold.

It was a fresh mound—raw earth, still unsettled. I’d never seen anything like it. Most graves are flat, grass-covered, softened by time. But this one was new. The soil was still breathing.

In cemetery symbolism, a fresh mound is more than a marker of recent death. It’s a threshold—a liminal space between worlds. The earth hasn’t yet settled. The spirit hasn’t fully crossed. It’s a moment of transition, where grief is still raw and memory still forming. The mound holds the imprint of movement—of burial, of ritual, of release.

Fresh soil speaks of arrival. Of someone newly returned to the earth. It carries the weight of finality, but also the energy of passage. It’s the last breath of a life, still echoing in the ground.

The grave belonged to George A. Finley, born May 19, 1932. Beside him lay Ramona M. Finley, born February 2, 1932, died April 29, 1964. Ramona died at 32. George’s stone had no death date, but the mound told me he had just passed.

I couldn’t leave a stone. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, held by something larger than myself. The air felt different—thinner, charged. Their graves were well cared for, tended with love. But I felt like I was witnessing something sacred. A reunion. A threshold. A soul returning to its companion.

And it mattered more because I had been struggling so deeply—unsettled in my own spirit, raw in ways I couldn’t name. The mound mirrored me. I, too, was in transition. I, too, was between worlds. Something in me hadn’t yet crossed, hadn’t yet settled. And standing there, I felt seen by the earth itself.

The Inscriptions

Today, I returned. The mound was gone. Flattened. Settled. The grave was quiet now, like a breath exhaled. I wouldn’t have seen it from the street today. I was meant to see it yesterday. That moment was mine.

This time, I placed two stones—one for Ramona, one for George—right in the center of their shared headstone. It felt right. Like something had completed. Like it was okay to rest now. I cried while I did it. Not just for them, but for me.

George’s stone reads: “Lord, my faith in You set me free.”

It’s not just a religious sentiment—it’s a declaration of surrender. A soul unburdened. The kind of freedom that comes not from escape, but from trust. It mirrored my own journey—learning to let go, to stop gripping, to allow grace to carry me.

Ramona’s says: “If angels ever walked on Earth, you were one of them.”

This is not just praise—it’s reverence. A recognition of her light, her tenderness, her impact. It felt like a message for me, too. A reminder that softness is sacred. That being gentle in a harsh world is a kind of divinity.

Their large shared stone bears their birth dates, Ramona’s death date, and the prayer: “Our Father, which art in Heaven…”

A line from the Lord’s Prayer—an invocation of presence, of guidance, of belonging. It anchors the site in devotion. It turns the grave into a sanctuary.

There are planters beside the stone—empty now, but waiting. Like vessels for future offerings. The whole site feels tended. Not by family, but by Fairmount itself. And now, by me.

I’ve become part of their remembrance. A witness. A keeper of their threshold.

The Squirrel Messenger

As I walked away from George and Ramona, I saw something I’ve never seen before.

A squirrel carrying another squirrel in her mouth.

At first, I thought it was injured. But then I realized—it was a young squirrel. She carried him across the cemetery, past eight gravestones, across the dirt trail, and up a massive tree. She climbed with purpose, with strength, with devotion. Then she came down and perched in a tree, exhausted.

I was stunned. I’ve never seen a squirrel carry her baby like that. It felt like a message.

In animal symbolism, squirrels carry layered meanings—especially when they appear in ritual spaces:

• Preparation and protection: Squirrels are known for gathering, storing, and safeguarding. This mother wasn’t just moving her baby—she was relocating legacy. She was choosing where memory would live.

• Maternal instinct and emotional labor: Her journey across the cemetery was a pilgrimage. She carried her child through a landscape of death, past eight gravestones, like a soul midwife. I saw myself in her—carrying grief, carrying lineage, carrying the weight of love.

• Adaptability and resilience: Squirrels navigate trees, trails, and thresholds with agility. She climbed with grace, rested with dignity. She reminded me that healing isn’t linear—it’s layered, and it requires rest.

• Sacred timing: Squirrels often appear when we’re being asked to release old patterns and prepare for new seasons. Her appearance, right after I placed the stones, felt orchestrated. Like she was closing the ritual with me.

I’ve been carrying my own grief. My own legacy. 

My mother died on 11/11—twenty years ago in 2005. For eighteen of those years, I lived in her shadow. Trying to be her. Trying to survive without her. I was misdiagnosed as bipolar when she died, medicated for something I didn’t have. I stayed on those pills for eighteen years—out of fear, out of habit, out of institutional shadow.

But in 2023, I began to heal. I did the inner work. I entered Shadowland and walked through it. I faced the grief, the rage, the control. I did the soul excavation. And slowly, I began to emerge.

I weaned off the pills with reverence, not rebellion. And in January 2025, I crossed the threshold. I’ve been free ever since.

But even in Godland, I carried remnants. Nicotine lingered—not just as a substance, but as a ritual. A coping mechanism. A tether to the old scaffolding. And now, I’m releasing that too. Not just quitting, but clearing. Making space. Meeting myself without anything in the way.

And then came the squirrel.

She didn’t just carry her baby.

She carried me.

The Cemetery as Mirror

George’s grave was freshly dug when I first saw it. Today, it was settled. Just like me.

Ramona died at 32. I’m walking through my own grief at a similar age. Their inscriptions speak to faith, to grace, to devotion. And I’m learning to live those words—not as ideas, but as practices. As breath. As surrender.

The cemetery has become a mirror. A sacred architecture of endings and echoes. Each grave is a threshold. Each stone, a sentence in a larger story. And in that story, I see myself—grieving, emerging, remembering.

The squirrel mother showed me what I’ve been doing—carrying the weight, climbing the tree, finding a place to rest. She didn’t just carry her baby. She carried me.

She mirrored the sacred labor of transition—the emotional migration from one identity to another.
She embodied the feminine archetype of the carrier—the one who bears life, memory, and burden across thresholds.

She traced a ritual path—eight gravestones, a trail, a tree. A pilgrimage of protection.
And when she rested, she gave me permission to do the same.

The cemetery didn’t just reflect my grief. It reflected my becoming.
Not just what I’ve lost—but what I’m learning to carry with reverence.
Not just who I’ve been—but who I’m becoming.

This Is the Beginning

This isn’t just a story. It’s the launch of the Soul Rock Series—a ritual archive of messages from beyond the grave. Each stone placed is a prayer. Each name remembered is a constellation. Some entries will be research-based. Others, like this one, will be pure soul transmission.

This series is not just about healing myself. It’s about remembering them, all of them. Especially those who passed on 75–100 years ago. Every stone is a way to say: You are not forgotten.

George and Ramona told me everything I needed to know today. Their message was front and center. And now, I honor them.

Because the mound may be gone.
But the memory is alive.
And the archive has begun.

Back to Top

Back to Soul Rock Series

I didn’t plan to return to their grave. I had placed the stone weeks earlier—quietly, reverently—on the shared headstone of Josephine S. George (1907–1968)and R. Damon George (1900–1951). It was a small act, but it felt complete. A gesture of presence. A way of saying: You are seen. You are remembered. Their names had called to me. Not loudly, but with a kind of quiet insistence. I answered with a stone—smooth, grounded, chosen with care.

But when I walked the cemetery this week, something was missing. The stone was gone.

I’ve placed dozens of stones across Fairmount. Each one has remained. Each one has held its place. Until now. It was there on Tuesday. And by Thursday, it had disappeared. I stood in front of their grave, not with confusion, but with curiosity. Something had shifted. Not just in the landscape—but in the ritual. And I knew: this was the beginning of something.

The Missing Stone

This wasn’t just a pebble misplaced. It was a ritual undone. A memory unmoored. A silence where intention had once lived.

Across cultures, placing stones on graves is an ancient act of reverence. In Jewish tradition, it marks a visit, a bond, a soul still remembered. In ancestral practices, stones are offerings—earthbound prayers that don’t fade with time. Unlike flowers, they do not wilt. They endure. They hold weight. They say: This name matters. This moment is witnessed.

So when a stone disappears, it speaks. It says: Something has shifted.

Maybe it was moved by weather, by wildlife, by human hands. But maybe—just maybe—it was soul choreography. A message. A mirror. A ritual revision. I’ve placed dozens of stones across Fairmount. Each one chosen with care. Each one placed with intention. None have vanished. Until now.

And this grave—Josephine and R. Damon George—was chosen. Witnessed. Remembered. Their stone didn’t just mark their names. It marked a transmission. A soul-level offering. A moment of communion. Its absence feels deliberate. Not erasure, but evolution. A call to return. To listen again. To ask: What is rising now? What needs to be rewritten?

In stone symbolism, disappearance can mean release. Transition. A soul moving forward. Or a soul asking for a different kind of witness. This is not a loss. It’s a threshold. And I’m not replacing the stone. I’m responding to it. Because even in absence, the ritual continues. And the story deepens.

The Timing

It happened the same week I recommitted to Remi. After rupture. After escalation. After the bite, the window and the grief. I had stood at the edge of letting go—tired, heart-worn, unsure if the bond could hold. But something in me said: Not yet. There’s too much history. Too much soul. Too much that is still unfinished.

We’ve walked through lifetimes together. Not just in this body, but in the unseen. I believe we can rewrite our contract. Not through control, not through correction—but through communion. Through ritual. Through remembrance.

And then the stone disappeared. The one I placed for Josephine and Damon George. A quiet offering. A soul signature. Gone.

It felt connected. Not coincidental. Like their grave was part of the teaching. Like the missing stone was a message: You can begin again. But you must listen differently.

The timing was precise. The stone vanished just as I chose to stay. Just as I said yes to the mess, the mystery, the medicine of Remi’s soul. It felt like a soul echo. A layered lesson. A whisper from the archive: Rituals evolve. Contracts shift. Memory moves.

Josephine lived 17 years after Damon died. She knew what it meant to hold grief alone. To walk forward with absence. To rewrite her own rhythm. Maybe she’s part of this now. Maybe the Georges are guiding me. Maybe the missing stone is not a loss, but a threshold.

A call to revise the ritual. To meet Remi not as a behaviorist, but as a witness. To say: I see you. I remember you. I honor what we’ve survived. And I’m listening. Not just to Remi. But to the graves. To the stones. To the silence that speaks.

The Inscriptions

Their shared stone is modest. Weathered. It reads:

Josephine S. George
1907–1968

R. Damon George
1900–1951

No epitaph. No flourish. Just names and dates. But the simplicity holds weight. It invites reflection. It asks: Who were they? What did they carry? What remains?

Damon died first—at 51. Josephine lived 17 more years. Long enough to grieve. Long enough to rebuild. Long enough to hold the silence that follows a shared life. They were married in Denver in 1936, in the midst of the Great Depression. 

Their union began in scarcity, endured through war, and stretched into the postwar boom. They lived through Roosevelt, ration books, and radio broadcasts. Through shifting gender roles and rising suburban dreams. Through the birth of television and the slow unraveling of old certainties.

Josephine was born in 1907—before women could vote. She died in 1968, the year of MLK’s assassination, the year the world cracked open. Her life spanned suffrage, segregation, and the stirrings of second-wave feminism. Damon’s life was shorter, but no less storied. Born in Kansas, raised in a country still healing from Reconstruction, he died just as Eisenhower took office.

Their stone doesn’t tell me who they were. But it tells me when they were. And that’s enough to begin. Their deaths bracket my own lineage. Damon died before my mother was born. Their lives overlapped with hers. And now, I’ve entered theirs. Not just as a visitor. But as a witness. Their stone is not just a marker. It’s a portal. A threshold. A quiet invitation to remember what history forgets.

The Soul Rock Offering

I placed one stone. Just one. For both of them. It felt right—like a shared breath between souls, like a single prayer folded into the earth. I chose it with care: smooth, grounded, humble. A gesture of unity for a couple whose lives had been intertwined in silence and time. I placed it gently, not as decoration, but as declaration. A soul signature. A ritual seal.

And now it’s gone.

But the offering remains.

Because ritual isn’t just about what we place. It’s about what we notice when it’s missing. It’s about the shift in atmosphere, the tug in the chest, the whisper that says: Pay attention. It’s about the memory that lingers even when the object disappears. The stone may be gone, but the act of placing it—of witnessing, of honoring—still lives in the archive.

And the archive is alive.

It deepens even in disappearance.

The Cemetery as Oracle

Fairmount is no longer just a cemetery. It’s a mirror. A messenger. A map. Each grave is a threshold. Each disappearance, a transmission. Each stone—placed or missing—is a sentence in a larger story.

Josephine and Damon’s grave became a portal. Not just to their past, but to my present. To Remi’s future. To the soul contract I’m rewriting.

I will return. Not just to replace the stone. But to listen. To witness. To remember.

Back to Top

Back to Soul Rock Series

It began with a stone.

In many traditions, leaving a rock at a grave is a gesture of remembrance. A way of saying: I was here. I see you. You are not forgotten. Unlike flowers, which fade, stones endure. They hold weight. They mark presence. They become part of the landscape.

But in the Soul Rock Series, the stones are more than tokens. They are ritual offerings. Each one is chosen with care—smooth, grounded, humble. Placed gently, like tucking in a name that hasn’t been spoken in years. Like sealing a prayer into the earth.

Rocks carry symbolism across cultures and faiths:

• In Jewish tradition, stones are placed on graves to honor the dead and affirm that memory lives on.
• In indigenous and earth-based practices, stones are seen as ancient beings—holders of time, carriers ofwisdom, anchors of spirit.
• In Christian symbolism, rocks represent strength, refuge, and divine foundation. “Upon this rock I      will build…”—a phrase that speaks to spiritual grounding.

In this archive, each stone becomes a threshold marker. A soul signature. A moment when grief meets ritual. When memory becomes movement. When the cemetery becomes a sanctuary.

And then, the land began to respond.

Animals gathered—squirrels, magpies, flickers, hawks. Their movements weren’t random. They were ceremonial. They arrived with purpose, with timing, with soul-level clarity. Trees began to speak. The air shifted. The cemetery became a convergence zone. A ritual field. A place where nature speaks through wings, paws, and silence.

The Soul Rock Series is a living archive of these encounters. Each entry documents a spiritual transmission shaped by stone offerings, animal symbolism, ancestral presence, and the emotional choreography of grief and grace. It is a sanctuary for remembrance, a mirror for healing, and a testament to the sacred intelligence of the land.

Whether you’re drawn to the spiritual meaning of animals, the soul medicine of trees, or the quiet wisdom of cemetery rituals, this series invites you to listen. To witness. To remember.

Discover how a single stone becomes a ceremony. How a hawk becomes a sentinel. How a grave becomes a portal. And how the land itself becomes a teacher.

These reflections remind us: we are not alone.
The stones speak.
The animals respond.
And the soul remembers.

Back to Top