Soul Rock Series

I didn’t expect the squirrels.

They were everywhere—more than I’ve ever seen at Fairmount. I lost count after twenty. Some were fastidious, foraging with purpose. Others were playful, chasing each other up trees, bouncing off gravestones, darting through the plots like dancers in a ritual. And some simply watched—perched, still, observant. Every grave I passed had at least one. It felt like a gathering. A celebration. A soul council in motion.

Near Plot 106, the energy shifted. The fall foliage was deepening—yellow turning to orange—and the magpies and northern flickers were speaking softly. The magpies curled their calls gently, calm and conversational. The flickers foraged peacefully, chirping in rhythm. It was a quiet chorus. A language of presence.

And then I saw it.

The eagle made of stone.

Guy R. Donis
1965–1991
The headstone reads:
Top: Loving son, husband and father
Bottom: May he soar with an eagle’s endeavor, carrying our love on his wings forever.

Etched into the stone is an eagle in flight, framed by forest and mountains. But beside the grave stands something I’ve never seen at Fairmount—a statue of an eagle, part of the grave itself. Not an outside offering. Not a ceramic bunny or a vase. This eagle belongs here. It is part of the ritual.

Its beak is chipped. And on the gravestone, the eagle’s beak is obscured too. Symbolically, it feels like something unfinished. A message interrupted. A flight paused. What does it mean when the messenger’s mouth is missing? What does it mean when the voice of the eagle is broken?

I sat beneath the maple tree beside his grave. I’ve never sat down at Fairmount before. But I had to. The energy was rich, grounded, magnetic. I stayed for a few minutes, listening. Feeling. Witnessing. Guy spoke to me—not just through the eagle, but through the silence. Through the question: What was his connection to eagles? What did he carry? What did he leave behind?

He would have been just eleven years older than me. He was only 26 when his life ended in 1991. But his presence remains. And I left a stone. Quietly. Reverently. A soul signature beneath the wings.

As I left Plot 106, the red-tailed hawk returned. She circled the cemetery many times before landing on a pine just outside the gates. But she wasn’t leaving. She was watching. She perched facing Fairmount—eyes on the graves, wings tucked, sentinel-like.

She was overseeing the ritual.
She was holding the field.
She was saying: I see you.

The eagle is the centerpiece. Not just a symbol—but an archetype. A mythic messenger of sovereignty, soul vision, and divine transmission. At Guy’s grave, the eagle appears twice: etched in stone and sculpted in form. But both are fractured. The beak is chipped. The mouth is obscured. The voice is missing.

What does it mean when the messenger’s mouth is broken?

It means the message is unfinished.
It means the transmission is paused.
It means we are being asked to listen differently.

Eagles soar above the landscape, piercing illusion, carrying prayers to the heavens. They are guardians of clarity, carriers of soul perspective. But when the beak is broken, the voice is silenced. And silence, in ritual, is never empty—it’s sacred. It’s a space of listening. Of revision. Of deeper reception.

Guy’s eagle doesn’t speak in words. It speaks in posture. In fracture. In presence. It says: There is something here. But you must feel it, not hear it. You must witness it, not decode it.

The chipped beak is not just damage. It’s design. A soul-level invitation to receive the message through the body, through the ritual, through the silence.

And the other animals responded.

• Squirrels danced across the graves, gathered memory, and carried emotional labor. Their choreography was a language of tending. Of legacy. Of shared grief. They held the field while the eagle held the sky.
• Magpies curled their calls gently, speaking in paradox. Their presence softened the silence, adding texture to the fracture. They reminded me that mourning is layered—that joy and sorrow can coexist, that brokenness can still be beautiful.
• Northern Flickers tapped into the unseen. Their rhythmic chirping was a call to listen deeper. To      hear what’s buried. To honor what’s rising. They didn’t interrupt the eagle’s silence—they amplified it. They made space for it to echo.
• The Red-Tailed Hawk arrived as the sentinel. She circled the cemetery, then perched outside the gates, watching. She mirrored the eagle—not in fracture, but in flight. She held the field from above, saying: The message is still alive. Even if the mouth is broken. Even if the voice is missing.

Together, they formed a council. But the eagle was the center. The silence was the message. The chipped beak was the altar.

Guy’s grave didn’t just speak through inscription. It spoke through interruption. Through the broken voice of the eagle. Through the animals who gathered to hold the ritual in its stead.

And I listened.

Because when the eagle’s voice is broken, the earth speaks louder.
The animals gather closer.
And the ritual deepens.

The Soul Lesson

There was no calendar cue. No anniversary. But everything about today felt like a teaching. The squirrels gathered. The flickers whispered. The magpies softened. And the eagle appeared.

I sat beneath the maple tree for the first time. I didn’t just observe—I entered the field. I listened. I felt. I witnessed. And then the hawk arrived—circling, watching, anchoring the ritual from above.

It wasn’t coincidence. It was choreography. A soul echo. A layered lesson.

Guy’s grave was tucked back, quiet, powerful. His eagle statue was chipped, but still standing. His inscription spoke of flight, of love, of endurance. And the hawk responded—not with noise, but with presence. Not with answers, but with vision.

The lesson was clear:
Even when the voice is broken, the message remains.
Even when the statue is chipped, the ritual continues.
Even when the messenger is silent, the animals gather to speak.

This wasn’t just a visit.
It was a transmission.
And I received it.

The Inscriptions

Guy R. Donis
March 4, 1965 – December 1991
Loving son, husband and father
May he soar with an eagle’s endeavor, carrying our love on his wings forever.

This isn’t just an inscription. It’s a soul invocation.

To soar with an eagle’s endeavor is to rise with purpose. To carry love as flight. To move through grief, memory, and mystery with wings wide and heart open. It’s not just about ascension—it’s about devotion. About carrying the weight of love into the unseen.

Guy’s stone is etched with an eagle in flight, framed by forest and mountains. A landscape of soul terrain. But beside the grave stands something more—a statue of an eagle, sculpted and solemn. It’s part of the grave, not an offering placed later. It was chosen. It was meant.

And yet, the beak is chipped. The mouth is obscured. The messenger’s voice is broken.

Symbolically, this fracture speaks volumes. It says: The message is still rising, but not yet complete.
It says: The flight continues, even when the voice falters.

It says: Love is being carried—not through words, but through presence.

The eagle’s broken beak mirrors the silence that often follows loss. The things left unsaid. The prayers unspoken. The memories that rise not in language, but in feeling. Guy’s eagle doesn’t need to speak. It needs to be witnessed.

And I did.

I sat beneath the maple tree beside his grave. I’ve never sat down at Fairmount before. But this time, I had to. The energy was rich, maternal, protective. The maple held me. It held the ritual. It held the silence.

Guy’s grave holds a presence I haven’t felt anywhere else. Not just because of the eagle. But because of the way it called me in. The way it asked me to listen—not with ears, but with soul. The way it said: This is not just a grave. This is a flight path.

The eagle is chipped, but still soaring.
The voice is fractured, but the presence is whole.
The silence isn’t absence—it’s invitation.

Guy is soaring.
And I am listening.

I placed one stone. Just one. Beneath the wings.

It wasn’t just a gesture. It was a transmission. A soul signature. A prayer etched in silence. A way of saying: I see you. I hear you. I honor your flight—even if it’s fractured.

The eagle’s chipped beak reminded me that some messages arrive broken. Some transmissions are incomplete. But even in fracture, there is meaning. Even in silence, there is song. The missing voice doesn’t negate the message—it reshapes it. It asks us to listen with the body, with the breath, with the soul.

Guy’s grave became a portal. Not just to his story, but to mine. To the hawk’s circling presence. To the squirrels’ choreography of memory. To the flickers’ rhythmic whisper. To the magpies’ paradoxical grace. To the ritual unfolding across Fairmount—layered, quiet, alive.

The stone I placed wasn’t just for Guy. It was for the silence. For the broken beak. For the messages that rise through stillness. For the flight that continues, even when the voice is gone.

And I was part of it.

Not just a visitor.

A witness.
A carrier.
A keeper of the threshold.

The Cemetery as Oracle

Fairmount is no longer just a cemetery. It’s a sanctuary. A soul map. A ritual field.

Plot 106 became a convergence zone. The squirrels danced. The flickers whispered. The magpies softened. The eagle stood watch. And the hawk circled above—sentinel, overseer, maternal witness.

Guy’s grave spoke of flight. Of love. Of brokenness. Of endurance. But more than that—it spoke of transmission. Of soul language. Of messages that arrive through fracture, through silence, through ritual convergence.

This place doesn’t just reflect my grief.
It reflects my becoming.
It mirrors the parts of me that are still rising.
Still listening.
Still learning to soar.

Fairmount speaks in layers—through stone, soil, and wing. It doesn’t just hold the dead. It holds the messages they left behind. The ones we’re still deciphering. The ones we’re still carrying.

And I will return.

Not just to visit.
But to listen.
To remember.
To soar.

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