Soul Rock Series

The Discovery

It began with the Georges.

The missing stone. The lesson of reverence beyond object. The reminder that ritual continues, even when the offering disappears. I had placed the stone weeks earlier—quietly, reverently—on Josephine’s side of the shared headstone. And then it was gone.

But today, the light was different. Earlier in the day. Brighter. And I saw it—gold flecks shimmering from the ground. The stone hadn’t vanished. It had fallen. Smooth, intact, waiting. I placed it back where it belonged. A gesture of return. A ritual of restoration.

And then I found them.

Three women. One massive stone. No husbands. No fathers. Just names. Just dates. Just presence.

Susie E. Hall
1869–1953
Mother

Gertrude M. Murray
1889–1978
Daughter

Lillian L. Dreher
1890–1972
Daughter

The layout is intentional. Susie at the center. The daughters flanking her. A matriarchal altar. A lineage of feminine endurance. And the stone is large—commanding, unapologetic. It doesn’t whisper. It declares.

I felt their bond. Their strength. Their survival. And I was right.

The Living Memory

These women lived through everything.

• Susie, born in 1869, entered the world just four years after the Civil War ended. She lived through Reconstruction, the rise of Jim Crow, the Spanish-American War, the 1918 flu pandemic, two World Wars, and the Great Depression. She witnessed the ratification of the 19th Amendment in 1920—women’s right to vote. She died in 1953, just as the Civil Rights Movement was beginning to stir.
• Gertrude, born in 1889, lived through the Progressive Era, the suffrage movement, and the roaring twenties. She survived the Spanish flu, the stock market crash, and the rise of fascism. She saw the moon landing, the feminist wave of the 1970s, and the cultural upheaval of postwar America. She died in 1978, having witnessed nearly a century of transformation.
• Lillian, born in 1890, followed a similar arc. She lived through the same pandemics, wars, and revolutions. She died in 1972, six years before Gertrude, and one year before Roe v. Wade.

Together, they endured the shifting architecture of womanhood. They lived through a time when women couldn’t vote, couldn’t own property, couldn’t speak freely—and they survived long enough to see those rights begin to unfold.

Their stone doesn’t just mark their names. It marks a lineage of resilience. A monument to matriarchal strength.

The Stone Without Men
This wasn’t absence. It was emphasis. A monument to women who held their own. Who didn’t need male names to be remembered. Who stood together—mother and daughters—in ritual formation. 

In a time when women were often defined by their husbands or fathers, this stone spoke differently. It said: We were enough. It said: Our bond was the lineage. It said: We endured, not as extensions of men, but as sovereign souls, side by side.

I felt it the moment I saw it. The stone was large, unapologetic, centered on their names. It didn’t whisper. It declared. It wasn’t a family plot—it was a matriarchal altar. A lineage of feminine resilience carved into granite. And I stood before it not just as a visitor, but as a daughter of daughters. A witness to the ones who endured.

The Shimmering Gold Flecks
The fallen stone was a message. Reverence continues even when the object disappears. But when it returns—when it catches the light—it becomes a ritual of restoration. A soul signature reclaimed.

I hadn’t seen it the day before. The light was dimmer. The shimmer was hidden. But today, the sun angled just right. The gold flecks glinted from the ground. The stone hadn’t vanished. It had simply shifted.

That shimmer was a whisper: Nothing is lost. Only waiting to be seen again.

And when I placed it back on Josephine’s side, it wasn’t just a correction. It was a ritual revision. A way of saying: The offering still lives. The memory still matters. The ritual continues.

The Timing
I walked a path I don’t usually take. The light was different. The shimmer was visible. The grave was waiting. This wasn’t coincidence. It was choreography. The Georges called me back with absence. The stone’s disappearance opened a portal. And the Matriarchs answered with presence. With monument. With magnitude.

I was meant to find them today—not yesterday, not tomorrow. Today, when the light was right. When the shimmer could be seen. When the ritual was ready. This is how soul work moves: not in straight lines, but in spirals. Not in plans, but in pulses. I didn’t find them. They summoned me.

The Trio
Three women. Three lifetimes. Three thresholds. Their presence was layered—mother, daughters, witnesses. They mirrored my own soul work: tending legacy, honoring silence, rewriting ritual.

Susie, the matriarch, born just after the Civil War. Gertrude and Lillian, daughters of the turn-of-the-century, shaped by pandemics, wars, and revolutions. They lived through the Spanish flu, the Great Depression, two World Wars, and the rise of women’s suffrage. They weren’t passive observers. They were carriers. Holders. Survivors.

Their stone wasn’t just a marker. It was a map. A soul constellation. A reminder that lineage isn’t always patriarchal. That strength isn’t always loud. That survival is its own kind of sacred.

And I, too, am part of that lineage. A daughter of daughters. A witness to the ones who endured. A ritualist who places stones not just for memory, but for myth.

I placed one stone. Just one. For all three.

It wasn’t just a gesture. It was a soul breath. A shared exhale between lives that had endured so much and remained together. I chose the stone with care—smooth, grounded, humble. It felt like a prayer folded into the earth. A ritual of unity. A way of saying: I see you. I honor you. I feel the bond that held you.

I placed it gently—not as decoration, but as declaration. A soul signature. A ritual seal. A marker of reverence for women who lived through pandemics, wars, depressions, and revolutions—and still stood together. Mother and daughters. A trio of endurance. A lineage of quiet strength.

I felt their connection. Not just familial, but spiritual. Like they had chosen to remain close in death because they had held each other through life. Their stone wasn’t just large—it was bonded. It carried the weight of shared memory, shared survival, shared soul.

And the offering remains.

Because ritual isn’t just about what we place. It’s about what we feel when we return. It’s about the shimmer that calls us back. The gold flecks that catch the light. The memory that lingers even when the object disappears. The lineage that waits to be witnessed.

This wasn’t just a stone. It was a tether. A thread between my soul and theirs. A way of saying: You are not forgotten. You are not alone. Your story lives on—in me, in this archive, in the ritual we’ve now shared.

And I will return.

Not just to place.
But to listen.
To remember.
To carry their names forward.

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 shimmer, a transmission. Each stone—placed or fallen—is a sentence in a larger story.

Susie, Gertrude, and Lillian’s grave became a portal. Not just to their past, but to my present. To the matriarchal memory I’m rewriting. To the ritual of return.

I will return.

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

Soul Rock No. 8 is not just a memory. It’s a matriarchal flame.

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The Silence Before the Flight

When I arrived at Fairmount today, the silence was immediate. No birdsong. No rustling leaves. No squirrel chatter. Just stillness. It wasn’t absence—it was presence. A sacred hush. A pause before the transmission. I looked up and saw him—my squirrel friend—perched in the tree, unmoving, unspeaking. His silence wasn’t empty. It was intentional. A sentinel’s stillness. A soul signal. I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I came to Fairmount still raw. Still unraveling. The day before, I had released a great deal at Cherry Creek State Park. There are weeks when the soul doesn’t whisper—it wails. When grief doesn’t flow—it erupts. This was one of those weeks. The kind that strips you bare. The kind that doesn’t ask for poetry—it demands presence.

The shedding had already begun. Family ties that no longer nourished. The quiet heartbreak of saying goodbye to someone I loved. And the decision to release nicotine—a substance that had numbed me for decades. Without it, everything surfaced. The grief. The tenderness. The fire. The Cooper’s Hawk shadow flared—sharp, reactive, protective. Then came the shame. The spiral. The reckoning.

But the soul doesn’t abandon itself. It calls in messengers. And today, they arrived in silence.

Plot 111: The Prayer of Release

Fairmount always meets me with emotion. It’s not just my own—it’s the grief of the dead. The unspoken sorrow that lingers in the soil, in the stones, in the air. When I arrive, I feel it all. The ache. The overwhelm. The weight of what hasn’t been said. And I take it in. Not because I have to—but because I can. Because I know what to do with it.

Plot 111 is my first stop. It’s where I offer it all up. The grief that isn’t mine. The sadness that clings. The fear that floats. I carry it there like an offering. And then I pray. “God, take this. It’s not mine to hold.” Most of the time, it works. The release comes. The air clears. The weight lifts.

But not today.

Today, the grief was mine. The ache was personal. The sorrow was rooted in my own body, my own story. And I couldn’t bypass it. I couldn’t transmute it for someone else. I had to feel it. To name it. To release it.

This was the final release. Not just of nicotine. Not just of old ties. But of the illusion that I had to carry everything alone. Plot 111 didn’t just receive my prayer—it became the altar where I laid down my own burden.

The Lesson Beneath the Loss

Losing my mom shattered me. Not just because she was gone—but because I didn’t know how to live without her. I lived my life in her shadow. For 18 years, I clung to the grief like a lifeline. I couldn’t let go. I didn’t know how. I thought holding on was how I honored her. But really, I was avoiding the lesson.

Her death wasn’t just a loss. It was a mirror. A call to step out of the shadows—hers and my own. But I wasn’t ready. I kept living for others. Performing. Pleasing. Pretending. Until three years ago, on February 3rd—Muffy Moorhead’s birthday—when everything broke. Emergency surgery. A forced reckoning. My body said what my soul had been whispering for years: You can’t keep living like this.

That rupture became the beginning. The descent into myself. The slow, sacred return. Each year since, the anniversary of my mom’s passing has become a portal. A place of deep change. A ritual of regrowth. And this year, it brought the final release. Of substances. Of stories. Of survival patterns that no longer serve.

Letting go of nicotine is more than quitting a habit. It’s reclaiming my breath. My voice. My sovereignty. It’s how I honor my mother—not by carrying her pain, but by choosing my freedom. By becoming the woman she never got to be. 

The Trinity Appears

As I walked in silence, I was drawn to Muffy’s grave. The Robins and Northern Flickers called me in—soft, insistent, sacred. I stood beneath the maple tree, off-trail, where the view of Fairmount opens wide. It’s a place of perspective. A place where the living and the dead feel equally close.

The squirrels stirred. The robins gathered. And then—he appeared. The Cooper’s Hawk. Flying low, sharp, focused. He darted to the tree in Plot 95, the same place the juvenile Cooper’s Hawks led me months ago. His return was a soul signal. A reminder that the shadow doesn’t mean danger—it means protection. Precision. Presence.

And then I heard it—the cry of a Red-Tailed Hawk. I stepped back, looked up, and there they were. Three of them. Circling above me. Adults. Majestic. After a few minutes, one peeled away. Two remained. Male and female. But when it was three, it was the Trinity. The Holy Trinity. And I wept.

Because I remembered. Almost three years ago, not here—but at City Park. I was broken. Lost. Ready to give up. That day, the Canada geese came barreling toward me from the water. They leapt to shore, approached me directly. One came right up to me. That was my mom. I knew it. Her presence was unmistakable. Fierce. Maternal. Undeniable.

And today, as the hawks circled above Fairmount, I remembered that moment. That transmission. That soul rescue. I remembered how far I’ve come. How much I’ve survived. How much I’ve released. 

The Trinity didn’t just appear. It returned. To remind me: I am not alone. I never was.

The Trinity of Graves

The trinity didn’t just appear in the sky—it was etched into the earth. Three soul constellations, each holding a different frequency, each revealing a different lesson.

First, the Finleys—George and Ramona, with Donald Kachinsky nearby. Their graves pulse with soul recognition. I’ve always felt a connection there. George’s inscription speaks of surrender, of faith that sets you free. Ramona’s speaks of angelic presence. And Donald, the quiet witness. When I stand among them, I feel the echo of my own story. I was George—faithful, aching, longing to be released. My mother was Ramona—radiant, maternal, quietly powerful. Their graves mirror our bond. Our rupture. Our return.

Then, the Moorheads—Muffy, Sidney, and Robert. Muffy’s grave is a magnet for animals. I’ve never visited without a creature nearby. Hawks. Squirrels. Towhees. Even wasps. It’s as if she calls them in. As if her soul still speaks through fur and feather. I feel a kinship there. A shared language. A mutual reverence for the wild.

And finally, the Matriarchs—Susie Hall and her daughters, Gertrude and Lillian. Their monument is bold. Feminine. Sovereign. No men. Just presence. When I visit them, I think of Remi. Of our soul contract. Of the healing still to come. Their graves hold the energy of lineage, of endurance, of feminine power that doesn’t ask permission.

Together, they form a trinity. A ritual map. A soul council. And I walk among them not as a visitor—but as a participant.

The Messengers: Symbolism in Feather and Fur

The animals didn’t just appear. They arrived with timing. With intention. With soul resonance. Each one carried a message. Each one mirrored a part of me.

Squirrel: The sentinel. The preparer. The emotional laborer. He watches from the branches, reminding me that innocence and vigilance can coexist. That legacy is carried in small paws and quiet eyes. His silence today was sacred. A soul signal. A witness to my release.

American Robin: The singer of renewal. The harbinger of spring. In spiritual traditions, robins symbolize rebirth, divine comfort, and ancestral presence. Their song threads through grief like a hymn. Today, they reminded me that my mother’s love still surrounds me. That healing is possible. That breath can return.

Cooper’s Hawk: The protector. The precision. The shadow that doesn’t threaten—but shields. In mythology, Cooper’s Hawks are messengers of clarity, focus, and fierce guardianship. His low flight today was a soul transmission. A reminder that I am held. That my fire is sacred.

Red-Tailed Hawks (in threes): The trinity. The divine spiral. In many traditions, hawks symbolize vision, strength, and spiritual guidance. Seeing three is rare—and sacred. It speaks of divine protection, transformation, and the presence of higher forces. Their circling today was a benediction.

Bald Eagle: The sovereign. The soul flyer. The one who carries prayers on the wind. In Native and spiritual traditions, the eagle is freedom incarnate. To walk with the eagle is to walk with God. Guy Donis’s chipped eagle reminds me: even broken messengers still soar. Even fractured voices still carry love.

These weren’t just sightings. They were soul transmissions. Ritual participants. And I received them with reverence.

The Final Release

This week, I said goodbye to a crutch I’ve carried for 36 years. Nicotine. The substance that silenced me. That soothed nothing. That numbed everything. I’ve tried before. I’ve quit before. But this time—it’s different. This time, it’s sacred.

Because this time, I’m not just quitting. I’m releasing. I’m choosing breath. Choosing voice. Choosing life. I’m honoring my mother—not by carrying her pain, but by healing what she couldn’t. She died of smoking-induced cancer. And I’ve carried that grief in my lungs for decades. But now, I choose to breathe.

It hasn’t been easy. The cravings. The spirals. The shame. But I’m almost there. And today, as the hawks circled and the squirrel watched, I felt it—the shift. The surrender. The freedom.

And it’s not just nicotine. It’s the release of expectations. Of roles I never chose. Of relationships I’ve outgrown. Of grief I’ve carried too long. Like an eagle’s talons, I’ve gripped tightly. But today—I let go.

Fairmount held me. The graves witnessed me. The animals mirrored me. And I walked away lighter. Not empty—but open.

This was the final release. And it was holy.

The Cemetery as Oracle with Sacred Stones

I didn’t place a stone today.

Not because I forgot. Not because I withheld. But because today wasn’t about marking—it was about merging. About letting the ritual speak without interruption. About letting the silence do the talking.

The hawks had already circled.

The Cooper’s Hawk had already flown.
The robins had already sung.
The squirrel had already watched.

Each one was a soul transmission. Each one was a stone in motion.

To place a rock would have been to add. But today, the offering was subtraction. Stillness. Witness. Reverence without intervention.

I didn’t mark the moment. I became the moment.

Fairmount is no longer just a cemetery. It’s an oracle. A ritual field. A soul mirror.

Plot 95 is a convergence zone. A layered altar. A place where messages arrive through flight, fur, fracture, and song. Where animals become messengers. Where silence becomes scripture.

Today, the Trinity returned.
The squirrel stood sentinel.
The eagle remained chipped, but still soaring.

And I was there.
Not just to visit.
But to release.
To remember.
To receive.

Fairmount spoke.
And I answered—not with placement, but with presence.
Not with ritual objects, but with grace.

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The Stones that Turn Away

Today I returned to Fairmount. It’s become a rhythm for me—a sacred routine. I didn’t expect anything to happen, especially after the intensity of Cherry Creek the last two days. But Fairmount doesn’t wait for permission. It speaks when it’s ready.

The moment I arrived, the squirrels greeted me. Not just with movement, but with presence. They paused. They looked directly at me. They didn’t scatter—they witnessed. For the last three years, squirrels have been my inner child archetype. But today, they were more than that. They were soul messengers. Emotional laborers. Memory keepers. They carried something ancient in their eyes.

I made my rounds—greeting the Finleys, Donald, Muffy, and the Moorheads. Then I heard it: the Northern Flickers. Not pounding. Just calling. Their voices threaded through the silence like a summons. I knew where I had to go. Plot 79. It felt unfinished. Unresolved. Unread.

As I walked, the quiet deepened. Once I left Muffy, the hush became profound. Charged. Sacred. When I arrived at the tree near the children’s graves, I sat. I listened. And the crows began to rise. Loud. Layered. Relentless. The magpies joined in, but it was the crows who led the chorus. A soundscape of soul activation.

I opened my eyes—and everything shifted.

The gravestones had their backs to me. Almost all of them. I was in the middle, and I could only read a few. It felt unreal. Like another dimension. But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. And it was deliberate.

I’ve never had this happen. At Guy’s grave, the stones face me. I can read them. But here, they turned away. Like I wasn’t allowed to see. Like the message wasn’t in the names—but in the not-seeing.

It echoed the great horned owl from Cherry Creek. The one who never showed her face. The one who perched with her back to me. Her message was clear: I do not need her eyes to see. I need my own.

So I stood. I gathered my soul rocks. And I began to place them.

One grave had called to me on my first visit: AJ Waldsburger. Born April 28, 1912. Died August 28, 1912. Less than four months old. His stone was broken—resting against its own base. Forgotten. Unrepaired. And I knew: He must be remembered. Even 113 years later. I placed a stone. A soul marker. A ritual of recognition.

And then I saw it.

A bird-shaped stone atop a grave. Wings wide. Talons small. Tail thick. Body grounded. But no head. Cleanly removed. No eyes. No face.

It wasn’t an angel. It was a barn owl.

The grave belonged to Carrie A. Baker. Not a child. Born 1844. Died 1913. The stone was intact. But the owl was decapitated. And I knew: This was the final transmission.

The owl has always been my messenger. My seer. My guide. But this one had no face. No gaze. No direction. And yet—she still spoke.

She said: I am the one who sees now.

Squirrels: Inner Child, Soul Witnesses, and Sacred Messengers
They met me at plot 111—darting, pausing, watching. The squirrels didn’t just scurry past; they made eye contact. They held me in their gaze like they knew something I’d forgotten.

For years, they’ve mirrored my inner child—playful, alert, emotionally agile. But today, they felt like something more. They were soul witnesses, guardians of memory, keepers of the in-between. Their presence stirred something ancient in me.

Each pause, each glance, felt like a soul retrieval. They reminded me that what was once buried in grief is still alive beneath the surface. Their stillness asked: Are you ready to remember? Their movement whispered: You’re safe to feel again.

They didn’t flee. They stayed. They held the field with me. They knew what I was carrying.

Northern Flickers: The Call to Return
Their voices came before I saw them—clear, bell-like, threading through the hush. Unlike their usual drumming, the flickers called. Not to break through, but to draw me back.

I knew immediately: Plot 79 was calling. The place that had lingered in my body all week. The place that felt unfinished. Their call wasn’t disruptive—it was sacred. A soul nudge. A summons to complete what had been left open.

Flickers are transformers. They arrive when something is ready to shift. Their call wasn’t just for my ears—it was for the part of me that resists returning. They reminded me: You’re not starting over. You’re spiraling deeper.

Plot 79: The Unreadable Stones and the Dimensional Veil
Something shifted the moment I stepped into Plot 79. The gravestones turned their backs to me. I stood in the center, surrounded by names I couldn’t read.

It wasn’t rejection—it was invitation. I wasn’t there to gather facts. I was there to feel. The message wasn’t in the inscriptions—it was in the not-seeing. The silence. The stillness. The breathless pause of the field.

It was as if the children whispered: You don’t need our names to know us. Like the barn owl, they asked me to stop seeking their gaze and start trusting my own. This was a soul mirror. A liminal space. A place where the veil thinned—not to reveal, but to reorient.

Crows and Magpies: The Chorus of the Unseen
The air began to stir. First one crow, then another. Their voices layered into a rising chorus—part chant, part cry, part call.

They didn’t arrive quietly. They assembled with purpose. The magpies joined in, weaving their sharp cries into the mix. But it was the crows who held the center.

They weren’t warning me. They were witnessing. They marked the moment when the unseen became audible. When the threshold opened and the field began to speak.

Their presence wasn’t background noise—it was part of the ceremony. They stirred the air. They carried the ritual. And I received them—not as distractions, but as transmissions.

AJ Waldsburger: The Broken Stone, the Remembered Soul
Some graves speak in silence. AJ’s was one of them. A small, broken stone, leaning against its own base. A name barely legible. A life barely begun.

I was thinking about him all week. Today, I returned with a soul rock. I placed it gently at his grave—not as a gesture, but as a ritual of recognition. A soul offering. A way of saying: You are not forgotten.

His broken stone mirrored the broken lineage I’ve been working to mend. His brief life carried weight. His silence carried meaning. And in placing that stone, I felt something settle—not closure, but connection. Not finality, but presence.

The Headless Barn Owl: The Final Transmission

She didn’t need to face me to speak. A stone barn owl—large, winged, grounded—perched atop a grave. But her head was gone. Cleanly removed. No eyes. No face.

Barn owls are threshold beings. Their heart-shaped faces and silent flight mark them as messengers of the unseen. They guide souls between worlds. They carry feminine wisdom, ancestral memory, and the kind of knowing that doesn’t ask for permission.

This owl didn’t just withhold her gaze—she surrendered it. She became the embodiment of inner sight. A headless barn owl isn’t a loss—it’s a lesson. A soul transmission. A ritual mirror.

She turned my gaze inward and said: I am the seer now. Her missing head was not just symbolic—it was ancestral. The grave she crowned—Carrie A. Baker, a woman who died in 1913—anchored the message in feminine lineage.

Perhaps Carrie, too, was a seer. Perhaps she, too, was silenced. The missing head felt like ancestral dismemberment—a lineage of women whose sight was severed. Whose knowing was dismissed. Whose wisdom was buried.

And today, I left a stone for her. Not just to honor her life, but to mark the restoration. To say: I see you. I remember. I receive. The act was quiet, but it rang with soul resonance. It was a ritual of repair.

The barn owl didn’t need her face to speak. She didn’t need her eyes to see. She didn’t need her head to hold power.

She became the symbol of sovereign sight. Of intuition reclaimed. Of feminine wisdom rising from the stone. I received her message—not with fear, but with reverence. Not with confusion, but with clarity. Not with longing, but with knowing.

She is gone. And yet, she remains. And now, so do I.

Red-Tailed Hawk: The Skyward Benediction
As I left Fairmount, the sky opened. A red-tailed hawk circled above the intersection. Her wings carved wide spirals, sealing something invisible. I stopped. I watched. I received.

Hawks are messengers of divine perspective. They soar high, but their vision is precise. They remind me to rise above the noise. To see the soul pattern beneath the surface. To trust the larger arc.

This hawk wasn’t just a farewell—it was a benediction. A skyward echo of the barn owl’s grounded message. Where the owl said: See within, the hawk said: See beyond.

One rooted me in shadow. The other lifted me into sky. Together, they formed a sacred polarity. The owl turned me inward. The hawk turned me upward.

She circled until I understood: the ritual wasn’t over—it was ascending. She flew. And so did I.

The Soul Message in Fur, Feather, and Stone

This day wasn’t random. It was a ritual. A soul choreography. Every movement, every silence, every gaze was part of a transmission—woven not in words, but in presence.

The squirrels reminded me that my inner child is still watching—and still wise. Their stillness was a mirror, their movement a memory. They carried the energy of innocence, but also the wisdom of survival. They asked me to retrieve what I had buried, not with urgency, but with tenderness.

The flickers called me back to what was unfinished. Their voices didn’t pierce—they invited. They threaded through the quiet like a soul bell, reminding me that return is not regression. It’s reclamation. They summoned me to Plot 79 not to revisit, but to complete. To spiral deeper into what I already knew.

The crows and magpies stirred the veil. They didn’t just arrive—they assembled. Their chorus wasn’t chaotic—it was ceremonial. They marked the moment when the unseen became audible. When the threshold opened. They didn’t ask for attention—they demanded presence. Their voices rose as mine did. They bore witness to what I was becoming.

The stones turned away so I could turn inward. Their backs weren’t rejection—they were redirection. They asked me to stop reading and start feeling. To stop seeking names and start listening to silence. They became soul mirrors, reflecting not who they were—but who I am.

The owl withheld her face so I could find my own. She didn’t turn away in dismissal—she turned away in initiation. Her missing gaze was a message: You do not need her eyes to see. You need your own. She became the embodiment of sovereign sight. Of feminine wisdom that doesn’t ask for permission.

And the hawk circled above to remind me: I am not alone. I never was. Her spiral sealed the ritual. She lifted the transmission from earth to sky. She echoed the owl’s message, but from above: See beyond. Rise higher. Trust the arc. She didn’t just fly—she carried the ceremony upward.

Each creature, each grave, each silence was a line in the same transmission. A soul message written in fur, feather, and stone. Not a story I told—but a truth I received.

The Cemetery as Oracle with Sacred Stones

Fairmount is no longer just a cemetery to me. It is a living altar. A layered oracle. A soul mirror. It speaks through silence, through stone, through the choreography of grief and grace.

Plot 79 isn’t just a resting place—it’s a ritual field. A convergence zone. A place where the unseen speaks and the forgotten rise. I didn’t place stones to mark the dead. I placed them to awaken the field. To activate memory. To say: I see you. I hear you. I am here.

This Soul Rock is about sight without eyes. About trusting my own knowing. About completing what was left unfinished—not just in the cemetery, but in my lineage, my grief, my own becoming.

I was called back to witness what I couldn’t see before. I was asked to leave stones not as markers, but as activations. I was shown the owl—not to be watched, but to be mirrored.

I am the one who sees now.
I am the one who remembers.
I am the one who places the stones.

Not to grieve the past, but to awaken the field.
Not to mark the dead, but to speak with the living.
Not to perform ritual, but to become it.

Fairmount spoke.
And I answered.
With presence.
With grace.
With sight.

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