Tag: spirituality

A Ritual in the Sea: Dancing With the Directions

I didn’t bring candles or flowers. I didn’t have a circle or altar or sacred tools.
All I had was my body and the presence of something holy moving through me.

It was Beltane, and I was standing in the Caribbean Sea.

The water was warm and alive. I stepped in reverently letting the waves touch me like a welcome.
Then, I began to dance.

I bowed to the West and honored the water I was standing in. The realm of emotion, intuition, and mystery.
I bowed to the North, calling in the earth and rooting into Pachamama, asking that the light pour down through me and anchor into her heart.
I bowed to the East, asking for vision and clarity, to see through illusion.
I bowed to the South, stoking the fire in my belly, the courage to live from truth.

I called in light from God, from Source, and let it flow through my crown into my field, then all the way down to my root, anchoring deep into the center of the Earth.
I danced in the water, sang softly, and let myself hum and move however the energy wanted to move.

Then I prayed:
“Bless this land. Bless this water. May healing ripple through these waves.”

I offered my body, my breath, and my song. And then something happened.

A small piece of styrofoam floated toward me, like a response. I didn’t ignore it.
I picked it up gently, and I knew. This was part of the ritual.

This was not just pollution. It was message.
The water had given me something to carry, to clear, to heal. And I accepted.

In that moment, I understood something:

Sometimes we don’t offer something to the water.
Sometimes the water offers us a task, a role, a responsibility.
And that is just as sacred.

Then I prayed something deeper:

“Let me see what is hidden. Let me not turn away. Let me see what my mind has been trained not to see.”

I remembered what Alberto Villoldo had said…that when colonists arrived, the native people didn’t see their ships at first because they couldn’t comprehend them.
But I don’t want to live that way.
I don’t want to protect myself from truth.
I want to see the ships.
Even if they’re terrifying.
Even if they change everything.

So I kept dancing.
Becoming part of the Earth’s prayer.

And in that space, under the Beltane sun, in the water, I remembered:

My body is my altar.
My voice is my offering.
And the Earth will speak…if I am willing to listen.

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Food as a Portal: Connecting to the Past Through Taste

It started with a bite.

Crispy, salty, tangy—the flavors hit my tongue, and suddenly, I wasn’t just sitting there eating a Filet-O-Fish. I was somewhere else. Somewhere familiar.

I was back in my hometown, inside the Walmart where my mom used to take me as a kid. There was a McDonald’s inside, and because it was Lent, we got the Filet-O-Fish. It was a rare treat. As immigrants, we didn’t eat out often, not even at fast food places like McDonald’s. But on that day, we sat together, unwrapping the warm sandwich, dipping fries into ketchup, and sharing a simple meal.

And years later, a single bite transported me back.

It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was something deeper. A tether between past and present, a connection I could feel in my body.

Nowadays, I don’t eat fast food often, and I almost never order a Filet-O-Fish. In spiritual spaces, fast food is often dismissed as “low vibrational,” something to avoid. And I get it. I grew up picking corn and beans straight from the fields—I know the taste of real, fresh food, the kind that nourishes not just the body but the spirit. I also understand the concerns about processed foods, artificial ingredients, and the impact of what we consume. A Big Mac and an apple from a tree are not the same.

But what bothers me is the judgment.

There’s this idea that spirituality and fast food don’t mix, that eating “low-energy” food somehow makes a person less enlightened. But is that really true? Would people think differently of the Dalai Lama if he ate a Baconator once a week? What if he drank a bottle of wine every night? Would that change how they viewed his wisdom?

I have no idea what the Dalai Lama eats, but I’d bet he doesn’t frequent McDonald’s. Still, does that mean his spiritual depth depends on his diet?

This kind of thinking is a trap—a trap of ego, of judgment, of false superiority. Because the truth is, spirituality isn’t about what you eat. It’s about awareness, connection, and presence. And that’s exactly what I felt as I sat there eating that sandwich.

With every bite, I was reliving that moment with my mom. I could feel the warmth of that memory, as if I were there again, as if time had folded in on itself. A surge of energy shot through me, something so profound that I still feel chills writing about it.

Food is more than just nourishment. It’s a bridge.

If a simple sandwich could connect me to my past self, then food can connect us to our ancestors, too.

For me, eating pierogies brings me back to my grandmother. I can still see her in the kitchen, her hands moving quickly, shaping dough into small discs, filling them with potatoes and cheese. I remember the mountain of flour on the table, the rhythmic pressing of each pierogi shut. And when I eat them now, I feel her presence. I feel my ancestors, even the ones I never met.

Food carries memory. It carries energy. It carries love.

So maybe it’s not about whether food is “high vibration” or “low vibration.” Maybe the real question is: what does this food connect you to?

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The Shift from Proving to Listening

I’ve been thinking a lot about how organized religion and science have something in common.

Both often insist there’s only one right way to the truth.
Only one path worth following.
Both can refuse to acknowledge that life—and the universe—is so much bigger than them.

Lately, I’ve been working with the energy of fire.
What it means to embody it.
And the more I sit with that, the more I realize how much fire has shaped me—both the wild, untamed flames of my younger years and the steadier light I’m learning to hold now.

I’ve been reading Becoming Supernatural by Dr. Joe Dispenza. It’s fascinating—he talks about how our thoughts create our reality, how energy shapes matter, and how we can literally heal ourselves through intention and focus.
And while a lot of it resonates with me, I kept catching myself thinking…
People have known this.
We’ve understood these things for thousands of years.
It’s not exactly new.
But I still felt that old flicker of irritation.
That spark of anger when scientists present these ideas like they’ve just discovered them—as if no one really knew until science came along to explain it.
As if science is the only way to make something real.

And there it was again—my fire.
That same intensity I’ve carried for years.
The need to stand for something, to defend what I know, to burn through what feels wrong.
But I sat with it.
Why does this still bother me? Why does it ignite something in me?

And then it hit me.
It’s the same kind of closed-mindedness I used to feel in church.
That attitude, whether it comes from religion or science, where people believe they’ve found the truth—and everyone else is lost.
They think they have the answers.
They act superior.
And really, it’s just one perspective.
One path.
What gets to me isn’t that they have their way—it’s the belief that theirs is the best, or the only, way.

When I was in middle school, I had a friend named Angie.
We used to hang out after school, and one day we ended up talking about religion. She was a Seventh-day Adventist—or something close to it. I don’t fully remember. But I do remember how I acted.
I told her about my beliefs. About Jesus. And I was so sure of myself.
Like my religion was the only true path.
Like I was somehow more righteous, more “saved.”
Looking back, I can feel the heat of my own certainty.
The fire in me that wanted to be right.
I thought I had the truth, and I wanted to light the world on fire with it.

And then there was that summer when I was ten, visiting my dad’s parents in Ukraine.
They had converted to a different branch of Christianity.
As a Catholic kid, anything outside of the Roman Catholic Church felt strange to me.
And honestly, back then, I was worried it was something extreme—maybe something like Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I realize now it wasn’t, but at the time, all I could feel was the discomfort of something unfamiliar.
Something that challenged my view of the world.

One afternoon, while we were talking about Jesus, my grandma said, “Jesus wasn’t Catholic. That came later.”
And I, with all my fiery pride, said, “Well, Catholicism follows his true teachings.”
I thought I was making a point.
Later, I told my Babcia about the conversation, feeling proud of myself, like I’d won something.
But now? I feel a little ashamed.
Ashamed that I was so quick to shut the door.
That I let my fire burn too hot, without making space to listen.
I wish I had asked my grandma more about her faith.
I wish I had been curious about her experience.
Instead, I wanted to prove something.

Those moments taught me about fire.
How powerful it is.
How it can bring warmth and light—or destroy and divide.

Back then, my fire was all about proving I was right.
Defending my beliefs.
Burning through doubt with certainty.
But now I’m learning a different kind of fire.
The kind that stays steady.
That offers light without scorching.
That makes space for others to gather around.

So why am I judging now?
Why am I getting frustrated with scientists for doing exactly what I used to do—believing their way is the way?

Maybe this is another lesson in how to tend my fire.
Not to snuff it out—but to let it glow, steady and open.
To stay curious.
To remember that there’s more than one path.
More than one truth.
And that my fire doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone.
It just has to burn true.

Posted on by martucia 0