Echoes from Before: Awakening in the Now

In the basement of a 19th-century home in a small French village, tucked near the southern coast, I received. This basement exists defiantly and steadfastly on the edge of ancient stone. I didn’t know about the prehistoric roots of this place when the stones first spoke to me—but speak they did.

Here in this stone-lined silence, something shifts. This is gratitude. This is living. This is the freedom that joy brings when it no longer asks permission. And in that quiet, something deep inside begins to shine. A light, ancient as the rocks beneath this house, rises from the core of my being—and it draws goodness to it.

How did I get here? Slowly. Sometimes with grace, sometimes dragging myself through the dark. I kept following that quiet light buried deep within, even when I couldn’t see it. And when I wandered off, when I forgot or lost my way, I turned again. Each misstep taught me something. Even wrong turns are part of the path when you’re walking toward yourself.

There comes a moment—maybe in the basement of a centuries-old house in a prehistoric French village—when you finally see yourself as a good and peaceful soul. And in that moment, life opens up. You can trust what is true. You can breathe into the now, held by echoes from before.

The road that brought me was long and uneven. Fear, uncertainty, small triumphs, quiet joys, and moments too fleeting to name have all led me to this single breath: sitting cross-legged in a meditation nook, sipping stunningly good coffee, in the belly of a house that rests on ancient ground. Was it all by accident, or certainty that I came to be here? I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

What I do know is that I’m in awe—of life, of process, of becoming. I feel the tug of all the “musts” and “shoulds” I’ve carried and all the rules I never agreed to but strickly obeyed for far too long. I still feel and hear the, now more faint voices that told me I was wrong, not enough, and too much—always present, but now quieter, less convincing. And as they fade, I feel something else building: a kind of joy that doesn’t shout, but hums. A lightness that isn’t showy, but whole.

There is a quiet rebellion in choosing your own rhythm. A rebellion that doesn’t burn bridges, but builds them—reaching those we touch now, and echoing out to those who will come days, years, or centuries later. This is the connection of the human experience, intertwined and interconnected to one another and to nature and history.