Alicia M. Rodriguez's Blog

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Ordinary Sundays Become Sacred Memories

Whenever I smell the scent of newly mowed grass, I remember Sundays on Hearn Street. It would smell sticky-sweet, and it was moist as if it had rained that morning, even if it hadn’t.

Sundays were special. They were the only day my Dad didn’t go to work. My mother would hush us all morning and kick us out into the yard so my father could sleep in. Every other day, he would rise at 5 a.m. and go to bed at 1 a.m. after a day of working two jobs. By 6:30 a.m., he would be at work as a stock clerk at Hewlett-Packard. The storage rooms were his office, lined with computer parts, each with its own 12-digit number. He would take counts of each bit and byte and record where they would be shipped in the future. He’d drive home at 3 p.m. to have dinner and change. By 6 p.m., he would be on the night shift in the produce department of Star Market, a few miles from our house.

He was always so proud of how that department looked. Pristine, with all the vegetables lined up neatly in their baskets and the fruit shining under the plastic wrap. He greeted each customer with a smile and, using the English he had learned, he’d joke with them and they would smile and chat with him as he continued his task of keeping everything in orderly rows on the counters.

The store would close at 10 p.m., and he would sweep the floor, leaving everything sparkling and ready for the next morning. By midnight, he was home getting ready for bed. We were all asleep by then. Years later, my mother would tell me that he would enter our room and spend a few minutes simply watching us sleep. Then he would go to bed.

We would always have a late breakfast on Sunday. Pancakes with fruit and maple syrup were our favorite. My mother would take out the special pancake pan before she shooed us out of the house. We knew that once my father woke, we’d be called into the house for our family meal before a day’s work in the yard.

I still remember the roar of the lawn mower as it cut through the overgrown grass leaving a trail of green mush behind it. Armed with rakes, my siblings and I would clean up the remnants of the cut grass, filling garbage bags, and then we’d line the chain-link fence with them for Monday’s trash truck to come and take them away.

In the afternoon, my mother would come out with lemonade and biscuits, as well as homemade grape jelly made from the big purple grapes growing on the vine over our patio. Not only did the vine provide the jelly, but also the shade under which we would gather, celebrating a day’s work together.

One time, when we were helping to pick the grapes, my brother was stung by a wasp. His ring finger swelled up. My father came out with a saw and I thought for sure he would saw off my brother’s finger. Instead, he sawed off the ring and the swelling subsided. My brother kept his finger and from then on, we all wore gloves when we harvested the grapes.

Every Sunday was the same, except on Catholic holidays, when we would dress in recycled Easter clothes for Mass at Sacred Heart. You could say we were fair-weather Catholics, attending Mass on special occasions, while the rest of our Sundays were devoted to our family and yard work.

Perhaps our devotion wasn’t the typical kind of dressing up for church to show off to our neighbors or to hear the “good word.” Our devotion to each other was rooted in our own traditions, which began in Colombia, my parents’ home, where Sundays were about family.

Those memories seem so distant now. My parents have died, and my siblings and I no longer live close by. Time seems to rush by, and Sundays are lost to schedules and catching up on the undone of the week. Yet anytime I smell newly mowed grass, time stands still, and I’m transported to a simpler time when Sundays were about pancakes, biscuits, and grape jelly, and a yard on Hearn Street where a small family gathered to work and play. 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I often wonder about other writers and how they began to write. Were they encouraged at a young age or later told to get a “real job?” Did they spend hours tucked in their beds reading novels? Were they drawn to poetry, comics, Scooby-Doo books (like my son), or maybe fables and myths?

All writers have their writing journey story. I think we forget how those early years formed our love for writing. Do we appreciate the consistency and perseverance to take pen to paper (figuratively speaking) in the face of a vast void where we have no idea if anyone even cares what we write?

Even after years of writing and publishing, I had not yet written my own writing journey, to see it there in front of me, to appreciate all the threads that contributed to the writer I am.

I’m not famous. I’m just someone who tells stories. Here’s mine.

Seeking My Place of Belonging

In the tapestry of my life, threads of my Colombian heritage and American upbringing weave together. I stand as a storyteller, a guide through the domains of personal development, spirituality, and wisdom.

From a young age, I felt a spiritual longing amplified by my family’s strong faith.

The stories my parents told me of our culture, filled with dancing and joy as well as tragedy and hardship, guided my steps even as I stood on the periphery, a quiet observer in a world that often felt foreign to me. In our family, dreams were prophetic and important. Sensing was as natural as thinking. Intuition mattered more than knowledge. Imagination was the doorway to freedom. However, we lived in the United States, where results and being practical mattered more than simple joys and mystical realms.

As a child, books were how I explored the world without leaving home. I found solace in poetry, whose rhythm and rhyme soothed my apprehension of feeling like an outsider. My imagination was limitless, and my curiosity about the natural world was insatiable. As I began to record my dreams and observations, I began to connect with a deeper understanding of the human condition and my place in this world.

During and after college, travel became my escape, and I began to document new feelings from experiencing other cultures and ways of life that felt more aligned with my nature. Yet, despite my innate creativity and curiosity, I followed the path laid out by convention, navigating the corridors of the business world while my heart yearned for deeper truths waiting to be unearthed. It wasn’t long before I began actively seeking mentors and guides and exploring the inner spaces of my mind and heart.

After years of devastating losses, an intolerance for conventional living and societal expectations began to grow within me. Through the ebb and flow of relationships and experiences, I discovered the power of resilience and self-love, a journey marked by quiet rebellion against those who sought to silence the voice of my spirit.

After facing several dark nights of the soul, I began to recognize the courage that I had not known existed within me. Gradually, I made intentional but difficult decisions to change my life, forging a path toward healing and wholeness.

Nature has always been my sanctuary, a sacred teacher whose wisdom spoke to my soul. My church was the forest, and my confessions were spoken in the winds over the ocean. In Nature, I found solace and inspiration and the fundamental principles that drive my life and writing: first, the interconnectedness of all things through a sacred life force energy, and second, that we are spiritual beings having a human experience. I choose to live by the ocean, where I most feel the pull of consciousness reflected in the depths of her waters, in the ebb and flow of her tides, and in her calm and stormy moods.

My life is a constant dance of duality, a delicate balance of light and shadow, power and surrender. In life’s paradox lies the possibility for harmony and healing and the essence of what it means to be human. As a storyteller, I weave tales of resilience and redemption, inviting others to embrace their own journey of self-discovery and healing. Through the power of self-forgiveness and self-love, we unlock the doors to our limitless potential. With intuition and empathy, I guide others toward lives of meaning and purpose, honoring the divine spark that resides within us all.

Well, that’s my journey, my story. When I published my memoir, The Shaman’s Wife, which had been many years in the making, I began to review my life. How did I get there, and from that place, how did I put it all into words?

How about you?

Have you reflected on your story and how you got to where you are as a writer? If you’re not a writer, are you an artist? Whoever you are, whatever you do, you have been on a journey and followed signposts that led to where you are today.

So, let me ask you, what’s your story?

Are you an aspiring author with a story to tell but unsure of how to start or where to go next?

UNWRITTEN JOURNEYS IS FOR YOU

Maybe you've begun writing, only to find yourself struggling with doubt, stuck in negative self-talk, or questioning if anyone would care to read your words. Imagine if you could find a place dedicated to nurturing your writing mindset—a space designed not for craft or technique, but for the courage, clarity, and confidence to hear your story and let it unfold.

Unwritten Journeys is a transformative writing mindset retreat designed for new and aspiring authors who need space, quiet, and community. Held in the serene beauty of the Algarve, this retreat offers time to pause, reflect, and reconnect with your vision, far from daily distractions.

DETAILS FOR UNWRITTEN JOURNEYS HERE

On memory, place, and the invisible marks we leave behind.

I believe that the story of our lives is told through the places we have inhabited. As I reflect on the places I have lived, uncomfortable answers poke at me, reminding me of how Sophie my dog keeps poking me when I neglect giving her my attention.

My friends and visitors come to Portugal, looking for a new place to call home. They arrive carrying their own histories, their own collection of places left behind. I watch them move through my adopted country and wonder what they see, what they feel, whether this might become their next chapter or simply another stop along the way.

It makes me think about all the places I have called home and how I left vestiges of who I am scattered across landscapes and living rooms. A garden of peonies blooming long after I moved away. A Christmas tree planted with ceremony and hope. A fountain for birds that still catches morning light. A small shed to house garden tools, standing sentinel over someone else's dreams now. These physical remnants are the easier ones to catalog.

The other kinds of memories I left behind run deeper—relationships and friendships created in kitchen conversations and late-night revelations, experiences shared over mundane Tuesday dinners that somehow became sacred, lives birthed and lives lost within walls that held our grief and joy with equal tenderness. Weddings where we danced until our feet ached, funerals where we learned that love doesn't end when someone leaves, divorces that brought us to our knees, graduations that marked not just achievements but the passage of time itself.

When I moved, I gave away or threw away things which held memories of the places I loved in, grew in, struggled in, and ultimately decided to leave. Each discarded item carries weight—not just physical, but emotional. The coffee mug that witnessed a thousand morning rituals. The throw pillow that absorbed tears during a difficult season. The books whose margins hold conversations with my former selves.

I experience what the Portuguese call "saudade"—a longing for something ineffable, a past we don't quite remember, a nostalgia for a life we perceived as clothed in delight. Images appear in my mind of sharing my life with a two-year-old who is now a grown man that I see only rarely. A home in Severna Park on the property of a private school where I experienced a sense of community and safety. Visions of a happy family at Christmas, sharing the food we had all cooked and gleefully opening presents between bits of pastries, empanadas and wine while my mother smiled in delight and my father playfully threw wrapping at us. A property on a hill overlooking the Pacific in Ecuador whose dreams were never realized.

How do we inhabit the places of our life?

Are we present to our lives as they happened in that moment, or do our memories bring alive that which we missed while we were there?

How did we arrive—fearful or in anticipation of new adventures? Did we depart in sadness, or did our longing make us jump into the unknown future courageously and joyfully?

What about now?

I find myself holding the past as a treasured moment to be taken out on occasion, lovingly held as the stories it contains wash over me. Then I put it back into the boxes lined with velvet with care and step into my current life to create more timeless experiences—until at last the hourglass runs out, leaving the treasure box for someone else to care for or discard.

But perhaps that's the point.

The places we inhabit do indeed inhabit us, becoming part of our internal landscape long after we've locked the door for the last time. They live in the way we arrange furniture, the rituals we carry forward, the people we choose to love, the gardens we plant wherever we land next.

And maybe, just maybe, we inhabit them too—leaving invisible marks that future residents will somehow sense, adding our layer to the palimpsest of human habitation that makes every place sacred in its own quiet way.

Photo by Ferhan Özbek

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If you live in Portugal, especially in the Algarve, consider joining me for Unwritten Journeys: A Masterclass in Creativity and Memoir, on September 25, 2025 in Portimão, Portugal.

UNWRITTEN JOURNEYS DETAILS

Mister Kludde

Losing Mister Kludde and relearning lessons on love and loss 💔

Having lived in other countries and being of Latina parents, I've always experienced grief differently than my white USA friends.

It was never something to overcome or get past.

In many ways, grief - individual and collective- is a gift. To be in that space non judgmentally with self and others connects me to a deep longing that is obscured by my daily living.

It reminds me to love deeply, to forgive, to honor life, and greet it with open arms even when it hurts.

Crying is so cleansing, and I always know I'm in trouble if I can't cry and access grief.

Grief is not a solitary event. It is a river running through our humanity that cannot be ignored.

When a pet or anyone close to us dies, it's not just about their death. It's about facing our own mortality and the death of those around us whom we love.

We think we are mourning the loss of one person or pet, but we are mourning so much more.

A disconnect from another living being.

A sense of our mortality.

Regrets – could we have done better, more?

There are layers to our grief that are not apparent in the moment. They unravel as days go by, and we are constantly barraged, unexpectedly, by feelings we thought we handled.

We compartmentalize, deceiving ourselves that we can deal with it, but we forget that they, whoever they are, have been part of us.

We are left with a hole in the fabric of our lives, and we have no idea how to mend it.

So, we grieve. If we are aware and lucky, we grieve.

We don't set aside our sorrow, our tears, the sobs that wrack our bodies with grief.

We give in to them, allowing all of it to course through our bodies.

Animals, pets, bestow the gift of learning to grieve without being completely decimated by loss. 

Or, by being decimated by their loss.

Both are appropriate and real.

Losing Mister Kludde, knowing I was going to lose him, despite my promise at the beginning to keep unattached in my heart (that didn’t work!), has placed me in this void, this silence that meets me in the morning when he is not purring over me in bed asking for a tender touch and to be fed.

Despite my best efforts, I fell in love. I loved Kludde. My heart is broken but surely will mend knowing that love was present in his last moments and that in some way I was the bridge to another plane, another place of love and peace.

I feel the void. I feel the grief. And I feel the gratitude for having the privilege of providing love and a good life for this black cat that only knew survival and a short time with someone else who cared for him.

We do this for all we love, no matter if they are human or animal.

We open our hearts to pain because there is something inside us that knows we can love deeply, that we can be greater than the pain of loss because of our capacity for love.

So, Mister Kludde, despite trying not to love you, I loved you. And my final decision was a profound act of love, even as my heart breaks.

I pray that we all dare to hold our losses, our grief, as sacred testimony to the love, so much love, that we are capable of

Sophie and Mister Kludde at home

Recovering from a narcissistic relationship is like being held hostage in a house that someone else built, designed to keep you small and contained.

You're standing in a dark room and you begin to search for the light. Your hands trace the contours of walls. You find a light switch and flip it, but no light turns on. You keep running your hands along the walls and you come to another light switch. You flip it and no light turns on.

After a few times of this, something stirs within you, a memory older than the shadows. Light lives near thresholds, near places of passage and possibility, so you begin to look for the door. You find the door, and next to it, there is a light switch. You flip the switch and the light comes on. You notice that there is a key dangling from the lock in the door. You turn the key, the door opens, you step through, and behind you it closes with the finality of chapters ending.

It's another dark room. You run your hands along the walls looking for another light switch. You find a switch and flip it, but no light comes on. You do this maybe two more times until you remember that the light switch is typically next to the door. You find the door, and there's a light switch next to it. You flip the switch and the light comes on. You notice a key dangling from the lock and when you turn it, it opens into another room.

This time, however, you know that the light switch is on the wall next to the door. You flip it and the room illuminates. You go through every room in the house turning on the lights, remembering what it's like to have the key, remembering what it's like to awaken to yourself.

Each illuminated room reveals the architecture of your captivity, but also the return of your inner compass. You remember, room by room, who you were before the shadows fell, before someone else's smallness tried to eclipse your vastness.

Your movements become more certain, your search more purposeful, armed with the knowledge that insight lives where beginnings and endings meet, where one space yields to another. You move through room after room, turning darkness into enlightenment, collecting keys like promises kept to yourself.

Eventually, you come to the front door of the house. An ornate key dangles in the lock. You turn the key, and the door opens. You step into the expansive light outside. You are free.

It takes many rooms and many light switches, many failures and many successes, to be free of the confines that were created to keep you small. That is what it's like to heal from a narcissistic relationship until you find your own freedom, the one that you yourself unlock.

You are free, and you did it yourself. Now you stand in the glow, owning the life that you deserve and claiming it for yourself. You remember who you truly are, holding keys forged in darkness, recognizing the truth that no shadow can diminish: you are vast, you are resilient, you are whole. Not because someone granted you permission to be these things, but because you never stopped being them, even when you forgot.

The house still stands behind you, but you have stepped into your own story now, author of your future, keeper of your light, never again to be confined to what doesn’t belong to you and what you will never belong to.

If you’re ready to write your next chapter, consider working with me in Portugal on a Becoming Limitless Un-Retreat, a curated, one/one, transformational experience that helps you identify your desired future. More Here.

There is a knowing within us that precedes thought—an inner clarity that speaks before our analytical mind constructs its careful arguments. I first recognized this voice when my external life appeared perfectly aligned with conventional success, yet something felt fundamentally misaligned. While colleagues congratulated me on recent achievements, an unmistakable whisper persisted: This isn't your path.

This inner guidance doesn't arrive as elaborate reasoning. It emerges as immediate recognition—a simple "yes" or "no" that surfaces before we've had time to weigh options or construct justifications. Unlike our calculating mind, this knowing doesn't negotiate or rationalize. It illuminates what's already true for us, whether or not we're prepared to acknowledge it.

We evolve continuously, rarely in predictable patterns. Our work transforms, relationships deepen or dissolve, and various catalysts—welcomed and unwelcome—periodically disrupt familiar patterns. The uncomfortable space between established identity and emerging self creates a particular disorientation, a threshold state where the maps we've relied upon no longer accurately represent the territory.

During these transitions, the pressure to choose the path of least resistance intensifies.

We're surrounded by voices urging caution, reminding us of sunk costs, and highlighting potential risks. The familiar—even when unsatisfying—exerts powerful gravity against change. "Later" becomes our default response to inner promptings. Later, when circumstances align. Later, when security seems guaranteed. Later, when significant others approve.

For many, this promised "later" never materializes. Dreams are postponed until they quietly expire, leaving behind a vague melancholy we can't quite name.

Last spring, I sat with a friend who had spent decades building a successful legal practice while quietly harboring creative aspirations. "I always thought I'd write after retirement," she confided. "But now that I'm here, I realize I've lost the connection to those stories I once carried. I waited until I had time, but I didn't understand I needed to nurture that voice all along."

Her reflection haunts me.

What voices within ourselves are we systematically silencing while waiting for perfect conditions? What aspects of our authentic nature are we postponing until some idealized future that may never arrive?

The path through transitions isn't always dramatic reinvention. Sometimes, it involves subtle recalibrations that honor emerging truth while respecting established commitments.

Here are practices I've found valuable during evolutionary thresholds:

Maintain modest momentum. During transitions, we often become paralyzed, contemplating sweeping changes. Instead, identify one small action you can take today that honors your emerging direction. Consistent small shifts ultimately create more sustainable transformation than occasional dramatic leaps.

Cultivate discerning support. Surround yourself with people who recognize your potential rather than reinforce your limitations. Be selective—not everyone who cares about you can hold space for your evolution. Seek companions who neither push nor restrain but witness your unfolding with clear-eyed compassion.

Externalize emerging vision. Create tangible representations of what you're moving toward—written descriptions, visual maps, and consistent practices. These anchors reconnect you to possibility when the gravitational pull of the familiar intensifies.

Align goals with essential values. Pursue objectives that resonate with what genuinely matters to you rather than what merely impresses others. When our external actions contradict our internal values, we experience a kind of exhaustion that no achievement can remedy.

Acknowledge incremental growth. We often dismiss meaningful progress because it doesn't match our idealized expectations. Create regular practices to recognize how you're evolving, especially in subtle ways that others might not perceive.

Eliminate unnecessary depletion. Identify what consistently drains your energy without providing a proportional return. Creating space often proves more valuable than adding more activities. What might become possible if you released one obligation that no longer serves your direction?

Practice compassionate presence. When plans falter or progress stalls, respond as you would to a beloved friend—with understanding rather than judgment. Sustainable evolution requires gentleness with our humanity rather than harsh expectations of linear progress.

Honor your complete journey. Your past experiences contain wisdom even as you release patterns that no longer serve. Transformation builds upon rather than erases what came before. What elements of your history might support rather than hinder your emerging direction?

Distinguish difficulty from suffering. Meaningful pursuits naturally include challenges but shouldn't consistently deplete your essential vitality. When do you experience the "good tired" following worthwhile engagement versus the emptiness accompanying misaligned effort?

Recognize hidden opportunities. When constrained by circumstances, ask: "What might be available here that wouldn't be accessible elsewhere?" Sometimes, our most significant growth emerges precisely from situations we would never have chosen.

Evolution occurs through both dramatic catalysts and quiet, persistent shifts. Whether change arrives suddenly or gradually, maintain clarity about what you're moving toward rather than focusing primarily on what you're leaving behind. The most profound transformations often begin not with external reinvention but with the simple courage to acknowledge what you already know to be true.

This doesn't mean impulsively abandoning commitments or responsibilities. It means bringing honest awareness to how you're investing your limited time and energy. It means recognizing that postponing alignment with your deeper knowing doesn't ultimately serve anyone—not yourself, not those who depend on you.

Consider this: What truth are you waiting for permission to acknowledge? What aspect of yourself awaits expression? What would become possible if you listened to the quiet revolution already underway within you?

This post is an excerpt from my new book, Everyday Epiphanies (2nd edition): Uncovering Wisdom in Ordinary Moments. Everyday Epiphanies is a series of essays that explore how we navigate transitions with authenticity, establish boundaries that deepen rather than diminish connection, and create meaning through intentional presence rather than endless seeking.

GET EVERYDAY EPIPHANIES HERE Ready to view your life as a gift?

These essays speak to anyone who senses possibilities beyond productivity metrics and achievement milestones—readers who are seeking not another self-improvement formula but a more authentic relationship with their own experience. It's an invitation to discover that the wisdom you've been searching for elsewhere has been waiting patiently in the ordinary moments of your extraordinary life.

GET EVERYDAY EPIPHANIES HERE

I've written before on the importance of becoming limitless, to expand your sense of self so you become a larger container for all that life presents to you, whether bitter or sweet.

I came across this parable recently, and it was a reminder that you can choose how to hold the events of your life when you pay attention to the container you are. If you feel small, it is easy to be overwhelmed by life. If, however, you can envision being more than your preconceptions of how things should be, you can remain grounded, whether in joy or sorrow.

When I say an expansive life, I don't mean MORE. I mean MEANINGFUL. More stuff does not make you a person who enjoys growing and learning and pushing the limits of your assumptions.

To become more is to enlarge your sense of things.

It is to supersede what no longer serves you and open your heart to what else may be hidden beyond any suffering so you can move through with grace.

Become a Lake - A Parable

An aging master grew tired of his apprentice's complaints. One morning, he sent him to get some salt. When the apprentice returned, the master told him to mix a handful of salt in a glass of water and then drink it.

"How does it taste?" the master asked.

"Bitter," said the apprentice.

The master chuckled and then asked the young man to take the same handful of salt and put it in the lake. The two walked in silence to the nearby lake, and once the apprentice swirled his handful of salt in the water, the old man said, "Now drink from the lake."

As the water dripped down the young man's chin, the master asked, "How does it taste?"

"Fresh," remarked the apprentice.

"Do you taste the salt?" asked the master.

"No," said the young man. At this, the master sat beside this serious young man and explained softly:

"The pain of life is pure salt; no more, no less. The amount of pain in life remains exactly the same. However, the amount of bitterness we taste depends on the container we put the pain in. So when you are in pain, the only thing you can do is to enlarge your sense of things.

Stop being a glass. Become a lake. Buy me a coffee and pastel de nata!

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Many years ago, I attended a personal development workshop. The facilitator was a young man who I would describe as earnest. I don’t remember most of the workshop except for this one thing that struck at the core of my beliefs. He claimed:

“Life is empty and meaningless.”

WHAT??

I immediately challenged him. How could life be empty and meaningless? If so, what the heck are we doing here? Then he explained something I would years later fully understand.

Several people could have the same experience, and each person will describe that experience differently. They will each take from it what most affects them filtered through the lens of their experience, beliefs and assumptions. They could create a trauma story or a resilience story. They may get stuck in negativity or see an opportunity.

What happens is what happens.

How we interpret the events of our lives creates the threads in our stories. Most of us will agree that some types of events are harmful, challenging, and traumatic. Yet how many stories have you heard or read about someone seeing a trauma as a turning point in their life where they discovered something powerful about themselves or their world or it inspired them to create a mission in their life.

In a conversation with a psychologist recently, she mentioned that part of healing trauma was a continuum from acceptance (it happened), then negotiation with the self about the meaning-making from that trauma, followed by a reframing that serves the person and allows them to continue without ignoring the feelings associated with the event. Not everyone can or will make that journey, and few will make it alone.

When I chose a publisher for The Shaman’s Wife, my memoir of my eight-year relationship with an Ecuadorian shaman, I was adamant that the publicity not focus on trauma. I had chosen to focus on the positive aspects and what I learned about myself in this personal story. I discovered I was more courageous, more resilient, and more soulful than I ever considered. I wanted to share that with my readers to inspire them to stand in their courage and strength to overcome the challenges they face.

I turned trauma into treasure.

As I look back on that workshop and recall how upset I was at the time, I notice that until then, I had not matured spiritually enough to understand what meaning-making is. I had not yet learned that my perspective could shift from a focus on something I didn’t want to the gifts within. I was not aware that life could hold so much more beyond the polarities we are taught to accept.

Now, I can see beauty in the storms. I’ve become comfortable with dark, rainy nights. I revel in swimming in the depths of the ocean. And I know nothing stays the same.

Behind every sunset, there will be a sunrise over the horizon.

I just need to wait a bit to enjoy it.

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https://books2read.com/everyday-epiphanies

I’m thrilled to share that my new book, Everyday Epiphanies: Uncovering Wisdom in Ordinary Moments, (second edition) is now available in Kindle and print!

This collection of essays is an offering, a gentle invitation to pause, reflect, and notice. In a world that often demands speed and productivity, these writings ask you to consider:

What if the wisdom you're seeking is already here, quietly embedded in your daily life?

In Everyday Epiphanies, I explore themes of awareness, authenticity, and intention. Whether it's a fleeting moment of silence, a difficult conversation, or a turning point you didn’t see coming, each essay illuminates the richness hiding in plain sight.

This isn’t abstract philosophy. It’s practical insight from my lived experience and thousands of coaching conversations for navigating the in-between spaces of our lives. You’ll also find reflective questions and mindfulness prompts to help you integrate the lessons into your own journey.

If you're feeling the call to slow down, reconnect, and live in alignment with what matters to you, if you’re ready for prioritizing self care, then I hope this book meets you right where you are.

📖 Available now: https://books2read.com/everyday-epiphanies

Thank you for being part of this community. I’d love to hear what epiphanies arise for you as you read.

With warmth and presence,
Alicia

A fossilized shell on the Algarvian Cliffs

This morning as I walked the cliffs I noticed sea shells embedded in the rock formations, fossilized for eternity, a reminder of times gone by and how everything changes and evolves. Once upon a time this cliff I stand on was underwater. Now the cliffs are layered with the passage of time, stripes of colored limestone ripping across like a timeless calendar. Standing over the ocean, I heard a word in my mind – perspective. Nature has so much to teach us about life's ebbs and flows. There’s a dance between being in the present moment and understanding that we are in that constant ebb and flow of time from past to present to future. How does that inform our perspective when life is challenging?

When I face those moments where everything seems to be falling apart I return to the shamanic wisdom concept of "unidad" and "totalidad." This beautiful concept reminds us that we exist both as singular beings and as part of the great collective consciousness.

When things don't unfold as planned in my life – not as many clients as before, trying to cut through the noise of social media to have my offers be noticed, wondering how to better market the books I have published – I've learned not to immediately jump into that frantic energy of doing. Our modern world teaches us to react, to hustle harder, to immediately try to fix and control. But my shamanic lessons have shown me another way.

Instead, I sit in the discomfort (or walk on the cliffs) and ask myself, "What is being called forth in me? What am I being called to do in this moment?"

This question creates sacred space between challenge and response. It honors the mystery.

I see this in relationships too. When we feel someone pulling away, or we sense ourselves pulling away, our instinct is to grasp tighter, to desperately hold on even when the universe might be creating space for something new to emerge. That grasping energy rarely serves us. There are many other places in our lives where this dynamic plays out.

I'm not saying we shouldn't be practical – there's absolutely a time for decisiveness and action. But that time isn't usually at the beginning of a challenge. First comes the listening.

When life opens unexpected gaps, whether it's suddenly empty calendar days that were once filled with clients, or the absence of someone you thought would always be there, these aren't merely problems to solve. They're invitations to a deeper exploration of your life.

What challenges are you facing now? What is this situation calling forth in you? What dormant gifts are asking to awaken? What are you being invited to release?

I've witnessed this pattern not only in my journey but in our collective experience. In community, in society, even globally with disruptions, new technologies, politics, environmental problems, the shamanic perspective invites us to ask: "What is this calling forth in us as a collective?"

When we approach challenges this way, we find ourselves moving into right action that feels aligned with our deeper purpose, even when it defies conventional wisdom or the path we thought we were on. And perhaps that's the greatest gift. These difficult moments break us open, shattering our limiting beliefs and assumptions.

So I invite you to sit with these questions: What is being called forth in you? What are you being called to do or shift? What is emerging within you that has not yet had space to appear?

Take these questions to the quiet spaces in your life. Step away from the noise, walk beneath trees older than your worries, let water wash over your feet, sit with yourself in the garden. Don't force an answer. Simply create the conditions for wisdom to arise. Release what you think should happen. The answers will come when your heart is ready to receive them. This process is not one of forcing something to happen. It’s about allowing something new and tender to emerge.

Even when the unknown feels frightening, remember – these sacred pauses aren't empty. They're pregnant with possibility, waiting for you to listen deeply enough to hear what they're whispering.