Hello sweet souls,
Today is 8 B’atz in the Mayan Sacred Calendar—the first day of the new ceremonial cycle. A holy day. A ceremony day. A day for celebration.
I am sending you so many B’atz Blessings.
B’atz is the monkey, the weaver, the artisan of creation—the patient hands at the loom. And 8 is the energy of harmony and wholeness, the moment something has come into balance and is ready to be offered.
I know it is the right day to share this with you. I am coming more into balance just by this declaration and offering.
You may listen to this story here:
I have been holding some friction lately. I will tell you the truth.
Things have been breaking in my home and needing repair. The repairs are happening, which is its own kind of gift—and also its own kind of disruption.
I have been moved out of my rhythms, my habits, my routines. I have been sleeping in a different bedroom than the one I usually sleep in, one I had never slept in before. And while I am lucky that all of this work can be done, and I still have a place to rest my head, it is discombobulating. It surges anxiety in the body. And the anxiety around the house has been trickling into the quiet, persistent questions that surface when you have been following the call for a long time—
Am I resourced?
Am I supported?
Will what I am building hold me?
I follow the call. I have followed the call consistently for years. Sometimes it provides an exchange—energetic, financial, the kind of arrival you can hold in your hands. And sometimes it is a lesson learned. I do not always know which one it will be when I take the step. I just take the step.
I am sharing this because I want you to know that even those of us who teach about following the Soul—we feel the friction too. The cultivation of receptivity does not erase the moments when the mind asks: But will I be okay?
It is part of the practice. It is part of being human.
So I went to sleep one night recently with that exact question on my heart. I had spoken to the ancestors about it before bed. I was in this other bedroom, this foreign room. I was anxious. And in the middle of the night, I had a dream.
In the dream, I had guided people into a room high up in a building. They had followed me there. They wanted to be around me. And when we walked in, there was a man with a needle, and he asked: Who was the first person in this room? Who was the first to come here?
Everyone who had come with me took a step back. I had to be in integrity. I said: It was me.
And he said: Okay. Because you were the first, I am going to inject you with this fluid. You are going to die. We are going to kill you. It is time for you to leave.
I want to pause here, because the timing of this dream matters. I am currently studying trauma—incorporating somatic exercise and movement into my practice. And one of the things I am learning is that trauma forms when, in a moment of heightened intensity, we cannot complete the natural sequencing of events. Animals shake it off, run it out, finish the cycle. We don’t. Our minds insert the story and stop us. Often, we freeze.
So here I was, in the dream, being told I was going to be killed for being the one who went first. An old version of me might have frozen. Might have paused, might have let it happen, might have let the mind insert its story about why this was happening to me and what it meant about me.
But that is not what I did. I thought: There is no way this is going to happen. And I ran.
I found another room down the hallway. There was a window in it. A small opening. I lifted the window, and I threw out the screen. I was maybe twelve, fifteen, twenty floors up—I do not know exactly. High. And I decided: Fuck this, I am getting out of here. And I leapt. Head first. Upper body first. Out the window.
I did not crash.
There was a lower building below me—six, seven, eight floors down. I fell gently onto its roof. I was held. I was supported. I rolled a little, sat up, looked off the edge of that lower building. Another five or six floors to the ground. And I leapt again—calmer this time, less urgent, because I had survived the first fall. I landed on the ground. And I walked away.
When I woke up, I remembered the dream in that kind of detail. I got out of bed. I walked out of the foreign bedroom, through the hallway, into the main room where I host my retreats and circles.
And… I could feel them.
A gathering of ancestors. A gathering of people from my lineage. There in the astral, in the room. And the feeling in there was not serious, not solemn. It was jovial. Playful. Like they were having a good time.
I was surprised. I had just woken up from a rather dramatic dream. But they were not concerned. They were conferring about me—about my questions, about the anxieties at the surface of me—and they were laughing a little. Smiling. And what I heard, the words I caught from them, were these:
Just wait to see how good it gets.
They were not laughing at me. They were not mocking me. They were making a concerted effort to come together, to talk about how they were helping me, to coordinate on my behalf.
And underneath all of it was this knowing that they had—this confident, almost playful knowing—that what is coming for me is so good. That the friction I am in right now is the doorway. That the leap I keep taking, even when I do not know if I will be caught, is the right thing. That I am resourced. I am supported. I have a team on the other side of every wall, no matter what bedroom I am sleeping in, and they are smiling about how good it gets when it gets good.
And when I really listened, I could feel that even now—even in the friction—it is already good. It is always good. Even when it is tough, it is always good.
I am sharing this story today, on 8 B’atz, because I have leapt. And because I have been caught. And because what I am opening next is for the ones who are at the window.
If you have been feeling the pull—the knowing that you carry something, a gift, a sensitivity, a way of moving through the world that is asking to be understood, honored, and used—I want to be in the room with you this summer.
I am opening two containers.
The Summer Series: Your Soul is the Bridge.
Three Sunday sessions in Santa Fe—July 19, August 2, and August 16. We will move through three sacred movements together: The Sacred Bridge, where I share my full origin story and you begin to recognize your own. The Call, where you learn to feel the difference between a true Soul ‘yes’ and the noise around it. The Container, where we cultivate the inner architecture—integrity, neutrality, and devotional practice—that makes this work sustainable and clean over a lifetime. The full series is $555. Single sessions are $222 each, space permitting.
The Your Soul is the Bridge Retreat.
A three-day initiation in my home in Santa Fe—August 28, 29, and 30. Three mornings inside the soul field, with the afternoons and evenings yours to walk the land, let Santa Fe hold you between sessions, and allow the lineage of this place to work through you. The nights are for the body to integrate and the ancestors to keep working. By the third day, what has moved through you across the weekend will have gathered enough to speak. You will offer it aloud, to this community, as a declaration of commitment to yourself and the sacred gift your Soul has been calling you toward. This is not a longer Summer Series. It is the lived initiation for the ones who feel the pull to cross the threshold in one continuous arc rather than over months. Limited seats to maintain the intimacy of the Soul field.
Reserve your seat at the Retreat
These are not the same offering. The Summer Series is the teaching arc—three Sundays of recognizing, claiming, and learning to trust your sacred gift, with two weeks of ordinary life between each gathering to integrate what is moving. The retreat is the initiation—three continuous days inside the field, with the high desert itself as part of the container, designed for those who feel the pull to step fully across the threshold in one breath rather than over months. Different medicine. Both real.
You do not have to choose between them. You can come to one. You can come to both. You can leap once. You can leap again.
And if it feels like a leap—if part of you is at the window right now wondering if you will be caught—I want you to hear me. The ancestors are already in the room. They are already laughing. They already know how good it gets.
You are resourced. You are supported. There is a team on the other side of every wall.
Leap.
I love you,
Maggie
