Where Spirits Dwell and Cicadas Sing: A Pathway Through the Sacred Park

This morning, I walked with intention. A small bundle of tobacco cradled in my hand—not just as tradition, but as language. As an offering. As remembrance.

When I reached the park, I greeted it not as a visitor, but as a returning spirit stepping gently into the village of the ancestors. I spoke the words that have become my bridge between worlds: “Good morning. I come with peace, love, and respect. Keep us safe—within your village, and beyond.”

The land always listens.

I made my way toward Ashu’s tree—the one that holds my baby brother’s memory, now stretching its limbs into the sky like arms always open. He is somewhere in the great fabric of the dimensions, yet always near when I come here. I left another offering at the base of his tree, not only in thanks, but as a silent conversation between our souls.

Above me, the cicadas were already singing. Their sound isn’t noise—it’s presence. A call from the spirit world disguised as nature’s music.The rhythm of their voices wrapped around the branches like a chant, like a reminder: The ancestors are not gone. They dwell where there is love, ritual, and listening.

This walk was more than a stroll. It was a ceremony. It was a quiet prayer carried by footsteps, answered by the land itself.