The Hawk and the Holy Pause

Sometimes life doesn’t whisper, it waits. It holds you still until you finally listen to what silence has been trying to say all along.

I’d been trying to write about unplugging — about what it means to step away when the noise gets too loud, to find stillness again. But the words wouldn’t come. Every sentence felt like I was pretending to understand something I hadn’t yet lived.

So I stopped trying. I closed the screen. I let myself be quiet; not in the graceful, meditative way I often hope for, but in the raw, restless way that happens when your spirit is weary and your body aches for honesty.

Days blurred together.

I noticed how often I reached for distraction, the pull of the screen, the need to produce, the urge to explain. But underneath it all, something else was stirring. A quiet invitation. A call to lay everything down and listen, not with my mind, but with my bones.

And that’s when it happened.

A young red-tailed hawk landed on my railing, the narrow line between my home and the open sky. It was so close I could see the softness of its down still clinging to its chest. We locked eyes. The world went utterly still.

It wasn’t fear or curiosity I felt — it was recognition. Something ancient in me stirred. Something that knew this moment was more than coincidence. The hawk didn’t speak, but its silence said everything.

I’ve been standing at the edge of something lately...

a slow unraveling of who I thought I was and a tender becoming of who I might yet be.

My body has been sick, my energy uncertain, my purpose fogged. I’ve been searching for clarity, for that clean strike of vision that tells you, this is the way.

But the hawk’s presence reminded me: vision doesn’t arrive as lightning. It comes as devotion. As patience. As the willingness to stay in the half-light until your eyes adjust.

That moment on the railing felt like an initiation, not into flight, but into faith. Into trust that even without knowing where I’m headed, I can still hold my gaze steady. That I don’t have to see the whole horizon to know it’s there.

And then, a few days later, something inside me deepened again.

I entered deeper into the sacred study of Divine Dowsing. I began to learn the language of the Earth herself: the living network of ley lines, the serpentine dance of earth currents, the unseen pulse of Gaia that moves through all things.

As I stood upon the land, rod in hand, something ancient in me awakened. The Earth spoke, not in words, but in sensation, in movement, in energy. I felt her currents rising through me, weaving remembrance through my cells. And in that moment, I knew.

The weeks and days leading up to this were never random. The silence, the stillness, the hawk — all had been preparing me. I had to be emptied before I could hear. I had to be quiet before I could feel.

Through dowsing, I remembered something older than time, my Dharma.I now understand why I am here, in this body, on this land, in this lifetime. More wholy. I am called to work with Gaia. To listen to her wounds and help restore the harmony between human and Earth. To tend to the places where energy has forgotten how to flow. A bigger part of my work, my purpose, is to help heal her disharmony, and in doing so, help humanity remember its own.

As I walked the land, I could feel the collective ache, the places where we have cut ourselves off from the sacred. And yet, I could also feel her patience, her forgiveness, her longing for us to return home to her heartbeat.

This is how we rise. By healing with her, not above her. By remembering that our ascension to love is intertwined with her own.

Clarity isn’t something you chase. It’s something you earn through surrender, through the holy patience of waiting without force, and the humility to let the Earth teach you how to see again.

And maybe that’s what “unplugging” truly means—

not disappearing from the world, but tuning into the frequencies that guide it. Not escaping, but listening. Learning to live by the invisible rhythm that holds everything together.

The hawk didn’t come to deliver answers. It came to open my eyes to the deeper work, to remind me that the pause itself is sacred, that this strange, uncertain season isn’t failure,

but initiation.

The wings are forming. The sight is sharpening. And even if I don’t yet know what I’m meant to build, I know I’m being built into someone who can hold it.

May I learn to honour the pauses as holy, the stillness as fertile, and the waiting as proof that

I am already in flight.

xoxo, Flower