The Trees That Held Me: Living in Right Relationship with the Land

A reflection on land, belonging, and the sacred art of tending to the places that hold us.

For two and a half years, I lived among the redwoods.
They stood just beyond my balcony — guardians of stillness, rooted in a rhythm older than memory. Their presence became my medicine. In their company, I learned that a home is not only four walls and a roof; it is a living conversation between earth, air, and spirit.

When I first arrived, I was weary. The world had changed, and so had I. My condo became a cocoon — a place to remember how to breathe, how to listen again. Each morning, light filtered through branches like blessings. The scent of resin carried whispers from an ancient lineage of patience.

Over time, the land began to recognize me.
I greeted the trees as elders, leaving small offerings of water or petals at their roots. Sometimes I would sit in silence until my thoughts dissolved, until only the sound of wind through the needles remained.

Listening to the Spirit of Place

Every piece of land has a story. Every home holds memory.
Some of it is beautiful — laughter that still lingers in the walls. Some of it asks to be cleared — sorrow, stagnation, the echoes of what’s ready to be released.

To live in right relationship with where we dwell is to listen.
To walk slowly enough to feel when a space wants rest, renewal, or gratitude.
To offer reverence — not ownership.
When we acknowledge the spirits of the land — the trees, the stones, the unseen keepers — our well-being begins to harmonize with the earth beneath us. We feel safer, more inspired, more alive.

As I deepened my relationship with the redwoods, I also became aware of the older stories this land carries — the ancestral homelands of the Tamien Ohlone people, whose sacred relationship with these valleys long preceded us. Their songs, languages, and ceremonies once filled this soil with reverence. To live in right relationship means remembering the original keepers of the land, honoring their enduring presence, and walking with humility upon their stories.

Reciprocity and Belonging

The redwoods taught me reciprocity: to give beauty where beauty is received.
Before leaving, I gathered the dried flowers from my altar — roses, jasmine, lavender — and offered them to the soil in gratitude. Tears came easily. The air felt heavy with shared emotion. I could sense the trees mourning too, their roots aware of my departure.

I took a few seeds from the cones that had fallen near the walkway — a quiet promise of continuity. Someday, they will take root again where I live next. The land we love never truly leaves us; it moves through us, shaping the way we inhabit the world.

A Living Home

Every dwelling is a teacher.
A mirror of our inner landscape.
When we treat our home as a temple — tending to its energy, honoring its corners with care — it begins to hold us like sacred ground.

This is how we thrive: not by escaping our environment, but by entering communion with it. By remembering that our home is also an ecosystem of breath, memory, and vibration.

As I move into my family home once more, I carry these lessons forward: to see each room as an altar, each threshold as a prayer.

An Invitation to Deepen

If you feel called to build a living relationship with your space — to learn how to clear, bless, and consecrate your home as a temple — I’ve created a collection of guided rituals and energy practices inside my private membership portal.

Each month, we explore new ways to align our homes, hearts, and the Earth’s frequency through sacred homemaking, lunar cycles, and elemental wisdom.

You can join or learn more here: [Insert Link]

May you walk gently upon the land that holds you.
May your home become a sanctuary of light.
And may you always feel the trees listening. 🌲