A Sacred Return: Soul Remembrance
“You have traveled too fast over false ground; now your soul has come to take you back.” —John O’Donohue
We all have a longing, a feeling for kinship, for a place of natural belonging, alive and wild. Remember the story of the ugly duckling?
Teased and tormented, a misfit among geese. Chased from barnyard to barnyard, nearly killed by predators. Finally, exhausted, he collapsed at the edge of a lake.
We all know that feeling.
The ache beneath our survival—the soul’s quiet insistence to hang on, to go on.
The premature birth of my twins began in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—an onslaught of bright lights, blaring buzzards that never let up, urgent signatures for surgeries, IV drips, gaggles of strangers in white coats, chairs reserved for grief...
Exiled from my body, untethered from the life that knitted us together, our world shattered.
My mother, an elder terrified of flying, flew across the country to hold my babies. After birthing eight children, she was thrilled to help my toddler, Autumn, master potty training.
Libby was intubated, fed by drip, and heavily medicated. At three months old, she weighed three and a half pounds, the minimum for a transfer. At six months, she woke from a semi-coma, screamed with primal fury, projectile vomited her food, and required constant rocking. She was unwrapped without myelin sheath to protect her nervous system.
Two years in, I trembled at the edge of a cliff above the ocean—spent, undone, unsure if I could go on.
In the beginning, friends came. They held the twins, played with Autumn, and organized meal trains. I remember an Italian lesbian couple who came five nights in a row to cook for us. I usually don’t like pasta, but the love they stirred in seasoned every bite. I begged them to come back. They had their lives to tend. Visits from friends trickled down from weekly to monthly to rarely to a distant whisper.1
The promise of our soul home, even if we have only momentarily glimpsed it, touched it, felt its pulse calling us, the memory of it is a beacon that guides us toward what we belong to, always.
At the cliffs edge, a knowing yearning stirred, lifted my eyes to the moonlit sky, and carried me (and baby Libby) home in a gust of wind, in a blanket of remembrance that revives.
Remembrance, like nature, can feed us for a month, a year, or five minutes. The medicines of the natural world are most healing, kind, and often accessible.
Sunlight spills through a eucalyptus canopy.
A hummingbird hovers to sip from crimson bee balm—no apology, no rush.
A muddy lab bounds toward a dignified collie, a nose-to-nose greeting that sniffs, “Ah, you’re interesting.”
A red-tailed hawk circles.
A spider spins silver threads between branches, weaving memory like mycelium beneath the forest floor. The mist after rain returns to the clouds.
Nature isn’t trying to fix itself or anything.
Abundance created by recycling, composting, reciprocity that replenishes.
Mother listens, feels, and knows the remembrance of ancient belonging.
In preparation for upcoming retreats, I follow a specific diet to rekindle my learning with plant spirits and unplug from the noise of grind culture, to join our healed ancestors, to root in Mother Earth.
Recently, I officiated a small remembrance ceremony with a few seasoned medicine practitioners. Ceremony, like creativity and nature, is quiet and wild.
It doesn’t follow a personal agenda. Plant spirits mirror us inward, toward what quenches, what satisfies.
Years of apprenticeship have opened my soul to an exquisite tenderness and sensitivity to dose. That night, the dose was small; the effect—powerful.
The gift received was embodied relaxation in a way felt long ago.
Before we began, we gave offerings to the land and shared intentions.
One woman repeated anxiously, “I want to surrender. Let go. Release. But I can’t.”
I felt her familiar ache.
In the intensity of a colorful, multidimensional, holotropic takeover, I remembered:
I am not in control.
She is here. She is ancient intelligence. She knows.
Somehow, in the dark, a giving over happened.
Not a doing.
Not a pretending.
Not a performing.
Not a giving up.
A giving over.
Full presence—a staying.
Maybe even trust.
Full-body collapse.
The ground beneath the ground. River beneath the river. Breathing beneath my body.
Holy ground. Holy union. Holy kinship.
The generosity of giving all of myself.
I remember repeatedly saying to myself, probably aloud:
Wow. This is what relaxation feels like. Such a gift.
Receiving.
Thank you.
A Sacred Return.
I will feel lonely again. Left out. Disconnected. Lost or wholly exhausted. We all will. It’s innate to our life-death-life cycle
Humans ache to be seen, to be held, to connect.
Will we always tremble at the edge of life and death, unsure what will come next?
I don’t know. The most important thing for me is to Be—Open and Soft.
To nourish a creative life of tender solitude with intentional time to rest, receive, hold, and do nothing.
With full permission to feel it all.
The promise of remembrance and relaxation is ancient:
Spring follows winter.
Life follows death.
Renewal follows collapse.
Nature is medicine. She loosens the grip of grind culture—of doing, of fixing, of one more performance to earn your place.
Forget the myth you may have memorized.
You don’t earn rest.
Rest is holy.
As natural as the moon’s waxing and waning.
Relaxation is a doorway to remembrance—your sacred return.
Dear Generous Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to read my musings. I appreciate you.
I’d love to hear what stirred, soothed, or sparked something in you today, within this blooming community. Let’s connect.
🌿 What replenishes your soul—your remembrance—your belonging?
✨ What does relaxation look like for you?
With love,
Prajna O’Hara
P.S. Learn more about my Soul Remembrance Retreats with the Spirits of the Plants @prajnaohara.com
Read the full story in my memoir Edge of Grace: Fierce Awakenings to Love.
"You don't earn rest. Rest is holy." Oh, I'm writing that down so I never forget it. Thank you, Prajna.
Thank you for this sacred reminder to relax and let go of grind, Prajna! I shall take this Rest Ministry more seriously. My body has protested yet I did not fully listen.
My soul remembers the joy it was born with when I touch the soil, plant seeds and admire plants. I draw them as a way to show my love for nature and to deeply connect with its beauty.