Awakening Something Within

You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about spiritual growth lately—not the kind that feels soft and delicate, but the kind that shakes you awake, that rumbles in your chest like distant thunder. The kind that makes you feel something deep and unexplainable.

I’ve been listening to Anoana by Heilung on repeat, and if you know me, that might not be surprising. My taste in music has always been a little… different. One minute, it’s cinematic orchestras, the next it’s tribal chants that sound like they belong in some ancient ritual. But honestly, it’s been like this for as long as I can remember. Something about raw, untamed sounds just does something to me. It stirs something deep—something I don’t always have words for.

By Heilung: The lyrics for this piece are mainly taken from bracteates: golden, circular coins or amulets found in Northern Europe that date from the 4th to 7th centuries CE. They are often fitted with a decorated rim and loop, which indicates that they were meant to be worn and perhaps provide protection, fulfil wishes or for divination. The bracteates feature a very significant iconography influenced by Roman coinage. They were predominantly made from Roman gold, which was given to the North Germanic peoples as peace money. In Anoana, the listener has the chance to delve into a collection of likely encoded spells from the Migration Period and get a touch of magic from the Dark Ages. The intention of the piece is to playfully reconnect to an incantational language of a period where the North was richer in gold than any other region. Our forefathers presumably enjoyed a time of great prosperity and it may make us rethink how dark these ages really were.

This year, I don’t feel soft. I don’t know what it is yet, but I do know that I’m feeling different. There’s this force inside me that I can’t ignore anymore, like a call to return to something real. Something that isn’t filtered through a screen or drowned out by modern noise.

I was once connected to the ancient, to something spiritual and in order to make it do and survive, immigrating, the pain we feel by situations in life, it went dormant. I've been in survival mode for too long.

I’ve spent so much time disconnecting—from the earth, from each other, from myself. It's just easy to seek comfort and distraction in artificial things, we're been bombarded by those inputs 24/7. but what we truly desire is something far more ancient.

We are born as "Landawariar", like Heilung says in the song, the spirits call to us; at least it has been calling to me lately. I can no longer ignore it because now it shouts.

Growing up in Brazil, I was surrounded by traditions rooted in the West african traditions (Both Candomblé and Umbanda have faced prejudice and been labeled as "witchcraft" and "devil worship"), a spiritual legacy brought by enslaved African peoples who, despite oppression, preserved their beliefs through resilience and devotion. Candomblé, Umbanda, and other Afro-Brazilian spiritual practices are filled with beauty, wisdom, and a profound connection to nature and the divine.

In these traditions, hands are powerful. They mold, they bless, they heal. They craft amulets and beads to protect. They tie ribbons around trees, whispering wishes into the wind. They prepare offerings to honor the spirits, calling upon their guidance and strength. These small yet deeply intentional acts are not just superstition; they are a way to align the soul and prayer, with the unseen forces that shape our world.

With time, I feel things may have gotten lost. The intention and the feeling were there, but there was a disconnection because I was, and I've been, stuck in surviving another day. But that cannot define my existence. This is part of why I left my country to start with.

When I use my hands to create, it’s never been just about the act of making. It’s a conversation with something beyond myself. A prayer whispered through movement. A blessing woven into form. It’s something I carry deep within me—an inheritance of faith, protection, and manifestation.

Whether it’s ink on skin, thread on fabric, or clay taking shape between my fingers, I feel like I am reaching back to something more, sharing those feeling of something sacred. Crafting, for me, is not just art—it’s prayer and blessing. It’s my way of manifesting, of protecting, of serving. It’s my hands speaking a language older than words.

We weren’t made to live so far away from nature, from instinct, from the raw, unpolished parts of being alive.

I don’t know exactly where this feeling is taking me yet, but I know I’m following it. Maybe you feel it too—the ache for something real, something beyond the noise. Maybe you also feel like you’re waking up to something that’s been calling you for a long time.

If you do, let’s find it together. Let’s listen. Let’s remember. Let’s awaken. The world is shifting. The land is crying out, and I feel the weight of it deep in my bones. Forests burn, rivers dry, sacred places are taken and destroyed. Every day, we drift further from the rhythms of nature, seeking connection in the artificial while forgetting the one we were born into—the pulse of the earth beneath our feet.

But I believe the spirits of the land are awakening. Protectors, guardians, forces that have long watched over our precious home—they are stirring. In times like these, they must. We are standing at a crossroads where the battle for land, freedom, and truth is not just political, but spiritual. Landawariar is a Proto-Norse word that means "land protector". It appears in the song "Anoana" by the band Heilung. The song's lyrics come from runic inscriptions on gold bracteates, which are discs made from Roman coins during the Migration Period (300–700 CE)