To my inexperienced eye, I think she was young—maybe a year or two old. I wouldn't really know, but that was my best guess.

I came around the switchback and she was standing on the trail, grazing on the little patches of grass that somehow survive in the high desert around Cedar City.

The young doe immediately took off, bounding and leaping through the brush.

Little did she know—and I did, because this has happened before—that we would soon meet again.

She took the straightaway while the winding trail side-flanked her, eventually bringing us back together again. Over the next several minutes we crossed paths again and again, giving me dozens of chances to watch her graceful leaps through the sagebrush.

I took a breath and tried to send calm to my own nervous system.

I knew from being around horses—or rather, from being around people who worked with horses and being lucky enough to pick up a few things here and there—that horses are incredibly in tune with your nervous system. They read your body.

I don't know if deer are the same, but I found myself wondering if she might read mine too.

So I tried to be calm, hoping not to scare her any further.

Eventually our paths diverged, and I'm sure she found some relief.

There wasn't another person on the trail this early Monday morning.

It's been a while since I've been on my bike.

A full summer.

My daughter was taking her GED tests—all four of them. She passed. Then we were practicing for her driving test, applying to Southern Utah University, celebrating her acceptance, apartment hunting, and searching Marketplace for gently used and unique pieces of furniture to fill her little space.

I was also taking trips up north after deciding to take on additional work with a new company, running their sleep clinic in St. George. Weeks of training crammed into two- and three-day spurts, setting up the office, learning new systems, and getting everything up and running.

And my son...still making sure I found time for whatever he was into. Last week it was rollerblading at the rink.

I grew up figure skating with one eye on the Olympics. Now, at forty-four years old, I thought I still had a few moves that would transfer over. I was showing off as best I could to impress him—or maybe just make my teenager laugh.

It had been decades since I'd done anything remotely close to that sport.

Age was apparent.

So was the soreness the next morning.

As I biked the trail, my thoughts were a mixture of past and future.

What has been.

What is ahead.

This last year hasn't been the happiest.

It was actually quite stressful.

Just yesterday I was talking with my daughter while we walked a canyon trail. I told her how much I wished I hadn't spent so many months stressing because, in the end, everything turned out fine.

Better than fine.

A completely unexpected turn in the road...

But a good one.

Once again I was reminded that stress is multiplied in the mind.

Earlier that morning, before I ever made it to the trail, I had been lying in bed watching the morning sun peek through the sheer white curtains. They were just thin enough to let me see the tall pine trees outside the window.

I had actually considered skipping the ride.

Maybe I wasn't ready.

It had been a very long time since I'd been on the trails. I wasn't at my usual fitness level. Maybe I wouldn't even enjoy it.

Instead of lingering in the what-ifs, I grabbed the warm, incredibly soft comforter and threw it off my legs.

My feet softly met the hardwood floor because Ella was still sleeping, and this old cottage we've been living in for the summer has floors that love to announce every step.

I quietly slipped into my riding clothes, filled my water bottle, grabbed a cold brew from the refrigerator, and slipped out the back door.

On the trail, I felt all the worry fading behind me.

Oh yes...

I do love mountain biking.

I hadn't lost that love.

And like always, the stress began leaving my mind, leaking out my ears with every pedal turn.

I started thinking about ascension.

About all the many times, ever since I was very young, that I've felt and seen things from the beyond. It really came into full force when I was around twelve years old.

The mysterious.

The unknown.

It was never strange to me.

It simply made sense.

It was part of life.

Part of the world.

Part of existence.

Part of being human.

But I've also gone through periods where I felt a lack of connection to Heaven...to the Divine.

Times when I felt there was no help or direction from the other side.

I wondered how many people go through life without ever feeling that undeniable, almost tangible presence of unseen assistance.

For many, many months, I hadn't recognized one of those unmistakable impressions that had been a natural part of my life.

It was frustrating.

Sometimes I wanted to look up—not really up, because it's not above, but you know what I mean—and throw my hands in the air.

"Hey...where's the help? I could really use it right now."

Many people feel like God is silent.

Even though I have a very different view of God, I understand that feeling.

To me, God isn't separate from us.

God is within us.

It's who we are.

Our real journey isn't becoming something new.

It's coming to the full realization of what we've always been.

Like Jesus said,

"I Am that I Am."

For the last half year, I've felt very human.

Less connected to that deeper part of myself.

Less intuitive.

More focused on simply doing what needed to be done—going to work, helping my kids, paying the bills, and figuring out the next step.

Then it came.

Not really a voice, even though that's the closest word I know to use.

It wasn't my thinking mind.

It could be my higher self.

Some would say God.

Maybe it's simply the more divine part of me than my everyday thinking mind.

The understanding was simple.

"Maybe you wanted to do this lifetime with less assistance."

A thicker veil.

Maybe you've always had such easy access to guidance that this lifetime you wanted less obvious assistance.

Less interference.

"We are still assisting.

Always assisting everyone.

Always assisting you.

We're simply doing it quietly now, in ways you don't notice.

That's how you wanted it."

The concept hit me.

Not as words.

Not even as a voice.

It came all at once, complete with the understanding of what it meant and how it fit into my life.

The closest way I know how to describe it is this...

Imagine reading the instructions for changing a tire.

You can understand every step. You know what comes first, what comes next, and why it works.

Now imagine your dad standing beside you, handing you the tire iron, showing you where to place the jack, and having you loosen the lug nuts yourself.

Both teach you how to change a tire.

One gives you information.

The other gives you understanding.

That's what this felt like.

It wasn't a thought my mind figured out.

It was a complete understanding that arrived all at once.

As I thought about it, I could see how it fit into the larger timeline of humanity as well.

Not just my own story...

Our story.

It feels like we're living through a time when more and more people are awakening to the divinity within themselves, casting off the need to follow gurus and beginning to look within—to their higher selves, their own God Self—for direction.

It made me think about other periods in history.

There have been times when humanity seemed to need teachers outside of itself—people who claimed to receive wisdom through visions, revelation, channeling, or what many traditions have called ascended masters.

When I think back to the late 1800s and early 1900s, there seemed to be an extraordinary outpouring of those kinds of teachings. It was almost as if humanity was being taught from the outside because the veil still felt thicker for so many people. Knowledge seemed to pour through those willing to receive it and share it.

Much of the language we casually use today about ascension—or what we now more commonly call "awakening"—grew out of that period. We repeat familiar phrases without always knowing where they came from or appreciating the depth and fullness of what was being shared.

Saint Germain. The Gnostics. The Rosicrucian movement. There were many streams contributing to that awakening.

I could go down a rabbit hole here...

But that's not really the point.

The point is that today feels different.

It feels as though we're being invited to remember those same truths from within ourselves rather than waiting for someone else to bring them to us.

Many individuals simply feel cut off.

Cut off from God.

Their prayers seem to go unanswered.

They might try all the YouTube videos about creation and manifestation. Then, after months and months of desperately believing, hoping, and trying, they give up.

Hopeless.

"God doesn't hear my prayers."

They say I'm human, but also God.

That I'm a divine being.

The Divine Feminine.

But I don't feel that way.

Maybe the debts are high and the income is scant, barely covering the bills in the face of inflation.

The stresses are making you feel like Atlas.

Your childhood ideas of Prince Charming have been obliterated, replaced by cynicism, disappointment...or even hostility.

Human life...

Life...

Is just that.

Stress.

Demanding.

And eventually...

Heaven is silent.

I'm sitting in the backyard now.

Hummingbirds flutter around the red glass feeder while my daughter's two sphynx cats leap through the purple lilac branches and white lilies, chasing bugs and playing without a care in the world.

Until a bird lands in the tall pine tree.

Then everything changes.

The cats hunker low and begin chirping back at the bird, slowly creeping toward the trunk as if, somehow, they might leap twenty feet into the branches. The little sparrow chirps right back, safely perched on a branch that stretches out like an arm just beyond their reach.

I think about how much of life is a balance.

At least it has been for me.

This past year has been a very human one.

Helping my daughter apply for college.

Learning new systems and procedures at the sleep clinic.

Building planter boxes.

Planting seeds.

Harvesting food.

Cooking dinner.

Putting gas in the car.

There isn't much mystery in those things.

Sometimes they're beautiful.

Sometimes they're monotonous.

Sometimes they're stressful.

Sometimes I simply have to remind myself to get back on my bike.

To quiet my mind long enough to remember what really matters.

Then I remember the thought that came on the trail.

Maybe I really did choose to experience this lifetime with a little less obvious assistance.

Not because Heaven abandoned me.

But because I wanted to know what it felt like to become more fully human.

I'm not sure how this will land for anyone reading it.

But I guess I'm simply saying this...

You are not alone.

Even when it feels like you are.

Even when life is demanding.

Even when Heaven seems silent.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

The help has never stopped.