The Bee, the Waterfall and the Magdalene in Me

Why I Chose the Trail Over the Church 

This Easter, like every Sunday, the street outside my mom’s house overflowed with cars. They lined up like they always do, trying to squeeze into that little church at the end of the block. The bells ring, the people pour in, the ritual repeats.

But we didn’t go.
We never do.
And this year, I felt it more than ever:
The church is not where my soul goes to worship.

Every time I try to step into those walls, I feel it—
the ache. the grief. the sadness that clings to the air like incense.
I cry—not from reverence, but from the weight of all that’s been silenced within them. The sound of sorrow without permission. The echo of stories erased. And I can’t sit still in that anymore.

Since my grandmother passed, this has only deepened.
I used to be able to tolerate churches—hold the hymnal, blend into the back row.
But at her memorial, something changed in me.
I didn’t hear words—I heard frequencies.
Grief, yes—but also something deeper:
A spiritual no.

Since then, I’ve only found peace in the churches of Mexico—and even then, it’s not the sermon that calls me. It’s the land beneath it. The bones. The lineage. The memory.

So instead of going to mass on Easter, we went on a hike to Silverton Falls.
And without warning, the divine met us anyway.

🐝 A bee followed me the entire trail.

It circled my head, again and again. I thought it was a fly—annoying—but my mom said, “No, it’s a bee.” And I knew.

It was Oshun.
It was a message.
It was protection and sweetness and divine attention all wrapped up in wings.

Bees are sacred to Oshun—the Orisha of rivers, beauty, love, joy, and justice. The bee wouldn’t leave me alone because I wasn’t meant to be alone. I was being walked through something. Watched over. Witnessed.

And just beyond the buzzing?
A waterfall.

 The waterfall became the altar.

We didn’t light candles—we followed the flow.
We didn’t chant—we laughed. We breathed.
We watched water tumble from heaven to earth and felt it say:

"Rebirth doesn’t require ritual robes—it requires presence."

My daughter played. My mom and I smiled.
And I felt church in the truest sense—right there in nature, in motion, in breath.

And then… Mary Magdalene.

I’ve never thought much about her if I am being honest.
She was background noise in someone else’s gospel.
But this year, something cracked open. Her name landed different. I felt her story call me.

I don’t know too much about her—not yet.
But I know there’s grief there...I know what I feel now.
I know there’s remembering.
I know she wasn’t just some sinner to save—she was a witness, a beloved, a teacher.

This Easter, I didn’t go to church.
I went on a trail.
I followed the bee.
I stood near a waterfall.
I remembered the Magdalene.
And I felt myself.

This is a new era.
Of softness.
Of spiritual clarity.
Of choosing presence over performance.
Of healing the grief that’s been sitting inside the story for far too long.

Maybe this wasn’t just a walk.
Maybe it was a resurrection.

With grace, wings, and water,
Amalia 
The sacred is not lost—it’s remembering you too.