Doctor Cass Naumann, DACOM, LAc. Original Spirit Healing Arts,PLLC

08/16/2025

08/15/2025

08/15/2025

Scientists Document a “New Color” – Seen by Only 5 Humans on Earth

They’re calling it “Olo.”

Not a shade of blue, red, or green — not even a mix of colors we already know. Olo exists completely outside the visible spectrum as we experience it. The few who have seen it describe it as “impossible to explain… like trying to describe music to someone who has never heard sound.”

Here’s the mind-bending part:

• Special research conditions allowed scientists to temporarily bypass the brain’s “color filter,” unlocking a channel of perception normally closed to us.
• This wasn’t just about the eyes — it involved altering neural processing so the mind could register wavelengths it has never evolved to see.
• Only five test subjects have reported the experience… and each claimed it changed the way they saw reality itself.

In neuroscience, this isn’t just a curiosity — it’s a glimpse into the limits of human perception. What other layers of reality are hiding in plain sight, waiting for us to develop the senses to perceive them?

The real question isn’t just what Olo looks like…
It’s: What else is out there that we can’t see — yet?

Learn more: https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/researchers-discover-new-color-thats-impossible-to-see-without-lasering-your/

08/14/2025

https://goop.com/wellness/health/shanghai-eastern-wellness-rituals/

Cupping, breast acupuncture and a nap-worthy head spa made my journey through Traditional Chinese Medicine the self-care reset I didn’t know I needed.

07/28/2025

Yes, the Comanche Nation has officially recognized Indian marker trees, with one notable example being a pecan tree in Holliday, Texas. This tree, located at Stonewall Jackson Camp #249, was identified after six years of research and was officially dedicated as a Comanche Nation marker tree in 2018 .

These marker trees were intentionally shaped by Native Americans, often by bending young saplings to grow in specific directions. They served as navigational aids, pointing to water sources, hunting grounds, or burial sites . The Holliday tree is one of only nine officially recognized marker trees in Texas .

The recognition of such trees is part of a broader effort to reclaim and preserve Native American history and cultural practices .

07/24/2025

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In today’s world of instant results and aesthetic innovation, facial acupuncture might seem like a relic of the past. With injectable neurotoxins like Botox, dermal fillers, laser resurfacing treatments, and high-tech devices dominating the beauty industry—not to mention the rise of microneedlin...

07/18/2025

I’m making my son’s lunch when I find out you’ve died—cutting up carrot and cucumber while crying.

He tilts his tiny head, furrows his precious brow, and asks me, “Daddy, are you alright?”

And I remember what you said about truth:

“even when the truth
isn't hopeful
the telling of it is”

So, I tell him, no, I’m not alright—
a poetry angel has taken flight,
and daddy is very sad about it.

I know it sounds far-fetched but
I think he understands—
in the way trees understand soil.
He opens his arms wide as a bridge
and lunges for a hug.

And I remember what you said about heartbeats:

“If you were to press your heart close up against somebody else’s heart eventually your hearts will start beating at the same time.”

I feel a desperate instinct to retreat. Take my sorrow to the spare room, close the curtains, turn off the lights, hide from anyone who might dare to care about me. To lick at my collection of wounds, tired and alone.

But I remember what you said about relationships:

“…We gather each other up.
We say, the cup is half
yours and half mine.
We say alone is the last place you will ever be.”

I call my wife and tell her about a growing ache in my stomach; how unfair it is that a poet of such monumental importance now only exists in memories.

But she reminds me what you said about death:

“Dying is the opposite of leaving. I want to echo it through the corridor of your temples. I am more with you than I ever was before.”

My heart swells grateful as I realise you’re not gone—you’re still right here! In books on my shelf, videos in my feed, words etched in my skull, hope echoing through my bones. You’re still here—more than ever!

How lucky I am—how privileged we all are—to have glimpsed your soul through a miraculous lens, a pen dipped in cosmic ink, a voice so authentic it could have been wombed in stars, an immutable spirit set wild and free.

How inspiring. How wonderfully inspiring you are.

I flick through your books, too afraid to land on a single page, in case the words spontaneously combust upon reading; or sprout wings, escape their paper prison to be free—as words should be—with you in the afterwards.

But what I’m most afraid of is the words won’t be the same shape ever again. That the weight of loss presses them into crueler, cruder, angrier creatures; that the meaning will be tainted by mourning.

I feel a tension in the meat of my heart, not a rip or tear, but the start of a long pull—when it releases the flesh will be softer, slacker.

And I remember what you said about hearts:

“In the end, I want my heart to be covered in stretch marks.”

I ideate myself out of existence—
as I often do when down dark. The tricksy little imp, whispering from the back seat, implores me to spin the car off a cliff—to join you.

And I remember what you said about grief:

“That every falling leaf is a tiny kite
with a string too small to see, held
by the part of me in charge
of making beauty
out of grief.”

So I’m writing. I don’t know if it’s beautful yet. Not the way you are. Your consonants dance with your vowels, your sentences have curves and edges, your poetry can sail a ship or bend a spine, dress a wound or slice the moon, while mine seem edgeless by comparison.

And I remember what you said about creating:

“We have to create. It’s the only thing louder than destruction.”

So today, like millions of others whose hearts you squeezed, I’ll create, so that I’m not destroyed. And I’ll let my heart break…

Because I remember what you said about breaking hearts:

“Let your heart break so your spirit doesn’t.”

Andrea Gibson ❤️‍🩹

06/09/2025

She was drowning.
And nobody noticed…
Nobody, except her.

It was June 2022, at the World Championships in Budapest.
Anita Álvarez, an American artistic swimmer with Mexican roots, was performing a flawless routine.
But when her performance ended… she didn’t come up for air.

She had lost consciousness.
Her body floated for a few seconds, then began to sink.
Slowly. All the way to the bottom of the pool.

The audience didn’t notice. Neither did the judges.
Everyone was clapping.

But her coach, Andrea Fuentes, noticed.
She knew Anita—knew exactly how long it took her to surface.
She felt in her heart that something was wrong.

Without thinking twice, she dove in.
Fully dressed. Shoes and all.

She swam straight down, grabbed Anita by the waist,
and brought her back up.
She saved her life.

This story left me thinking…

Who knows you well enough to notice when you’re not okay, even if you’re still smiling?
Who would dive in for you without hesitation when you no longer have the strength to come up for air?

And more importantly…

Would you be that person for someone else?
Are you present enough in your loved ones’ lives to sense the moment they start to sink?
Or are you just another spectator, clapping, not realizing that inside, they’re fading?

In this life, we all need someone who doesn’t just see us—
but truly notices us.
Someone who knows when we’re about to give up,
and has the courage to jump in and save us.