Harvester of Healing

05/11/2026

Hello brothers and sisters,
It has been a while, and I hope this message finds you well, grounded, and continuing your journey in whatever way life has been calling you forward. Even in the quiet seasons, there is always movement beneath the surface, always something shifting, preparing, becoming.
I’m reaching out with an open heart to share that ceremony is returning.
We are deeply honored and excited to once again hold space for this sacred healing work. The next Ayahuasca/Yage ceremony will take place on June 26th and 27th. This is an invitation to come as you are, whether you are seeking clarity, release, connection, or simply feel the subtle pull that it may be time.
Some of you receiving this have sat with me in ceremony before. Others may have had this come up during a session, or have asked about it at an event, feeling that quiet curiosity or inner nudge. However this message has found you, please know it is being shared with love, with gratitude, and with a deep appreciation for the role you’ve played in my life and this work.
These ceremonies are not about escape, but about remembrance. About sitting with what is real, and allowing what is ready to move, to move. You will be held in a safe, intentional space where healing can unfold in its own way and timing.
If you feel called, I invite you to follow that inner nudge and learn more through the link provided below.
https://ayahuascayage.org/product/glennville-ga-june/
As always, trust your own discernment. The medicine meets you where you are, but only when you are truly ready to meet yourself.
With love and respect,
Tereasa and Sean
Harvester of Healing

05/11/2026

There’s a lot of people in this world living their lives out of spite.
Someone tells them they can’t do something, so they work relentlessly to prove them wrong. And sometimes they succeed in incredible ways. Spite can become fuel. It can push people beyond limitations they never would have challenged otherwise.
But a life fueled by spite carries a cost.
The nervous system was never designed to live in a constant state of proving, defending, fighting, or silently keeping score. When the body remains locked in survival, comparison, resentment, or revenge, it struggles to find true regulation. The heart hardens. Rest becomes difficult. Joy becomes conditional. Even accomplishments can feel empty because they were built on resistance rather than alignment.
Spite is a malicious, petty desire to harm, annoy, or humiliate someone, often driven by envy, resentment, or unresolved hurt, even when that behavior harms the person carrying it. It is mean spirited energy rooted in the desire to see another person fail, suffer, feel small, or lose.
And while many people think spite only looks loud and aggressive, sometimes it hides in socially acceptable forms.
A malicious example of spite might be someone intentionally succeeding only so they can publicly shame the person who doubted them. Or staying in a relationship they no longer love just to emotionally punish the other person. It can look like spreading rumors because someone else is thriving. It can look like withholding kindness, support, or truth simply because another person wounded your ego. Sometimes spite is quietly hoping someone fails so you can feel validated in your own pain.
The truth is spite may create momentum, but it rarely creates peace.
The body keeps score of the energy we live inside of. Chronic resentment, anger, jealousy, bitterness, and the constant need to prove ourselves keeps stress hormones elevated and the nervous system dysregulated. Over time, that internal state can manifest physically through exhaustion, inflammation, tension, anxiety, heart strain, digestive issues, and emotional burnout.
There' a difference between being inspired by adversity and being consumed by it.
“I will rise because I discovered my strength.”
"I will rise so someone else feels small.”
Energetically, those are not the same frequency at all.
Healing often begins when we stop asking •••How do I prove them wrong?•••
And start asking•••How do I become fully alive fully at peace and fully myself regardless of who doubted me?••••
Aho

05/08/2026

05/08/2026

A Cleaning Meditation was our next assignment.
Choose something that needs to be cleaned. It might be sweeping a room, it might be cleaning a sink, it might be de-pilling a sweater. The goal is to find something that is not a quick task, but is also not a complex task. Now, if you need a tool to help you with the cleaning, see if you can find a small one. If you're cleaning a sink, use an old toothbrush. If you're sweeping a floor, use a handbroom. You may not need a tool, which is fine. Simply start cleaning, and go slow. The goal is not to complete the task, but to find a meditative way to move. Don't rush to be done, but take your time and get lost in the motion. Be slow, methodical, and mindful that you are engaging in the sacred act of readying, clearing. Take 30 minutes to clean before coming back.
For this meditation I chose to clean a space where my incense had fallen.
Normally, I would have rushed through it vacuumed it up, swept it away, and moved on. But this time, I slowed down. Instead of throwing it away, I gathered it. Piece by piece, returning it into a collection in my abalone shell.
These were the remains of copal. Burned in prayer. Used to purify, to clear, to open space between what is seen and what is felt. The smoke had already carried its purpose. So this didn’t feel like cleaning something up, it felt like tending to what was left behind.
As I moved slowly, I found myself back in that space, the ritual, the preparation, the quiet moment before stepping into something deeper. It didn’t feel separate. It felt like a continuation.
There was no rush. No need to be finished. Just the motion. The attention. The care.
And as I finished, I brushed against the chimes beneath the table. They rang out soft, unexpected, but clear.
Something in that moment shifted. Not in the space alone, but in me.
The same ashes, the same surface but when approached differently, they became something else entirely.
That felt like alchemy.
Not turning something into gold, but turning a simple act into something alive, something connected, something whole.
The space felt settled after that. Quiet. Complete.
And so did I.
Aho

05/06/2026

I hope you'll enjoy continuing to hear about my Morning Altars class.There were just so many nuggets of wisdom brought to my awareness.
For this assignment, we were to go on a wander and look for things that are dead or have fallen. Things that might ordinarily be viewed as something that should be cleared away.
I walked toward a place that once held more than intention, it held an honoring.
This altar was born on the first day of my Morning Altar training! It marked a beginning, not just of practice, but of devotion. Of choosing to meet the day with presence. Of learning how to create sacred space with my own hands and awareness.
I remember placing the fresh flowers there, alive, vibrant, carrying the energy of that moment. It wasn’t just something I built. It was something I entered into. A quiet agreement between myself and something greater to show up.
But time, as it always does, moved through it.
The flowers softened, then surrendered. Their color faded, their structure loosened, until they no longer resembled what I had first placed there. What once felt like a beginning now looked, to the outside eye, like an ending.
And yet, it wasn’t.
As I began to clear the altar, I noticed the grass beneath it had changed. Different shades marked where each object had rested. The Earth had been in relationship with this space the entire time holding, responding, transforming.
Nothing had been still. Nothing had been wasted.
The altar hadn’t disappeared. It had simply shifted form.
The training didn’t end when the flowers faded.
The honoring didn’t end when I cleared the space.
If anything, this moment felt like the deeper teaching.
That devotion isn’t in the object.
It’s in the willingness to create and then to release.
And now, as I stand here, clearing what once was, I realize, I am still part of the altar.
I am still in the practice.
And this is also sacred.
AHO

05/05/2026

In morning altars we were asked to find something you know, you need to release, it brought into my awareness one of the spaces in my home.
The room where my last client lived and where she transitioned.
And if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that still hasn’t been able to go in there. Not fully. Not with intention. I haven’t gone through her things. I haven’t completed that ending.
It’s been four weeks.
And I can recognize this for what it is, my way of grieving. Not rushed, not forced, just held in a quiet pause. I haven’t felt the call to release her yet. So the space remains as it was, and even now, we still refer to it as Judyi`s room.
There’s something about that something tender and revealing.
Because here I am, sitting in a class about clearing, about release, about creating space, and at the same time, I’m living inside a space that hasn’t yet been cleared.
And I don’t think that’s a contradiction.
I think it’s an invitation.
What stands out to me even more is that I have walked this path before.
This space has held death for others. Sacredly. Intimately.
She is not the first to pass here.
I know this transition. I know what it looks like to close a chapter, to clear a space, to prepare it to hold the next life that will enter into my care and, one day, end here.
And I also notice this, when it came time to release her ashes, that part was easy. Honoring her last wishes to the water.
There was a flow to it. A readiness. A sense of peace in returning her, in honoring her in that way.
But this part, this physical space, her belongings, the room itself, this is where the grief has settled differently.
This is where I’ve paused.
And as I sat with that, I realized something else, Christmas was held so reverently for her.
There was something sacred about that time, something soft and honoring. And when the season passed, I didn’t take the lights down. I always used to teaser.Who made these rules?Why do we have to take down christmas lights? We left them, those quiet, flickering lights, almost like a continuation of that reverence. A gentle presence still holding the space. And here they are still twinkling.
So when I created my altar, I didn’t bring in anything new.
I simply allowed what was already there to become part of it.
At the center, I placed a piece of paper. And on it, I wrote one word,
TIME.
The time of holding.
The time of reverence.
The time of grieving.
And the releasing of that time, while still forever holding the memory.
And surrounding it, those same soft, flickering Christmas lights.
Not as decoration.
But as witness.
As a continuation of the love that filled that space.
As a reminder that even in endings, there is warmth. There is light. There is presence.
Because that’s what this really is.
Not an inability to let go, but an honoring of the time that was shared.
That room isn’t stuck.
It’s held.
Held in reverence.
Held in memory.
Held in the sacred pause between what has ended and what has not yet begun.
But I can feel it shifting.
Not because I should clear it.
Not because I’ve done this before.
But because something within me is beginning to say….. it’s time.
And when I walk into that space, I will do so with intention.
I will honor her.
I will thank her.
I will release her.
Not by erasing her presence, but by acknowledging that her time there is complete.
So that the next life that enters into my care has a clear, open place to land.
And in that way nothing is lost.
It simply softens into light, memory, and the quiet knowing that love never actually leaves, it just changes form.
AHO

05/04/2026

A quiet truth I’m sitting with after this weekend, clearing is not the same as letting go.
Clearing feels like the breath before.
It’s the hands moving, the space opening, the intention forming.
It’s the act of saying, something here is ready to shift, even before I fully understand what will leave or what will remain.
This weekend, inside the container of Morning Altars, I found myself in that space again and again, clearing, tending, preparing. Not rushing the release, but honoring the sacred work that comes before it. The unseen rearranging. The softening. The willingness.
And I feel so much gratitude for this class for the way it’s opening me.
Not just in what I’m learning, but in what I’m becoming willing to hold.
We spent time exploring what it means to be a facilitator of this work to hold an altar not just as an object, but as a living threshold. A place where something can be witnessed, honored, and gently transformed.
That moved something in me.
Because I can see now this isn’t about “leading” anything.
It’s about listening deeply enough to create a space where others can meet themselves.
I’ve had some really beautiful insight around where this work wants to move through me. It feels less like a plan and more like a quiet knowing like something already forming, just waiting for the right moment to be invited into the world.
And I can feel that moment getting closer.
There’s something coming, something centered around altar-making, ritual, and shared space.
I’m not quite ready to name it fully yet, but if this work speaks to something in you, stay close.
It’s unfolding.

04/30/2026

Knowing when to say goodbye is rarely clear or easy. Even for someone who walks alongside this moment often. I want to share a way of looking at it.
Not everyone is given the space to choose. Sudden loss, emergencies, the unexpected they take the decision out of our hands. And while that might seem like it would spare us something, it often leaves a deeper ache, because there was no chance to prepare, no chance to love them through the doorway.
So imagine this instead.
Imagine someone you love is on a long journey, and their body is beginning to give out along the way. At first, they rest, they gather strength, and they keep going. You support them, offer what help you can, and for a while, it’s enough. But over time, the road becomes harder. Their steps grow heavier. The path becomes steeper, and you can see what they may not yet say out loud that they’re getting tired in a way that rest no longer fixes.
There comes a moment when you realize they don’t need to keep pushing forward just to prove something. They don’t need to collapse on the path to justify stopping. And in that awareness, a different kind of love rises, one that says, you don’t have to suffer to the very end for me to know how much this life mattered.
The “good death window” lives in that space.
It’s not about waiting until someone is in unbearable pain or completely depleted. It’s about recognizing when the journey has reached its natural closing, and choosing to surround them with comfort, peace, and love before suffering takes the lead. It’s about allowing them to lay down their weight gently, instead of carrying it until it breaks them.
Some will try every possible way to keep them moving forward, to extend the journey no matter the cost. And there is no judgment in that only love trying to hold on. But knowing when to stop, when to shift from fighting for them to being present with them that is one of the most sacred and painful decisions we face.
For me, this window means they leave on a day that still holds some light. A day where there is connection, presence, and love, not just struggle. Not always their very best day, but not their most painful one either. A day where their last memory of this world is not fear or suffering, but being held, seen, and deeply cared for.
Sometimes life doesn’t give us that choice. Sometimes the journey ends suddenly, without warning. And those are the losses that echo the ones that remind us why this window matters so much.
Because in the end, we will outlive many of the people we love. And that means we carry the responsibility, and the privilege, of walking beside them all the way to the threshold.
Not pushing them past their limits. Not leaving them alone in their struggle.
But gently, lovingly, helping them lay it all down, and guiding them to rest.
It is one of the hardest things you will ever do.
And also one of the purest expressions of love there is.
Aho