The Receiving Place Lesson Three: We Were the Visitors

This morning, we were late to class.

Normally, Natasha and I begin our walk early, while the forest is still waking up. But today we started later. By the time we reached the halfway point, it was already the time we would normally be heading home.

The classroom looked different.

Or maybe it wasn't the classroom that had changed.

Maybe it was simply the time we entered it.

Almost immediately, we realized we weren't alone.

First came the copperhead.

I'll admit, it startled us.

Not because it was chasing us.

Not because it was aggressive.

But because it reminded us of something we often forget.

We were the visitors.

As we continued walking, the classroom became more alive than I had ever experienced before.

A monarch butterfly floated effortlessly across our path.

A baby squirrel darted through the trees.

Something that looked very much like a beaver moved through the water.

Even the trees themselves seemed different. Their trunks twisted around one another as though they had spent decades learning how to grow together instead of apart.

Everything was alive.

Everything had purpose.

And none of it existed for me.

That realization humbled me.

Before we even began our walk, I had shared something with Natasha that had come to me during my morning meditation.

A question one of my spiritual teachers once asked:

"Are you breathing...or is life breathing you?"

I've never forgotten that question.

Because the answer changed everything.

Life breathes us.

Our breath isn't something we manufacture.

It is something we receive.

It is our life force.

It is our connection to our Ori—our higher self.

Breath marks the two greatest milestones of our existence.

When a baby enters this world, everyone waits to hear that first breath.

When we leave this world, it is our final breath that tells those we love we've gone home.

Everything in between...

is purpose.

As long as there is breath...

there is purpose.

Not just for me.

For everyone.

For the butterfly.

For the snake.

For the beaver.

For the squirrel.

For every tree stretching toward the light.

And for every person I encounter.

That's where today's lesson found me.

If everyone has breath...

Then everyone has purpose.

Not my purpose.

Not your purpose.

Their purpose.

It isn't my job to decide what someone else's life should look like.

It isn't my responsibility to control their journey.

It isn't even my place to fully understand it.

Just because I don't understand the purpose of a copperhead doesn't mean it doesn't have one.

The forest doesn't ask the snake to become a butterfly.

The butterfly doesn't judge the beaver.

The trees don't compete with one another.

Everything simply becomes what it was created to be.

Perhaps that's what humanity struggles with most.

We spend so much time trying to change people instead of honoring the breath that already lives within them.

Just as we were leaving the trail, my body reminded me that it was time to slow down.

My knee had begun to ache, so Natasha and I stopped near one of the bridges to rest for a moment.

Looking back, I don't think the pause was an interruption.

I think it was the classroom giving us one final lesson before dismissal.

There, quietly making their way through the water, was a mother duck followed by six tiny ducklings.

We stood in silence and simply watched.

The mother wasn't frantic.

She wasn't trying to control every movement.

She simply led.

Each little duckling explored in its own way, yet never wandered too far from the one guiding them.

As I reflected later, I couldn't help but notice there were six ducklings. In many spiritual traditions, the number six is often associated with humanity, family, nurturing, responsibility, and service. Whether that was simply an interesting coincidence or another invitation to reflect, I don't know.

But standing there watching that mother faithfully guide six little lives felt like the perfect ending to the day's lesson. It reminded me that purpose isn't only about discovering our own path; it's also about faithfully caring for what has been entrusted to us.

Today reminded me that when I enter someone else's life...

I'm a visitor.

When I walk into someone else's story...

I'm a visitor.

When I encounter perspectives different from my own...

I'm a visitor.

Visitors don't own the land.

Visitors observe.

Visitors respect.

Visitors learn.

So maybe today's classroom wasn't teaching me about wildlife at all.

Maybe it was teaching me humility.

Maybe it was reminding me that every living thing carries the same sacred gift.

Breath.

Life.

Purpose.

And maybe loving people begins by remembering that the same breath that sustains me...

is breathing them too.

Aṣẹ’