You Couldn’t Write This Shit || A field note from Restore - Ceremony disguised as a Wednesday

Some days just feel orchestrated by something far greater than ourselves. Not in a sparkly, overused kind of way, but in that bone-deep, holy-shit-am-I-actually-seeing-this, I-am-being-witnessed kind of way.

We gathered for our Restore circle beneath a sky so generous it felt like an offering. With soft sun, you know the kind that wraps warmly around your shoulders. The theme: regulation. But what moved through was honestly so much more.

A single red rose rested in the center of our circle. Unassuming. Full-bodied and fragrant. It pulsed like a heartbeat on the earth. It brought memory. Stirred something ancestral. As if it were not a flower but a threshold.

The wind held its breath.

Then, they came. Two wedge-tailed eagles. Circling above. Not once. Not briefly. They stayed, riding invisible currents, spiraling slow like time itself was stretching. They weren’t just flying, they were marking something. A passage. A claiming. A return. I don’t care how many times I see them, they always feel like messengers from beyond the veil. Keepers of vast sight. Of sovereignty. Of rising. Of holding perspective.

There was a moment where no one spoke.

Somewhere in the distance, the paperbarks let go of another layer. Bark falling like soft confession. Transmutation in progress. Offering sorrow and pain back to something bigger.

Black cockatoos tore through the silence, screeching like grief with wings, like something was being shaken loose. Their cry is loud. Beautiful. True. They don’t ask for attention. They demand it. They don’t soothe. They stir.

Nearby, the horses called. Not to us, but to each other. Across paddocks. Across space, or timelines. Across some unseen thread. Their voices rose like an echo from the belly of the earth.

The land was speaking in chorus.

And above in the trees, two lorikeets perched. A pair. Bright, surprisingly still and attentive. Watching over like little rainbow totems. Quietly absorbing what was too fragile to speak aloud. When it was time, they left, returning to the hollow in the tree behind us.

Returning home.

Just like us.

This work isn’t just therapy. This wasn’t just a session. It was ceremony disguised as a Wednesday. Something ancient remembering itself.

Ritual.

This is the becoming. It’s women remembering how to sit together and let the body tell the story. It’s nature showing up to bear witness in ways we’ll never fully understand.

And the ringing in my ears hasn’t stopped since.

Some might call it coincidence. But I call it something else. A holy alignment. A wild remembering. A message stitched into the wind: You’re not alone in this healing.

Even the horses know when to sing.