Smoke signals

Dear fellow travelers,

Seventeen years ago, I listened to Brazilian music.

And something inside me knew: I have to go there.

Not to South America. Not to Brazil. But to the feeling this music stirred in me.

I didn't understand that back then. But I do now.

Music has never been just music. It is a signal. A smoke signal.

Years later, I heard a song by an indigenous group. For weeks on end. I danced to it. Over and over again. Something touched me so deeply that I Googled the musicians.

That's how I found an ayahuasca center. And suddenly, a door opened—one I hadn't yet realized I would one day walk through.

Another smoke signal. Another call.

*

Over the past few weeks, I've come to realize that my life is full of such signs.

Brazil was a sign. The mountains. A song. A dream. A book. A cup of hot chocolate. A dachshund in a meadow. A weeping willow on Museum Island.

Something calls out to me again and again. And again and again, I answer.

Maybe that's why my third book is no longer called *My Brazil*. Instead, it's called *Called*. Because it was never about Brazil. It was always about the call.

*

I recently saw a video on YouTube: “I don’t have any friends anymore, and I’m happier than ever before.”

How wonderful if that's true for someone. It's not true for me .

I long for people. For co-creation. For hugs. For deep conversations. For silliness. For people with whom I can create something beautiful.

In the past, I might have viewed this longing as a shortcoming. Not anymore.

Longings are signposts. Smoke signals. They don't show what's right in front of us. But they point our dreams in a certain direction.

*

A few days ago, I dreamed about creative siblings. They were listening to music. I heard that music, too. And I set out to find them.

When I woke up, it dawned on me: Even in my dream, it all began with resonance. Not with a place. Not with a plan.

With a song. With a sense of home.

*

Maybe that's also why my website is important. Why the Love Letters are important. Why I publish my books.

Because I, too, send smoke signals. Little signals out into the world.

Not everyone will see it. Not everyone has to react to it.

But some people do. Like Hannah, who—right in the middle of my deepest, darkest period of transition—scoured the class schedule for my name and said, “Thank goodness I found another class with you.”

She had recognized the signal. And she gave me one, too: keep going.

*

Over the past few days, I've realized something else: I don't want to hold anything back anymore.

Not my third book. Not my stories. Not my poems. Not *The Circle of the Cosmos*. Not my rooms.

For a long time, I thought: First, the online programs. And then, at some point, my books and my card set.

But now it feels different. As if all of this were already part of the same universe. Not separate projects—but different forms of expression of the same essence.

The book is about the call. The meditation is about listening. The cards are about symbols. The Love Letters are about the journey. The spaces are about embodiment.

It's all connected.

*

A few days ago, I was sitting under my favorite weeping willow. With a cup of coffee in my hand. Surrounded by tourists. Right in the middle of Munich.

I placed my hand on the tree trunk. I felt the connection. And I cried.

Because a thought crossed my mind: Now I finally feel safe enough to show myself.

Not quite there yet. Just visible.

*

While we were in the mountains, a friend told me he was bored. That he was looking for adventure. That something was missing.

That, too, was a smoke signal. A call—not for a second summit, but for more vitality.

He's already planning his next trip. With cash for the cabin and a sense of anticipation.

Something has opened up. Not because I convinced him, but because the process has taken its course.

*

Maybe that applies to my whole life.

I don't have to convince anyone. No need to persuade. No need to explain.

I send signals. I tell stories. I share my experiences. I hold space.

And those who are ready will find their way.

Just as I once found my way—through a song. Through a call. Through a smoke signal.

Perhaps that is exactly where every journey begins.

All My Love Amid the Mists,
Jeannette