A small stone, a steady signal. Tiger’s Eye has been carried by warriors for centuries—not for luck, but for clarity, control, and grounded courage. This post explores why I wear it today, for fashion yes but more importantly as a daily reminder to slow down, see clearly, and move with intention.
I charmed my crucifix. Not with spells or superstition, but with something much simpler: belief, gratitude, and intention. By holding it during moments of prayer, sunrise, and reflection, it became a powerful reminder of calm, faith, and love. Scientists might call it psychology. I call it conscious magic—the deliberate practice of using belief to shape how we experience the world.
For much of my early life, the words good, evil, and Satan carried enormous weight. They were not abstract ideas. They were forces. Real. Immediate. Dangerous. I grew up Seventh-day Adventist, and in that world Satan wasn’t symbolic. He was active. He could infiltrate objects, influence thoughts, possess people through the wrong book or ritual.
This isn’t a story about arriving. It’s about trying—about climbing without certainty, carrying what you love, and letting the symbols that matter to you guide the way. Ascension, for me, isn’t enlightenment or conversion. It’s orientation. It’s choosing to keep moving toward the light, even when the path is lonely, and trusting that the climb itself is enough.
I’ve never been drawn to symbology or numerology as a way to predict the future. What fascinates me is how symbols and numbers act as mirrors for the subconscious—revealing meaning based on what we’re living through rather than telling us what will happen next. Rooted in ancient human pattern-recognition, creativity, and lived experience, symbolism sits at the crossroads of psychology, mysticism, and art. This is where I explore it—not as doctrine or destiny, but as a language for noticing what’s already unfolding.
I was raised Seventh-day Adventist, inside a story called The Great Controversy—a universe shaped not by power, but by alignment. Years later, ravens, storms, and an old Black Crowes lyric helped me recognize what that story was really about: not escape from darkness, but passage through it. This isn’t theology or prediction. It’s a meditation on being carried—through weather, through loss, through transformation—and learning where to stand within the storm.
