The Book Becomes Life Again

A man met with me today because someone had recommended my book Gateless Gatecrashers to him. Then he found one of my old YouTube videos (the one in the picture), made a transcript of it, fed the transcript into an AI, and instructed it to speak to him the way I was speaking to the person in the video. Two rounds later, he entered an expanded state of consciousness. Then he googled me because he wanted to talk to someone who understands awakening. We met today. It was a great conversation—deep, interesting, very alive. I was sitting there listening to how he had found me and thinking: well, this is something new! :) Someone took an old video of mine, extracted the way I was working, asked an AI to reproduce that kind of conversation, had a real shift, and then went looking for a human being who could actually meet him there. That part matters. He came because something opened, and he wanted to talk to someone who knew that territory. So no, the AI did not replace me, maybe not yet 😉 It gave him two rounds, and then he googled the woman from the video. Welcome to 2026 😃

Clarity often comes through disillusionment. And disillusionment can be very painful. People speak a lot about truth, awakening and transformation, but rarely about the moment when an old illusion starts collapsing inside you. Illusion is not just a wrong idea, it is: identity, hope, belonging, self-image, protection, a way to survive emotionally. So when clarity suddenly appears, people often feel pain before freedom. This is usually the turning point. Some people are ready to stay with that pain long enough for something real to reorganize inside them. Others quickly run back into defending the old illusion. They just not ready yet, its not their time.  And what I found for myself from years of working with people in different ways, not everybody wants clarity. Not everybody has to. But when someone is ready to see, even difficult clarity can eventually bring more peace than comforting illusions.

Sometimes people from fifteen years ago suddenly appear again. Some remember my books. Some remember long conversations about awakening. Some are surprised to find me sitting in a purple tent these days, working with runes at farmers markets. And it makes me smile. Because the further along I go, the less it seems that I have ever changed my work. The decorations changed. There were books. There were years devoted to awakening. There were years when I disappeared completely. Now there are runes, farmers markets, a purple tent, and conversations with people from all walks of life. But the work itself seems strangely familiar. Someone sits down in front of me and begins telling their story. Usually not from where it really hurts, because we all know how to walk in circles. And then something comes that has probably always been my way of working with people: "Look" "No, not there." "Look here." "Listen." "Where is the pain?" "What is really happening?" Little by little, thread by thread, beneath the fears, explanations, memories, and endless stories, something real begins to appear. People often think the method is the important part. Awakening. Runes. Psychology. Knowledge. But methods change. Books end. Entire chapters of life come and go. Something remains: sensitivity, the ability to see, knowledge that only life itself can give, the ability to hold the thread, and the intention not to get lost together with another person in endless stories, but to stay long enough for something true to reveal itself. Perhaps that is why people sometimes return after ten or fifteen years. They may not remember the words. They may not even remember what we talked about. But they remember that someone wasn't afraid to look with them. And that was always my work. Just sitting across from another human being and saying, "Sit down." "Look" "No, not there." "Look here." "Listen." "Don't run away." "Let's see what is true." The decorations changed. The work remained.

This morning I woke up and asked myself a simple question. What is it that I really want? Immediately, familiar images appeared. A small cabin by a creek. Or a house with expansive views. Dreams I've carried for years. Even before that, there was a piece of land in Ecuador that my ex-husband and I bought, where I dreamed of living close to nature. For a few moments those old dreams passed through my mind. And then suddenly I became very still. So still that it almost felt like Elena disappeared for a moment. The dreams disappeared too. And what remained was this simple, aware presence. Completely at peace. Needing absolutely nothing. Everything was exactly as it should be. Life wasn't solved. Nothing had changed. Yet everything was perfect. As I rested there, the answer to my question became completely obvious. I want those things: a cabin on a land, perhaps a house on the hills. They are beautiful, and maybe one day life will bring them. But they do not stop the question of what I truly want. And when I got very very still, I knew it: I want to help people discover even a moment of this peace for themselves - an innate harmony of our beingness. Because I know how deeply healing it is. Over the last years I've immersed myself completely in being human. Grief, confusion, uncertainty, losing direction, finding it again. Those experiences made me understand anyone who comes to me. I too have lived life. So much of it. But this last week something else happened. In the middle of my own uncertainty, I remembered myself. Not Elena. Something much quieter. Much simpler. The awareness that has been here all along. Nothing about my work changed. The runes are still the incredibly revealing instrument I use. People still come with heartbreak, confusion, impossible decisions, grief, or simply the feeling that they've lost themselves. For years, I've helped people see their situations more clearly and discover another way forward. That hasn't changed. What changed was me. I recalled that I no longer feel I have to bring someone to peace. I simply have to remain there myself. If I remain there, people often find their way there too. It feels like a much quieter place to work from.

When I started offering Clarity Sessions at the farmers markets, I chose a donation model for one simple reason. I wanted anyone who genuinely needed to be able to sit down with me, regardless of what they could afford. For four months, it worked beautifully. People who couldn't contribute much came anyway. People who could often gave more. Somehow it balanced itself, and I started thinking maybe this really could work. Then one Sunday, a well-dressed woman, vacationing in the area, sat down in my Purple Tent. We spent about forty minutes together. It wasn't a light conversation. Like most sessions, it required complete attention. For those forty minutes, her life became my work. When we finished, she reached into her purse and handed me ten dollars. I looked at her and said something I had never said before: "This is not a charity. I work hard. I take my work seriously." She looked surprised, reached into her purse again. "Here's twenty. Give me the ten back." At that moment I wanted to give her money back. Obviously she needed it. I agree, its expensive to vacation in this area. This incident and a few before made me question my intention. A few days later I realized something else. The donation model itself wasn't the problem. It simply wasn't serving everyone in the same way. So I made one small change. The Purple Tent will continue to be available to my fellow locals by donation, because that was always the heart of the idea. For visitors, I'll offer shorter market sessions for a fixed fee. The generosity remains. It simply has clearer boundaries now.

11 years ago, I came from NYC to California to rest after a brutal divorce. I thought, why not work in a kitchen, not think about anything for a while, and add my skills to a team? It was a strange turn of events. Before that I had been a computer programmer and systems analyst in Manhattan, spent years studying and teaching yoga, later accumulated more than 10,000 hours of classical meditation, helped build a medical business with my ex-husband. But somehow, at that moment, frying corn cakes and washing dishes in a busy kitchen felt exactly right. I value new experiences and don’t classify them in the usual way. Every experience here, while alive, is an opportunity to learn more about myself. Still learning and still interested These days, many of those lessons come through conversations with other people. I never get tired of watching someone suddenly relax after seeing their situation from a different angle. And sometimes we even laugh together at our predicament here.

Something beautiful happened these last two market days. Several people said something to me that I wasn't expecting. "I'm so grateful you exist." "Thank you for being here." "I'm grateful I can just come and talk to you." It touched me ❤️ Today, three women sat down with me. Each conversation lasted longer than usual. They needed it. They all found their way to my purple tent differently. One has been reading my Facebook posts. Another was sent by someone who had already sat with me. The third had seen me at the market many times but had never had the chance to stop. What struck me how effortless the whole day felt. Not because I suddenly figured something out. The effort had already happened. It was in showing up every week, sitting in the purple tent, writing, listening, and simply being available. And people just walked over. As I listened to these women, I realized they weren't thanking me for a service. They were grateful that if life became confusing, they knew there was a place they could simply come, sit down, and talk. That realization touched me more than I expected. I never set out to create something like this. I simply wanted to be available. Looking back, I think that's what has been growing all along. Not just a little purple tent, but a place where people know they can come when life gets tangled. ❤️

Yesterday I had the feeling that I had crossed some invisible threshold. Not that I had arrived somewhere, but something had changed. For the past few weeks, I noticed that I mostly worked with people who came to the market specifically to talk to me. I realized that recognition had happened. People no longer stumble into my Purple Tent while shopping for vegetables. They come looking for me. Someone tells a friend. Someone remembers seeing my posts. Someone says, "You should talk to Elena." And I thought that perhaps life unfolds much like a tree. At first, roots spread wide. They search. They explore. They reach in many directions. Recognition comes. Connections are formed. The web expands. And then, something else begins to happen. Roots grow deep. A mature tree does not need to spread endlessly. It needs nourishment. And nourishment comes through roots going deep. There are seasons in life when we are meant to spread wide. And there are seasons when we are meant to deepen. Not more people, but better fit. Not more access, but more trust. Not quantity. Depth. And this part is the most interesting: Trees do not control their roots. Roots grow where nourishment and gravity invite them. Perhaps wisdom is recognizing the season we are in and allowing the roots to do what roots have always done. Spread. And spread some more. Until one day, without consulting us, they begin to go deep. In their own time.

Empathy says "I feel your pain." Compassion says: "I know your pain." Empathy can be overwhelming. It can rush to fix. It can panic. It can act emotionally. It can even become confused and carry burdens that do not belong to it. Compassion is quieter. It recognizes suffering because it has known suffering. But because it knows, It does not assume that love means immediate action. Compassion can sit beside pain without becoming lost in it. It can allow people their own experiences. It can trust life enough not to interfere with every discomfort. Perhaps that is why compassion feels so peaceful. Not because it cares less. But because it understands more. And because it understands more, it no longer needs to act on every emotion that passes through. Sometimes love acts. And sometimes love simply knows. 💜