Monthly Archives: August 2026
Tania Marie: The Eclipse and the Six Bears
This Pisces Full Moon Lunar Eclipse felt less like a single moment in time and more like a conversation unfolding around me.
Perhaps it began long before I arrived in Yosemite.
Three years ago, beneath this same late-August Full Moon, my beloved rabbit companion Astrid transitioned. There are certain dates the heart remembers differently than the calendar does, and this one has remained quietly alive within me ever since.
So returning to the wild beneath this Moon already carried something tender and meaningful.
We went to Yosemite to meet friends for a week of camping, hiking, exploring, and simply disappearing from the usual rhythms of life for a while.
I also arrived with clear intentions for the eclipse and several things close to my heart for which I had been asking for guidance.
Each day became its own little pilgrimage.
We wandered trails into beautiful places, gathering pieces of quartz that called to us along the way. When we reached the alpine lakes waiting at the end of our journeys, we returned the crystals to the water with our intentions.
Earth back to Earth.
A simple exchange of gratitude, prayer, and possibility as the Full Moon approached.
And other things began finding their way to us, too.
A handful of grounding obsidian. Beautiful stones that seemed impossible not to notice, including one shaped like a nearly perfect pyramid and another carrying three distinct pyramids that astonishingly mirrored the three Great Pyramids of Giza.
Feathers appeared at meaningful moments, including a Great Horned Owl tail feather on our very first day.
The night before the eclipse was anything but quiet.
Coyotes howled and yipped through the darkness around us, their voices weaving through the forest for hours and continuing remarkably into the wee hours of morning.
Then that morning before the Full Moon Eclipse, we were sitting beside the campfire when KC – aka Bean – suddenly pointed.
“Bear.”
A large black bear was sauntering directly toward us.
There was no urgency in her. No apparent concern. She seemed completely at ease, as though wandering over to join our morning gathering was the most natural thing in the world.
Of course, we made noise to discourage her from coming closer. Loving wild animals also means respecting the boundaries that help keep them wild and safe.
But something about her presence stayed with me.
Bears are so often interpreted through the language of strength, courage, protection, power, introspection, or hibernation.
Yet that wasn’t what I felt.
What struck me was her complete lack of performance.
She wasn’t trying to embody power.
She simply was powerful.
There was an extraordinary peace in that.
A confidence without assertion. A strength without tension. A presence that didn’t seem to require anything outside itself for confirmation.
Embodied peace.
Perhaps one of the deepest expressions of power is not needing to demonstrate that we possess it.
Many deer appeared along the hike that followed, adding their own gentle presence to a morning that already felt touched by something larger. The renewing presence of deer continued to grace us each day, in fact.
Then, on the morning of the Full Moon, after I had specifically asked again for signs and guidance, another Great Horned Owl feather appeared alongside a beautiful piece of obsidian in a place I never would have expected to find it.
I didn’t need to decide immediately what any of it meant.
The simple fact that I had asked and then encountered these things directly after was enough.
And then the weather began changing our plans.
Large storms were moving toward Yosemite, and after our hike that morning, we abruptly decided to pack everything and leave rather than remain for the days of heavy weather ahead.
We finished loading the car just as the rain began.
Three-plus hours later, we arrived home in time for the sky to erupt into one of the most spectacular sunsets—a fiery, passionate blaze stretching across the horizon that uncannily mirrored a nearly exact sunset that lit up the sky the night before leaving for Yosemite.
Just before reaching fullness, the Moon had risen with such brilliance that she seemed almost like the Sun, illuminating the night sky and softening even the stars within her radiance.
Yet on the night of her fullness and eclipse, she appeared differently.
That night, I stayed awake and continued getting up to meet the Moon.
She glowed behind a mysterious moving curtain of clouds, appearing and disappearing throughout the night.
There was something strangely perfect about the contrast. At one moment, illumination so brilliant it transformed the darkness around her. At another, the same light partially veiled.
I had entered this eclipse asking for clarity, messages, and guidance. Yet the Moon herself seemed unwilling to reveal everything at once.
Her light was unmistakably there.
But clarity remained partially veiled.
And perhaps that was part of the answer.
Some knowing doesn’t arrive as immediate revelation. Sometimes we are asked to feel what has shifted before we understand what it means—to allow the heart to hold something the mind cannot yet name.
The following day brought rain at home as well, but we were still able to continue our time with our friends. Rather than planning anything ambitious, we chose an easy walk before lunch and errands.
That seemingly ordinary choice became anything but ordinary.
Up ahead, I spotted a mama bear.
And then her two cubs.
We stopped at a respectful distance and watched as the little ones ran, played, wrestled, and scrambled up trees while their mother remained nearby.
She was watchful and protective, yet what moved me most was the joy unfolding around her.
Watching them shifted something in the usual symbolism of protection for me.
Protection is so often imagined as guarding against danger. Building walls. Keeping something precious from harm.
But perhaps there is another form of protection.
We protect joy by helping create the conditions in which joy can exist.
We protect love by giving it room to express itself.
We protect what matters not only by defending it, but by nourishing the environment in which it can flourish.
Mama Bear wasn’t preventing her cubs from exploring because something might happen to them.
She was present enough for them to play.
Her strength created room for their freedom.
And suddenly the bears seemed to be speaking to one another across these encounters.
The first bear had embodied a power so completely at home within itself that it needed no performance.
The mother bear embodied a power secure enough to become spaciousness for joy.
Presence and creation.
Peace and play.
Power without force.
Protection without constriction.
But apparently the conversation wasn’t finished.
After watching the mother and cubs for a long while, we finally continued back. Along the way, KC suddenly spotted another large solitary bear among the trees before it disappeared into the forest.
Four bears that day.
We could hardly believe it.
Later, we returned home, settled into the coziness of the rain, and played cards together.
Then Clint – aka Happy – noticed something just outside.
Another large resident bear we’ve seen before was making his way across the street and into a neighboring backyard.
Five bears in one day.
Six surrounding the eclipse.
The following day carried us onto new trails we had never explored together, chasing waterfalls and climbing to great heights to reach them. There was something beautifully fitting about continuing into the unknown this way, discovering what waited beyond each rise rather than needing to know beforehand.
And still, the bears remained with me.
For us, seeing even one bear is an extraordinary gift. Six arriving within such a concentrated threshold felt impossible to ignore – a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
And perhaps I don’t need to decide exactly what it means.
That itself feels connected to what this eclipse has been showing me.
We had gathered together at the peak of the eclipse and placed our intentions consciously into this threshold. I had asked for messages around things deeply important in my own life.
And messages came.
Just not as neatly packaged answers.
They came as coyotes calling through darkness.
Quartz gathered along the trails and returned to mountain lakes.
A handful of grounding obsidian appearing along the way.
A piece of obsidian naturally shaped by the Earth into a form that mirrored an ancient arrowhead.
Beautiful stones, including a nearly perfect pyramid and another carrying three pyramids mirroring the Great Pyramids of Giza.
Feathers appearing at meaningful moments.
A Great Horned Owl feather and an unexpected piece of obsidian arriving together on the Full Moon morning after I had asked for signs.
A bear walking peacefully toward a morning fire.
Pairs and triads of deer moving through the forest.
Tiny tree frogs somehow at home within the vastness of the world more than 10,600 feet above it.
Storms changing our plans.
Bookended and mirroring, fiery passionate sunsets seeing us off and waiting at home.
Rainbow winged clouds greeting us upon entry into Yosemite’s epic vastness.
A Moon repeatedly disappearing behind clouds.
A mother bear creating enough safety for her children to play.
Bears appearing again and again.
And dreams.
So many dreams.
Each night while camping and again after returning home, I remembered vivid dreams filled with remarkable threads of telepathy, communication, and messages that felt intimately connected to what has been moving through my waking life.
Something has shifted.
I can feel it even without being able to explain where it is leading.
And woven quietly through everything is Astrid.
Three years after she left her physical body beneath this late-August Full Moon, I found myself beneath it again surrounded by wild beings, mysterious communication, thresholds, endings, beginnings, and a love that has never depended upon physical presence to remain alive.
I can’t say where she ends and synchronicity begins.
I’m not sure I need to.
Perhaps love has its own language for continuing.
The eclipse has passed, but its unfolding has not.
I have no idea what may manifest next.
Nor do I know what the coming weeks and months will bring.
But something about these bears has changed the way I am holding that unknown.
The first didn’t ask permission to inhabit his presence.
The mother didn’t protect joy by containing it. She created enough safety for it to run wild.
And none of them seemed concerned with becoming anything other than completely what they were.
Perhaps this is the bear medicine I needed.
Not simply strength.
Not retreat.
Not protection as we usually understand it.
But the quiet power of being so deeply rooted within ourselves that we can create from peace rather than fear.
To become protectors of joy by becoming creators of it.
To trust what we know without forcing what we cannot yet see.
And to inhabit our own lives so completely that we no longer need to chase what is meant to meet us.
I asked this eclipse for guidance.
It didn’t give me a map.
It gave me six bears.
For now, that feels like more than enough.
Tania Marie: At the Edge of a New Season
Late August carries its own quiet language of transformation.
The vibrant purple thistles of summer are becoming dry, prickly stalks crowned with soft white seed puffs, releasing what they have become into what comes next.
Across the landscape, rabbitbrush is beginning to bloom, illuminating these final weeks of summer in August gold.
And today, as if the Earth wanted to place this transformation directly into my hands, I discovered a large and ancient, naturally tumbled and time-worn double-terminated Golden Healer Quartz while hiking.
Its unexpected presence felt like a potent little wayshower for this season of change—the eclipse ahead, and all that is already shifting.
Everything seems to know when it is time to change form.
I feel this threshold in my own life as well. I’ll soon be disappearing into Yosemite for a week of camping with friends and exploring, without reception, beneath the Pisces Full Moon Lunar Eclipse—a beautiful pause before returning to the new cycles September will bring and the approaching Autumn Equinox.
Before I go, I also wanted to share one small but very exciting update. With so much gratitude, we now have just one place remaining for our intimate four-person Egyptian pilgrimage this April.
We are so happy to welcome the beautiful soul family already coming together, while remaining open to whoever may still be feeling into the alignment of that final place. Several people have expressed interest, and I always find it meaningful to witness how the collective ultimately forms. Sacred journeys seem to carry their own mysterious synergy, bringing together exactly the resonance needed for experiences that can become powerful initiations and rebirths in ways we often cannot fully understand until much later.
For now, I’m following the season’s invitation to become quiet.
To wander beneath the trees, listen to the mountains, and leave a little space between what has been and whatever is preparing to emerge.
Like the soft light of sunset filtering through the forest, there is beauty in the pause before a new tomorrow.
See you on the other side of summer.
Tania Marie: A Freer Way of Being (Plus an Egypt 2027 Update)
There are seasons when life quietly invites us to loosen our grip—not because our dreams were misplaced, but because they are still becoming.
That is very much where I find myself these days.
The twists and turns of recent months have continually invited me to listen more deeply, soften, and allow my path to evolve rather than insisting it look a certain way. Again and again, I have found myself choosing what feels most alive, most aligned, and most in harmony with the natural unfolding before me.
One of the clearest reflections of this has been the upcoming pilgrimage to Egypt.
When the journey first began taking shape, I quietly felt that it belonged in the spring. Even so, I remained open and moved with the timing that initially seemed to support everyone involved.
Recently, through an unexpected series of logistics surrounding permit scheduling and a deeper revisiting of the journey we originally envisioned, the dates shifted—and rather beautifully, the journey has found its way back to that very season.
There is something deeply meaningful about watching the path gently return to where my heart first sensed it belonged.
It has reminded me that life often sees farther than we do.
When we loosen our attachment to a single outcome, we become receptive to the unseen currents already guiding us toward something even more harmonious than we could have arranged ourselves. What appears to be change is often life quietly returning us to a deeper rhythm.
Perhaps that is why flexibility has become such an important practice for me.
Not because I no longer care how things unfold, but because I have come to trust that what is truly aligned rarely needs to be forced into place. Sometimes it simply asks us to remain open enough to recognize it when it arrives.
It simply finds its way home.
The day before we left for Yosemite this past week, this feeling was reflected back to me in an unforgettable way. While riding in the passenger seat and working on something connected to the changes unfolding around Egypt, an enormous Golden Eagle suddenly appeared beside the car, gliding alongside us in full, magnificent view. I hadn’t seen one in many years, and his unexpected presence felt like a powerful confirmation arriving at precisely the right moment.
I was reminded of this again the following day during our return trip to Yosemite. What began as plans for three days of camping became a last-minute decision to simply go, feel it out, and allow the journey to become what it wanted to be.
In less than twenty-four hours, we drove to the National Park, climbed steep rocky trails to 11,250 feet beneath ever-changing clouds, followed rushing creeks and waterfalls, encountered marmots, discovered Great Horned Owl wing feathers and an ancient metamorphic stone resembling brilliant rainbow stained glass, and soaked in our campsite just like the peaceful doe that wandered by it twice, while watching a single shooting star cross the dark New Moon eclipse sky—a meteoroid burning through Earth’s atmosphere. Thunderstorms arrived during the night, and by morning it was clear our three days had become one.
Yet nothing felt missing.
After a perfect raven feather appeared, the rain paused long enough for one final hike filled with wild blueberries to feast on and two Amanita muscaria appearing almost as if the forest was offering its own farewell. The most enormous one appeared literally seconds after I said, “I know one is waiting.”
We drove beyond the park gates just as the rain and hail began again.
Nothing unfolded as originally planned, yet the experience felt complete.
There is a particular freedom in allowing our plans to remain in conversation with life—holding our intentions while leaving enough space for life to answer in ways we could never have arranged ourselves.
The more I live this way, the more I am reminded that we have always belonged to something immeasurably greater than ourselves. Somewhere along the way we began to imagine ourselves separate from the living world—apart from the rivers and mountains, the wild creatures and changing seasons, apart from one another, from our own hearts, and even from the Divine moving through all of life.
Yet nature never seems to forget this relationship.
The bear never questions whether it belongs.
The rabbit never wonders if it has earned its place.
The coyote moves naturally within the circle of life.
The hawk rides the unseen currents above, trusting the wider view.
The marmot greets each summer day with simple contentment.
The deer drinks quietly from the creek, completely at home in the present moment.
The grouse moves softly through the forest floor, trusting the shelter and rhythm of the land beneath her feet.
The butterfly opens its wings to what it has become, never questioning the transformation that carried it there.
The duckling follows the gentle current, held between instinct, water, and the quiet presence guiding them forward.
Mountains do not strive to become anything other than mountains, and wildflowers bloom without asking whether their timing is right.
Even the stars, the Sun, the Moon, and the planets move in quiet relationship with one another, each held within an unseen order that allows the whole to remain in harmony while each remains uniquely itself.
Perhaps our deepest harmony is found in remembering that we, too, belong to this living conversation.
That is why wild places have always felt so sacred to me.
Nothing in nature asks us to become more. The mountains, the rivers, the forests, and the stars simply receive us exactly as we are. In that quiet welcome, the layers we don’t even realize we are carrying begin to gently fall away.
One of the greatest gifts of wild places is that they do not tell us who we are.
They quietly remove everything that isn’t until all that remains is the quiet truth of our own heart.
Life might be quietly offering countless ways of meeting this very moment.
Maybe we have not forgotten who we are.
Only what we belong to.
It feels especially fitting, then, to finally share that our 2027 Egyptian pilgrimage has now found its own new rhythm.
Our new journey dates are April 7-25, 2027, and along with the shift in timing, the journey itself has evolved in ways that feel even more aligned with what we originally envisioned.
What was once planned for a larger group of ten has become an intimately and privately curated pilgrimage for just four participants. We have moved away from the constraints of a larger company and a more tightly structured itinerary to create something with greater freedom, depth, and spaciousness—allowing us to listen and respond to the journey as it unfolds.
This has opened the way for lesser-visited temples, more unique accommodations, two private cars and drivers, more relaxing and immersive time at the places we visit, and a much deeper opportunity to connect as a small group. There is something about the intimacy of four that feels beautifully suited to what we are creating—a more personal, family-like experience with the freedom to flow rather than feeling we need to move according to a larger group’s rhythm.
Even the shape of the pilgrimage has changed. What was originally a twelve-day journey with optional excursions afterward has expanded into a fully integrated eighteen-day experience, with a fifteen-day option available for those with tighter time constraints. The pilgrimage will gradually open beneath the New Moon as we move through Egypt, deepening along the way and ultimately culminating with our sacred private ceremony inside the Great Pyramid. For those joining us for the full eighteen days, the journey will then gently transition to the ocean in Hurghada, offering beautiful space to rest, integrate, and simply receive before returning home.
In many ways, it feels as though the journey itself has been asking for exactly what this season of my life has been teaching me—to loosen the structure enough for something richer to reveal itself.
Our revised itinerary and all of the latest details have been thoughtfully curated to reflect these changes and the deeper nature of what this pilgrimage has become.
Early Bird savings will be available for the full eighteen-day experience only and have been extended through September 9th (9/9), offering $500 USD off the pilgrimage when you reserve your place with a deposit on or before that date.
With this pilgrimage intentionally curated for just four participants, two spaces are currently being held for those who have already expressed their intention to join us. This means there may be only two spaces remaining for this intimate journey.
There is something I especially love about these new dates, too.
We will journey through Aries season, welcoming the Aries New Moon and allowing all that we experience to integrate as we approach the beginning of Taurus season. Our two-hour private entrance into the Great Pyramid will take place beneath the Full Pink Moon in Scorpio, creating a powerful closing to the pilgrimage and the work we have shared together.
None of it was planned this way, yet somehow it feels as though the journey has always known where it wished to be.
If this pilgrimage has been quietly stirring something within your heart, I would be honored to share the updated Journey Itinerary with you and answer any questions you may have.
Sometimes the places we are most deeply called to are not waiting for us to find them.
They have been patiently finding their way back to us all along.
Tania Marie: The Living Conversation
There is something I have been experiencing lately that feels difficult to explain, yet wonderfully natural at the same time.
The more wholeheartedly I meet life, the more I discover that life has been meeting me all along.
Not always through extraordinary moments, although those certainly find their way in. More often through an unmistakable feeling of relationship. As though the living world is continually responding to the way I choose to walk through it.
It feels less like searching for meaning and more like participating in a conversation that has quietly been unfolding simultaneously.
Recently, that conversation found its way into an unexpected friendship.
At the end of June, we were gifted with another beautiful evening of music from our now dear friend and extraordinarily talented violinist that was also attended by my classical music loving wild rabbit friend who sat outside the screen door, just feet away from the music.
As we talked long into the night, we discovered a shared childlike wonder and a way of moving through life that felt strangely familiar, as though we had quietly recognized one another beyond words.
When he learned about the room Astrid and I once shared and how it’s felt strange for me to spend time there since her passing, he gently offered to play a few songs he loves for renewing the energy of a space.
Without knowing it, he stood in the very place where she had taken her final breath.
Since that evening, I have returned to that room with an openness I hadn’t felt in a long time. It feels alive again. Or perhaps something within me quietly came alive again.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves wandering mountain trails together along with his cellist friend until well after sunset.
As we walked, I couldn’t help but smile at how familiar it all felt. We laughed at the same things, noticed the same small wonders, and delighted in the same enchanted corners of the forest. It felt as though wonder itself had found another heart fluent in its language.
Then, as if the evening wished to offer its own quiet smile, a brilliant rainbow stretched across the sky—the first we had seen there in a very long time.
Since then, the conversation has continued in the wild places that have always felt like home.
One afternoon in Hope Valley, thousands of migrating tortoiseshell butterflies streamed across the trail, brushing softly against my skin and hair. For a brief moment, one settled gently into my open palm before lifting once again into the mountain air.
I didn’t feel the need to understand it.
I simply received the moment with gratitude.
Life has continued meeting me in equally beautiful ways through unplanned journeys into Yosemite, where wildlife, hidden trails, magnificent Amanita muscaria mushrooms, pieces of obsidian, and countless quiet moments have felt less like discoveries to collect and more like old friends waiting to be remembered.
Perhaps that is why I already find myself preparing to return.
This week we’ll once again be wandering Yosemite’s trails, and only a few weeks later we’ll return beneath starlit skies with our dear friends, who just visited, for several more days of hiking, camping, laughter, and whatever quiet invitations the mountains choose to offer.
None of this was planned around celestial timing, which made me smile when I discovered that this week’s journey will have us camping beneath the New Moon Total Solar Eclipse in Leo, while the Perseid meteor shower peaks on the 12th.
And somehow, the conversation already seems to have begun.
Driving home the night of the 8/8 Lion’s Gate, I witnessed my first meteor breaking through Earth’s atmosphere—a giant orange fireball blazing across the sky (too fast to photograph), looking almost as though it had passed through a gateway of its own.
As if that weren’t potent enough, coyotes began howling excitedly throughout the forest behind our home. Their voices continued through the night and remarkably into the morning, carrying on for hours until nearly 9am, at times joined by a chorus of birds equally alive with activity.
And then, immediately afterward, my wild rabbit friend appeared.
I hadn’t seen her since the beginning of July (above photos), which coincidentally was also the first time two baby rabbits appeared together. After Foxglove’s passing, I realized I hadn’t been gifted with just one new little friend, but two.
She put on quite a display of her own—exploring, drinking, eating, running around, climbing into the pots and atop Buddha, greeting him and the standing rabbit statue nearby.
Then suddenly, the second rabbit appeared.
It all happened so quickly that I couldn’t capture them together, but there they were, chasing one another and playing. Soon I watched them one at a time, zooming exuberantly around the deck in circles.
My heart leapt with joy, accompanied by an inner sense of recognition around what is to come.
Their presence and energy feel distinctly different—fresh, expansive, and alive with something new. They seem to be growing into their own essence while carrying, for me, the feeling of a new era of regenerative transformation and cosmic love.
And suddenly I understood why names hadn’t come to me before.
It took seeing them together.
That morning, following the meteor and the chorus of coyote howls, I knew them as Isis and Osiris.
Over the last couple of weeks, these profound archetypes of the sacred feminine and masculine had been appearing with increasing emphasis, so the recognition was immediate. And once again, the timing seemed to weave another thread into the conversation.
As faery sister and astrologer Laura shared in her 8/8 New Moon Eclipse post:
“…an unusual meeting of asteroids Isis and Osiris, very close to the eclipse degree! Isis will be at 17° Leo, with Osiris at 19° Leo, and the Sun and Moon at 20° Leo. The meeting of these cosmic lovers brings radical regeneration and higher love into the mix.”
I don’t know exactly what awaits in Yosemite this week and beyond.
And somehow, that has become part of the joy.
Alongside all of this, something else quietly found its own natural timing.
I recently gave my website a complete reimagining.
It no longer felt like creating something new as much as allowing it to reflect who I had quietly become.
As these outer changes settled into place, I also found myself becoming increasingly aware of the larger energetic landscape unfolding around us.
There is a quiet sense I continue to carry that we are living through a profound season of becoming. Much feels to be rearranging beneath the surface before revealing itself more fully. At times it may feel uncertain or even disorienting, yet beneath it I continue to sense an invitation to move more gently, listen more deeply, and trust what quietly knows its way forward.
So, more than ever, I find myself wanting to remain available.
Available to love.
Available to wonder.
Available to friendship.
Available to unexpected beauty.
Available to the quiet ways life continues to reveal itself.
Because I have come to believe that the living world has never stopped being in conversation with us.
Perhaps we simply become more able to hear it as our hearts grow quieter.
~
And when I return from this week’s New Moon journey into Yosemite, I’ll be sharing an update on our 2027 Egypt pilgrimage and the beautiful new unfolding it has taken.