Awen Ovate | Tarot and Nature Spirituality
My blogs
| Industry | Religion |
|---|---|
| Location | Indianapolis, Indiana, United States |
| Introduction | I am a Druidic tarot reader, writer, and spiritual guide devoted to the living wisdom of nature and the sacred art of divination. Rooted in Celtic tradition and shaped by earth-centered mindfulness, my work bridges myth and modern practice, intuition and intellect, symbol and soul. Through tarot, story, and the language of stone, I help seekers reconnect with their innate rhythm — the breath between worlds where spirit speaks in signs and silence. My writings explore the meeting place of druidry, pagan spirituality, and creative consciousness, offering reflections on the Wheel of the Year, lunar rituals, and the deep ecology of spirit. Guided by the Awen — the spark of inspiration — I honor transformation and the wisdom of the natural world. Whether through readings, essays, or seasonal meditations, my voice invites balance, renewal, and reverence: a remembering of how the sacred lives quietly within us all. |
| Interests | My work and wonder both live at the meeting place of spirit and psyche. I’m endlessly drawn to the conversation between Druidic wisdom and modern therapeutic thought — how myth, ritual, and relationship help us remember our wholeness. My spiritual roots lie in Celtic reverence for nature and the flowing breath of Awen: inspiration as sacred life force. From the turning of the Wheel of the Year to the alchemy of the elements, I explore how earth, water, fire, and air shape both healing and storytelling. I study tarot as a contemplative mirror rather than a fortune-telling tool — a way to listen for what the soul is already whispering. My practice is informed by trauma-aware, compassionate presence and the ethics of intuitive care. I’m fascinated by the spaces where psychology meets mysticism: archetypes, dreams, family systems, and the symbols that speak beneath language. My interests include Druidic practice, nature spirituality, Celtic mythology, ethical divination, earth-based mindfulness, and the use of creative expression — poetry, journaling, and art — as spiritual self-care. I’m equally nourished by theology, eco-psychology, and interfaith dialogue, especially where they open the heart toward wonder and inclusion. Beyond my sacred studies, I’m immersed in systemic therapy, integrative couple work, and the spiritual dimensions of healing. Whether through tarot, myth, or counseling, I walk the same path: helping others find clarity, balance, and belonging in both the seen and unseen worlds. |
| Favorite movies | I love stories that mix imagination with insight — where myth, history, and humor share the same table. My favorite shows and films usually have a little magic, a touch of irony, and a question burning quietly underneath. The Great makes me laugh at power and its absurdity. Band of Brothers reminds me that courage is usually quieter than glory. Grimm and Percy Jackson and the Olympians speak to the old mythic pulse that still beats in modern storytelling, and Good Omens just feels like home — clever, cosmic, and kind. I’m drawn to stories that hold both reverence and rebellion — where laughter and grief coexist. I love the heart in All Creatures Great and Small, the sincerity of Downton Abbey, and the wild human ache of Chernobyl. There’s something sacred in seeing people stumble toward meaning. My favorite comfort films remember wonder without needing perfection: The NeverEnding Story, Labyrinth, Prince Caspian, Alice in Wonderland, and The Dark Crystal. They remind me that imagination isn’t escape — it’s how we remember what’s true. I’ve never been much for flashy blockbusters; I’d rather spend time in a well-told world than an expensive one. Whether it’s myth retold through humor or history retold through empathy, I’ll always choose stories that make me feel more human — the ones that end with silence instead of spectacle. |
| Favorite music | My playlists are like mood rings; I move through sound by instinct, not genre. I grew up on classic rock, protest songs, and radio anthems, so there will always be Tom Petty, Boston, and Journey somewhere near the top. Runnin’ Down a Dream, Peace of Mind, Faithfully, songs that feel like motion, headlights, and the kind of freedom that smells like gasoline and rain. I have a soft spot for the strange and the shiny. There is Kesha and Rihanna in there, unapologetic and loud, music that does not ask permission to take up space. I love artists who shift from rebellion to rhythm in a single track: Rage Against the Machine for catharsis, The Doors for heat and haze, and David Bowie for everything that refuses to fit neatly inside one self. My folk and Celtic streak runs deep too. James Galway, The Chieftains, and Van Morrison’s Irish Heartbeat play when I need grounding. Flutes and fiddles hit like memory, old-world, open-sky, something in the bones. Then there are the surprises: Queen for joy and defiance, The Temptations for nostalgia, and the occasional Beyoncé track when I need rhythm with teeth. It is chaos that makes sense to me, rebellion beside reverence, grit beside grace. I do not listen to music to escape. I listen to remember, to feel connected to the wild, messy pulse of being alive. Every track on my list, from Over the Sea to Skye to Killing in the Name, carries the same thing underneath: a refusal to stay small, a rhythm that says, keep going. |
| Favorite books | My shelves are a small forest of spirit, psychology, and story. The works that have stayed with me are the ones that help me listen more deeply to the land, to people, and to the quiet patterns between them. Tarot Deciphered by T. Susan Chang and Mel Meleen is my constant reference and companion. It teaches the language of symbol like an instrument, one note at a time, until it becomes music. Paganism: An Introduction to Earth-Centered Spirituality by Joyce and River Higginbotham gives that music a moral compass, balancing reverence with reason. The Path of Druidry by Penny Billington is a field guide for living with the seasons, practical and kind, filled with the steady rhythm of breath and earth. Pagan Theology by Michael York widened my horizon, showing that spiritual frameworks can evolve without losing depth. I admire Ronald Hutton for his courage to trace myth through fact, and Edain McCoy for her heart in making sacred practice accessible to anyone who seeks it. In psychology, The New Peoplemaking by Virginia Satir and Hold Me Tight by Sue Johnson remind me that healing is relational, not abstract. Both approach love as a practice of safety, honesty, and communication. Their work has shaped the way I understand intimacy, trust, and the human need to belong. When I read for pleasure, I reach for stories that still hum after the last page. I love the magic and melancholy of The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, the deep wonder of The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman, and the quiet courage of Circe by Madeline Miller. I return to The Mabinogion when I want to remember my mythic roots, and to Good Omens when I need humor that keeps faith human. Poetry lives in my margins too, with Mary Oliver for reverence, John O’Donohue for grace, and Rainer Maria Rilke for the ache of becoming. These books all speak the same language: transformation through tenderness. They remind me that wisdom grows in conversation, that imagination is holy work, and that read |
If you could peer far enough into the night sky, you'd see a star in any direction you looked. When would you sleep?
I would sleep when curiosity softened into trust. Not every mystery needs to be seen. The mind learns through light, but the soul integrates in darkness. Rest is how wisdom roots itself in the body, how questions settle into something gentler than knowing.