Simply Reiki

People often ask me why I don’t host retreats in the States.

Because we are intentional about where we do this work.

Because this work isn’t meant to happen in a hotel conference room.

Because it isn’t meant to be squeezed between schedules and notifications and the same environment that shaped the wound.

We place our retreats at some of the most sacred sites on earth — not because it sounds poetic, but because the energy of the land matters.

Here, the land participates.

The nervous system responds to the unseen that surrounds it.

Lake Atitlán has been considered sacred by the Maya for generations. They viewed it as a portal. A place where the veil feels thin and there is a deep connection to what has come before.

In the center of the lake, beneath the surface, lies an ancient Mayan ceremonial site — now underwater. A temple swallowed by the rising waters long ago. Even that feels symbolic to me. Sacredness doesn’t disappear. It goes deeper. It waits.

There are stories of a great serpent or dragon in the depths of the lake — a guardian energy, ancient and watchful. I felt this energy as soon as we arrived.

The volcanoes stand like protectors. The water is impossibly deep which connects to the work we do.

Here, you enter a traditional Mayan temazcal — the womb of the earth. You sweat. You pray. You let something die so something else can be born.

You stand beneath a sacred waterfall and allow the water to move through your body like a reset.

You sit in fire ceremony with the volcanoes holding witness and release the weight you’ve carried — grief, old identities, inherited stories.

And then you spread your wings. You zipline across the nature reserve, heart open, laughing. You wake up across from the volcano and feel your body exhale. You remember what it feels like to be fully alive in your own skin.

Could I replicate the structure in the States?
Maybe.

But I can’t replicate the spirit of this land.
I can’t replicate a culture that has held onto its magic despite every attempt to erase it.

The ancient Kaqchikel and Tz’utujil Maya never saw this place as “scenery.”
They saw it as consciousness.

And despite colonization, erasure, and centuries of pressure to forget — the magic here was never extinguished. It went quiet. It went inward. But it did not disappear.

We don’t choose locations randomly.

We choose places that remember so that we can too.

Because when you step onto sacred ground, something in you recognizes it.

And that recognition changes you.

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