Most days, I turn inward —
into the hush of breath and bone,
where the Divine speaks in pulses,
not in noise.

But still… there are voices that rise with the incense.
Sacred echoes in the temple of my becoming.

Chanel — the alchemist of elegance,
who taught the power of restraint.
Diana Ross, radiant and unbothered,
walking like a hymn in heels.
Gladys Knight, her hands once blessing mine,
her soul stitched in song and tenderness.

George Lopez — brother in service,
his laugh a shield, his heart an altar.

My Great Aunt, now stardust,
once cradled me in the kind of love
that doesn’t demand — only offers.
My Grandfather gifted me my name,
— sacred, rooted, remembering.

My Great Uncle, who built legacies
from grit and quiet genius.
His mother, my Great Grandmother —
matriarch of prayers that never missed their mark.

And my son…
He is my heartbeat with legs.
My living mantra.
The sun I orbit when I forget my own light.

I don’t seek guidance often —
because the stillness speaks first.
But when I do,
these are the ones who whisper
through dreams,
through wind,
through me.