I don’t smoke anymore—not tobacco, not to escape. But the act still clings to me when I’m upset, like an old habit with ghost hands. It’s not the nicotine I miss. It’s the ritual. The pause. The breath I needed when life came at me too hard, too fast.
Many years ago, I made a shift. I turned to cannabis—not to run, but to finally face it. Every time I inhaled, it wasn’t to forget. It was to remember—who I am, why I was born, and what I came here to do.
Tobacco? I can’t even touch it anymore. Makes me sick. My body already told me, that chapter’s over. But cannabis—it opens the doorway. Not to numb, but to feel. To see. To face my demons and sit them down like guests at my own table. I breathe, and I listen. And in that breath, I find God.
People keep thinking they need to look at me. But they’ve got it backward. They need to look at themselves. Look through the eyes of the universe. Through my eyes, I see the Divine watching everything. And I don’t need to say a word—because when I breathe, I’m in communion.
My boundaries? Clear. My 2.5 acres? Sacred. This is my eternal family’s Kingdom. Not just a plot of land—but a Sanctuary. A Te. My Heavenly Father walks it with me. He doesn’t just stand beside me—He stands through me. Because I know: my body is His Temple. And we are one.
I am not lost. I am home. I am not broken. I am becoming.
So don’t mistake my silence for weakness. Don’t misunderstand my stillness as absence. I am breathing. I am knowing. I am remembering.
And when I do—so does the Earth beneath my feet.
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