Toward Quieter Skies

The gate is alive with movement. People cross in front of me in every direction, dragging roller bags behind them, checking phones, calling to one another. Somewhere nearby, a child is laughing so adorably that it brings a smile to my lips, while a man a few rows over is singing at a volume that suggests the entire concourse has been invited to his performance.

With Peru finally in view, I find myself wondering what I’m meant to carry with me.

So, as one does in an airport, I casually pull out my tarot deck.

I try to make the moment small. Personal. I shuffle without ceremony, keeping the cards close to me while the airport continues moving around me. Then I pull one… Six of Pututus.

Toward Quieter Skies.

I actually laugh a little. After the week I’ve had, of course it is.

There were a few difficult conversations I hadn’t planned on having, and I’m leaving Colorado with more mental noise than I wanted. The card feels almost absurdly precise.

For the next two weeks, I’ll be walking through the land of the puma, the condor, and Amaru, the serpent. I’ll be moving through mountains, valleys, ruins, forests, and places I have imagined for years. There will be long pauses, meditative hikes, quiet mornings, and pages of a journal waiting to be filled.

So I’m taking the Six of Pututus seriously. I’m going toward quieter skies.

I want to make room for the kind of presence that is slow enough to notice what is around me. One quiet enough to listen. One that lets the mornings stretch out a little longer. One spacious enough to let Peru become more than a place I traveled through, but a place whose culture, traditions, and landscape linger long after the journey ends.