After that day in Fataga — the visions, the dog, the confirmation from a stranger — something in my path began to shift.

Almost without trying, I crossed paths with several English-speaking parents. Two of them were Reiki healers, and the connection was immediate and effortless, like we had been placed in each other’s lives on purpose.
It wasn’t just friendship; it was recognition.
The same kind of recognition I had felt from the land.

Soon, the three of us found ourselves taking trips together back to Fataga, moving through the village the way people cross sacred ground — slow, open, listening. They understood the energy of the mountains in the same way I did, and that alone was healing.

Over time, I took my Reiki Master training with one of them.
It felt less like “learning” and more like remembering a language I had once spoken fluently.
Everything clicked into place with the same ease as the visions had —
as if I was simply waking up to something I had always carried.

Those connections, those friendships, shaped a new chapter in my life.

The Road Beyond Fataga

If you continue driving upward, past Fataga’s narrow paths and quiet houses, the road leads to a place that feels entirely different — yet just as powerful.

Santa Lucía.

(de Tirajana)

A village that sits like a jewel in the mountains.
A place where the air changes tone, where time slows, and where the spirit seems to settle softly over everything.
I didn’t realize it then, but Santa Lucía would become another spiritual waypoint on my journey — a place of tranquility, memory, and unspoken magic.

The first time I visited, what struck me wasn’t just the beauty.
It was the feeling.

There is a calm there that sinks straight into your bones, a stillness that feels like entering a sanctuary long before you reach the church. You can hear your own thoughts in a different way — clearer, softer, honest.

The village has remnants of an old castle  — ancient stones that stand proudly against the sky, carrying a strength that time hasn’t managed to erase. They feel like guardians, watching silently over the valley.

And then there was the church.

One of the prettiest I’ve ever seen on the islands —  white, glowing softly in the mountain light. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with peace. No grandeur, no golden decorations, no overwhelming statues.
Just… presence.
A quiet holiness that felt welcoming rather than imposing.

I don’t remember every detail from the visits —
it’s been a decade, and some memories have grown hazy around the edges.

But I remember the feeling.
The tranquility.
The warmth of the local food that tasted like tradition and family and history.
The sense that Santa Lucía was a place where the soul could exhale.

And somehow, being there made the pieces of my past-life memories, my visions, and my new Reiki path settle into place a little more gently.

Santa Lucía didn’t speak loudly.
It didn’t send visions or shocks through my spirit.
Instead, it wrapped me in calm —
a reminder that not all sacred places shout.
Some whisper.

🌿♾️🦉

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫