ANEW: Bury the Doubt, Honor the Decision
Wisdom comes in letting go and moving forward
In my last post—ANEW: How to Know the Way—I wrote about clarity. About signs. About that moment when the universe seems to lean in and whisper, this is the way.
So, what was the way? Where did that hawk lead me?
The answer came quickly after that long walk: I’m headed to Teotihuacán in early May. “Teo,” as it’s often called, has stood for centuries as a place of pilgrimage, a gateway to transformation. The hawk, the quiet ruminations, the echoes of mill workers in Manchester—all pointed south. The signs said, Go. The choice was made.
Or so I thought.
Because here’s the thing about decisions, even the ones we feel guided toward: they don’t stop asking for your commitment once they’re made. Doubt lingers. It tests you. It whispers alternatives, second-guesses, warnings disguised as wisdom.
Two days after I accepted the call to Teotihuacán, I found myself restless again—not with the decision itself, but with a need to confirm it. I went searching for reassurance, for more signs. Foolishly, perhaps, I decided to hunt for a specific archway—a place captured in an old photo of a boy spilling out of the Manchester mills, joy radiating from his very being. I told myself if I could find that spot, it would be yet another nod from the universe. A confirmation.
But Manchester is a maze of red-brick giants. Hundreds of thousands of square feet of industrial past. The search quickly turned from purposeful to absurd. Every corner I turned mocked me with sameness. There were no arches, no revelations—just me, chasing ghosts.
And then, as I rounded a bend beneath two towering pines, I found something else entirely.
A hawk. A Cooper’s hawk. Dead.
Lying in still, fierce beauty beneath twin pine trees.
I froze. My mind raced: Was this my hawk? The same one who’d perched above me days ago, guiding me toward my path? I snapped a picture and, in a daze, sent it to a few close friends who were joyous with me as I contemplated and later made my decision with the only words that made sense in the moment:
“WTF now?”
One friend called immediately, confused. “Why are you sending me pictures of a dead bird?” I didn’t have an answer—because I didn’t know. Suddenly, the certainty I’d felt was unraveling. Had I misread everything? Was this a warning? A cosmic just kidding? The mind can twist anything when fear gets a foothold.
I spent hours pacing through possibilities. Maybe I’d put too much weight on signs. Maybe I was being foolish, self-indulgent. The trip, the hawk, the meaning—I questioned it all.
And then, a quieter voice emerged. One I’ve learned to trust.
What would this relative want?
That’s what the Sicangu Lakota would ask. Not, What does this mean for me?—but rather, How do I honor this life?
The answer was immediate: Bury the hawk. Honor the relative. Commit to the path.
I didn’t own a shovel. But that was a problem easily solved with a trip to Home Depot. I grabbed a shovel, asked about the return policy (old habits die hard), picked up paper towels for a shroud, and returned at nightfall with a headlamp and resolve.
At the corner of two very busy streets, beneath those twin pines, I dug. The ground was stubborn, but I went deep enough to give the hawk the dignity it deserved. Two strangers and a dog stopped to watch. One of them steadied the bird on the shovel with his boot as I lowered it into the earth. We said a few words—not rehearsed, just heartfelt:
"Thank you for the life you gave, and for the wisdom you shared. We release you back into the circle."
The dog snorted softly, one of the snuffling breeds, as if in agreement.
I tamped the earth down firmly, wiped the shovel clean, and—yes—returned it. Practicality and ritual can coexist.
That night, I felt something I hadn’t felt in days: peace. Not because I’d found another sign, but because I had stopped searching for them. I had acted. I honored the moment, the life before me, and by doing so, I honored my decision.
I slept like I hadn’t in weeks—deep, long, dreamless, and whole.
Here’s what I learned: Decisions aren’t about constant reassurance. They’re about commitment. Once made, they deserve to be lived into, not questioned at every turn. The hawk didn’t die to send me a cryptic message. It lived its life, as hawks do. And when its time ended, it became part of something larger. My role wasn’t to decode—it was to respect. To follow through.
So yes, I’m going to Teotihuacán. Not because of signs, but because I choose to. And once chosen, that’s enough.
The boy’s joy—the one I searched for in that photo—can wait. Joy doesn’t come from chasing proof. It comes from honoring the path you’ve already said yes to.
And so it is.
May it always be so.
Curated Listening:
Erasing doubt can be hard sometimes, especially in love and decision-making. Remember to hold on tight to those you love and, like doubt, let them go when it’s time. In the end, as in all things, you will still have the memories and the moments you shared. One of the best songs about letting go and letting memories fade to black is “Time After Time.” And one of the most original souls in music is Cyndi Lauper. Take a listen to one of the most original covers of Lauper’s iconic song by the husband-and-wife duo Tuck & Patti. Listen to “Time After Time” HERE.