Beneath the Water

And what rises to the surface.

Let me set the scene: I’m sitting on a balcony overlooking the valley of Tzununá, watching the sun glimmer on the waters of Lake Atitlán. Behind it rise the twin peaks of Volcán Atitlán and Volcán Tolimán—one dormant, the other technically active, though it hasn’t erupted since 1853. A warm breeze drifts up the valley; it’s the dry season here, and the temperatures have been creeping up to 26°C each day. Behind me, the lively chatter of families fills the air. I catch a Cork accent (that’s the owner, Neal), along with Colombian and American voices, mingling with the soft tones of a Guatemalan girl serving at the counter.

In a place like this, it’s easy to be in awe. But I was reminded recently of a simple gratitude practice—one that helps me truly take it all in. Each morning, when I remember to, I sit and tune into my senses. I say, thank you for my eyes that allow me to see this beauty around me. Thank you for my sense of taste that lets me enjoy this cup of tea, and so on. It’s through our senses that we experience all of creation, and yet it’s so easy to forget.

However, there is also a hidden world—the thin places, if you will.

Beneath the shimmering surface of Lake Atitlán lies an ancient temple, a remnant of a civilization long past. Sunken beneath the water, the ruins of Samabaj were once a thriving Mayan settlement before the lake rose, swallowing it whole. Some say it was a sacred island, a place of ritual and connection to the divine. Now, it remains submerged, untouched for centuries, an echo of something both lost and present. Its existence stayed unknown until its discovery in 1996. As water levels shifted and sonar technology advanced, archaeologists uncovered it.

There’s something haunting about this—the idea that a place of worship, of prayer and offering, still lingers below, just beyond reach. Perhaps it is more than just stone resting on the lakebed. Perhaps energy, intention, and spirit do not disappear so easily.

I think this is why I have always felt so drawn to Glendalough—another place where our senses become immersed in the beauty of nature and lake waters. But beyond that, there is a deeper presence, a spiritual dimension that is hidden from the naked eye.

Have I told this story before? Of the time a couple of Tibetan monks visited Ireland and were overcome by a deep sadness? They could feel, in the land itself, the lingering energy of all those once-thriving monastic sites and places of learning. And in feeling it, they grieved—not just for Ireland’s losses, but for the devastation of their own homeland.

I don’t need to tell an Irish person about the presence of hidden places, of liminal spaces. We all grew up with stories of people slipping away into the fairy world.

I hope all my Irish readers know just how special our home is. I’ve traveled far and met people from all over the world, and time and again, I hear the same thing—Ireland felt different to them. They speak of the deep sense of presence in the land, of something hidden yet alive, woven into the hills and waters. In a world that is slowly being paved over, it feels more important than ever to protect this—this connection to the unseen, the unspoken, the sacred that still lingers beneath our feet.

Now, let me say—there’s nothing more achingly boring to me than someone who is completely rigid in their beliefs, so certain of their own opinions that there’s not an inch of space for movement. And when that person is spiritual? Even worse.

But here’s the thing—something hidden has been stirring to the surface at Lake Atitlán in these past weeks, manifesting through sickness and a shared set of symptoms appearing in people. It has felt initiatory in nature, and for those willing to face it, profoundly transformational. I’m not the same person I was just weeks ago. In fact, I once told a friend that the kind of shifts that used to take a year now unfold in the space of days.

Those who follow the stars and the prophecies will say great changes are upon us—and that they’re accelerating. But they don’t need to tell me. The stars don’t need to tell me. I can feel it. I see it.

But thankfully, this is not one of those posts. You’ll find plenty of them elsewhere.

If you’re curious about the physical symptoms I’m referring to, it’s lower back pain. And yet, none of it has a physical origin—it’s all emotional patterning rising to the surface. The vast majority of recurring chronic pain has deep emotional roots. Of course, if you suspect an actual spinal injury, a herniated disc, or something similar, you should absolutely get it checked out. But if what I’m saying resonates with you, I highly recommend exploring the mind-body connection, particularly the work of Dr. John E. Sarno. One of his books is even available as a free audiobook on Spotify.

Maybe this post has wandered a little. But isn’t that the nature of thin places? They don’t follow straight lines. They dissolve boundaries, stir up the unseen, and leave us changed.

I look out again at Lake Atitlán, the sun catching its surface, the volcanoes standing watch. This place is ancient, alive, and it doesn’t just hold energy—it moves it. Perhaps that’s why so many of us have been feeling it in our bodies. Pain as a messenger. Discomfort as an initiation.

I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t want them. But I do know this: in places like this, things rise to the surface—memories, emotions, stories buried deep in the body. And if we’re willing to listen, we might just find that what aches is what’s asking to be released.

For now, I’ll sit here a little longer, sip my tea, and leave you with this little fable.

Thanks for dropping by

There was once a young monk who lived high in the mountains, studying under a great master. He was diligent in his practice but often felt restless, as if something within him was waiting to be released.

One day, his master told him, “There is a river hidden beneath this mountain. It flows, but it is trapped beneath rock and earth. You must find it.”

The monk was confused—there was no sign of a river anywhere. But he trusted his teacher and began to listen. Days passed. Weeks. Then, one night, as he sat in stillness, he felt it—a deep rumbling beneath his feet. The mountain held something inside.

So, he began to dig.

For months, he worked, carving through the earth with his bare hands. At times, he doubted himself. Was this river even real? Was he simply breaking apart stone for no reason? But something kept him going.

And then, one day, as he removed a final rock, a great rush of water burst forth. It surged down the mountainside, filling the valley below, giving life to the land that had been dry for generations.

The monk stood in awe, drenched, watching the river carve its path. He turned to his master, who simply smiled and said:

"The river was always there. It only needed to be freed."