The story of a sacred field, a silent prayer, and how I stopped looking for peace outside myself

There’s a field in Texas that changed my life. I didn’t plan to find it. I wasn’t looking for anything specific that day just peace. Just somewhere to go that wasn’t home. A place where silence feels like a friend.

I was driving, just trying to clear my head… and something in me said, Turn. So I did. I ended up on this back road just dirt and silence and a field full of crops. But when I parked, I could see the whole city from where I sat. I mean, all of it. And everything in me just got quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t just surround you it steadies you. Like the land itself is saying, You’re safe.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the start of a routine that would change me. I went back the next day. And the next. Four, five times a week, I’d drive out there. I’d show up with music, or tears, or just my thoughts no script, no plan. Just me and a glass jar filled with wishes. I’d leave it in the tall grass like a secret the earth already understood. That field became my sanctuary. It felt safe there. Wide open. Free.

The place I ran to when everything around me was loud and felt like a mess I couldn’t quiet. And here’s what really got my attention: One day, after years of going there, I looked up the coordinates of that field. Just out of curiosity. And guess what I found?

33.41738° N, 96.83449° W

The numbers lined up almost exactly with Phoenix, Arizona. The start of my birth, breath, belonging all from the same place. That same 33rd parallel line. That same grid of power. And just like that, it all made sense. Phoenix. The city named after the bird that rises from the ashes. And my name

Renee it means rebirth.

Even the Earth knew who I was. That field was always trying to tell me: You’ve been here before. But this time, you’re awake. This time, you’re home. But here’s where the story turns.

After two years of finding peace there, the energy wasn’t what it used to be. The next time I went, it felt different. People were there. The peace I used to feel? Gone. It felt like I was being chased out of my own sacred place. Like the land was saying, You’re done here.

At first I was heartbroken. That field was the only place I could breathe. The only place I could cry and not feel watched. I left with tears. I tried again. Same thing.

Until one day, as I turned down that desolate dirt road, it stopped me mid-thought like my heart couldn’t hold it all at once. I don’t need that field anymore. Because the peace I used to go there for… was now inside me.

The healing. The releasing. The repeated declarations left in open air and glass jars— They weren’t wasted. They moved something. I had become the very sanctuary I kept searching for.

This is a passage from my book It Is Done, but it’s more than a chapter. It’s a moment I’ll carry with me forever. Because it taught me something I want you to remember: Peace is not a place. It’s a practice. It’s not something you find. It’s something you become. You can sit in the middle of chaos and still carry calm. You can walk through fire and remain steady and open. You can outgrow the places that saved you and that doesn’t mean they failed you. It means they fulfilled their purpose.

I even dreamed about that field once. It wasn’t just dirt and crops anymore. It was alive, glowing like it had been waiting for me. There was a woman there…Moonlight in her sleeves. A keeper. A guide. She put out fires like it was nothing. And the land… it already knew my name.

This wasn’t a visit. It felt like home. That field held me until I could hold myself. And now, I can find peace anywhere. Even in the mess. Beneath all the sound. Even in this moment right here. I remembered who I am. The land knew before I did. And now… it is done.

Where is your field? And if you can’t go back to it, could it be because… you don’t need to? You didn’t just find it you became it. Is there a place in your life you once ran to for comfort but now feels different? It didn’t slip away. You simply became someone new. What would it look like to trust that you’ve become the peace you once had to go find?

Before I close this out, I want to speak on something that might seem small… but it meant something to me. There was a day I drove to the field, same way I always did same dirt road, same open sky but something was different. There was trash. All up and down the road. Dumped there like it was nothing. And I can’t explain why it hit me so hard, but it did. That field was sacred to me. That land held my pain. It heard my prayers. And now here it was, disrespected.

So I pulled over. I got out. And I started picking it up. Piece by piece. Bag after bag. Not because I had to But because something in me said, This is still yours. And not long after that, I had a dream. I went back to the field in the dream, thinking I was coming to clean it again But when I arrived, it had become something I couldn’t quite explain.

There were trees now. Campers. A warm firelight glow. The moon was prevalent. There were people laughing, resting. And a woman walked the land like she belonged to it and it belonged to her. She carried a hose, calmly putting out fires others had built to stay warm. Not in anger. Not to control. Just… steady. Responsible.

Like someone who knew the land was alive and meant to be tended, not burned. That dream became the song Landkeeper. And let me tell you every single word of it came from something real.

When I said: I picked up trash on the dirt road bend, because something in me felt like a friend. Not a guest. Not a stranger. Not someone asking for space… I belonged.

That wasn’t metaphor. That happened. That’s what this field gave me. It showed me who I was. It made me feel chosen. Not because anyone told me I was But because the Earth responded like she knew my name. So when you hear Landkeeper, you’re not just hearing lyrics. What you’re hearing is more than a song. It’s a memory. A declaration. It’s the sound of a woman who didn’t go to that field just to find peace— She went to become it.

So no, this episode isn’t just about a field. It’s about all the places we once ran to for relief… that were only ever trying to show us who we’ve always been. It’s about the sacred work of picking up the pieces. Of honoring the land. Of honoring ourselves. You’re not just passing through this Earth. You’re a keeper of it, too.

And now? What the field gave me, I now hold within. Wherever I go.

Renee"

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