Ludres, 22 October 2026

Ludres, this morning.

I came back to the hotel last night after an intense evening, and I fell asleep the way one collapses. I did not hear my alarm. The morning was heavy, the body slow, a tiredness I know well: the Public Sessions take from me an energy I cannot measure, and the next day, it is missing.

Then I opened my messages, and the day lifted all at once.

A grandmother was writing to me. She was in the room this week. For months, her grandson had given no sign of life. Not a message, not a call. She knew he was perhaps lost in the difficulties of life, as so many young people today are lost, without anyone knowing where they are or how to reach them. She lived with that worry that never leaves you, the one that gets up with you in the morning and goes to bed with you at night, that grandmother's pain that settles in the heart and does not pass with time.

After the session, she came to see me, one to one. She told me her story. I took her hand, and while she was speaking to me, I turned to the feminine divinity, to the one who gives life and who connects, and I asked for a mending between two beings who love each other and no longer speak. She left with her worry. I had promised nothing.

Last night, he called her. Twenty minutes. She writes to me that it is like a rebirth, and she thanks me for what I undertook.

I undertook nothing. I must explain this to you, because that is what matters.

At every Public Session, I ask. For every person in front of me, for every question I am asked, for every hand held out to me, I turn to the source, to that intelligence that has always guided me, and I ask. I do not heal, I do not mend, I do not decide. I ask, humbly, and I let it happen. Sometimes nothing comes. Sometimes it comes at once, in the room, before everyone's eyes. And sometimes it comes the next day, at eight in the evening, when a telephone finally rings at the home of a grandmother who no longer believed it would.

I will not give her name. I will not give her town. She knows it is her, and that is enough.

I share this message because in every room there are people carrying exactly that silence. A child who no longer answers. A bond that seems broken. And they believe it is over.

It is not over. Come. I ask for you.

-Mischa Harmeijer