You are wildkind. Rediscover what that means and receive what's always been there: nature-spirit guidance. It's an antidote to modern disconnection.
Why Rimrock & Otter
The state of the world has left many of us navigating an existence that feels disconnected, empty, and powerless. Maybe there's a longing you can't name, or you're searching for your spark.
Modern society dimmed the part of us that noticed and understood signs from nature spirits, separating us from something critical to a purposeful, profound life and a thriving planet.
Restoring your oneness with nature connects you to the life force in everything — animals, plants, minerals, elements, landforms, even weather. This connection strengthens your perception of your greater place in the world, reigniting your vitality, sense of belonging, and feelings of aliveness.
At the core of it all
Everything and every being in the natural world is relational and reveals wisdom. Nothing is coincidental; it's synchronicity, meaningful serendipity. An eagle flies overhead just as you're contemplating a big change, numbers repeat, or things keep happening in patterns — all signs.
It's astrophysics and chemistry. Like the oak, the otter, and the ocean, every atom in our bodies was forged billions of years ago when stars made and spread oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen. We're family with nature, made of the same stuff. We are interconnected wildkind, never separate.
We're all born with a keen intuition and a kinship with nature, attuned to its wisdom. Maybe the logistics of life have had you on autopilot, but the path back to deep connectedness with spirits in nature is open to everyone — no special gift, no gatekeepers. Enchantment is yours to experience.
An open door
Virtual group sessions, a podcast, a card deck — all to begin.
If something has you leaning in, please leave your name. We'll reach out as soon as something new is launched.
The morning after my mother died, a great horned owl I had never seen before stayed on the porch railing for almost an hour. It looked at me. It did not blink. I cried into a coffee cup until it lifted off.
I asked the river what to do about the job. I felt foolish saying it out loud. Then a stick — long, smooth, river-worn — bumped against my shin three times. I took it home. I quit the job two days later. The stick is on my desk.
Same coyote, three nights in a row, at the edge of the yard. Not afraid. Not waiting. Just — present. On the third night I sat down in the grass. We looked at each other for a long time. Something in me settled that has not unsettled since.
