Nathalie Fuchs La Source

Nathalie Fuchs La Source Notre corps nous parle, soyons à l'écoute !

Soins chamaniques (soin énergétique incluant Réflexologie & Magnétisme) en présentiel ou à distance
Accompagnement chamanique

26/01/2026

The Three Who Stand as One

They face the world together,
not identical,
not divided—
but bound by purpose.

One carries the depth of shadow,
one holds the stillness of light,
one bears the warmth of earth.
Different paths,
the same remembering.

The markings upon their faces
are not symbols of separation,
but vows—
etched by ancestors
to remind the living
that strength is never singular.

They do not race.
They do not compete.
They stand.
And in their standing,
balance is restored.

If you meet them here,
do not choose between them.
Walk the space they create together.
Some power is born
only when many spirits
agree to breathe as one.
🎨Artist and storyteller: Hacudo
🙏🙏 You can get the purchase link in the comments under each image. Or just send me a message with the picture you like, and I’ll send you the direct product link!

23/01/2026

Under Grandmother Moon, I listen.
Not to noise, but to what still lives beneath it.
The river keeps its counsel.
The owls hold their quiet like prayer.

A white horse lowers its head,
and in that simple gesture
I remember what our elders taught:
power does not always arrive as thunder.
Sometimes it arrives as trust.

Feather, hoof, water, breath,
all stitched into the same night.
I do not ask the sky to change for me.
I only ask my heart to stay true.

May I walk in a good way,
may I honor what I carry,
and may the moonlight find us
still listening, still belonging.

23/01/2026

The White Bison

The white bison does not arrive to be seen.
It arrives when the land has been listening long enough.

Its coat carries winters older than memory,
each hair a vow made between earth and sky.
Where it stands, hunger pauses.
Where it breathes, balance remembers itself.

The elders say it is not a promise of abundance,
but a reminder of responsibility.
Not a miracle sent to save,
but a mirror asking how gently we will walk.

The white bison holds the silence between taking and giving.
It teaches without voice:
that survival must be earned with respect,
and blessing must be carried with care.

When it turns back into the snow,
the world is not changed
only awakened.

Original poem and artwork by the artist: Jan Sky

🙏🙏 You can get the purchase link in the comments under each image. Or just send me a message with the picture you like, and I’ll send you the direct product link!

21/01/2026

Thank you for loving this artwork!
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Best-selling products: https://nativeblood75.com/category/best-selling
When the White One Came to the Coast

He did not belong to cedar or tide,
yet the forest opened its breath to him.

White as mist on mountain water,
heavy with a story carried far,
he stood where river meets stone,
where Raven once taught the world to change.

Copper and shell rest on his side—
not ownership,
but permission.

The mountains watched.
The spruce did not turn away.

Raven circled once,
then laughed—
for even strangers may arrive
as teachers.

He learned the language of moss and rain,
the law of patience,
the weight of standing still.

By dusk,
he was no longer only from the plains.
He was a crossing,
a promise that strength may travel
without conquest.

And the land remembered him
as a visitor
who listened.

21/01/2026

Where Their Voices Still Rise

The wolf lifts its song into the moon,
not to fill the night,
but to awaken memory.

Its breath carries the footsteps
of those who walked before us—
quiet, resilient,
guided by stars and instinct.

The patterns on its back
are not adornment.
They are promises sewn by ancestors
who trusted the land
more than fear.

The moon listens,
as it always has.
It remembers every voice
that ever called for balance,
for belonging.

Our ancestors speak in this howl—
steady, enduring,
teaching us how to stand
between earth and sky
without breaking.

When the song fades,
it does not end.
It settles into the ground,
into our blood,
reminding us
we are still carried
by those who never truly left.
🎨Artist and the storyteller : Elvis Becker
🙏🙏 You can get the purchase link in the comments under each image. Or just send me a message with the picture you like, and I’ll send you the direct product link!

15/01/2026

In the hush before the storm, the buffalo rests,
breath slow, weight of seasons on his back.
Strength does not always charge forward,
sometimes it kneels in the grass
and chooses peace.

The world has taken enough.
So let my hands learn restraint,
let my heart learn gratitude,
let my life protect what is still breathing.

May we remember the ones who carried us,
and never mistake survival
for something ordinary.

14/01/2026

The Path Remembered by the Wolf

The ancestors walk before us
in the shape of this wolf,
emerging from cloud and breath,
leaving no footprints
the careless can follow.

Its eyes carry the first lessons—
how to protect without cruelty,
how to belong without possession,
how to watch over the valley
without needing to rule it.

The land opens beneath its gaze:
rivers remembering hands,
mountains holding old songs,
fires kept small
so the night could breathe.

The ancestors do not call us back.
They stand quietly in our direction,
patient as stone,
waiting for us to choose
the path that remembers
why we were given a heart.

If you feel this presence,
do not be afraid.
It is only the past
loving the future
enough
to stay.
🎨Artist and the storyteller : Elvis Becker
🙏🙏 You can get the purchase link in the comments under each image. Or just send me a message with the picture you like, and I’ll send you the direct product link!

13/01/2026

When the Forest Remembers

Two watchers stand where moss keeps time,
one born of night, one carved from dawn.
Feathers carry the old geometry—
stories etched by hands unseen, yet known.

The dark one holds the weight of endings,
embers of fire, the last word spoken low.
The light one keeps the breath of beginnings,
river-blue paths where the spirits go.

They do not argue, these ancient kin.
They listen.
To cedar roots, to stone, to sky,
to the drumbeat hidden in the wind.

Between them lives the people’s knowing:
that truth walks in more than one color,
that wisdom wears many wings,
and balance is born where opposites meet.

The forest bows, the silence agrees.
In this stillness, the ancestors speak—
not in sound, but in remembrance,
not in sight, but in the way the heart listens.

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Masevaux
68290

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