Before my mother showed up. Before the Baron. Before Papa Legba. It all began with a bone.
I was just sitting in my backyard, enjoying the stillness, when something caught my eye—a bone. Just lying there in the grass.
Now, this isn’t a backyard where stuff like that happens. I live in an urban area. The yard is fenced, tidy, undisturbed. There’s no trash. No random debris. But this bone… it felt placed. Like it didn’t belong to a dog or a chicken or anything I could reason through.
It was an offering.
Something told me to pick it up. Not a voice—but a deep, inner directive. My hand moved before my fear could stop it. I picked it up and held it upright, the long part resting perfectly in the center of my palm.
And that’s when it happened.
Swoosh. A surge of energy rushed through me, sudden and electric. Not painful. Not gentle either. It was like something ancient and awake recognized me.
That’s when my mother arrived.
My mother passed 4 years ago, but her presence in that moment was unmistakable. She wasn’t warm or comforting. She was fierce. She lit into me about being too kind, too soft, too much of a pushover. She wasn’t asking—she was commanding. It felt like a spiritual intervention. I balled and she railed mercilessly. She was right. I was “ playing” small and weak. I knew my power but feared it.
Then, just as powerfully, Baron Samedi walked up. It felt like my mother brought him to me, like she was saying, “See what she can do. See what she’s capable of.”
The Baron introduced himself with the poise of a gentleman. Handsome, polite, smooth and articulate. His energy was strong and confident but personable. At one point, he said, “Your mother told me she wants you to work for me. You can just give yourself to me.”
I stopped him right there.
“My mother would never say that!” With fierce pride and confidence. She was present but I knew her too well.
He didn’t argue.
After he left, Papa Legba appeared.
He came in hot. The first thing he said was, “Don’t ask me for anything!!!” Not out of anger—but clarity. He made it clear: “I don’t give people things. That’s not what I do. I don’t have anything to give.”
He talked about how so many people come to him through others. He said that wasn’t necessary. “Come for yourself! Speak for yourself!” He told me to hold out my hand and pointed to my palm. “Everything you need is right here. You don’t need anything. You have everything right here”, as he continued to point into my palm.
He lifted up his white shirt and showed me a vision: my ex, holding my Social Security number—and his mother putting something in my food. That vision felt final. I understood what I was being shown.
Looking back, that bone wasn’t just a strange object. It was a key. A wand. A conduit. A door I had just opened with my bare hands.
And as quickly as the experience elevated me—it shook me. I got scared. Not of what had happened, but of what it meant.
What did I just invite in?
What if I can’t handle it?
So, I did what many of us do when we stand too close to the edge of our own power—I threw it away. Literally. I tossed the bone back into the yard like it was a piece of trash.
But a few hours later, the regret set in heavy. I remembered: I had been asking the universe for a wand—something sacred, powerful, and real. And the universe gave it to me. And I threw it away because I was afraid.
I ran back outside to get it, heart pounding, searching the fenced yard over and over.
But the bone was gone.
Vanished.
Like it had never been there.
Deep regret and shame followed—not just because I lost it, but because I realized something: I was afraid of the very thing I had asked for. And that fear said more about my readiness than my desire ever could.
But maybe that’s the lesson. If you’re scared of the very power you’re asking for, you’re not ready for it. My higher self knew.
Later, still trying to make sense of it all, I looked up the Baron on YouTube and found a man who claimed to connect with him. I visited his website to book a reading. The second I did, the reader’s energy showed up.
He appeared in a vision, riding a chariot—not pulled by horses, but three massive black snakes. He had control of them… but barely. The kind of control that could vanish in an instant. It reminded me of a lion tamer at a circus—respected, but not safe.
I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid of what he controlled.
And maybe… that’s where I’m at. Standing in the space between fear and power. Between wanting it and running from it. Learning that asking for power means being ready to wield it.
And if you’re not… the bone disappears