Huaca is a Quechua word that refers to something imbued with spiritual power. It can be a physical place, object, being, or natural feature of the landscape that carries presence and meaning. A huaca can also arise in spirit form and take any shape. It’s not defined by appearance alone, but by relationship.
This is what I’ve been discovering through lived experience, not theory.
I’ve been practicing Aimless Wandering, a way of walking in nature that isn’t guided by plan or destination, but by intuitive attention. It allows something deeper than thought to choose direction. It’s a practice of noticing what calls me, what connects me to the natural world, and what asks for presence.
For me, one of the clearest signals in this practice has been orange peels.
The first time I did a shamanic journey to recover a spirit huaca, it appeared as an orange 🍊. My body-mind made its own meaning of the symbol, and the essence of it was simple. If I see orange peels in daily life, it’s a reminder to stop, pay attention, and tune in to spirit; allow intuition to take over. So when I see orange peels on the ground now, especially while out walking, it’s a signal to slow the forward motion of thinking and open my aperture of perception.
Recently, I planned a walk around the local high school track. I had an audiobook ready that I was really looking forward to and earbuds in hand. When I stepped out of the car, I saw several orange peels in the grass.
Something in me shifted immediately and my plan dissolved. I paused, softened my body, dropped my shoulders, unclenched my jaw, and let my attention widen. I set an intention to simply be led, while still welcoming (but largely setting aside) the inevitable commentary of the mind.
As I began walking, perception shifted. I wasn’t scanning the world for resources or pretty possessions but for nature beings seeking closer relationship. Stones, plants, and small natural objects began to feel like they carried intention of their own. Sometimes there’s a clear sense that a rock simply wants to be picked up and moved, not taken. Other times, something feels like it wants to come home with me to support my healing work. These become my physical huacas.
That day I also met geese on a pond, dragonflies over lily pads, and ducks moving through still water. Nothing was planned, yet everything felt like participation in a larger field of awareness. And none of it would have happened if I had followed my original plan.
But what stood out most wasn't any single encounter, but the way I was led into a place I didn’t even know existed…
Past the high school’s sports fields, there is quite a bit of town-owned land. There’s an open field I’ve crossed many times with a lone grove of trees standing in the middle of it. Normally I’d cross the field and go to the trees, but I didn’t want to walk through the now tall grass because of ticks. My mind also reminded me that I might lose my sense of direction if I went into the unknown woods adjacent to that field.
Alongside that belief, though, something subtler was present. A felt sense of orientation. A knowing that I could stay aware without contracting into fear.
So I turned into the woods instead and followed a path I’d never been brave enough to explore.
What I found was a network of beautiful trails! Well marked paths, small bridges over streams, moss and lichen on stone, and mature trees holding the landscape like they had been waiting there all along.
And then, again, I came upon another orange peel. A second signal in a completely different place. For me, that repetition isn’t proof of anything external, but a felt encouragement to stay in this mode of attention rather than defaulting back into control.
This practice isn’t about huacas alone. It’s about perception itself.
The thinking mind is a powerful tool. It plans, organizes, and protects. But it’s not the only form of intelligence available, and not always the first one I need to lead with.
There’s intuition. There’s embodied knowing. There’s a kind of intelligence that arises through direct contact with life as it unfolds.
When I stay close to that, something in me relaxes. Life feels less like something to manage and more like something to participate in.
I still forget. I still tighten. I return to belief, planning, and control.
Then something simple brings me back. A breath, a softening, or a piece of the natural world asking for attention.
Sometimes even an orange peel on the ground.
And I remember again that intelligence isn’t confined to thought.
It’s something I’m in relationship with, and something that’s always here when I’m willing to listen.