A Visit Beyond My Usual World

I went to a ribbon-cutting for With Grace & Joy, a Wellness Studio, out on the outskirts of Warren County, in an area I hadn’t explored before. I actually drove past it the first time and had to turn around, which somehow feels fitting now.

The building itself felt like a long, open cabin—part home, part gathering space. A large stone fireplace anchored one wall, with a kitchen off to the side. Along another wall hung small circular mirrors, catching light in a way that felt both intentional and a little hard to place.

Some details pulled me into memories I didn’t expect. A rough slab bench—cut like something straight out of a lumber mill—reminded me of a place from earlier in my life.

Across the road from my parents’ property, we owned about 5.5 acres of wooded, undeveloped land—mostly hills with old logging trails running through it. A man named Mr. Dave, known as the Herb Doctor, lived nearby and had developed his land a bit. The footpath to his house was long and winding, but it was always worth the walk. I remember going over to visit just to see what he was working on—his place filled with herbs, rough-built structures, and a kind of practical creativity that came straight from the land.

Seeing that bench brought all of that back.

Near the fireplace was a collection of instruments—some familiar, others not. Singing bowls, tuning forks, chime-like tubes, tingsha cymbals, and a few tongue drums, including one nearly identical to a blue 14-note drum I have at home. They even had an autoharp—one I discovered in my own home a few years after purchasing it from the previous owners. A large gong stood nearby with a note asking people not to touch it. It made me wonder if this place hosted something more interactive than just quiet meditation.

The kitchen had food laid out, none of it familiar. I tried one of the treats—it tasted like grass to me—but I finished it anyway. I suspected some of it may have come from Robbie D’s Lil Greens, as he was there and often works with microgreens. I had tried his products once before in a wild-flavored lactose-free ice cream from C&C Frozen Treats.

After that, I avoided trying anything else. Later, someone offered a pastry with mushrooms, and I passed. I didn’t want to risk eating something unfamiliar that might not sit well with me later, especially in an unfamiliar environment.

One detail that caught my eye was the refrigerator, covered in magnetic poetry words. At first glance, it felt playful and inviting—but when I looked closer, I noticed many of the phrases were still grouped together, repeated, and hadn’t really been separated from their original sheet. It gave me the sense that it may have been placed there recently, almost as a way to add character rather than something people had actually been using over time.

Out back, a large concrete patio overlooked the horses. I leaned on the railing for a while, watching them. Most were eating—some from feeder rings, some from the ground, one from a bucket. A large horse, almost like a Clydesdale, stood out. In the distance, a black horse just stared off toward something I couldn’t see. I found myself trying to figure out what it was looking at, and what horses really do all day beyond eating and waiting.

Eventually, I went back inside.

As usual, I found myself helping with the ribbon—holding it taut for the ceremony. I had pocketed the paperclip earlier, folded my half neatly, and clipped it back together so it would be easier for them to handle.

But something else stood out to me: I didn’t feel comfortable sitting anywhere.

The slab benches didn’t seem like they’d support me. The smaller chairs in the back room looked too fragile. Even the chairs near the fireplace felt too narrow. For many, the space probably felt warm and welcoming—but I didn’t feel like I fit in it.

There also seemed to be two groups: Chamber folks and everyone else. Conversations mostly stayed within those circles. If you didn’t already know someone, it was hard to step in. I started thinking about leaving.

Then the announcements began.

They talked about classes—some women-only, some focused on Reiki, others described as deeply emotional or even life-changing. I think everyone is looking for something to help them move past what’s holding them back—sometimes that’s real change, and sometimes it’s simply hope. The owner has trained in multiple countries and now teaches others, with people traveling in from out of town.

What struck me was how often I’ve been hearing the word “Reiki” lately. For years, I hadn’t heard it at all. Now it keeps coming up—from different people, in completely different contexts.

One person assumed I might associate it with something negative before explaining it as healing through touch. What stood out to me wasn’t the explanation itself—it was the assumption. They didn’t know anything about my background, or the things I had explored and experienced before I ever stepped into a church.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand things—seeking truth, meaning, and how different ideas connect. That’s left me with a mind that doesn’t easily settle in one place. It questions, compares, and sometimes holds conflicting thoughts at the same time.

So hearing something unfamiliar doesn’t immediately push me away—but it also doesn’t mean I accept it without trying to understand it either.

Then the owner led a guided activity.

Music played softly from a Bluetooth speaker as we were asked to breathe, stretch, and “push energy.” I used to imagine things like this—clouds of color drifting away from my feet as I moved through a room like dust. Then we were told to walk toward something in the room—without overthinking it—and then to something else.

I’ll be honest—it didn’t land well for me. With so many people in the room, it felt less personal than I expected something like that to be.

In a crowded room, being told to move without direction, I didn’t know where to go. I felt like a penguin just wandering. I kept thinking about slipping out the door, but we had been asked to stay inside. At one point, I deliberately moved away from where she was, just to create some distance. It wasn’t a situation I was comfortable in, and I was relieved when it ended.

Reflections

I never did find the person with my matching quote. After asking around, it became clear that no one else had it—or at least no one came forward.

That’s been sitting with me since I got home.

The message—“Stand in front of your past and let it be”—feels strangely tied to the whole experience. The place pulled up memories I hadn’t thought about in years—family visits, older ways of living, even a time in my life when I was more curious about the metaphysical.

Maybe the point wasn’t to find a match at all.

Maybe it was just to notice what surfaced—and let it be.

I still can’t quite make heads or tails of it.

There were things that pulled at my interest—the crank phone, the old TV, the horses, birds in the skylight, the slab wood bench, and musical instruments most people wouldn’t recognize.

They felt real. Grounded.

But other parts pushed me away—the guided movement, the unfamiliar practices, the closeness of the room.

It felt like two worlds sharing the same space, but not quite blending.

And I’m not sure where I fit between them.

I walked away feeling like I had stepped into a world I don’t often see.

It’s not that anything was wrong. For many people, this place probably offers something meaningful—comfort, healing, connection.

But for me, it felt like a place that wasn’t built for someone like me.

It seemed more tuned for people who are closer to the earth, who move slower, who are comfortable sitting in stillness and unfamiliar experiences.

I spend most of my time in a very different world—technology, structure, constant motion. Slowing down doesn’t come naturally. Even on Sundays, it takes effort.

But maybe that’s part of it.

Sometimes stepping into a different world—even briefly—shows you where you stand.

I don’t think this is a space built for someone like me—and that’s okay.

If I ever went back, I imagine it would be a different experience. This was a Chamber event welcoming a new business, and what I saw was more of a gathering than the space in its normal rhythm. I’ve only observed the setting, not the full day-to-day experience it offers. I haven’t attended any of the classes or explored whether they might be useful to me.

It’s clear this space is built with intention—focused on helping people slow down, reflect, and experience something deeper than the pace of everyday life. While that didn’t fully connect for me, I can see how it would for others. Places like this bring a different kind of energy into the area, drawing people in and expanding what our community has to offer.

What stood out most is that it is built for someone. There’s a clear sense of purpose here. And in a community like ours, there’s real value in making room for different kinds of spaces to exist for different kinds of people. Not everything has to resonate with me to still be worth supporting.