On this day last year in Viana Spain, I took what I thought to be my last breath.
Still not easy to speak of, but my heart wants to share a most precious Camino miracle.

Three days before, I awoke to bug bites. Inconclusive as to what kind. I believe spider.
Many large oozing, extremely itchy bleeding welts covered my body. My limbs and neck swollen to triple in size.
I managed to get creams at a pharmacy and an injection from a doctor. Both pharmacist and physician did not speak English, nor I Spanish. So I do not know what was administered.
On this day, two days after treatment, the itch was unbearable and I became extremely cold. I put on all the clothes I had in my backpack and walked into the village to find warmth. Remembering a church ruins from first arriving, I laid down on a crumbling altar. The warm enfolding of Spain’s sun streamed through the sacred roofless structure.
Within moments I began to loose consciousness. I knew I was dying.
First panic and fear. Realizing there was not time for that, a gentle deep peace washed over and through me. I prepared. Waited. Drifting in and out. Between here and there.
I’m not quite sure how long it was before hearing a voice tell me to go get food. Feeling too weak I ignored the first call. It came again stronger.
Something gave me the strength to obey.
Just around the corner I could read a sign Vegetariano and Quinoa. The day before thoughts that it would be wise to start eating clean again. Here in the US I must avoid eating gluten but heard it may be possible in Europe. My stomach was not in pain but I was most likely inflamed. Not good with the infected bites.
After the first taste of quinoa a man came up to look at the menu that was near me.
Not speaking in days, I said “The quinoa is very good”
As I spoke, I remember thinking how odd it was that I was talking to this man.
He asked if I was alright?
Surprised he spoke English, I paused. He asked again. I showed him my hands and legs and said.. I think I am dying.
He told me he was a medic in Ireland. Then immediately ran to get me antibiotics and steroids that he had brought on his journey with him.

I am sad that I was too ill to get name of the man who saved my life. But I think in the not knowing, no future contact. Just the miracle memory. There is Grace.

Much has happen between these two October fifths.
It is early morning as I write this from a tiny little Goddess temple in a closet at Ananda Ashram in NY
Giving thanks with deep deep gratitude for all that is and all that was.


On my way to find sun. One of the most treasured sights I will ever see, feel.
A man whistling Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Holding and swinging his father’s hand.







The last day I was able to walk the Camino it took 12 hours to go a distance of a few miles.
An on and off again rainy day.
Near dusk it started to rain hard. I could see the village up ahead but I couldn’t get there. It seemed to have backed further away with each step.
Maneuvering was difficult using sticks as crutches under my blowing poncho. My pack and front medicine pouch were getting soaked. The weight felt heavier. Tears burned my eyes and blurred my vision.
A man came up beside me.
Snapped the sides of my poncho closed, adjusted my hood, and covered my bags.
He held my hand and said a prayer in Spanish. Told me to pray to Saint James. I nodded.
He then reached in his zippered belt and gave me a prayer card. The Pilgrims’ Prayer.
I turned to place the card my zippered belt. Looked up. And he was gone.
That night in my bunk I overheard two pilgrims talking about a Spanish man Angel that walks the trail.

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Not new, but more consistent. A ringing in my right ear that comes with a thought that.. rings true.
A confirmation. Nod from the heavens. God.

I still ask, pray (beg), for my purpose. My reason for being. A question my mama came to dread. I was relentless.
The happiest saddest child she could imagine. She would say, Why can’t you just be. ~Rest your thoughts and heart.


All these things on these pages have been coming to me like wildfire. No thought or hesitation. No hemming and hawing. They come and I do.
A face serum? Never was that in my plan.
A friend and a long hot day of walking the Camino was the inspiration. Too tired to move in the hostel that evening, Sunday (yes her name. Great right?!), my first friend I met on the Camino, led me to the bathroom with a tube of something and instructions to wash and apply to my face. I listened when Sunday spoke. My guardian angel right from the start. A sassysmartFUNeverysecond girl from Mexico. If you’ve seen the movie Wild, her pack was That Big. Anything you could ever want or need, she had. And if it wasn’t in there, it was in a suitcase somewhere in Spain. AND she spoke Spanish!
We would come together on the trail and then loose each other for days. Only to meet again. Thank you God.
One day I walked into a bar ..sounds like the beginning of a joke (an eating drinking they are called) and there she was all dressed up! Head to fancy shoe toes, in fancyyy clothes! Can’t remember details but something about a suitcase arrival and things she bought in Madrid before beginning her walk. Amazing that girl! Not a day goes by that I don’t giggle with thoughts of her and other cRaZy, not so fancy, get ups 🙂
The face stuff was heaven and I slept soundly for the first time while away.

This past Christmas laid up on the couch remembering that tube of magic, I ordered supplies and mixed some up. Pretending to be an alchemist imbuing every bottle with loving intentions and the vibration of Gold. Giving it away to friends and strangers on the streets. Due to a crazy convoluted happening in my life, too long to explain, one of my favorite companies may private label it this fall. Still too nervous to put an exclamation mark on it. !

Always a fan of gorilla art, art abandonment, and magical little come upons of creativity. A lot of it on the trail. Delightful and unexpected.
Another inspiration. To leave my milagro earrings in secret places for meant to be finders.

I’ve been making art with Mexican milagro prayer charms for a long time. The stories of their miracles are quite special to me, so I made a pair of earrings to wear while walking. Jesus on my left ear and a leg on my right.
I wore them every day up until the end when the pain got bad enough for even my ears to hurt.
The night I came home I was sort of a wreck. Dazed and weak. My hair was matted and my clothes ripped and dirty. It had been four days of travel and many days before trying to stay alive. It sounds so dramatic and I hate that, but it’s the only way to understand the potency of what happened next.
While undoing and sorting my pack, checking for bedbugs, I pulled my earrings from the small white pillowcase I had put them in. Held them in my hand and said,
No matter what happened I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one thing. There were so many miracles. Miracles come in least expected ways.
I opened my hand, it was hard to focus. Something was different. Three pieces instead of two.
The foot had broken off of the leg milagro at the ankle.
Where I fractured mine.

On Instagram (cynthiamilagro) I sometimes post a photo and hint of where I am leaving the milagros that day. #littleleavings until I think of something else to call them. They are tucked in tiny decorated match boxes with Frida Kahlo images (..always loved her strength and wildheart!).
A ringing told me to do this. Share miracles.

I’m not sure I’ll ever stop searching. Asking.
Able to just be and rest.
Still the happiest saddest child.
But oh so very grateful for everything and All. Especially now for singing ears







I did not know my ankle was fractured until I came home from the Camino. The only thing I knew was that the pain wasn’t getting better, only worse. One doctor I went to said it was a sprain and just needed rest.
Using two sticks for support, pack on back, I hung a medicinebag from my neck. Pilgrims, as called, would see me struggling and offer pain meds. And in desperation, no mater what language the directions were in, I’d take them. Everything I had been taught about doing that stuff, I unlearned.
I rested in hostels a few days at a time. Sometimes having to plead my stay in the only Spanish I knew, tears. Most hostel rules were one day only. Sometimes they had no choice but to keep me because I was unable to take a step. Not being able to respect and follow the rules was emotionally difficult.
Realizing after my infection with bug bites (another story) that no matter what I had heard, I really couldn’t suddenly be wheat tolerant in Spain. In order to heal I needed to eat clean again.
My limited mobility made it difficult to get food. Which made taking all the pain medication I was taking even more dangerous. Somewhere along the way I found out the sharp piercing pain in my stomach was maybe leading to a stomach bleed.
In the medicinebag were medicines and creams, a bag of potato chips, half a bar of chocolate, and an orange. Because of weight I’d only carry a tiny bit of water, a couple of inches in my bottle; just enough to take my pills. Such a huge mistake I didn’t think about at the time. How could I possibly heal with dehydration. But how could I drink and then not be able to make it to a bathroom, or tree.
Because of my fear of a stomach bleed I rationed my food. 10 potato chips, a square of chocolate, or an orange section with a pill (or three). No longer eating for hunger, only for pain management.
One of the last few days I was able to walk the trail it was very hot and I was very hungry and thirsty. My thoughts went only to fruit. Every fruit imaginable. I could feel, see, and taste them all. I kept thinking of the different ones I had in Brazil. The colors and creamy textures and sweet juices. Debating whether to eat my whole orange and get it over with, I looked up and saw something ahead. A table to the right of the trail with a figure standing behind it. How could this be. I was in the middle of nowhere. Fruit.



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I’ve never felt comfortable with the last name I was given or had taken. Like a see through shirt you’re too lazy to change. Arms folded across your chest. A little bit cold, so you grab a shawl. Still not right. Constricted.
A few months before my walk I announced out loud without even thinking, I’m changing my name to Cynthia Milagro.
For many years I have been making jewelry using Mexican milagros. Small metal folk charms in the shape of body parts, animals, and sacred symbols. Placed in churches and on altars in request of milagros, Spanish for miracles. Thinking, maybe that was why it came to me, and felt Right.

The first person I met in France, I introduced myself, Cynthia Milagro. On my Camino credentials, a passport of sorts for the hostels, Cynthia Milagro.
For the first time in my life I felt like me.

“The Egyptians regarded the name (ren) as an aspect of soul and believed that any assault on a person’s name – for example, the defacement of an inscription – was an act of soul mutilation, even soul murder. At the start of my workshops, I ask everyone in the circle to begin by claiming his or her name and announcing it to the circle in a clear, ringing voice. ‘If you don’t like the name you’ve been given or are called by others, change it now and we’ll say it back to you.”
Robert Moss Active Dreaming

I did not know of the milagros that were to be along my way, and that neither my life, nor name, would ever be the same. 



I’ve been wanting to say something but haven’t known where to begin.
I used to have a place on the internet some years ago. Just a simple, often silly little thing. Each Sunday morning I’d post photos and thoughts about my week. In a way it helped me live more. Say yes to things I may not have. To see with different eyes.
My favorite part was gathering new friends who felt my words and shared my heart. Some I’ve met for real, and there are still someday ones, connecting through letters until.
A lot has happened since then.
One day I was reviewing my life. Thinking, boy, this has been pretty cushy almost too easy. I must be resting this time around. Last one must have been a doozy.
The very next day all was flipped upside down, inside out, and twirled around. Premonition?

I used blogger but now it’s all connected to googleland and something about that creeps me out. I’ve had a gmail account for awhile now that I still can’t use right. And from the things that appear, I feel it watches me sleep.
Here at wordpress and struggling. Seems a bit limiting compared to blogger. I don’t think I can change my font style or size without purchasing the deluxe plan. Those things are pretty important to me when I write. I’d like this to be smaller, softer. Maybe it is possible. Let me know, if you know, please.

To be honest, this really isn’t all blog. I’ve come here to talk about life, love, and miracles, and also to sell some creations that I’m really excited to share. Trying to raise money consciously to do some things I’m dreaming about.
I’ve landed in a new life place. Like air, I need to flyfree.
Blessed with loving supportive friends and family that say Go. Be.

In the fall I walked part of the Camino de Santiago. A 500 mile pilgrimage from France to Spain. I was looking for adventure and to find and share heartpeace. I did find adventure. Lost and found pieces of my heart along the way.
Gone five weeks. The first was health, happiness, and spaciousness. The next four became difficult, but precious. Sometimes hard to think and talk about. There were miracles that happened. Real ohdearsweetGod Miracles.
Not ready at all to leave there and come back. Remembering the sacredness and grace in each moment, tears fall.
I dragged home a broken ankle and some PTSD. Both are better.
If I could, I would change,