Astrocartography & the Basque Country

Earlier this year I came across something called astrocartography. The basic idea is that certain places in the world may align with us differently than others.

My curiosity started with Ojai, because I love it here. The pace, the nature, the creativity, the balance between solitude and connection. It feels aligned with who I am. As I explored further, the Basque region of France kept surfacing in ways that felt surprisingly similar. According to the maps, it was a place where I might feel especially at home — and possibly even find love.

What happened next felt almost strange. Once the idea entered my life, France started appearing everywhere. I'd randomly meet people from France or overhear French being spoken around me. Friends would bring up the Basque region without any prompting. Someone gifted me books on the region. It felt like the universe kept nudging me in that direction.

So earlier this month, I boarded a plane alone and headed to a small coastal town called Guéthary.

I quickly fell into a slower rhythm. Morning walks to coffee, long dinners outside, conversations with strangers, families gathering in the town square at night. The region felt grounded in a way that was both unfamiliar and strangely recognizable.

The trip wasn't about a packed itinerary. It became about openness. Listening to my intuition and allowing small decisions to guide the experience. Choosing one road over another. Walking into a quiet café. Leaving places that didn't feel right and returning to the ones that did.

Biarritz was a good example. On paper it seemed like somewhere I should explore, but the moment I arrived I could feel it wasn't what I was looking for. It felt crowded and disconnected from the quieter experience I had been settling into. I turned around and drove back to Guéthary almost immediately. The second I returned, I felt my nervous system relax again.

One morning I drove into Spain to Mirador Jaizkibel, where rolling green hills rise high above the ocean. Horses, sheep, goats, fog drifting through the hills, and the Atlantic stretching endlessly into the distance.

Then came the horses.

At first I saw one. Then two. Then four. Suddenly there were at least thirty of them moving freely through the hills. I just kept saying "oh my god" out loud to myself. I had tears in my eyes. It felt ancient, emotional, and strangely familiar all at once. At one point, a massive male horse began slowly walking directly toward me. I had no idea what to do. He was enormous and intimidating. My instinct was to tense up, but instead I slowed my breathing, relaxed my body, and quietly whispered, "I come in peace." That moment has stayed with me more than almost anything else from the trip.

I also came home with a lot of photographs. Landscapes, portraits, quiet observations made while wandering through small towns and along the coast. A local potter in her studio. Horses moving through the hills. Families near the ocean. Small moments that would have been easy to miss had I not been fully present. This trip reminded me why I'm drawn to photography in the first place. Not to capture spectacle, but to notice what's already there.