At the cooling of the day, when the shadows stretch and the stillness settles,
God walks through the garden.
The trees breathe. The earth waits.
And a voice, soft as wind through fig leaves, calls out:
“Ayekah?”
Where are you?
It is not a command.
Not a punishment.
It is the ache of a parent searching for their beloved child.
It is the voice of Presence calling to absence.
Of Love calling to fear.
Of Wholeness calling to the fragmented self.
Ayekah – written in Hebrew as אַיֶּכָּה – is one of the most mysterious and intimate words in sacred scripture.
It appears only once in the Torah, in Genesis 3:9, just after Adam and Eve eat from the Tree of Knowledge and hide themselves.
“But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, ‘Where are you?’”
(Ayekah)
But this was no ordinary “Where are you?”
God knew their physical location. The question was not logistical—it was existential.
It was the first divine question ever spoken to humankind.
And it wasn’t about disobedience.
It was about disconnection.
Ayekah is made up of two root parts:
- “Ay” — meaning “where”, the search
- “Kah” — a poetic form of “you”, direct and intimate
Together, they form a plea more than a question.
It is as if God is saying:
“Where have you gone from me? From yourself? Why are you hiding?”
Too often, the story of Eden is read as the beginning of shame and exile.
But beneath the surface, there is a deeper story—one of grief and longing.
God does not thunder in anger.
He walks softly, calling. Like a father who cannot find his child.
The one who was just here… laughing, playing, naked and free… and now, gone.
And what does the child say?
“I heard you… and I was afraid… so I hid.”
This is not just Adam’s story.
This is the story of every human soul.
Each time we turn away from truth, from love, from our own essence,
we enter the hiding place of fear.
But the question still calls out:
Ayekah?
Even when we can’t hear it, it echoes quietly inside us—
in moments of confusion, longing, despair, and awakening.
Why We Chose This Name
We named our organisation Ayekah not because we have the answer—
but because we hold the question.
Every human being will one day face it.
In the mirror.
In silence.
In suffering.
In beauty.
In the liminal spaces between sleep and waking, birth and death, heartbreak and healing.
And in that sacred moment, something opens.
The soul leans forward.
The walls begin to soften.
At Ayekah, our role is not to give answers, but to listen with you,
to create a safe space where the soul feels safe enough to emerge,
to respond—truthfully, vulnerably, freely.
Whether through:
- Conscious Imagery or Conversation with the Higher Awareness,
- Plant Teachings or Sacred Passage Guidance,
- or simply sitting in presence with another soul…
We are here to honour the call.
To witness the return.
Ayekah is not a brand. It is a threshold.
A space between hiding and homecoming.
We live in a time of deep hiding.
From one another. From our inner truth.
We hide behind roles, screens, goals, beliefs, traumas, fears.
And yet, underneath the noise, something calls.
Not to scold—but to remind.
You are not alone.
You were never cast out.
You just forgot the sound of your name.
The world doesn’t need more shame.
It needs more spaces where the sacred question can be heard again.
Where people can stop running, slow down, and answer—honestly,
“Here I am.”
Practice of the Moment
— Hearing the Call
Take a few minutes to sit with yourself.
Close your eyes.
Breathe softly.
Imagine you are in a quiet garden.
The air is gentle.
The light is gold.
And you hear a voice—not outside of you, but within—
asking the ancient question:
“Ayekah?”
Where are you now, dear soul?
Don’t try to fix or explain.
Just listen.
Let the question meet you exactly where you are.
Then respond. With truth. With tenderness. With courage.
You may whisper:
“I’m here, but I feel lost.”
“I’m tired, but I want to remember.”
“I’m hiding, but I’m ready to be seen.”
Let that be enough.
Let this be your return.
“Ayekah” is the sound the soul makes when it’s ready to come home.
And every time you ask it,
every time you hear it,
you move a little closer to the Garden—
not the one lost long ago,
but the one that has always been
inside you.
