The Bayou Fairy

A Life That Learned to Listen

Omaira Falcon was born and raised in New York City,
where she learned early how to be resourceful, creative, and observant.

When she was seven, her father died of cancer.
At nine, her mother moved them to Puerto Rico in search of a better life.
There, surrounded by sea and sky,
listening became second nature.

Loss arrived again when she was a teenager,
reshaping her plans and her sense of direction.
She joined the U.S. Army to fund her education,
serving overseas in Istanbul, Turkey, and Livorno, Italy—
learning discipline, impermanence, and how identities form around survival.

Later, she settled in New Orleans,
a place where water moves slowly
and music carries memory.

Across the years, she has lived many lives inside one body—daughter, sister,
student, soldier, caretaker, gardener, technologist, songwriter/troubadour
bringing music and poetry into performance venues, festivals, hospitals, hospices, and homes,
sitting with those who were learning how to leave,
and those learning how to stay.

None of these roles define her.
Each taught her something about listening.

How the Bayou Fairy Was Named

The name Bayou Fairy came later—
not as an identity to become,
but as a recognition.

After military service and a life-altering injury,
music returned as a form of healing.
Poems became songs.
Songs became a way to stay present.

In the quiet of Southeast Louisiana’s countryside—
among oak trees, water, and long pauses—
it became clear that what she had been seeking
was not external.

The fairy was not found.
She was remembered.

Not as something magical or separate,
but as a way the universe moves through one life—
creatively, gently, and without urgency.

What She Believes (and What She Doesn’t)

She does not belong to a single religion or philosophy.

She has studied and listened to many traditions—
Christian mysticism, Zen, Taoism, Buddhism, yogic breath, Quantum Healing—
not to collect answers,
but to notice what remains when explanations fall away.

What remains is always the same:

Presence.
Attention.
Love as a way of seeing.

She believes there is nothing wrong with you.

No spiritual destination you’ve missed.
No version of yourself you must become.
No escape required.

What hurts is not brokenness,
but forgetfulness.

Here Now

If you spend time here, you may notice:

• your breath slowing

• your thoughts loosening

• your body feeling less like a problem

• your life feeling less like something to fix

Nothing is asked of you.

No belief.
No practice.
No promise.

Only a willingness
to pause long enough
to notice what has been noticing you all along.