Journal

Last Tuesday at 2:14 AM I googled "am I dying or is this perimenopause." The internet returned both answers as equally plausible.

It has been raining for four days, the redbud is doing the thing it does, and the raccoon has eaten the kale starts again. This is the whole report.

You didn't volunteer for most of it. You just didn't refuse hard enough, early enough. Now your name is next to it in a spreadsheet somebody else made.

Nobody warns you about the mundane loneliness, the way nobody's shoes are by the door, the way the milk running out is your fault now, the way a weighted blanket does not shift when it dreams.

There's a raccoon who has decided the compost heap is his. I have tried everything, and last night I put the melon rind out and went inside.

A retelling of the myth of Macha, the goddess pretending to be ordinary whose husband bet her body at the king's fair. She won the race, and she cursed every man who watched.

The crocuses are pushing through whether you've finished grieving winter or not. Maybe that's the point.

A retelling of the myth of Circe. She turned men into pigs, and they all deserved it. Well, most of them deserved it.

Every self-help book wants you to prove you're broken enough to deserve fixing. Nope. You just need to be here.

You don't need a spa day. You need someone to tell you that brushing your teeth counts as a cleansing ritual. So here I am, telling you.

The self-help industrial complex wants you to manifest a "new you." I'd rather bury the old one properly first.

You don't need a fireplace, a forest, or a historically accurate ritual. You just need to survive the longest night. Here's how.

A very short story about candles, desperation, and the terrible inconvenience of getting exactly what you asked for.

This isn't a ritual. It's magical triage. Use in case of Mondays, in-laws, or that coworker who replies-all.

Your ancestors didn't dress up as slutty cats. They set extra places at the table and left the porch light on. Here's how to actually honor them.

I didn't inherit my grandmother's grimoire. I got her risotto spoon, warped, burnt on one edge, and apparently enchanted as hell.

You missed the full moon, again. Here's why that's fine and what to do instead of spiraling about your "failed practice."

I googled "spontaneous internal combustion spiritual meaning" at 3 AM. The internet had opinions. So did my endocrinologist.

The instructions said to meditate on what I wanted to release. I did not expect to release feelings about kitchenware.