Journal

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.