Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths

  There are places where the veil isn’t just thin — it’s threadbare. And sometimes, if you’re unlucky or chosen (and aren’t those often the same thing?), you trip on a loose stitch and fall right through. That’s how I met the woman in the swamp. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind. My name is Brenna. I’ve been called hedge-witch, storm-sister, and that weird lady who lives in the house with all the rosemary. I’ve walked circles in cornfields and called lightning in the dead of July. But nothing — nothing — prepared me for what started that October morning when the cats began to speak Latin and the river ran backwards for an hour. It started with a thread. A literal one. Red. Unraveling across my floor like someone had knocked over a spool and let it roll all the way out of the world. I followed it. Of course I did. And now? I’m in a place where the trees whisper in Old Tongue and nothing has a shadow unless it wants to. A place where familiars walk on two legs and the de...

  🔥 Smoke, Stars, and Shenanigans: A Love Letter to Magical Camping Festivals There’s a certain kind of magic you can’t bottle. You can’t distill it into a candle, tuck it into a spell jar, or even write it down in your prettiest grimoire. You just have to live it — in the thick of a humid July night, smelling like cedar smoke and sweat and half-melted bug spray, sitting on the tailgate of someone’s dusty pickup truck with a half-drunk mason jar of questionable moonshine and a heart full of wonder. Gods, I miss magical camping festivals. I miss the way the campfire smoke would cling to everything you owned like a jealous ex. I miss the laughter echoing from across the field, someone strumming badly on a ukulele, and a couple of folks arguing whether Hekate prefers red wine or mead (answer: she likes both, you’re missing the point). I miss the hush of a midnight ritual where every breath feels holy and the slow, slanted sunlight of early morning filtering through tarp-covered te...

  Grimoire Pages? Yes or No?

  There’s magic, and then there’s Alaska. I’ve done rituals in cramped hotel rooms, cast circles in truck beds, and lit candles with a Bic in roadside motels. But this? This is different. Alaska doesn’t whisper magic — it roars it. It hums in the glacier-fed rivers, in the stubborn spruce trees, in the bone-deep cold that reminds you: you are small, but you are part of something bigger. I’m writing this from Anchorage, where even the ravens look like they know things. (And I’m not just talking about the spilled french fries in the parking lot.) The land here doesn’t politely host your magic — it demands your respect before it’ll let you weave a single thread of it. 🌲 Magic in Motion: Practicing on the Road When you’re a witch constantly in motion — a traveling practitioner, a road-weary crone with a carry-on full of herbs and crystals — you learn to adapt. But Alaska tests even the seasoned among us. This place doesn’t want your carefully curated altar aesthetic. It wants raw. R...

  A not-entirely-metaphorical survival guide for witches owned by cats Step 1: Understand the Beast You’re Dealing With Your familiar — let’s be clear — is not just a cat. She’s a sentient, moon-fueled entity wrapped in fur, attitude, and 300% more chaos than any normal mammal should contain. She woke you up early. She demanded affection, food, and a sacrifice in the form of a water glass knocked to the floor, and your FDT pins launched at your head like skeet while you slept. She is your problem now. Forever. But also? She’s magic. And you love her. (You must — because the alternative is she’s haunting your walls at 3am for fun.)                                                                                  Literally nesting i...

Alright witches, it’s time we had a little heart-to-heart — one that isn’t filtered through Instagram aesthetics or typed out in 42 Discord threads. I say this with love, salt, and the full power of my black coffee and ancestors behind me: The online world has been a gift — especially through COVID. For a lot of us, Zoom circles were our lifeline. Digital covens gave us structure when the world had none. We lit candles in unison from different zip codes, we typed spells into chats with trembling hands, and we learned to raise energy through ethernet cables and camera feeds. And for that, I am deeply, genuinely grateful. But Witches. It’s time to get out. The screens that once connected us are now starting to contain us. They’ve become soft prisons that give us just enough of a hit to keep us from reaching for more. We’ve mistaken Instagram comments for mentorship. We’ve traded the warmth of shared ritual for emoji reactions. We’ve convinced ourselves that solitary practice must ...

  If you’re here from the Torchbearers post—if your soul stirred, your bones hummed, and you whispered “Finally” into your coffee cup—then this is your sign: It wasn’t just a post. It was a summoning . And you, witch, priestess, druid, hedge-rider, animist, rootworker, mystic—you heard it. Now you’re standing at the edge of the woods, torch in hand, wondering what comes next. Here’s the answer: We’re building it. Together. Slow. Intentional. Human. No apps. No filters. No algorithms telling us who we are. Just the steady work of connection—one witch to another. One story. One candle. One thread at a time. 🖤 From My Inbox to the Flame Since that first post went up, my inbox has been flooded—and not in the “oh that’s cute” kind of way. I mean truly, beautifully overwhelmed . Dozens of you reached out. Witches in the wilderness. Priests who never stopped holding sacred space. Solitaries who have quietly tended their altars for decades. Your stories cracked me wide open...

  With the rise of aesthetic witchcraft and social media coven culture, a lot of folks see the sparkle but not the sweat. They imagine joining a coven is as easy as showing up in a flowing skirt with a crystal in their bra and a moon tattoo. What they don’t see is the actual commitment , discipline , emotional labor , and yes — financial investment — that goes into even being considered as a dedicant, let alone a full initiate. There’s a difference between being witch- curious and being ready to step into a coven. A real one. With lineage. With elders. With rules. Not a meet-up group where people half-remember moon phases and pull oracle cards over mimosas — but a working, breathing magical body with a soul, a structure, and a sacred fire. So let’s talk about what it takes to be a seeker — the very first step on the path toward becoming a dedicant in a serious coven or magical group. Because let’s be honest: a lot of folks want the aesthetic, the drama, the title. Very fe...