Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths

  His name was Robert. Once upon a time, I loved him. Once upon a time, I believed he was honorable. He wore the uniform of the United States Air Force. He swore an oath to his country, to decency, to something greater than himself. But Robert shattered all of it. First by using meth. Then..... He broke into a little girl’s bedroom. I’ll let that sit there. Because there are no excuses. No explanations. No justifications. He chose it. And he deserved every blow that father laid on him when he was caught. This is not the man I loved. That man is gone. What’s left is a predator in a prison jumpsuit, and he will likely die in there. Good. Let him. If Robert had died before this crime, I would have grieved him cleanly. Death is hard, but at least it’s honest. You cry, you bury, you remember the best of them. I could have carried that. Instead, I’m left with something far uglier — the knowledge that someone I loved betrayed his uniform, his victims, and every shred of respect anyone...

  The funny thing about poverty is that it doesn’t just come with an empty wallet. It can come with a full calendar. Welcome to the modern curse we call time poverty —where your hours are nickel-and-dimed by work, obligations, and errands until you’ve got nothing left for yourself. And don’t let the apps, planners, and productivity hacks fool you. This isn’t just about being disorganized. This is systemic. It’s cultural. It’s the way society keeps us exhausted and compliant. What Is Time Poverty? It’s that constant gnawing sense that there aren’t enough hours in the day. Not because you’re lazy, but because you’re over-leveraged. Between the job, the house, the kids, the commute, the endless digital pings, and the unpaid labor nobody thanks you for—your “free” time gets boiled down to a few scraps. Sound familiar? Yeah. That’s time poverty. The Toll It Takes On your body : You can’t outrun exhaustion, no matter how much coffee you drown yourself in. On your mind : Anx...

  Let’s just call it what it is: I’ve been dragged under by a sinus infection from hell. Not the cute, seasonal sniffle. Not the, “Oh, I’ll brew some tea and soldier through.” This beast set up camp behind my face and has refused to vacate, no matter how many steamy showers, saline rinses, or over-the-counter bribes I throw at it. I’ve fought hurricanes, bureaucracy, and the occasional gossip-driven witch hunt, but this? This has knocked me flat. I've even brought in the big guns, the anti-biotics and this thing refuses to submit, lik a brat in a dungeon.  Down for the Count Here’s the thing about being sick when you’re a witch, writer, and perpetual doer-of-things: you don’t get to hit pause on the universe. The altar still hums. The inbox still fills. The world doesn’t care that you feel like your skull is stuffed with wet cement and broken glass. And yet, when your body lays you out, you learn real fast what gets prioritized. Spoiler: it’s not the blog posts or the per...

 If you’ve been wondering where the hell I’ve been—trust me, I’ve been wondering too. Life decided to stack my plate higher than a Waffle House at 2 a.m. First came the work schedule that ate my energy whole, then the arrival of my brand-new granddaughter (yes, I’m officially the witchy grandma with the twinkle in her eye and a smudge stick in her purse). After that, I packed up for the Northwest Tarot Symposium, where I got to talk shop with fellow card-slingers until my brain felt like a shuffled deck. And then, I had to leave early.  The universe thought it was funny to drop me flat with a sinus infection that could probably knock out a small elephant. Glamorous, I know. I struggled home on a 3 and a half hour drive and fell into my husbands arms. But here’s the point—I’ll be back, and soon. Burnt Sage and Blunt Truths isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I. I’ve got words brewing, spirits whispering, and plenty of sage to burn. So hang tight—once I can breathe again wit...