Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths

And this is where the posers step aside. Some books are easy to buy. Click, add to cart, delivered with the toothpaste and the cat litter. Then there are the others — the deep-rooted ones, the smoke-heavy ones, the ones the land itself protects. The ones you have to hunt. I spent weeks slipping through used-book graveyards, stalking listings like a wolf after a deer. Watching prices spike, vanish, reappear like ghosts. And then — finally — not one, but both of them dropped into my hands like bones from an ancestral altar: 📚 Mountain Magick — Edain McCoy 📚 In a Graveyard at Midnight — Edain McCoy Not reprints. Not watered-down summaries. Not “inspired by Appalachia” cottagecore. The real damn thing. Old-road knowledge, creek-bed knowledge. Magic made from necessity, not novelty. Witchcraft that still smells like woodsmoke and lard, not lavender-aesthetic Instagram filters. I didn’t just buy books. I reclaimed a lineage. --- Why These Two Matter (and why most wi...

  A Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths Dispatch Let me tell you something: Appalachia may get called a lot of things — backward, isolated, rough-around-the-edges — but stupid sure as hell isn’t one of them. And lately, folks in the hollers have been serving up some of the finest, funniest, pettiest resistance this side of the Smokies. And who are they trolling? ICE. Yes, that ICE. The same federal agency that still can’t figure out that an Appalachian grandpa named Burl has more survival instinct, community loyalty, and strategic stubbornness than their entire PR department combined. Turns out, when ICE shows up in the mountains trying to do whatever it is they think they’re doing — locals have decided to… well… play dumb in that razor-sharp, bless-your-heart Appalachian way that slices like a switchblade wrapped in homespun charm. **“You Seen So-and-So?” “Well, reckon I might’ve… unless I didn’t.”** Appalachian folks have perfected an art form: answering a question in a way...

  If trolling ICE with misdirections were an Olympic sport, Appalachia would sweep the podium in every category. But the latest trend? Whew. It’s pure, undiluted mountain-grade mischief. Folks have started telling ICE agents things like: “You’ll find him if you go whistle in the woods.” “Look straight up in them trees.” “Just follow them crying baby sounds.” And listen — anyone actually from the mountains understands this is the equivalent of telling someone, “Go pet that bobcat, it likes strangers.” “Go whistle in the woods” — translation: absolutely not On paper, it sounds harmless. To outsiders, maybe even whimsical. But in Appalachian dialect? That’s basically: “Get out of here before you embarrass yourself further, and enjoy being lost.” It’s a polite middle finger wrapped in folklore. The kind we deploy when we’re done answering questions we don’t want to answer — which, surprise, is most of the time when the federal government shows up uninvited. “Look...

  Or, why I'm such a demanding witch.  Some folks talk about “getting back up” like it’s a motivational poster. Cute little mountain silhouettes, sunrise colors, all that Pinterest nonsense. Me? I got back up after being drop-kicked by two different cancers. In three years. Not in a “delicate warrior goddess” way. More like: “Oh, you want to take me out? Line up. I’ve survived worse before breakfast.” Let’s rewind. 2020 — Stage 4 Lung Cancer Yeah. That one. The big, terrifying, movie-script diagnosis nobody wants to get. Stage 4 lung cancer. With the EGFR mutation. The kind of thing that makes doctors sigh through their masks. But here’s the twist: EGFR meant I had a targeted therapy option—Tagrisso. And Tagrisso? Tagrisso looked my cancer dead in the eye and said: “Sit your ass down.” And it did. Eradicated every bit of it in my lungs and lining. Gone. Handled. Cleared out like a bad tenant who finally got evicted. Done within 7 months.  I kept b...

  Some days, y'all, even I look at my altar like it’s a gym membership I forgot I’m paying for. Right now mine is in need of maintenance. Dusting, refreshing offerings, maybe a few new crystals. You ALWAYS need crystals and anyone who says different you must banish from your life immediately. You don't need that negativity in your life. Anyway... We all hit that wall—the one made of exhaustion, overwhelm, and the sharp little voice whispering, “Not today… maybe tomorrow… maybe next moon cycle… maybe never.” And for a minute, it’s tempting. The spiral is warm, the couch is soft, and the world will not, in fact, crash into the sun if I fail to burn incense today. But here’s the part I had to swallow whole this last month: Magic doesn’t wait for your mood. It never has. My ancestors didn’t get “breaks.” My great-grandmother didn’t ask the mountain witches of Appalachia if she could have a “mental health day” before throwing iron at whatever the hell was creeping around the ...

  There’s a particular kind of silence in Traditional Craft — not secrecy for secrecy’s sake, but the silence of marrow-deep knowing . When you come from a line, whether it’s blood, bone, or the kind of spirit-kin that chooses you rather than births you, the Craft is less learned and more remembered. It lives in the body. It breathes under the skin. But gods help me — teaching it? That’s another beast entirely. Because most witches today have been raised on: Aesthetic witchcraft Instant gratification spirituality TikTok spells with glitter, moon water, and vibes “Manifestation” without discipline A belief that calling yourself something makes it true They want the title , not the transformation. They want the power , not the process. And in a Family Tradition, the process is everything. The Blessing of Teaching Your Trad There is beauty in it. Watching someone: Unravel themselves Shed their paper masks Stand naked in the truth of who they actu...

  Why the Mountains Don’t Recognize Everyone Who Claims Them. There’s been a lot of noise lately in the witchcraft spaces — new faces arriving with elaborate titles, curated imagery, and declarations of lineage as if ancestry can be purchased, assembled, or AI-generated. So let’s get one thing straight: Not everyone who claims the mountains is of the mountains. Not everyone who calls herself a Granny Witch has ever sat at the feet of a woman who brewed tea that could end fever and marriages with equal precision. And no amount of ethereal portrait filters can mirror the look in the eyes of someone who has paid for their sight. My jar of death coins The Rise of the Aesthetic Witch We’ve all seen her. She appears suddenly, already branded. Already titled. Already enlightened. Her practice is: curated altar photos oracle decks arranged like boutique displays “ancestral messages” that sound suspiciously like motivational quotes Her magic exists in a mood , no...