when the world is too much 
and my soul is tired of lifting up
a weary heart and battered bones

when the world is too much 
and the shadows in my brain are
screaming at me to succumb 

when the people around me no
longer feel like community but
like zombies clawing at my ankles

when the air feels like a smoke that
never leaves my throat and the water 
tastes like sorrow and fear

when my intuition and my gut
work in tandem to try to warn me
but instead, overload the whole system

It is then, when the world is too much
that I turn to what the world once was

the trees that sway in the hot breeze
their wide, crisp leaves
sheltering me from the sun

the blazing summer sun that
reminds me that burning to bright
can light the way for others

the birds that wake up each morning
and choose to sing joyfully
despite the adversities they face

the flowers that rise from clay dirt
and acidic water so that the
bees that depend on them can survive

when the world is too much
I sit in silence with the moon,
and she reminds me she is a friend

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on the cusp of the water’s edge, she waited,
her breath hitched, unsteady ~ held ~
as if she were unsure that oxygen
would continue to manifest in ample supply,

surely today was the day ~
Impending doom whispered in her ear
today was the day that her fears would come true
today was the day that the tide wouldn’t arrive

her hummingbird heart could be seen from space
pumping through the clammy skin on her chest,
each uncalibrated thump beating in tandem 
with a spiraling, a racing! a frantic thought in her head

are you prepared? 
Impending doom shouted over the crashing waves,
a manic laughed erupted, he was enjoying this ~
are you prepared for your world to come crashing down?

her fingers, frail and shaky, found their way
around the ringlets in her air
along the goosebumps on her skin ~ dug deep into the sand 
a feeble attempt to keep her physical form from sweeping away 

and then she felt a drop of sea water kiss her skin
a breath of salty air graced her lungs ~ ever so small ~
her shaky body took in another, and another,
~ deeper and longer and slower ~

until the cosmos released her from their grip 
and she was alone in the sand, still ~ quiet
the seagulls cawed, and the boats blew their horns
and the tide returned once more

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I often dream of flight ~ of leaping~
of moving somewhere simpler, 
somewhere cooler, somewhere blue

how nice would it be to feel a cool breeze,
an overcast day, hot coffee in August
and leave the sweltering, red sun behind 

sometimes I think if I travel enough,
explore every crack and crevice of earth
I'll find a perfect utopia, a forever home

in each place I find a moment, a breath,
a memory to which I'd like to commit
to capture and claim as my own

and yet, I return ~
to the heat, sun, and the complicated airs
around my swampy little brambled cottage

and the land reminds me that no human
can cast me away from the trees that
have witnessed generations of my face

that no podium is high enough to raise
man’s voice above nature’s,
and change the value of a human life

so I stay, and I meet my neighbor
and we drink iced coffee on her front porch
and dream of the day we’ll have cool blue skies

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through the foggy glass and
through the sheen of a bubble
the forms are fuzzy as I try to focus
my eyes on the beings the surround me

I rub my eyelids ~ squeaky like a windshield
and peer out at noses and eyes and hands and 
~ that looks just like mine
1 myriad of colors and styles but altogether 
the same

I turn to the mirror and pinch and push and pull
If I can see the beauty in the other eyes,
the other smiles and dimples and curves that are
constantly swirling in a vortex around me

then why, why?! why,
do I spend my precious hours picking apart the
features that I see in the mirror, like the
shape of my nose and the fullness of my face?

surely, surely, I can put down the lens
and pop the bubble instead.

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schedules meticulously written,
tabbed and color-coordinated,
control ~ control -  control!

It’s all planned out 
 ~ so ~
It will all go according to plan

a voice chuckled from the ether
Not malicious, not unkind
just, knowing 

that the illusion of control 
sits just under the surface
of the plan laid out in the stars.

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In childhood girls are often found to gravitate towards certain obsessions. Some girls are horse girls, some girls are soccer girls, or barbie girls or dirtbike girls, and then some, like myself, are spooky girls.

Ghosts, cryptids, vampires, werewolves, zombies, mummies, it didn’t matter, if it unsettled the rest of my family, it was most likely something I was into. Halloween was bigger than Christmas for me, and I would meticulously plan out my costume for months in advance. I grew up in a tumultuous household and my VHS tape (I know I am dating myself here) of The Addams Family was worn to almost shreds, constantly on repeat as I escaped into my dream family. Scooby Doo, Goosebumps, and so many other series served to deepen my obsession. The nineties really were a golden age for spooky kids.

This childhood fascination dwindled, as so many things do, as the nineties gave way to the aughts and my childhood gave way to puberty. Suddenly boys and parties and dances and elaborate makeup looks took precedence over Mothman and the Gila monster. It wasn’t until I reached my early thirties and was in the middle of a self actualization journey that the spark for all things spooky reignited after smoldering in the ashes of the back of my mind for so long.

So what is Summerween? Summerween is widely accepted to have originated in a 2012 episode of the show Gravity Falls. Basically in the show the townspeople love Halloween so much that they can’t wait until October to celebrate, so they throw festivities twice a year.

People liked the idea presented in the episode so much that they started implementing it in real life and thus, Summerween was born.

Why? It is simply fun. Do we need more of a reason than that? But in all seriousness I look forward to Summerween every year not only because of the spooky delights it brings, but because it can be a good escape during a time of year that can be challenging for some people. I love summer, but it is HOT where I live pretty much from May to October. As someone whose mental health correlates pretty strongly to the ability to spend time outside, the intense heat and time indoors in the summer can mess with me sometimes. Summerween is a fun, novelty escape from that, and a reminder of the joy that fall will bring in a few months.

How to celebrate Summerween:

The beauty of a holiday like Summerween is that you can celebrate it in whatever way and whenever it sounds fun to you. In Gravity Falls they give a specific date, I think it’s June 22nd or 23rd, but I have taken to celebrating whenever it feels needed. Here are some of my favorite low cost and low energy ways to do so.

1. Rent a scary movie. I love a good scary movie, anything with a good jump scare or suspenseful slasher, so I have a whole host of movies I like to revisit during this time like Jaws and I Know What You Did Last Summer. I like to collect old dvd’s from thrift stores and secondhand bookshops, and my local library always has a bunch on the shelf as well. If you don’t like scary movies that’s okay! You can still celebrate with something witchy and fun, like Practical Magic or The Craft, or TV shows like Sabrina the Teenage Witch. I also love to revisit halloween movies from my childhood, like The Addams Family that I mentioned earlier, and Halloween Town. Even a little Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown hits the spot sometimes.

2. Read a Spooky Thriller or Mystery. This is something I definitely do all year long, but like to focus on around Summerween. Some of my favorites to set the mood are The Sundown Motel by Simone St. James (all of her books are great!), Anything by Riley Sager, but especially Survive The Night and Home Before Dark, and the Truly Devious Series by Maureen Johnson. This year I added Summer’s Never Over by Darby Bozeman, Play Nice by Rachel Harrison, and Smile for The Cameras by Miranda Smith.

If you don’t like spooky books, there are plenty of lighter books that still give off Summerween vibes, like Soul Searching by Lyla Sage, and The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches by Sangu Mandanna.

3. Celebrate with some spooky snacks. In my mind, no holiday is complete without an elaborate snack menu. You can keep it simple by adding a little pumpkin syrup to your coffee or buying coffin shaped ice cream sandwiches or you can get fancy by carving watermelons (just like you would a pumpkin!) and making smores.

Summerween is so fun on your own, but it’s even more fun to celebrate with friends! So make a little punch and have some people over to watch a movie or two!

What are your favorite ways to celebrate Summerween?

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Light the candle, sister, and
watch as the smoke plumes to the skies,
carrying your power and
dispersing it within the universe.

Do you feel the tug in your heart?
That’s the universe pulling the slack out
of the threads that connect us all,
reminding you that we are a cosmic family.

Whisper the words, sister,
the same words, the same spells, that 
our ancestors whispered in the shadows alone,
In fear of what the world would do if they were heard.

Can you feel the tingling sensation?
That’s the universe accepting those words,
whispering, I hear you, I see you, a reminder that
as long as there are stars in the sky you are never alone.

Pour the oil, sister, and indulge
in the moments that bring your spirit to light,
that reconnect you to the cosmos and beyond,
and promise, that you’ll keep your magic spark alive.

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I’m outside in the garden this morning, sitting on my blanket, having a little coffee and breakfast al fresco style. The air is thick and muggy. June in the south is always a little bit temperamental; either it gets too hot too quickly, or it’s hurricane and tornado season. Rarely is there an in between.

Today seems to be that rare day, and so I’m out here embracing it, enjoying the eighty-five degree weather before the impending rain comes and watching my dog play in the dirt where the grass won’t grow. The blackberries on the bush I planted a few years are ripening, and I’m so excited I can hardly stand it. A hundred years ago, it probably seemed pretty obvious that growing food in the yard was, well, a pretty good, if not the best option for acquiring such food, but that is a lesson I am just now learning as I slow down my life and try to untangle my fingers from the web of capitalism.

I pick up a basket that I bought for a dollar at the thrift store last year for this very purpose, and start to pick the ripe blackberries, examining each one for bite marks or insects before plopping them into the basket with their companions. The duds go to the aforementioned dog, who is as delighted as I am about the blackberry bush. The fur around his snout, usually a dark cream color, is stained purple from our breakfast.

We have another companion this morning. A gorgeous dragonfly rests on an upper vine, tense and watching our movements, but not afraid enough to abandon his feast of flowers and fruits. Its outer shell is the most electric blue I have ever seen in the natural world; almost holographic. And I am absolutely mesmerized.

But Alys, surely you’ve seen a dragonfly before.

Of course I have. But the thing about me is that I am a child of the pavement; a city dweller, if you will. I was born and raised in the concrete jungle of downtown and just recently discovered that I enjoyed nature and the outdoors in my late twenties.

So yes, I am familiar, in a vague way, with the dragonfly, but until this blackberry bush blossomed, I had never seen one in my very own backyard. And never this close. I could see its delicate wings, thinner than paper as they fluttered gently.

How magical.

If you happened to read part one of this series, you’ll know that I am working on romanticizing my life and bringing magic back into it this summer. If you didn’t, that’s fine, you’re welcome to follow along at any point. This moment with this dragonfly, and the creature itself felt so magical, that I couldn’t get it out of my head, I started looking every morning, right at dawn, at the blackberry bush, waiting for more dragonflies to grace me with their presence.

And they did. All in varying shades of blues, purples, and blacks. And as it turns out, I was far from the first person to see the magic in them.

Dragonflies are ancient creatures, believed to have been around for hundreds of millions of years, and are symbolic and important to many different cultures. As a pagan, I was drawn to one particular story I read about their symbolism in Celtic Folklore.

Dragonflies are tied closely in Celtic Folklore to fairies and their realms, and some stories tell us that if you are lucky enough to follow a dragonfly without losing it, it will lead you back to the fairy realm itself. In other stories, they are believed to be the mounts for fairies to ride, as if they were truly tiny dragons.

In the more modern world, dragonflies are believed to be a good omen, representing good fortune, and becoming your true self through transformation.

A good omen indeed, especially on a journey such as this.

So I will leave you with this, “Magic is seeing wonder in nature’s every little thing, seeing how wonderful the fireflies are and how magical are the dragonflies.” - Ama H. Vanniarachchy

I hope you have a magical week!

XOXO Alys

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My grandmother sits on the front porch, rocking slowly,
her eyes flickering up to the ceiling,
~a weathered haint blue.

Her hands are knotted yet smooth,
her fingers twist around her cigarette,
She inhales, closes her eyes, and hums

Hey sugar ~ her voice is low and soft,
Will you go ahead and pick that up for me?
I look around, pick what up?

She smiles and gestures broadly into the house,
Just as the phone begins to ring,
A loud, almost comical clanging.

I rush to answer and when I return I look into her eyes, 
warm and wrinkled and ask as I always do
How did you know it was going to ring?

A joyous laugh erupts from her, a caroling of bells
Soon, sugar, soon
You’ll know all sorts of things too.

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For as long as I can remember, I have always been obsessed with magic.

Maybe it was because my childhood felt small and uneventful in the quiet suburbs of the American South. Maybe it was because I had, as my parents called it, a runaway imagination, and was often frustrated that others in my family seemed to prefer reality.

Regardless of why, I have always loved magic. Fantasy stories ruled my childhood. I was a Harry Potter kid to the extreme, relating deeply to Harry and his quest for love and acceptance. (I feel I can’t mention these beloved childhood stories without stating that I do not support the transphobic views of the author.) I read every book I could involving magic and dragons and epic quests, and adventures. I fell in love with The Lord of the Rings (Aragorn and Arwen specifically, obviously) and The Mummy movies. (Maybe technically not magic movies, but Rick and Evie felt like magic to me.)

Sabrina the Teenage Witch? Don’t even get me started. I watched her adventures with her devoted aunts and magical cat almost religiously. Mimicking her every move and outfit, if I could manage to get out of the house like her. I always felt that that was the life I was supposed to have, that I was supposed to be magical. And while I may have aged out of the dream of a Hogwarts letter or a secret magical family in another portal, deep down, I never truly aged out of the dream of a magical life.

But then adulthood arrived, like a truck barreling down the highway, and life became a little, or a lot, less magical. Bills, student loans, meetings, family obligations, chores, and everything else became too much to carry, and there was no room for anything that seemed frivolous and unnecessary.

And then, last fall in a late night quest for a holiday movie and a little nostalgia, I found my old copy of Practical Magic on DVD. And I fell in love with magic, whimsy and joy all over again. Was it dramatic? Probably. Do I care? Not one bit.

I fell in love with the actresses and their real, beautiful faces. The set, Whidbey Island, I mean, come on. The style of hair and clothes and interior decorating; and of the message of love, sisterhood, and magic.

I found a copy of the book and devoured that as well. A very different story than the movie (or vice versa I should say, as the book came first.) but a delightful and beautiful story on its own.

I decided that this magic is what was missing in my life; and I needed to do something about it. Obviously I can’t just, conjour magic, in all senses that I may like, but I can make my day to day life a little more magical.

So the plan, my plan, is to take a little time each week, all summer long, to fine small, attainable ways to romanticize my life. I have a notebook, and a Pinterest board full of small and medium sized ideas to make this happen. Because while we may be surrounded by horrors, I refuse to give up on my childhood dreams of a little magic in my life.

If you can resonate with this at all, I hope you will join me on this journey to romanticize my life. I can use all the help, advice, and motivation that I can get, and it will be so much more fun to chase this dream with a little coven to call our own.

I think we could all do with a little more romance, and a little whimsy to keep the darkness at bay. I plan on writing once a week to fill you all in on the small ways that i’m bringing magic back into my life, and I hope you’ll share with me as well.

So where should I start? Comment your ideas and we can do this together!

I’ll leave you with this, my favorite Practical Magic Quote.

“There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for Certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep Rosemary by your garden gate. Add Pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender for luck. And fall in love whenever you can.” - Alice Hoffman.

Love you all, let’s make this a magical summer ✨

XOXO, Alys

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a vast expanse of trees ~
of hills that one, if uninformed, might mistake for a range of mountains

black butterflies flock to the milkweed flowers
a bright white, harsh against the foggy backdrop
I hold my breath, determined not to disturb their feast


purple coneflower springs from every patch of earth graced with sunlight
a rarity in the dense gathering of trees
what a difference a ray of sun can make

two baby wild boar run free between a makeshift clearing 
their little ears flop up and down as they bounce 
with the whimsy that can only be found in a newborn pup

In this little patch of earth,
 in this fleeting moment of time,
 I lift my face to the skies and give thanks.

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The house is dark and quiet. I reach for my glasses and robe and putter my slipper cladden feet out to the kitchen, a parade of puppy and kitten paws pattering behind me.

I click on the twinkle lights that run along my little cabinets and press the glowing brew button on our new coffee pot, a christmas gift we got for ourselves. I slide open the kitchen curtains first and then the window, letting in a fresh warm breeze and saying good morning to the bugs already stuck to the screen. The air smells woodsy, like it must have rained overnight. I inhale and I’m eight years old and my grandmother is asking me to burp the house before it gets too hot.

The coffee pot blinks 5:55 as it comes to life, sputtering out hot, liquid gold. Tiny paws clammer up my legs as I pour kibble into bowls and set them down on the green linoleum. There is a magic in the morning, when the air is still and the world is not quite awake. Some mornings, okay, let’s be honest, most mornings I too would prefer to not be awake, but I have also come to enjoy the world illuminated by gentle air and twinkling lights, and I am leaning into the magic of the mundane.

Turning routines into rituals is one of the ways that we can lean into the magic of the everyday, to romanticize what is so frequently un-romantic. Here are a few small tweaks that have worked for me.

Intentional Coffee Magic

A cup of coffee (or several) is how most of us start our day, at least where I’m from. If you are a tea drinker or even a hot water with lemon you can still participate, it’s all about the intention. All it takes is an extra moment or two when you’re making your beverage of choice. As you pour your coffee, take a breath and still your body and mind for just a moment. Think about the day ahead, and what elements you hope to incorporate into it. Whisper those words into your coffee as you stir in your creamer or sugar or other additions. I often choose to whisper joy, peace, and prosperity. But you may choose other intentions like motivation, or health or focus. Whatever you need and hope to draw towards yourself throughout the day. As an extra bit of magick, I like to add a little bit of cinnamon to my coffee for protection throughout the day. I find this practice gives me a moment to take a breath and ground myself in the midst of a task I was going to do anyway.

Clearing and Cleansing Home Energies

If you live in an old house like I do, or also like myself, have a lot of pets and people living in said home, you probably find yourself cleaning often. Dusting, sweeping, vacuuming, laundry and especially the dishes are tasks that are easy to dread, but adding a little bit of ritual to thise routines can help. As a witchy woman with raging ADHD, this is how I get it done, add in a little woo woo energy and have come to be at peace with it rather than dread it.

I start by setting up a timer on my TV. On days that I have more time, I put on a full hour, but if that isn’t possible I’ll choose whatever I have time for. I find my timers on youtube, and there are tons in a wide variety of styles. I like the aura ones, chores are easier when you have something pretty to look at.

Then I gently tap a wall and a corner here and there to let any spirits know I’m about to cleanse the space, out of respect for the parts of the universe I cannot see. Then I cleanse. I am partial to smoke cleansing. A note about smoke cleansing, there are several herbs that are part of closed practices, so please research them before starting a smoke cleansing practice. I make bundles from my garden, but you can find bundles at almost any metaphysical store and online, just make sure it’s a reputable place. I light the end of my bundle with a match and like to let it burn for a few moments over a heat safe dish before I blow it out. I like to whisper prayers to the spirits as I wander though my little house. I usually ask for negative energies to be banished, and for protections over the walls of our home and all that reside in it. It takes a few minutes at most and I find it puts me in a calmer mental headspace.

And then I clean until my timer runs out. Sometimes calmly while singing along to Lana Del Ray and Suki Waterhouse, and sometimes frantically and energetically while dancing and singing alone to Florence and the Machine. It just depends on the day and the vibes.

When the timer goes off, I finish my task and put away my supplies. I tap the walls once more to let the spirits know it’s safe to come back. And all is right in my little witchy home.

Warding The Entrances To The Home

This sounds much more dramatic than I meant for it to. As I mentioned earlier, cinnamon is often used to help manifest protection. It’s a long held ritual by many in my community to use it in an abundance of rituals around the home. One of the easiest rituals to incorporate is to use cinnamon to invite in protection and prosperity on the first of the month. Stand outside your front door with it open, looking into your home. Take a deep breath and visualize the protections you want and need over your home, and then blow the cinnamon through your door.

That’s it.

I like to take it a step farther sometimes and use the leftover cinnamon in my palm to draw protection sigils and symbols on my door with my finger. If you’re unfamiliar with what those are, I’d be happy to talk more about them.

Life can be mundane and tedious, especially the tasks that we carry throughout our lives on repeat. But finding moments within these tasks to focus on grounding ourselves and tending to our craft really can make all the difference. Let me know what rituals you try, or ones you already do! I’d love to add more to my routines.

Thank you for reading, thank you for being here, and above all thank you for being yourself.

Next time we’ll talk about pleasure, about how we as women are conditioned to de-prioritize it in our current society, about implementing sensuality into your daily life, and soon, about orgasm as meditation.

XO, Alys

I went to the trees, and I asked them to send me a man. 
A man, I begged, that could love me for me, a leader, a scholar, a family.
They shushed back, wait my child, a man is not what you need. 
So I left, and returned again in misery.
I don't understand, why can't you send him to me?
I am so lost, and I need someone to lead.
They sighed, Hush my child, what you need is to just be.

Be? What is it, that this man will need me to be?
A maiden, a mother, a temptress ~ all three?
I begged the trees for an answer, but none spoke in a silent treaty.
So I returned to the world,
To become everything a man might desire from me.

The storms persisted and the horrors pursued and with each cry for love,
I shed a piece of myself at his feet, and donned at new silhouette, just say the word!
Is this who you want? Is this who I should be? A dove ~
Covering myself in feathers discarded by other birds.
Until I’d forgotten the stark opalescent I once was, that others sing of.

Battered and worn, broken and mended, I returned to the trees.
And I rested, and let out the pain and sorrow the world had bestowed upon me,
A gentle whisper, hush my child, haven’t you learned what you really need?
You need to be the woman you are, the layers that fit, that allow you to breathe
A man is not what you need, but you may choose one, once the unveiling is complete,
As long as he is begging to worship at your feet.

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“My mind is steady, my vision true.

Guide me toward what I must do.

Let clarity rise, confusion fall.

I stand aligned, I hear the call.”

~ The Witch in The Moon

This is part three in an ongoing story, if you haven’t already, I suggest going back and reading parts one and two for this installment to make sense. This is a real story, so all names are changed for privacy reasons.

It’s five o’ clock in the morning when my phone rings.

I don’t hear it, of course, I’m a millennial so my phone has been on silent since 2009. But I’ve fallen asleep with it next to me on the mattress and I feel the vibrations as I wake. I sit up and see that it’s my neighbor so I answer, groggy with a shot of anxiety. Nothing good comes from phone calls in the middle of the night.

“Are you watching the weatherman? There’s a tornado that just turned, looks like it’s heading straight for us.”

I thank her and hang up, shaking my sleeping husband and I get up and start to prepare. I have lived in the south my entire life, give or take a few years, and tornados are about as common as a hot summer these days. I am usually the kind of person who goes out and stands on the porch to look when the weatherman says something’s coming, but something about my neighbor’s call made me take this one seriously.

My husband shoved our cats in their carriers and before we even had time to click on the weather app, I heard the sirens start to blare.

We live in a unique area where our house straddles the line between two counties, so we can hear the distinct sirens for each county when they go off. It was 5:15am, and they were both blaring like they were at war with each other. We don’t have basements or really any underground shelters where I live, there is solid limestone about eight to ten feet down covered by a rocky clay soil, that makes that kind of excavation very expensive. Instead of tucking away underground we do our best by sheltering in bathtubs, central rooms away from windows, and sturdy doorframes. It’s not ideal, but it’s really all we’re able to do. My family and I tuck away in the only room without windows we have, the hallway with all the doors shut, and my husband clicks on the radio. I hear our weatherman broadcasting the counties and towns that are in the path of destruction, a sharp edge of concern in his voice. He lists the next area and orders an immediate shelter in a place of safety, and it’s my town.

If you can get inside somewhere, do it now, this twister is about to be right on top of you.

I peeked my head out on the porch anyway, and sure as shit, there it was. A dark, massive twister, hurdling itself towards us. A wave of terror washed over me. I had seen a few in real life by this point, but never so fast, and never so close.

I write often about the beauty of nature, of the muse that is our benevolent mother earth. I am constantly in awe of the pieces of our world, the trees, the flowers, the water, the creatures that over time blend into something that we take for granted. I forget sometimes, as I think we all do, that within all of that beauty is sheer, raw power.

In that moment, as I blinked my eyes like a cartoon character to try and make sense of what I was seeing, I was painfully reminded of that incredulous power that we, as humanity, think that we somehow can control.

I rushed into our little family huddle pile and flicked off the lights as my husband pulled a blanket over us. I hope you’re never in the path of a tornado, but if you ever are and, like us, don’t have underground access you want to do a few things. I talked before about getting to the most central room of your house and away from windows. Door frames are often the sturdiest part of your house, bathtubs too, so bonus points if you can get under or in one of those. Put on shoes or at least some kind of slipper, in case you are walking or climbing on debris when it’s all over. That’s what the blanket is for too, it’s no helmet, but it should protect you from at least the dust and small particles that are in the debris. Turning out the lights can make things a little scarier, but it’s important, because it lowers the risk of a fire if you do get hit. A backpack you can grab quickly and keep nearby when sheltering is helpful too, keep a radio in it, a flashlight or too, and a few first aid related items. Obviously not a perfect solution, but a few tips that can help.

The lights go out and the world around us is absolutely, devastatingly silent. And then, like the flip of a switch, it’s the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. I am on a set of train tracks and the biggest, longest, loudest train in creation is thundering over me. Doors are flying open and slamming closed on their own. The windowpanes are rattling in their frames. There is wind whipping everywhere, yet the air is completely stagnant and void of seemingly any oxygen. Accompanying it all, was a piercing, bone chilling, never ending, whistle. My husband grips me tighter and I cling to him. My dog is shaking, his massive body crushing my legs. My cats scream from my husband’s lap in their carrier. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I can’t hear.

Instinctively I do something I haven’t done in years. Something I haven’t done since the last time I was on my knees in that wooden one-room church.

I pray.

The prayer that comes to me in my time of need is not the one I had memorized since childhood however. It’s the one that the druid circle of women were reciting that day I came across them in the woods.

Grant, oh spirit, thy protection.

And in protection, reason,

And in reason, light,

And in light, truth,

And in truth, justice,

And in justice, love,

And in love, the love of spirit,

And in the love of spirit, the love of all existences.

Today I know that to be the Gorsedd Prayer, but I didn’t know anything then. It was a prayer I had remembered and read a little bit about online, and it was what kept me stable in that moment of raw fear.

5:25 am. The world is quiet again and we are all, somehow in one piece. Somehow, there is still a roof over our heads. We crawl out from under our blanket and rejoin the world, an eerie silence lingering still.

The power is out, and I can feel warm air trickling in from somewhere, but it’s still too dark to tell. We turn the radio back on, just to make sure we really are out of the woods, and the weather has moved on, warning the next set of counties about the tornado, now, plural, tornados.

We turn on our flashlights and check the house. Built with heavy beams and brick in the 1960’s, the house may be dated and well lived in, but she is sturdy. We a few shattered windows, many fallen shelves and cabinets, and the culprit of the warm air, the back door wide open. All in all, we were incredibly, miraculously lucky.

5:45. I call my neighbor two doors down, the one who had called me only a little over 45 minutes earlier to warn me about the twister. She’s okay, and her house is too.

6:20 am. Dawn. Finally, we can see well enough to check outside for damage. I go out back first and my heart trembles. My garden is gone, the wooden two by fours that make up the bed strewn in pieces across the yard. The crepe myrtle tree I planted the summer we moved in is snapped at the trunk and flat in one piece against the sodden ground. Where there was once a fence, there is now evidence of a fence, and atop that evidence is a massive branch from the giant mulberry tree that umbrellas a large part of the yard and our little house. It’s on top of our fence, our little shed, and our neighbor’s fence as well. I wander aimlessly, picking up things and putting them back down, looking up at the tree and then looking away in denial. My rainboots are now ankle deep in mud and sludge. I am snapped back to reality as I hear my husband call me from over the house. I step over the debris that was once our gate and walk around to the front yard.

I am watching my step, focused on the ground in front of me, until finally I look up across our little street, and my heart is broken. What was once Mrs. Alma’s little green house is now barren earth, littered violently with memories of a life. Hernandez’s brown brick is not much better, there are a few walls but absolutely no roof. This destruction carries on all the way down our little block, and over the train tracks to the next. Those who do still have houses are down fences and trees and roof shingles and windows. Little Loretta lost a trampoline no one has ever found. Most people are okay, physically. A few people are not. The news changes the numbers on the toll for the next few days.

No one knew it was coming. And if they did, no one told us until it was our problem to deal with.

Our little neighborhood is, for a moment, the quietest it’s ever been. And then it isn’t.

The police arrive, and ambulances, and news crews and gawkers.

And then they are all gone, and it is only us.

We gather and hug and cry and wipe away tears. We pool food and supplies on folding card tables on the sidewalk and in driveways. Raul and Ryan walk around with their chainsaws in tow and, after they clear the street, they start helping neighbors with branches they need help pulling off of roofs and cars and porches. My husband and his buddy Joel from a block over go door to door checking on people and handing out waters Joel had stored in the garage for a day just like this. The women all gather, as we always do, and make sure everyone is fed and families are called and children are minded.

My heart is broken, and yet broken things still sing, and I am reminded of the beauty of community.

To this day, years later, we are still rebuilding. I was worried about everything and everyone after the storm, including my mulberry tree. My heart tree, my friend. Losing a main branch so violently can kill a tree like that, yet she stands. A new gathering of sapling branches have sprouted from the stump of her amputation. Nature is beautiful and powerful and destructive and healing and resilient, and humanity is one in the same.

Thank you for reading, more to share in a week or two. Grateful for you, always.

XO, Alys.

Harrowing days, subtle yet 
searingly painful.
Broken glass gently pressed into skin
until it bursts,
and the stream of blood is uncontrollable.

whose mind is this? 
A familiar place, yet unrecognizable
~ a hazy, bad trip ~
Trapped in a glass house, can someone see through the windows and help?
No chance, the glass is too foggy.

Two women coexist in a body built for one,
~ a Jekyll and Hyde, a Bonnie and Clyde ~
too much activity is tearing at the skin,
Explosion risk! ~ internal combustion likely.
Can't you see the clock counting down?

At the mercy of the moon the fog is lifted,
~ release and relief ~
the only time bloodshed brings peace.

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De-centering men was my greatest act of self love. ~ unknown author.

Women are taught, either inherently or intentionally, to center men from the day we are born. Even the birthing process itself can be considered male-centric, if you get the wrong doctor or practice. My mother tells the story of a traumatic birth when she had me: of a brusk, impatient male doctor, of requests falling on deaf ears, of an emotionally absent male partner.

It’s subtle at first in childhood. Seemingly innocuous, even. Don’t bother dad, he just got home from work, he needs to decompress. Play quietly, dad is home. Dad wants to… so we do. Dad doesn’t want to…so we don’t. Some may argue that attitude is simply teaching children to respect, and there is a place for that, of course. But where is that attitude when it comes to mom? Mom, who has been in a state of sensory overstimulation for days? Weeks? Years? Mom, who can ask for time to decompress, but it may or may not be granted, depending on dad’s answer.

This practice does not go unnoticed by little girls, and little boys. Some homes are different, especially now, but that does not erase the generations who are forced to recognize and adapt in order to change these harmful and disrespectful practices.

The first time I fell in love was in a movie theater in 1999. I was a kid, and Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weiss were falling in love on screen while I was simultaneously falling in love with both of them. I learned a lot about myself that day, some of which I’ll go into at a later time, but among other things I fell in love with the idea of falling in love. Of a man falling in love with me, choosing me.

I fell deeper in the lure of romance as I grew up. I had a mom who loved a rom com more than almost anything, so I watched them all on repeat; buying copies of my favorites on DVD. I read every book I could get my hands on with a romance plotline (enter the twilight obsession) and daydreamed about any boy at school that was bold enough to smile at me. I was basically Tina Belcher all of middle and high school. I loved the romance, I loved the attention, and I was burying those feelings that Rachel Weiss and several subsequent women since had woken up in me.

While I still love a good romance story, I thought I had moved passed the boy obsession after I acknowledged and began to celebrate my sexuality, but I recently came to terms with the fact that I have absolutely centered men the majority of my life; despite the fact that I have always vehemently considered myself to be a feminist. It caught me off guard, so much so that I spoke with a friend about it. “How could I have missed this this whole time? I mean, I’ve dated just as many women, if not more women than men over my lifetime, how can I possibly still be centering them?”

She laughed, and I’ll never forget what she said. “You missed it because it’s a habit that’s been with you since before you could self reflect.” And she was absolutely right. Even now, it’s something I am unlearning. I happen to have fallen in love and married a man, and fortunately, he is one who fully supports not only this practice of de-centering, but everything I do and am journeying to becoming.

Since I became more conscious of the idea of centering men, I’ve been actively working on taking steps to decenter them.

Three Practices to Decenter Men

• Stop Prioritizing Men’s Comfort Over Your Boundaries. This is one that I was not really even conscious that I was doing. We have been taught to be nice no matter what. But when we are nice when we don’t want to be, especially when a man is behaving badly, we are teaching ourselves and them that these behaviors are acceptable. Prioritizing our own boundaries over men’s comfort can look like speaking up when disrespected, not over explaining yourself when challenged, and putting your own needs first. If you’re anything like me and are also deconstructing from religious trauma, prioritizing your boundaries will feel almost bad at first, because of the inherent shame and guilt. Push through, you deserve to.

• Stop Letting Men Define Your Worth. This was one I was confident I did not do. And then I learned that I may not be letting the men I dated define my worth, but I absolutely was letting my father and other male authority figures do so. You have to let go of associating a man’s interest ~ or lack of interest ~ with your own worth and value. What they see is often a perception of you that they are projecting onto you themselves. You deserve to place yourself on a pedestal, and let men rise to you, don’t stoop down to them. This can look like reflecting on what men in your life support you, help you to grow in a positive manner, and celebrate your successes.

• Take Steps To Unlearn and Be Conscious of Patriarchal Norms. If you’re reading this you’ve already taken the first step by showing interest in de-centering men at all. This can look like removing societal expectations from both your day to day and long term decisions. Who would you be if you stripped away all societal expectations? What would you do with your spare time if you followed your heart and your passions alone? This is no small task, but you deserve to live your life on your own terms.

The task of de-centering men can seem intimidating, and herculean, almost. But really that goal is that you, as a woman, are able to base all of your decisions on what you want, and not on what men think, want, dictate and enforce though societal structure, institutions and our patriarchal society.

You deserve to be the center of your own life. And more than anything, you deserve to enjoy it.

XO, Alys.

I thank the skies for the way 
they rule over us ~ steady and true.

I thank the Sun ~ her life force a blessing 
bestowed upon us so gently, while she, herself, ignites.

I thank the moon, whose delicate hands swell the tides
 of the oceans and of us women ~ so consistently our faith in her never wavers.

I thank the ground, our foundation a fleeting layer, 
ever changing with the seasons ~ for holding us up as we fall to our knees.

I thank the universe, for combining the stars and the dust and the ashes, 
so that I may experience her perfection.

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― Nicola Jane Hobbs

It’s 5:55 am, and I am awoken out of a labored sleep by the sounds of the radio jockey’s voice. I swing my arm wildly, feeling for the large, rectangular snooze button on my 1980’s Dream Machine clock radio I thrifted last year in an attempt to live a more analog life. I find it, and ten minutes later, Ed Sheeran is blaring out the tinny speaker and invading my dreams.

6:05. I sit up, and everyone needs something. I get up and brush my teeth, gripping the handle of the toothbrush as if my life depends on it. I hurry up and jump on the scale, and groan in frustration at the number that refuses to go down. I worry about all of the possibilities of what I could be doing wrong. But there’s no time to do that, not really.

6:20. I rush through a cup of coffee as I wait for the iron to heat up. I beat myself up for not doing this last night, for watching a movie instead. I finish the ironing and, what the hell, pour myself another cup.

I press my hand against my chest. Why is my heart beating as if I am trying to outrun a freight train?

As Nicola Jane Hobbs writes about in The Relaxed Woman, I, too, grew up with a variety of women in my life, none of whom I would consider relaxed. My primary caregiver was an anxious, high-strung woman, tasked with more than she could handle at too early a stage in her life. My grandmother was a child of the great depression, and she, understandably, carried scars from that experience all of her life. Even now, as an adult, I struggle to think of a fellow woman or friend that I would consider relaxed, and my heart breaks for us all. What is it about our society that prevents us from living calmly and authentically?

Women carry so much labor, but out in the open, and invisible. We are tasked with so many roles ~ mother, sister, nurse, organizer, boss, regulator, temptress, vixen, daughter ~ etc.

Paris Paloma has a line in her song Labour that I think of often when discussing these soul crushing expectations, it goes ~

“All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid. Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant.”

Women are holding up the world on our shoulders, all while trying to make sure those shoulders are as small as possible. So what happens when the bones that hold up those shoulders start to crack and break? What happens to society when women can sacrifice themselves at the altar of goodness no longer?

We are already starting to see this in conversations about emotional labour and equal responsibility in the home and workplace. In discussions about bucking the patriarchy and raising the next generations differently. In choosing daily to let go of the weight of guilt and shame that was instilled in us as children, as a way to control us.

Becoming a relaxed woman is our birthright. Living a fulfilling and authentic life is what every single woman deserves.

This goal, to truly become a relaxed and internally fulfilled woman, is a journey I am walking daily. My mornings have started to look different than the one I described at the beginning of this conversation. (but I definitely still slap that snooze button sometimes.) Thanks to the tools passed down from other women who have walked this journey, who have made this choice. It looks different for everyone. What works for me, what settles my nervous system and inspires the beating of my own, wild heart, may not do the same for you. But I encourage you to take the steps to find out what does.

You are enough, and you deserve it.

XO, Alys