My kitchen is my hearth,
let its warmth invite you in.
Here is where i prepare enchantments
brew potions
of nourishment to
mind, body, and soul.
Where I most feel whole.
Where intuition guides intention.
That is very important.
When I dabble with occult practice
out of desperate intention what lacks is
spirits true intervention.
Chaos would ensue everytime
I attempted to ask things of the divine.
Proceeding a path of pure intent is forceful,
an unnatural offensive play.
Demanding assistance from deities,
deluded by driving desires is playing with fire.
I learned this the hard way
when my maternal clock chimed.
Womb empty and begging for fruit,
my every cell ached to respond to the call.
But no seed would take root,
I believed my body was defective,
refusing to flower.
So I resorted to begging for mystical power.
Trying to will a baby in the bath tub,
through ceremonial soaks.
Dancing naked under the moon didn't work for me,
my rites ended with a failed pregnancy.
My dead fetus was rotting inside of me
while I worshiped ignorantly.
When my prayers were unguided
expectations turned to resentments.
of self,
of God,
of getting up in the morning.
The breakthrough was integration.
A soft combination of the two,
intentions guided through intuition.
I had to listen to the knowledge I already knew,
not ask questions I had a scripted answer to.
realizing that I was born anew.
And found that my kitchen held the magic all along
And found that I incorporate it into everything I do.
And found that my simmer pot heats the chilled morning air, filling my hearth and my heart.
And found that a pantry well stocked with herbs brings me peace of mind
And found that feeding my family the food I make feeds us all the divine.
My son watches curiously and eats with vigor
while I mutter Hail Marys and stir.
I decorate with dried orange slices.
I'm working on a hand painted floral calendar.
My rituals are silly, simple, slow.
Fitting into an already established flow.
So
welcome,
relax let me fix you a tea.
We’re always eager for the company.
Don't mind the crumbs
or the poorly painted bees
let us ground ourselves
eat,
drink,
share our stories.