that damn altar

This post has been brought over from my Medium page, where it existed first. From April 2026 onward, all of my writing will be published here first and syndicated elsewhere. My altar is in a box in my closet, waiting to be transported to my new home. I know which box. The one with the tarot deck wrapped in silk, the pendulum I made to speak to my dead grandmother with, the white sage I haven’t run out of yet because I bought it in bulk when I owned a metaphysical shop. I tell myself I’ll set my altar up when I move next week. We’ll see. There was a version of me who had multiple altars. One in each corner of my bedroom, one in the middle of the living room. Crystals arranged by intention. Candles I’d light before meditating with 432 hz humming through my headphones. That version of me had time. Or maybe she just had fewer children. Or maybe she hadn’t entered the deepest phase of healing yet, the one that demands every ounce of energy you have. I grieve her sometimes. The woman who…