Orgo midterm tomorrow, so I did a tiny study spell at my desk. LED tealight (my RA would end me otherwise), a sprig of Rosmarinus officinalis from the campus herb garden tucked into my notes, and three deep breaths while I said "what I studied, I will remember." Then I studied for four more hours, because that's the actual spell. Will report back.
At 3am the bakery is the quietest place in the city. Just the mixer, the radio turned low, and me with my hands in sixty pounds of dough. A few months ago I started doing something I haven't mentioned to my boss. When I score the tops of the country loaves, I add a tiny spiral at one end and think one wish into each. Rest, for whoever buys this one. Courage. A good phone call. Someone to share it with. I never know who'll get which. I like to think that somewhere in the city at 8am, a stranger is buttering a small blessing and has no idea.
Picked an electional window to send my application today: Moon applying to a trine with Jupiter, nothing lurking in the 12th, and Mercury stationing retrograde any minute now, so it was today or never (pitchforks down, I'm being thorough). Lit an orange jar candle on my desk where I could see it, wrote the job title on a bay leaf, and hit send at 10:42 exactly. Is this an elaborate way to stop procrastinating? Yes. Did I finally send it? Also yes.
Tucked the Eight of Wands into my phone case before calling the landlord about the radiator. Swift action, clear communication. Will update.
Wrote myself an actual permission slip, "Solenne is allowed to rest without earning it," signed it like a substitute teacher, and put it under my pillow. Strangest little spell I've done. Slept nine hours.
Eli, my grandson, takes his driving test Thursday and he's been a wreck. So yesterday we made a little calm jar together at the kitchen table: dried chamomile from the garden, a pinch of rosemary for clear thinking, a few grains of rice so nothing gets "stuck," and a folded note in his own handwriting. He chose the words himself: "Steady hands, eyes up, no curbs." He laughed at me the entire time, then quietly put the jar in his backpack. I'll take it. The real magic was twenty minutes with a sixteen-year-old who put his phone down. Practical note: the parallel parking still needs work. Spells meet you halfway.
Found a green pillar candle at Goodwill for 99 cents, so obviously it's now a money candle. Carved my rent amount into the side with a bobby pin (very traditional), dusted it with cinnamon from the spice drawer and brushed off the extra so it wouldn't flare, then lit it on a saucer in the sink while I updated my resume. Never left it alone, snuffed it when I was done. I've been reading a lot this year about which practices are open to me and which aren't mine to borrow. Candle magic with things from my own kitchen feels like home. It's humble, it's mine, and I can afford it.
Our niece Tanya drove up to Atlanta for nursing school this week, her first time living away from home. Before she left I sent her off the way my uncle sent me: an old silver Mercury dime in her left shoe, the 91st Psalm read over her on the front porch, and a little red flannel bag in the glovebox with salt, a bay leaf and a picture of her grandmama. She asked if the dime actually does anything. I told her it reminds her she's got people praying behind her. That's what it does. She texted me last night: "Made it. Shoe's uncomfortable." Good. Means she's still wearing it.
One acorn from under the old oak on the ridge, now in my coat pocket, holding my patience for me until spring. The oak dropped about four thousand of them. I don't think it'll miss one.
My sister and I haven't been right since Mama's house was sold. Too many words at the closing table. We're talking again, but stiff, like two people who learned each other out of a book. So I set a honey jar. I told her I was doing it and she laughed and said "go on then, do your thing," which is the most she's said to me in weeks. Our two names on brown paper, written crosswise, folded toward me, pressed down into a small jar of honey with a cinnamon stick and a few dried rose petals. I read Psalm 133 over it: "Behold, how good and how pleasant it is..." Every Sunday I burn a little white chime candle on the lid, set in my cast-iron skillet on the stove where I can watch it till it's done. Three Sundays in. Yesterday she called to ask for Mama's cornbread recipe. Slow is how honey works.
There's an old story along this coast that sea witches used to sell sailors a cord with three knots in it. Untie the first for a gentle breeze, the second for a stiff wind, and the third... well. You never untie the third. That one's a gale. My nephew Kit has been learning to sail all summer at the club in Penzance, and on Saturday he's doing his first proper trip across the bay. So I made him a cord. Three strands of natural hemp, plaited on the harbour wall at low tide with the gulls supervising. I tied a knot at each of three breaths of the wind: one when it was barely lifting the flags, one when it gusted, and the last when a squall came through and soaked me right to the bone. Into each knot I spoke what I wanted for him: patience, good judgement, and the sense to turn back. He's sixteen. He rolled his eyes. He also asked if he was allowed to keep it on the boat, which in my experience is how teenagers say thank you. The part I didn't tell him: the third knot isn't really a gale. It's the one you leave tied so you always remember you've more in you than you're using. Mine has hung on the hook by my door for twenty years. Never once undone. Tide's at 3:40 on Saturday. I'll be up on the headland with a flask, watching for a small white sail.
Dark moon tonight, so I cast a quick circle in the kitchen and did the most basic working I know, the one I used to teach every new seeker in my old coven. On one slip of paper, the thing I'm done carrying (doomscrolling in bed; I'm 47, I know better). On the other, what grows in its place (actual books before sleep). The first slip burned in the little cast-iron cauldron, set on a stone tile with the window cracked and a glass of water within reach. The second I folded around a single marigold seed and pressed into a pot on the sill. No fancy timing beyond the moon, no rare herbs. The new moon is a blank page. You just have to be willing to write on it.
Thursday, first hour after sunrise: the hour of Jupiter on Jupiter's own day. I drew the talisman on a disc of blue card, with the sigil traced from the magic square of Jupiter, the planetary symbol, and one short line of intent for the small bookbinding business I keep failing to grow. Banishing first, then the invocation, then a long quiet stretch holding the image in mind until it felt charged rather than merely drawn. Wrapped it in silk and put it in the drawer with the invoices, which seemed like the correct office for it. Diary entry: "Self-conscious for the first minute. Then not." That's usually the sign it worked.
The old shop door finally gave up after thirty years of desert wind, so the new one got a proper welcome before we opened this morning. I swept the threshold outward, wiped the frame down with salt water, and tucked a small piece of black tourmaline into the hollow above the latch where only I know it is. Then I stood in the doorway and said out loud what I want this door to do: let in the curious, the grieving, the kids who just want to touch the shiny rocks, and anyone who needs ten quiet minutes. Keep out the rest. I won't tell you the stone "protects" anything. I'll tell you I feel different walking through that door now. That's enough for me.
Context for new folks: I'm an engineer, I'm skeptical, and my grandmother's pendulum keeps being right in ways I can't explain. So I've started trying small practices in a structured way. This month's experiment was a parking charm a friend here taught me. Before you turn onto the street, picture the open space, then say "thank you for my spot" out loud, as if it's already happened. That's it. Method: 30 workdays downtown. Each morning I flipped a coin to decide whether I'd do the charm (heads) or not (tails), then logged the minutes from turning onto my street to engine off. Results: 16 charm days averaged 4.2 minutes. 14 non-charm days averaged 6.1. A t-test gives p around 0.11, which is to say interesting, not significant, and I couldn't blind myself, which is a big problem. The finding I didn't plan for: on charm days my notes column says things like "calm," "let a guy merge," "noticed the maples turning." On non-charm days it mostly says "ugh." Gratitude in advance seems to change how I drive, which might be the entire effect. Or might not. Conclusion: I'm keeping the charm. Not because the data proves anything, but because I'm a nicer person for those four minutes. Next month: my grandmother's pendulum versus a random number generator. Methodology suggestions welcome.
You’ve reached the edge of the sky.