i have an altar on my south wall, but it really gets no more than a cursory nod every so long, a bending of the knees and trailing of fingers through sand and smoke. more often, i bend my eyes towards my informal shrine: the corner of my desk, where sit a spindly, reaching plant, a piece of quartz, a wolf fetish from my mother, and a beautiful fairy sculpture made by one of my dear friends. just these, and somehow a glance to the left while typing can be almost as reenergizing as a twenty-minute ablution in the shower. my spirituality has become a reflexive chant when i'm afraid, a deep breath when overworked. a coping mechanism, not a source of joy.

my writing has become a minor chore, a postponed dream.
these two are, i think, the same. and i'm trying to reclaim them both; trying to reclaim myself.

i'll keep y'all posted.