to listen to our ghosts.

a note on spirituality in our movements | + lists, links, recommendations <3

the snow fall in november.

Dear ones,

The day before Halloween, P and I bundle up after dinner and walk to the lake where Poppy, our dead embryo, is symbolically buried. Normally we visit her in the morning, but this week, with the veil thin and the celebration of the dark near, P wants to see her at night, to light a candle with her. At home, our spookiest cat, Loretta Sabine, has been staring at our altar for sometimes hours at a time, nearly every day of October; she is always focused, maybe spell-casting or conjuring, but always focused. Beside the altar is a painting of our comrade, C, who died in Ukraine; the painting was done by our other comrade, S, who is incarcerated in Ohio. The painting looks alive, even on this altar of mostly dead things.