Do you practice religion?
I practice silence
in the hollows of trees,
where light filters down like old hymns
with all the gender ripped out of them.
I do not kneel before a god
who would ask me to cut parts of myself away.
But I do kneel in the dirt
to plant lavender
for the people I’ve loved
and the versions of myself
I’ve had to bury.
I do not call it religion.
But I know what reverence feels like
when the wind folds around me gently,
as if to say,
“I see you, and you’re still here.”
I leave offerings on stone—
words, sometimes tears,
bits of quartz,
a breath held long enough
to mean something.
I light candles for trans joy
and for safety, that doesn’t feel like a question.
I draw sigils in journals
and stir hope into my coffee
with cinnamon and spells.
My practice is survival.
It is making the ordinary holy
because I was once told I wasn’t.
It’s the spell work of staying.
The prayer of not vanishing.
No altar, no pews,
but a thousand wild sanctuaries
where grief and softness can sit side by side.
Call it what you want—
but when I speak my truth
and let it live out loud,
that feels close to worship.
That feels like a homecoming.
Spirituality
🌿 If you practice belief in your own way through soil, silence, or survival. I’d love to hear how. Leave a comment or share your reflection. Your voice belongs here.
Say it. Don’t spray it.