The fire still smells like cedar and clove. With bay leaves and memory. Like endings.
Ritual Fires
At midnight, I threw myself to the flames. No, not all of me, just the parts I no longer want to keep. I wrote the things I’m letting go of on torn paper and fed them to the fire like offerings. I carved hope into bay leaves and whispered every dream I’m not ready to give up on. I mixed herbs and bark for Litha. Both for letting go and for inviting in. And then I burned it all.
It wasn’t neat.
It never is.
But it was honest.
I burned what I’ve outgrown, again even if I already wrote about it two days ago.
I burned shame I inherited.
I burned the way I still try to shrink when I take up too much space.
I burned the ghost of who I thought I had to be to earn love.
I let the smoke wrap around me like a truth spell or a reminder. I’m not starting over. I’m continuing. And I needed that fire to mark the shift. This isn’t a ritual I’ll explain in exact terms. It’s just something I needed.
A fire.
A night.
A line drawn in smoke. Now there’s ash in my hair. Smoke in my bones. And more space than there was before.
I’ll plant something in it. Not now. But soon.
