Mountain Mended

04/05/2026

Indeed.

03/20/2026

Spring hits different this year 🌿
Saw this book → immediately added it to Fresh Finds.

If you’re feeling the shift too…go look.

👀 https://bookshop.org/a/118359/9781524874803
👉 𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘶𝘵 💛

An Illustrated Guide to Nature's Rhythms

02/17/2026

New moon.
Solar eclipse.
Lunar New Year.
Ramadan begins.
Ash Wednesday.

Different civilizations built different meaning frameworks around the same sky.

For a couple of days, those frameworks overlap.

That’s rare.
That’s powerful.
That’s worth pausing for. 🌑🔥

02/01/2026

It’s February 1. Imbolc.

I’m not pretending the world is calm. I’m not asking it to be.

Brigid isn’t gentle because she’s harmless. She keeps the fire. She knows how to work with it
so it doesn’t destroy the house. She understands that anger isn’t the problem. Unattended anger is.

Today I’m asking for steady hands, strong enough to hold heat, grounded enough not to turn away. Not a fire that erases what hurts,
but one that lights it up long enough to be seen.

May what’s worn not be discarded. May what’s wounded not be rushed into forgiveness. May the rage be kept useful, contained, and honest,
the way it has been in these mountains for generations.

01/29/2026

January 29.

I’m feeling restless.

The good news is I’m not depressed. I usually carry a little S.A.D. this time of year, but that’s not what this is. This feels different. This feels like rage. I almost hate admitting that, because the whole point of 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠- this page, the matching website, the reading, the learning, the creating, the writing, the sharing -is meant to be anti-rage. A place to soften. To slow down. To make sense of things.

But life happens. I learned 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 a long time ago, so I’m not sure why it still catches me off guard.

Normally, I can lose myself in something. A book. A project. A quiet ritual. Right now, not so much. The rage is just… here. In the air. Everywhere.

And here’s the strange part: even though I’m not reaching for joy, I’m still thankful. I’m still grounded. I know who I am. I know what I value. None of that is shaken. I don’t feel broken, I feel AWAKE.

So for now, I’m letting myself sit in it.

I’m not chasing joy tonight, but I’m not lost either. For now, I’m letting the rage exist. Not to feed it, just to listen. I'm RECEIVING the rage (remember that? my word of the year. whatever.)

01/19/2026

I’ve been a little (okay, a lot) MIA lately. A lot going on. Grandma. Work. Winter doing what winter does. My energy has been with pulled where it needed to be. I’m starting to learn what my new normal looks like, and I’ll find my way back to posting as that settles.

Today, though, I wandered into my favorite bookstore, WordPlay, and it felt like someone cracked a window in my brain. Books will do that!

One of the ones I brought home is Household Lore, which has purple-dyed page edges (already a good sign). The back cover says, “In every culture, folklore is passed down the generations, helping us protect our sacred spaces…” And I knew it was coming home with me. Because the other day, my mom said something I’d never heard before. A dish towel fell on the floor and she muttered, “An old rip is coming.” I was like… huh? She said that’s what Aunt so-and-so always used to say. Just like that. Passed down. No explanation. Lore living quietly in the kitchen. 🤷‍♀️

So yeah. This book with its purple edges feels like it might come in handy.

I also picked up The Hidden Seasons and The First Ladies, because I can't buy just one book at a time. I love reading. I also love reading many things at once and then wondering why I take forever to finish anything.

Anyway. Brain rejuvenated. Stack growing. Stories waiting.
Feels like a good place to land for now. 📚💜

01/19/2026

01/18/2026

12/30/2025

I’m ready to share my word for the year ahead. My word for 2026 is receive.

I originally picked receive around December 12. At the time, it felt like a quiet challenge to myself to stop pushing, fixing, managing, proving, and to let good things arrive without resistance.

Six days later, my grandma had a stroke.

Since then, it’s been the ER, the ICU, a regular hospital room, rehab and then yesterday, another call. Back to the ER. Today I went to see her, and she told us she wants to go home. It’s what she wants, and now our goal is simple: get her home.

So my word has shifted from intention to practice.

I’m thinking about receive now as a posture, not a goal. Letting support, rest, love, help, and even grief arrive without resistance. Letting this season be what it is without trying to outwork it or outrun it.

I don’t believe words of the year are meant to be about control or perfection. Maybe they’re more about meeting life where it actually lands. This word found me early, and it turns out I need it more than ever.

If you’ve chosen a word this year, I hope it supports you. And if life has other plans, I hope you let your word evolve with you.

12/22/2025

I watched That Glasgow Witch share a simple ritual: write 13 intentions, release one each night, and on the last night read the one that stays. That final intention becomes something to tend through the year ahead. If you’ve got a few quiet minutes, watch the video. 🕯️

12/21/2025

It’s the winter solstice. The longest night.

In October, I got my first tattoo. A triquetra. For me, it was a nod to the matriarchs of my family, the women who came before me, and the ones still to come. A reminder that we are connected, that nothing really ends, it just moves.

Thursday morning, my grandma had a stroke. She was put on a vent. For the last two days, we sat in the waiting and the not-knowing. Yesterday afternoon, she came off the vent.

It feels deeply moving to me that she made it through one more longest night.

The triquetra is three loops, but it’s really one continuous line. We move through it as our roles change. Sometimes we are the one being held. Sometimes we are the one keeping watch. Sometimes we are the witness. Sometimes we are the continuation.

Four generations of women have been sitting in that hospital, moving through those loops together.

I intentionally broke the lines in my triquetra. Imperfection. Breath. Continuation. My great-grandma used to do the same thing when she quilted, always leaving one stitch “wrong” so it wouldn’t be too perfect. (So the spirit could move?)

This morning, the light returns. Slowly. Quietly.
We are still woven. Love still moves.
And today, that feels like enough.

Artist Unknown