Greetings my lovelies,

Ronnie and I cleaned the house over the weekend.

He did the floors while I tackled the laundry, dishes, dusting, and everything else that needed attention. With four ferrets, three dogs, a cat, and two humans living here, cleaning is never exactly a one-and-done situation.

You clean.

You admire it.

You turn around.

Someone has already messed something up.

Still, for one beautiful moment, the house was clean. The floors were done, the laundry was handled, the dishes were put away, the dust was gone, and everything felt fresh again.

Then September 1st arrived.

And I had witchy shit to do.

First, I replaced the salt at our thresholds. I cleared away the old salt and put down fresh. It’s something I do for protection around our home, and there’s something I love about starting a new month that way.

This is our home. This is our space.

Protect it.

Then I got the cinnamon.

Every first of the month, I blow cinnamon through the doors for abundance and prosperity. I’ve done it before, and September wasn’t going to be any different.

Except Ronnie had just cleaned the floors.

I stood at the door with the cinnamon in my hand and looked down.

Clean floor.

I looked at the cinnamon.

Back at the floor.

And there was that one little moment when I knew exactly what I was about to do.

I could have been reasonable.

I could have considered the man I love, who had spent part of his weekend cleaning these floors.

I could have thought, You know what? Maybe don’t blow powdered spice all over the floor he just cleaned.

That would have been thoughtful.

Very considerate.

Very mature.

Anyway…

I took a breath.

Pffffft.

Cinnamon everywhere.

I stood there looking at it for a second like, Yep. I did that.

Sorry, honey.

I couldn’t help but laugh because the man had just cleaned the damn floors and here comes his wife intentionally blowing cinnamon across them in the name of prosperity.

This is marriage.

Twenty-two years and the poor man is still discovering new reasons not to bother mopping.

But listen, I’m not turning away abundance because the floor is clean.

I’ve got priorities.

And I don’t only mean money when I say abundance, although let’s not get ridiculous here. I will happily accept money.

Lots of it.

Thank you very much.

I want abundance in this home in every way it can find us. Enough money. Enough food. Good health. Love. Laughter. Creativity. Time together. Peace. Friendship. Good days. More moments when we look around and realize life feels pretty damn good.

So yes, the cinnamon went flying.

The floor survived.

The marriage survived.

We’re good.

Then there’s the incense.

I love burning incense on charcoal. Sage, Palo Santo, copal, frankincense, dragon’s blood, different herbs—sometimes it’s one thing, sometimes I mix things together. I go by what I’m feeling, what I want for the house, and sometimes simply what smells good to me that day.

There is something about the smoke moving through our home that I love.

And because apparently September entering the house needed the full treatment, I’m also ready for simmer pots again.

Apples, oranges, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and hopefully cranberries.

That smell.

Oh my gods.

There is nothing complicated about it. A pot on the stove, fruit and spices floating around in the water, the whole house slowly filling with that warm smell while we’re going about our day.

That’s the kind of magic I love.

It fits into my life instead of requiring me to stop my life to do it.

I don’t have some perfect sacred space untouched by the rest of the household. Are you kidding me? I live in the Wright Zoo. There is probably a ferret tunnel nearby, dog hair will reappear approximately seventeen seconds after cleaning it, and Peppermint could decide at any moment that whatever I’m doing requires feline supervision.

My salt is at the same doors the dogs run through. My incense burns while I’m drinking coffee. My simmer pots bubble in the same kitchen where dishes pile up.

And apparently my cinnamon lands on floors Ronnie just cleaned.

It’s all mixed together.

Home. Marriage. Animals. Coffee. Chores. Laughter. Magic.

My life.

Maybe that’s why these little rituals mean so much to me. They’re not separate from everything else. They’re woven right through it.

I’m not trying to create some picture-perfect magical life.

I already have a magical life.

It’s just considerably messier than the pictures on Pinterest.

And apparently covered in cinnamon.

Sorry, Ronnie.

September needed to come in properly.

Magic has casualties.