Firelight & Thunder

I live in a place that feels grounded but still a little wild, like magic was never meant to be tamed—only lived with. Somewhere that could be New Hampshire, or Maine, or Washington. Sometimes it’s a cozy boho cottage. Sometimes a quirky, gothic-leaning Victorian with tall windows and storm bones in its walls. Sometimes it’s my grandparents’ old house in Sequim, soaked in rain and memory. The location shifts, but the feeling never does.

When people step inside, they pause—like they’ve crossed a threshold. The air smells of beeswax, lavender, whiskey, and something faintly electric. The house feels like an apothecary collided with an artist’s loft and a 70s rock star’s chill-out den. Warm wooden floors, mismatched vintage furniture, boho rugs layered like stories, beads catching the light, floor pillows pushed into corners. A velvet chair sits by the window, claimed by sunlight and half-finished thoughts.

The walls are alive—tapestries, old concert posters, and art that raised me: Warhol and Dali, Van Gogh and Basquiat, Kinkade’s soft glow beside the darker edges of Relm, Jasmine Becket-Griffith, Kurtis Rykovich, Tanya Shatseva. Plants thrive wherever light spills through stained-glass sun catchers, and shelves bow under the weight of books, crystals, and my own handmade creations. It’s slightly chaotic. It’s stunning. It’s mine.

My life is calm and steady—but never dull. Fire and quiet coexist here. Soft witchy magic braided with a rock-and-roll soul. Some mornings are slow and tender. I journal on the porch while cats stretch themselves into the sun. I make soaps or candles, wander my small garden brushing lavender and rosemary, check on hydrangeas like they’re old friends. I walk, meditate, stretch into yoga, let my body remember peace. On warm days, there’s a pool, a hot tub, a swinging bench that rocks me into stillness. I sketch. I read. I create for the sheer joy of it. Sometimes I head into town to volunteer, or work a part-time job I actually love—usually at a bookstore, where conversations drift easily into favorite novels and half-remembered endings. Maybe one day it’ll be a craft store. Or a witchy shop. Or bath and body. I’m in no rush.

Other days, my fire wakes first.

Music rattles the walls as I dance through the house cleaning, or I fall headlong into a candle-making frenzy that keeps me up past midnight. Wax coats my hands. My heart buzzes. Letters get written—honest ones. Sometimes I visit places where memory lives louder than words. Sometimes I paint at 2 a.m., windows open, pouring everything I have into canvas or page or air itself.

Late nights are my favorite. The house glows with candlelight. Eminem or old rock spins loud enough to make the floor hum. A half-finished art project sprawls across the dining table. Wax bubbles gently in a pot, the kitchen cluttered with jars, wicks, scents. Beeswax and vanilla rise into the air, spiced with whatever I’m drinking. A song loops again and again, and I don’t notice the clock slip past midnight—past one—past two. I feel alive in that quiet, chaotic burst of creation, like the world finally makes sense.

Morning comes softly.

Sunlight fractures across the hardwood floor, caught and scattered by stained glass. Shadow is already stretched out in a patch of rainbow warmth like he owns the place. The new kitten—tiny, chaotic, relentless—scrambles across the bed batting at my hair, while the older tabby I rescued last spring watches from the bay window, blinking slow and content. I pad into the kitchen in warm slippers and an oversized sweater that still smells faintly of lavender and last night’s incense. Coffee brews, slow and rich. I stand there breathing it in—quiet, content, alive.

The house tells my story everywhere: half-poured candles curing on the counter, paint-streaked brushes in jars, journals stacked by the couch. Plants spill over their pots, records lean against shelves, crystals glow where the sun finds them. Handmade soaps and unfinished projects litter most surfaces. It’s messy, but it’s my kind of beautiful. My altar has its own room. A memorial wall watches gently from across the way. A notebook lies open with a few lines of Bramble’s latest adventure scratched out between sips of tea.

After breakfast, I wander into the garden, checking herbs drying for soaps. The air smells like rain from last night’s storm—fresh, earthy, honest. It makes me want to write, so I do. Sometimes it’s fiction. Sometimes it’s just me.

Some days I drive with no plan—windows down, music blasting, hair tangled in the wind. I stop at a small café near the coast, order something sweet, journal while watching waves crash against rocks. It’s simple. It’s magic. The kind I used to dream about when life felt unbearably heavy.

Nights come louder. Candles everywhere. Music up. Wax pouring. I dance because I can. Later, a hot bath, a book, the window cracked to let the night breathe in. Sometimes I wake at midnight—the witching hour—to rain and thunder. Lightning fractures the sky outside tall Victorian windows. I curl on the couch with a blanket, journal open, scribbling wildly as the storm rolls. Candlelight flickers. Incense hisses softly. The house feels alive, listening. Shadows dance like spirits on the walls. The storm matches my heartbeat.

My life isn’t perfect.

It’s alive.

I might be single, but I’m never lonely. Sometimes there’s a lover like a storm—on again, off again—pulling me into late-night drives and impulsive adventures. Sometimes it’s a wild weekend, a breathless connection, a flirtation that burns bright and clean. I move freely. I choose honesty. I choose pleasure without shame.

When chaos gets too loud, I retreat to Sequim. My grandparents’ house still smells of old wood and memory. I sit by the window with tea, watching mist roll through trees and water. That sacred quiet is where my rawest words are born.

I am both fire and softness.

The warmth of candlelight and the electricity of a storm.

I am alive in my recovery—not chained by it.

I burn brighter without burning out.

I live loud and soft at the same time.

I am a maker of worlds.

In my books, in my candles, in my life—I build beauty from nothing. I honor my past without letting it hold me. I chase the things that make me feel untamed and whole.

Whether in a Victorian dream house, a cozy apartment, a boho cottage, or my grandparents’ place in Sequim, I carry my magic with me.

I am home.

And that—finally—is everything I ever wanted.