Not For You

One of the hardest things about sharing anything with the world–my writing, my jewelry, my tarot card readings–is dealing with the haters. The world of social media is now filled with trolls, people who make it their full time job to scroll around and leave hateful feedback everywhere they go.  They are mean.  They are hurtful.

Today, I let myself get frustrated by one of these nitpicky souls who was questioning my use of a specific word, claiming I didn’t even know what it meant.  I countered (I shouldn’t have countered, I know) with my right to use any word creatively in my own writing to create a mood or evoke a feeling.  I felt hurt and embarrassed because there are all those hateful comments out on the world wide web for everyone to read…and then I remembered…

I didn’t write for those haters.  I didn’t write for those trolls.  I didn’t write for those who hide behind their computer screens, waiting to pounce.  I don’t read tarot for them.  I don’t teach for them. I don’t make jewelry them.  All these things I do are for me and also an open invitation for those people I call my tribe, the people who “get” me, to gather ’round and come closer.

If you don’t like it, move on.  I see plenty of political posts, memes, photos, and whatnot that aren’t my cup of tea, but rather than insult the creator, I simply move on to find the things that do appeal to me.


The Return of Ghost Cat

photo by Alan Turkus
photo by Alan Turkus


I’m pretty comfortable living in haunted spaces. I’ve had some kooky stuff happen in the houses I’ve lived in over the years. My current house has been pretty quiet, knock wood, except for the stealthy ghost cat.

The very first night I slept in this house over a decade ago, I felt a cat jump up on my bed and curl up by my feet. I am a crazy cat lady, so I know what a cat hopping on the bed feels like, but I try to discourage my cats from sleeping in my room overnight because of my asthma. I assumed one of my kitties had snuck in as I closed my bedroom door, so I felt all around the bed for the naughty feline, and there wasn’t a cat to be found. I turned on the light, and as you might’ve guessed, no cat. This process repeated nightly for about a week, and then the phantom cat came to my bed no more.

One night last week, I climbed into bed so wide awake I worried that I wouldn’t fall asleep in time to get a good rest before work. I was running through my mental to do list in bed, and I felt it: up hopped a cat onto the mattress, curling up in a ball by my feet. My train of thought screeched to a halt as I processed this: I was completely awake, and that was surely a cat. On came the bedside lamp, and nothing to be seen.

The ghost cat has been back every night for the last few nights, but I’ve stopped turning the light on. If a kitty from the great beyond takes comfort in snoozing at my feet, so be it. The Adventures of Kat and Ghost Cat continue…

Another Christmas Behind Us…

Another Christmas behind us. Another Yule gone. Santa still sucks as far as I’m concerned…no winter wonderland jewelry commercials came to life, no magical surprises. That bites, ya’ll. I want magic, sprinkles, fairies, dragons, jewels, laughter and amazingness. I want all this and more in 2016. More hammocks. More naps. More books. So let’s make it so.

In 2016, I will have the following amazingness and MORE:

delicious naps with no alarm clock, a great book in hand and another waiting in the wings, intuition on overdrive, coffee with friends, dessert with friends, cuddles with the critters, allowing people to adore me, unexpected opportunities to earn money, wonderful concerts, love letters that arrive via snail mail, snail mail that has happy notes in it, generosity, more of those naps, bubble baths without interruption, time to write, time to craft.

I am ready to let more good stuff in, 2016. Let’s overflow 2016 with awesomeness.


I’m Kat and I get annoyed.

This week’s topic of annoyance is snake oil salesmen. Healers in wolves’ clothing. False prophets.

See, here’s the thing:
As logical and linear and stubborn as I am, I’m also crystals, candles, intuition, energy, and shamanic journeying meditations. I have a real problem, though, with folks who pick up a shiny rock and instantly call themselves a healer, a prophet, a light worker, a shaman, whatever. You can’t buy intuition. You can’t shortcut to your higher self or the astral plane with your MasterCard, baby. Doesn’t work like that.

Even if you are gifted with intuition or healing hands, you need some training. You need some kind of education or apprenticeship or even dedicated study and solo practice, but there’s no express line. You can’t hang a pendant around your neck on Friday, get a snazzy tat, throw on a toe ring, and hang out your shingle Monday. That’s reckless. You don’t know what you’re toying with, and we don’t go tinkering around in these realms willy-nilly. Bad things can happen, and that’s not a threat: it’s a flippin’ guarantee that you’ll screw something or someone (maybe yourself) up dispensing bullshit wisdom, leaving portals open, or exercising idiocy in the name of swindling a buck out of unwitting consumers.

We’re in Asheville for gawd’s sake. You wanna learn some reiki acupuncture manifestation raw foods folk magic sound bowl massage crystal healing herbal tincture candle spell transcendental meditation juju? Leave your house: you’ll fall over opportunities to learn and grow in this town. For safety’s sake, may you been seen as who and what you are so no one is harmed by your greedcentric foolishness (so mote it be, so mote it be, so mote it be, and so it is).