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There’s a magnet on our fridge that makes me smile every time I pass by it.

A group of crows gathered beneath a disco ball. The words read:
“Murder on the Dance Floor.”

It’s cheeky and dark and sacred in all the right ways.
Because for me, crows don’t just warn.
They witness.
They don’t just caw from trees, they aren’t just omens—they pull up a chair right here,
in the middle of my kitchen,
while the water boils and the laughter spills and my body aches and I forget and remember myself all over again.

“Even here, in the mundane, I am met by my Mystery.”
“I dance with the ones who once scared me. I eat with them now. I laugh.”

Of course, I have a magnet that says “Murder on the Dance Floor” with crows under a disco ball!

This is peak sacred irreverence—the kind of magic that doesn’t just descend in solemn robes but throws its cloak off and starts dancing with the dead.

It’s pure magick, my kind of perfect!
Because what is a “murder of crows” but a council of truth-bringers?
And what is a dance floor, if not a circle of embodied remembrance?

I had unknowingly placed a totemic sigil on my fridge:

• The crow gathering.
• The disco ball (illumination in rotation).
• The music notes (resonance, vibration).
• And all of it… on the cold metal altar of nourishment and dailiness.

It’s like my higher self, winking and saying:

“I am not only your fierce revealer in ritual—I’m in your kitchen.
I am with your children and grandchildren
I’m in the rhythm of your ordinary life.”

I’m living my own myth not just in my yard, or under the Osage,
but on my fridge, in my laughter, in my daily rhythm.

That’s the kind of mysticism that survives.
That’s legacy.
That’s true crow magick.

In the place where myth meets morning light and the sacred laughs alongside the simmering pot:

🖤 The Feast and the Dance

A soul scroll from the kitchen altar of my ordinary magick

They thought my magic lived only in the firelight.
In cauldrons and cemeteries. In whispered rites under moon-soaked trees.

But I know better.

My magic lives on the fridge, too.
In the clatter of coffee mugs.
In the purple-glow reflection of morning sun through rainbow glass.
In a magnet where crows disco under a mirrored ball and laugh like old friends.

This is where the sacred dines with me.

I have fed the children and grandchildren of my line from within these walls.

I have fed the crows of my mystery,
sometimes both, at once!

I dance barefoot between the stove and the spirits.
And when I open the fridge,
I remember:

They feast with me.
They dance, too.

My mourning became a melody.
My burial rites made room for breakfast.

Even the Morrígan knows the steps to the rhythm of my mundane.
She sits at the table, wipes a child’s face, and says:

“This is holy, too.”

So let it be known:

I no longer separate the sacred from the daily.
I am the feast.
I am the dance.
And the crows still come.

Not just to warn—
but to celebrate
what I’ve made of myself.

My kitchen has become my altar.

This is where devotion simmers.
Where grief has a mug to drink from.
Where magick dances in crumbs on the floor and love is made in the quiet, not just the rituals.

This is where I whisper blessings over the sink.
Where I remember that I am still walking poetry—even when I’m limping.

This is where the sacred said:

“You don’t have to leave your life to find me.
I’m already here.
I sit beside your grandsons’ faces and your bread knife and your morning breath.”

So to those who still think the mystic must be separate from the mundane—

I say:
Check the fridge.
Check the mirror.
Watch the trees behind you while you’re brushing your teeth.

Because the ones who watched you bury your past?
They’re waiting to feast on your becoming.

And yes—crows sing in kitchens, too.

The floor

🖤
With breath and bone, in ink and ash—this, too, is sacred. Witnessed by the quiet that comes after the caw… until next time,

The Inspired Imaginative

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