She’s not tidy.
She doesn’t follow rows or rules.
She blooms sideways, unapologetic, with her face turned toward the sun and her roots deep in knowing.
This is The Green Altar—my back garden.
It’s where I pray with my hands in the soil.
Where the old gods speak in Echinacea and the wind answers like a hymn.
Where I remember that sanctity has always lived outside the walls.
You won’t find incense here—unless you count crushed sage and sun-warmed stems.
You won’t find order—only life.
Wild, tangled, radiant life.
And that is holy.
In the Old Religion, we believe the altar was never meant to be owned
~ Misty Meadow Witch
