When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

Of all the STEM fields, astronomy is the most dangerous for a student at Elsewhere University. Every science has poetry in it, but astronomy is just so much more explicit about it. Observatories are liminal spaces at the best of times or the most mundane of universities, but only at this school does the tiny octagonal library need an iron bolt on the door and windows, only at this school is the inner wall of the telescope dome maintained with a crust of salt. Each of the three doors leading to the dome has a spray of blackthorn twigs pinned to it. It makes things a little easier, but only in the sense that after installing protective measures, fewer astronomy students vanished. The wind still howls outside the dome, sounding more like a voice than any wind should. The red lamps inside the dome still show shadows that aren’t cast by any student there. On some nights, the telescope will show you the wrong side of the moon, or Venus and Mars will switch places, or Vega will turn leaf-green.

The astronomy students do what they can to stay safe. But there’s magic inherent in astronomy, and there’s no iron nor blackthorn nor salt that can keep it out.


Badly designed school

My secondary school is loaded, and a year or two before I started there, they built a whole new school on a new plot, and sold the old buildings. Despite having millions of pounds to play with, the school is so badly designed.

Flaw 1: No soundproofing for the music or dance classrooms.

Flaw 2: Putting the music, dance, drama and PE facilities, the noisiest areas in the entire school, in the same building as the hall where we take exams. (Today during my Maths exam, we could hear other students playing djembes upstairs. Yesterday, a teacher was in this room behind the hall where we take exams and yelling.)

Flaw 3: Not putting any locks on any music classrooms until this year. This may sound stupid, but irresponsible children ruin beautiful pianos, rearrange complicated drum kits, move people’s expensive instruments in the music cupboard, and generally upset every serious music student, such as myself.

Flaw 4: The classrooms are either too dark without using lighting, or too hot all the time, because every single window is in a bad place. Only the computer rooms are air conditioned, as air conditioning isn’t too common in my country, the UK. (My French class is after school time and there’s only two of us plus the teacher, so we always go and sit in the air conditioned MFL computer lab as soon as it starts getting warm.)

Flaw 5: I’ve submitted stories for this blog before, and I’ve mentioned ‘the Hub’. Basically, the school is composed of five buildings (‘blocks’) surrounding a large covered courtyard ('the Hub’). The Hub is absolutely freezing from October until March, and then is so hot from May to September. No one likes the Hub. We keep asking the school to install windows in the gaps of the Hub (the source of the Arctic temperatures), but they refuse for some inane reason.

Flaw 6: The library is tiny, but often the only warm place to go at lunchtime. Therefore it is always full up of screaming children. This is incredibly infuriating when you’re looking for a quiet place to study before a life-changing exam and you can’t go in a supposed 'quiet area’ because there are too many loud toddler-like idiots in there.

Flaw 7: The loos are open. There are stalls, which have a toilet and automatic sink in there, but there are no mirrors or anywhere private to go with your friends when you need a cry (as we all know, being a teenager involves a lot of crying in toilets). The girls’ stalls aren’t separate from the boys’ stalls, so we can smell and see their disgustingness. The only advantage is that you can dare people to use the wrong toilet for their gender, and embarrass them easily when everyone stares at the boy emerging from a girl’s stall.

Flaw 8: The computers and computer rooms are shit. The computers are worse than the computers we had at my primary school, which was tiny and poor and had 160 students. My secondary has 1600 students, a huge budget, and yet still what feels like two decent computers. Things don’t work out. (Also we got hacked recently and no one took the hints that we need better, more secure computers.)

Flaw 9: No light switches, only bizarre and barely functioning remotes. The remotes get stolen by staff and students. It admittedly can be very funny.

This isn’t really a flaw, but you can smell Food Tech from the Textiles, D&T and Humanities rooms, and it can be painful. I’ve cried I was so hungry in RE once and all I could smell was fried chicken.

TL;DR - My school buildings are crap despite being worth millions of pounds. It’s infuriating.

stages of minimalism

(in no particular order)

  • getting rid of just in case items
  • needing an item you have priviously decluttered, but finding a cheap, easy alternative
  • “I don’t need this daily or weekly, I will just toss it and hope fo the best”
  • you see somthing cute or awesome and don’t have the impulse to buy it
  • an invitation for an event has you asking around for suitable clothes in your circle of friends instead of shopping
  • first name basis with people at goodwill/salvation army/charity shops
  • you feel overwhelmed in a huge mall because you are not used to it anymore
  • wearing stuff out until the last possible bit
  • that sentimental item wasn’t so sentimental after all
  • “Hm, should I go vegan/zero waste/plastic free/moneyless/quit my 9-5 job?”
  • so tiny houses, huh?
  • library? Read all the books!
  • Pack your suitcase in 10 Minutes
  • what else can I toss?
Sweater Weather || Remus Lupin x Reader

{summary: you were known to get cold very easily while spending your years studying at Hogwarts, and it seems as though someone else knows about your dislike for the cold as they leave you a sweater to help with keeping you warm one late evening.

but the question that constantly plagues your mind is this: just who left you this sweater?

little did you know, this incident would be the start of your story}

warnings: none

word count: 3,800+

**don’t repost/plagiarize this story**


Keep reading


The older I become, the more I understand how fucking extra I was at 9 year old! While I didn’t become a ballroom dancer or a sniper, I still enjoy looking at ballroom dancing and beautiful rifles. Machinery is most beautiful. Robots and cyborgs were a big thing, too, and I still have soft spots for Robocop, ED 209, Terminator and KITT.

Not to mention Hellraiser. My fave was Chatterer. Though I cheated here a bit bc I saw Hellraiser when I was 6 and loved it. 

I read all the possible paranormal and alien abduction books I could find from this tiny library bus which visited the elementary school once a weak. What a joyful day it was when I found illustrated book of King’s Cycle of the Werewolf.

I’m still bitter my teacher didn’t know what Ihmissusi was in English (werewolf). I knew how to pronounce it because I had heard it a few times in Howling IV (bc movies aren’t dubbed in Finland) but I couldn’t write it.  WELL ON THE OTHER HAND YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WRITE THERE SOMETHING SIMPLE FOR THE FIRST YEAR ENGLISH STUDENT. 

My interests or being fucking extra have not changed since childhood but only widened to more obscure things lol. 

anonymous asked:

How do you think the fair folk would respond to architecture majors? It's an odd field halfway between the engineer and the artist. Plus it comes with a pretty ancient and hallowed history and tradition. Would they be respected, feared or in danger?

Overall I think architecture would be looked on favourably - as you said, there’s a long, long history and tradition, and such possible beauty in it as well. I wonder if it’s in some ways strange to the Gentry, as well - the effort involved in building confections of glass and stone and wood, instead of shaping it with magic, spinning crystal and ice into palaces, or weaving trees into courtrooms at will. The acknowledged importance of beautiful spaces crosses the line into the Elsewhere, but we come at it from a much different, more permanent angle than they do.

I imagine a possible consequence of architecture students who spend too much time Elsewhere, or who take up the Forbidden Major, is that they will once in a while design things that look fine on paper but that take on a certain Escher quality when built - little tiny Libraries of sorts.

I see a lot of posts on tumblr that imply borrowing a book from a library is less supportive of the author than buying it outright and I would like to offer a few unsolicited thoughts as to why that’s not true:

  • Every book in a public library has to earn its spot on the shelf. If no one checks it out, then it will be weeded from the collection to make way for a book that will circulate. So, if you check out a book, you’ve just given it a much a better chance at being there for someone else to discover!
  • A recently returned book is more likely to be propped up as a display in the tiny nooks around the library. Every shelver loves an empty display space because it means they can quickly get rid of several books. A book on display is more likely to catch someone’s eye and on and on!
  • You might not be able to tell this just by looking at the shelves, but when a book first comes out from an author, the library often buys several copies and based on how many people have reserved the title and how heavily it circulates, they might buy even more copies! Also, when purchasing a new title from an established author, many librarians will look at the circ stats of the author’s other books and will use that as a guide for how many copies to buy of the new book. In case you didn’t know, libraries buy a lot of books - we make up a huge portion of the book sales market.
  • Many people use the library as a way to discover new authors. It’s a risk-free investment and helps them experiment with a lot of different titles that they wouldn’t be able to if they had to buy all of them. And if they really love an author, they might become a life-long fan who will buy their books for years to come, all because of kismet at the library.
  • If you check out the book at the library, your librarian can make a better case for inviting the author to come to the library for an event for which they can get paid! This is especially true for lesser-known authors.

In conclusion, borrowing a book from the library is a wonderful thing to do. It helps make sure other people have access to that book in the future, creating an ever-wider audience for the author.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t buy books, I’m just saying, borrowing books from the library has just as many positive effects and you don’t ever have to feel bad that you’re somehow not supporting an author by borrowing their book instead of buying it. :)

Overdue Pt 3

aka too gay to function

Start at the beginning with Part One and Part Two

Three weeks. Three weeks of coffee and pastries delivered by terrified students, meals dropped off by a sheepish Baby Danvers, all of which she’d posted about on her Instagram at one point or another. Maggie was absolutely sure that Vasquez was hedging their bets and feeding information to both sides of this war for their own entertainment.

She didn’t blame them at all.

Maggie was having the time of her life watching the Bio-Chem professor that made grown men cry (and okay that story about Dr. Lord crying in the quad would never get old– not when the videos kept reappearing on youtube) was grovelling for forgiveness.

And Maggie probably could have found it in her to forgive Dr. Danvers, she had returned the book in pristine condition after all. However, she wanted an explanation. The book had been kept out of circulation long enough that it was outdated, and materials budgets for libraries didn’t just appear out of thin air. An explanation would be nice, and if she had one, Maggie would be more than happy to release the hold on Danvers’ account without the payment of that ridiculously high fine.

Danvers hadn’t attempted that though, and Maggie was having entirely too much fun to just tell her that.

She had to give the other woman credit though, she was certainly persistent. Even the morning of Dr. Eliza Danvers’ presentation, coffee and her favorite muffin were waiting near her desk, delivered by a grinning Vasquez.

“How’s your dissertation coming, Vas?”

“Coming along just fine, ma’am. Dr. Danvers has been a great help.”

Maggie almost spat her coffee out. “That is the exact opposite of anything I have ever heard about that woman.”

“That’s because,” Vas whispered, “She’s teaching undergrads.”


To be fair, Maggie was willing to bet that a good chunk of babygays were losing their shit over their first super hot professor teaching an already hard class.

Maggie enjoyed science, but she was willing to bet she’d have failed Danvers’ class, because that woman could make lab goggles look good.

Vas rapped the desk with their knuckles, “Gotta go help set up the auditorium. See you at three?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Vasquez.”

Vas winked and left Maggie to fill the next few hours with more research. Occasionally for a student, but mostly so that Maggie could at least lie to herself about being able to follow along with the lecture.

Maggie did bring popcorn. She said she would, and she certainly couldn’t break her word, not when she made sure to be early enough to catch a seat in the front row, where she could watch Danvers pace and squirm up close.

Because Dean Grant had jumped at the offhanded suggestion that Dr. Danvers would be the perfect moderator for the lecture. She was, after all, the other Dr. Danvers’ daughter, no one else on staff knew her work nearly as intimately.

If she happened to wait to eat it until Danvers was at the podium, well.

Okay so maybe she was fucking with Danvers.

A little.

One piece of white cheddar popcorn at a time.


Running the salty treat along her bottom lip, her tongue flicking out to take each piece in slowly, and only when Danvers glanced at her.

Maggie was challenging herself, really, to see if she could get that faint blush at the tips of Danvers’ ears to travel anywhere else.

She almost laughed when Danvers stuttered after Maggie had to reach into her bra to dig out a dropped kernel.

Maggie did behave herself when the elder Dr. Danvers rose to speak. She clapped along with the crowd, even as the details went over her head. If her attention drifted to a pair of pretty brown eyes to the right of the speaker, well, she’d blame it on seeing Danvers in formal business attire.

If she’d dressed in a pantsuit, Maggie wouldn’t have mistaken her for a grad student.

Maggie thought it was interesting to note that Danvers was just as cool and collected in formal business wear as she was in jeans and that collection of leather jackets (popcorn porn aside).

She hung around when it was over, letting the students file out or approach the stage and ask questions that Maggie only understood every third word of. She loved science, but this was all a bit out of her wheelhouse.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see Baby Danvers bouncing up to her mother as the crowds of science nerds dispersed, talking a mile a minute and being followed by a comparatively tiny woman in massive heels. They hugged like family, and even Danvers cracked a smile at the new woman.

Maggie ignored the slight twisting in her gut.

She stood and walked over, intent on meeting the woman.

Dr. Danvers.

The speaker.

Certainly not the woman wrapping her arms around Danvers’ waist and hanging on.

“Hi, Dr. Danvers? My name’s Maggie Sawyer. I work in the library here.”

“Oh yes! Dean Grant mentioned you had requested the added lecture date,” she smirked. “Well, after I pointed out that there was no way either of my daughters would have. Please, call me Eliza.”


“Oh girls, I’m just having fun. I didn’t want to step on your toes, Alexandra.”

Danvers grimaced at the use of her full name.

“Wait, you work in the library?” the tiny one asked, poking Danvers. “Hey, Alex, whatever happened to that book you checked out from the hot librarian? Did you ever get the ovaries to ask her out to book club, or whatever nerds do?”

Danvers and her baby sister had the same bug-eyed look when the shouted “LUCY!”

Eliza chuckled softly. “Oh, Alexandra. What will I do with you?”

Maggie grinned, “I can think of a few things.”

She also wondered how far down Danvers’ blush went, because it definitely went past the first three buttons of her blouse.

Ravenclaws are scary people, aka what should have happened had the House of Ravenclaw been as stereotyped

- Lockhart wouldn’t have lasted a week before someone cross sourced his so called books. There would have been an insurrection because how dare he sabotage their education! And tell LIES?!
- Lupin would have been identified as a werewolf within two months, but the older Ravens make everyone in their house swear an unbreakable vow to never tell a single soul about it. They finally have a decent DADA teacher and they are NOT risking their knowledge provider. When Snape outs him, they retaliate viciously. No one ever finds out who was behind either the massive amount of pranks nor the no less massive pile of complaints about his lack of teaching skills and the danger he puts his students in by not reigning his snakes in despite the volatility of the potions they are making. Evidence of both are sent to every magical adult in the country, as well as to the ICW and some international newspapers. Snape is fired not a week later.
- don’t get me started on Umbridge. 99% of her decrees are taken as personal insult by the Ravens.
“ "No more than three students at the same time”?? Does she knows what that implies? We can’t eat in the great hall anymore. Or sleep in the dorms. Or be in the common room. PAVARTI WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE IN CLASS SHE IS BANNING US FROM LEARNING PAVARTI THIS IS NOT FUNNY YOU MIGHT BE MY TWIN BUT I WILL HURT YOU IF YOU LAUGH ONE MORE TIME! Get me Granger she’ll understand me and we can … OMG THAT MEANS EVEN THE LIBRARY IS OFF LIMIT THAT’S IT THE BITCH IS DEAD I guess you’ll have to come and visit me in Azkaban Pavarti because I’m going to kill the heathen myself.“
"Only theory and no practical and we’re supposed to take our NEWTs this year this is not okay at all how are we supposed to do this and half the things in this ‘book’ are false I can’t take this much longer” * Antony Goldstein writes his lawyer of a father and the Ravenclaw alumni association’s president. Umbridge’s lack of qualifications are made public knowledge within twenty four hours. Within forty eight, she has been removed from Hogwarts and the RAA has joined forces with the HHA to make sure such a travesty never happens again.
- Hogwarts’ occupation period. Ravenclaws organising underground classes to make sure the younger years get a decent education. Secret textbooks distributions. Black market for defensive spells. Ravenclaws still doing their best to study hard in these trying conditions because they will not let these bastards endanger their future career plans. Boycotting classes and living in the library. Fifth year and over students not going to the mandatory gathering in the great hall because OWLs and NEWTs are in less than a month.
*Loud noise outside the library*
A seventh year looking hagard as he emerges from his pile of books to glare at everyone in the room: “SHHH!”
*Spellfire, yells and cries*
A fifth year looking up from his treaty on the history of the Magical Roman Empire and of its battles against the picts and their secret magic: “Some of us are trying to study here!”
*More spellfire, the walls of the library shake*
Tiny seventh year of undetermined gender, wearing last week’s robes and with dark circles around their eyes, marching up to the door and throwing it open to glare at everyone fighting in the corridor: “Excuse me some of us are trying to make sure that the pisspoor management of this school doesn’t totally screw over our future so if you would be so kind as to BE FUCKING QUIET SO WE FAN ACTUALLY GET SOME STUDYING DONE THAT WOULD BE NICE, NOW FUCK OFF!” *Slams the door shut, goes back to their treaty on how the tragedy of the library of Alexandria changed the way library wards were set up*
*Silence. Then the door explodes*
Irma Pince, Ravenclaw alumni, current librarian, appears out of nowhere, armed with a small army of flying books with many teeth: “NO MAGIC IN THE LIBRARY!”
The flying books are enchanted Lockhart’s books. At least that way the poor mistreated papers could still prove useful in preserving knowledge by protecting the library.
A stray death eater spell sets the Arithmancy aisle on fire.
As one, every single Ravenclaw reacts.
Of the death eater contingent that came into the library, none survived.


5 Things to Consider When Creating a Personal Sacred Space

It’s taken me years to create a space for myself within my home. YEARS. I feel like my space is finally the way I want and need it to be. For now. LOL! I’m always rearranging things every few weeks. For now, this is the way I love for it to be. This is where I pray, practice yoga poses (when it’s not doing me more pain than good) and meditation, listen to records, and read from my tiny library (books, zines and comics). This is my personal sanctuary and where I rest my aching body and anxious mind every single night. I’m mentally and chronically ill so some days - sometimes a week or weeks - I don’t get out of bed especially when my depression is really bad.

Here are five things to consider when creating a personal sacred space. Enjoy!

1. Use what you have

My record player sets atop a TV dinner tray. In my prayer space, my sacred objects are set upon a floral print tray I’ve used for makeup, coffee makers, and many other purposes. A Gremlins lunchbox (c. 1984) houses a tiny zine collection and an Annie lunchbox (c. 1981) houses a tiny comics collection. Other things like my floral print trash can and containers were purchased at the dollar store. 

2. Clear the clutter

Take out things that might contribute to your anxiety or remind you of things you can’t or don’t want to do (I once was able to do weights but haven’t been in over a year so I took them out). I used to have everything in my room from makeup to books to my writing/craft desk. Makeup is now on my bathroom vanity and, except for mental health and self care books, my books and desk are in the living room. Over time, I went through all of my documents and any other papers and only keep what I need. I placed them in cute folders in magazine holders on a designated shelf in my closet.  Since I removed the desk, I rarely work on the laptop and do any other work like writing or zine making in my room.

3. Surround yourself with what represents you

For the longest time my walls were bare. No art, just white walls. I didn’t start investing in art until maybe a year ago. The art in my room definitely represents who I am and makes me happy: Hopi, Otham, a river and desert person, and no doubt a Star Wars fan. (My Hopi and Star Wars art was made by a Hopi/Otham friend which I purchased from him at our tribe’s museum at First Friday’s. It was the end of the event so I bought seven pieces which was pretty much his inventory that night!) I love bright colors, floral patterns and cute things which is represented from my sheets to my trash can to small containers that hold special objects. I keep mental health, yoga, and self-care books (coloring books and paper dolls) in my room because I want them to be within reach on the days I’m struggling, especially to get out of bed. I also try to be a minimalist when it comes to buying and keeping records and comics because cost and space.   

4. Decide what kind of space you want it to be

Whether you have a tiny room, a roommate, share with a significant other, a relative, or whatever it may be, you might not have a lot of space or any space to create the sanctuary you want and need. It’s okay, I used to only have the floral print tray for my sacred objects and that was it. My room is maybe 150 sq. ft. but I managed to create “zones” which include a listening space, yoga space, prayer space, art space and a reading space. Decide what’s most important to you and create something, even if it’s an altar on a TV dinner tray!

5. Take your time

Like I said, it’s taken me years to curate this space I call my sanctuary. Take your time figuring out what means the most to you, what makes you happy, and doesn’t cost a lot of money or any money at all. It’s important to have a space that is safe and all yours. You need a place to help nurture you back to health in your body, mind and spirit. You deserve this!

Thank you for reading. Please, do share with me how you created your personal sacred space and what it means to you and your mental, spiritual and physical health. Sape!