09/21/2025
This morning I stood at the stove for hours, cooking down wild rose hips into syrup. Hours of straining, stirring, and waiting. Hours most people would rather spend scrolling their feeds, worrying about s**t they can’t control, or complaining about the state of the world.
But here’s the thing: those hours were the medicine.
The cutting of the hips, the simmering pot, the slow thickening into sweetness—this was a prayer. This was a f**k-you to the empire that tells us speed is holy, distraction is survival, and our hands were made for keyboards instead of berries.
So often what we truly need isn’t another app, another guru, another “fix.” What we need is ritual. The kind you can taste. The kind that stains your hands red and leaves your kitchen smelling like wild medicine. The kind that reminds you: life is ceremony, if you let it be.
Maybe it’s rose hips for you. Maybe it’s bread dough, or splitting wood, or tending the damn compost pile. But don’t underestimate it. These small, ordinary sacraments are what keep us alive, sane, and tethered to something older than doomscrolling.
The medicine is here. In the work. In the waiting. In the syrup on your tongue that carries the memory of the wild.
And empire can’t algorithm that s**t away.
So tell me—what’s your ritual today? What’s the small, sacred rebellion you’re tending with your hands?
Angell 🦌
