wicca

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Simple. Gentle. Like a spiritual permission slip written in soft candlelight. But then reality. Then people.

The Wiccan Rede isn’t a fluffy motto for floating through life like a chiffon-draped faery. It’s a challenge. A dare from the universe. A whispered reminder:

“Behave… or the cosmic slap is coming.”

🐍 The Hard Part: “Harm None”

This is where most of us trip. “Harm none” sounds saintly until you actually try it. Have you met people? They’re messy, loud, selfish, loving, broken, healing, hopeful, cruel, and kind all in the same breath.

You’re going to harm sometimes. With words, with silence, by accident, by simply existing differently than someone wants you to.

The Rede isn’t saying you can avoid harm altogether. It’s saying: don’t be careless. Don’t throw hexes around like confetti. Don’t wield your will without thought.

Real compassion is hard work. It means stopping to breathe before you lash out. It means trying really trying to see another human as a tangled ball of needs and pain, not just “the enemy.” And when you do harm (because you will), it means owning it, repairing it, not pretending it never happened.

🕸️ “Do What Ye Will”

Now for the fun part. Freedom.

The Rede doesn’t cage you. It doesn’t hand you a checklist of “good witch” behaviours. It says: choose. Make your will real. Sing to the moon. Dance barefoot in your kitchen. Call on gods, ancestors, or just the wild stubbornness in your own chest.

You’re allowed. You’re free. That’s the beauty.

But hidden in that freedom is a catch: responsibility.

If your will becomes sloppy, selfish, or cruel, it doesn’t matter how beautiful your altar looks you’re feeding chaos, not craft.

So if you manifest a clingy Capricorn with mummy issues instead of your dream soulmate… that’s on you, sunshine. Magic is only as precise as the witch casting it.

🔮 The Rule of Three: Karma With Interest

Every thought, every act, every muttered curse what you send out ripples back.

The “Rule of Three” isn’t about math, it’s about consequence. Energy multiplies.

When you spit venom, it doesn’t just stick to the target. It circles back and coats you, too. When you bless, heal, or protect, that good energy lifts you as well.

Think of it like throwing a boomerang with a jet engine strapped on: it will return, and it might hit harder than you expect.

So yes, when Mildrid from HR steals your stapler and you mutter “may you stub your toe forever,” don’t be shocked when the universe gifts you with a coffee spill, a sulking cat, and a cracked phone screen.

🕯️ The Ritual of Not Being an Arsehole

Here’s the deepest magic of all: It’s not in fancy robes, obscure herbs, or knowing which phase of the moon is best for prosperity spells. Real witchcraft is how you live.

Showing up for your friends when Mercury’s in tantrum mode.

Choosing peace over pettiness (most of the time).

Walking your path without trampling someone else’s.

Offering kindness like you’d offer salt: simple, necessary, life-preserving.

It doesn’t mean you never curse, never rage, never slam the door. It means you own your power. You wield it deliberately. You don’t waste it proving points to people who don’t matter.

That’s what the Rede is trying to whisper: your will is sacred, but so are the ripples you leave behind.

🌕 Final Blessing (Such As It Is)

So here’s the Rede, in plain language for a messy, human, hurting, healing world:

Do what you will. Love deeply. Harm carefully. Own your magic. Own your consequences.

When you must hex, do it artfully. When you must forgive, do it fully.

Live your craft. Not with perfection, but with presence.

And for the love of all that is holy—try not to set anything on fire. Unless, of course, it’s part of the ritual.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

Let’s face it: the original Wheel of the Year is lovely and all, but it never quite captured the true essence of seasonal British existence—grey skies, passive-aggressive weather, and the looming existential dread of another trip around the sun.

So I’ve created My Wheel of the Year, reimagined with all the grim hilarity and dark sarcasm you’ve come to expect. No fluffy bunnies or overenthusiastic flower crowns here. Just raw, seasonal truths filtered through a bottle of gin and a Spotify playlist called “Witchy Vibes & Regret.”

The Sabbaths (or, “How I Learned to Hate the Sun”) January – “The Month of Lies” New Year, New You? Please. You’re still eating Christmas chocolates in your dressing gown and pretending it’s meal prep. This is not a fresh start—it’s an overhyped Monday with fireworks.

February – “Cupid’s Fever Dream” Valentine’s? More like Singles Awareness Month. Light a red candle, write your ex’s name backwards, and curse the Hallmark industry. Repeat while crying into heart-shaped pizza.

March – “Spring Tease” The equinox allegedly brings balance. Lies. It’s still raining sideways, your SAD lamp’s judging you, and you’re debating hexing the weather gods.

April – “The Festival of Allergy” You awaken the land, and in return, it fills your sinuses with tree sperm. Bless the earth with antihistamines and sarcasm.

May – “Beltane Burnout” Fire festivals? Yes. Bonfires of all your ambitions, mostly. Frolic responsibly, with one eye on the bail money.

June – “Solstice of Delusion” The longest day of the year—and somehow, it’s still overcast. Celebrate the triumph of light with SPF 50, rain boots, and an existential scream into the hedge.

August – “Lammas of Regret” The harvest begins. You reap what you sow. Which, let’s be honest, was mostly anxiety, bad decisions, and a dying houseplant.

October – “Samhain or Bust” Ah, spooky season. Finally, an aesthetic you relate to. Dead leaves, dead people, dead hopes. Light your candles, talk to ghosts, avoid your family.

December – “Yule Fuel” Pagan Christmas before it was cool. Stockpile mead, fake joy, and ritual candles like it’s the apocalypse. Because, let’s face it, it probably is.

In Conclusion: Spiritual? Yes. Cynical? Absolutely. This is a wheel that turns not with divine grace but with the sarcastic grinding of a society clinging to ritual and wine in equal measure. Join me. Or don’t. Time is a flat circle and I’m late anyway.

        "SAD Season," "Ritual Panic," "Full Moon Tantrum"

🧌 @goblinbloggeruk — Witchy, Weird, and Just a Bit Unstable 🔮 Read the blog, question your life.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                   By storm and silence, I survive.”

Posted: 21/06/2025

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The Summer Solstice — or as I like to call it, “The Sun's passive-aggressive final warning before it starts buggering off again.”

Today, the Northern Hemisphere is bathed in the most daylight it will get all year. A magical time. A sacred moment. And, for those of us in the UK, probably overcast with a 60% chance of disappointment.

But what is the Summer Solstice actually about?

Let’s crack that open, shall we?

🔥 Solstice Origins (Before it was hijacked by Instagram hippies) The Summer Solstice has been celebrated for thousands of years by people who knew how to read stars and didn't rely on google to explain basic astronomical events. Celts, Druids, Norse pagans, and the odd Bronze Age bloke with a suspiciously advanced sundial all marked this day as sacred.

It’s the day the sun “stands still” — not literally (don’t panic, the Earth's still spinning, for now), but it’s when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky before it slowly begins its six-month descent into SAD lamps and existential dread.

Cue bonfires, rituals, and naked dancing in fields, which in modern terms means someone trying to charge their crystals next to a traffic cone at Glastonbury.

🧙‍♂️ What Do People Actually Do? Stonehenge gets mobbed by a mix of druids, goths, curious tourists, and at least one man dressed as a goat.

Wiccans mark Litha, the fire festival, which is basically a spiritual BBQ without the sausages.

The rest of us mutter “blimey, it’s hot” 48 times and try not to melt while complaining about hosepipe bans.

Instagram influencers light incense, post sun emojis, and forget what equinox even means.

🤔 What Should You Do? You can:

Honour the light.

Burn a symbolic herb.

Meditate under the sun like a reformed vampire.

Or, more realistically, sit indoors behind blackout curtains because the sun gives you a headache and your upstairs neighbour is using the solstice to summon a TikTok demon.

Whatever works.

🌞 Final Thought: The Summer Solstice reminds us that time is an illusion, the seasons are cycles, and no matter how much spiritual growth you do — Mercury will still go retrograde and ruin everything next month.

So happy Solstice, weirdos. Burn something (safely). Celebrate the light. Then return to the shadows where it’s cooler and no one asks about your star sign.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

      “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”

🕯️ About Me Old soul. Frayed nerves. Unapologetically alive.

I am not here to soothe you.

I write from the edge of something — something most people spend their lives running from. Illness. Silence. Being forgotten. The parts of life that don’t make polite conversation.

I live with Multiple Sclerosis, but MS is just the symptom. The real story is what it strips away — comfort, time, patience, pretence — until all that’s left is you. And then what do you do with that raw truth?

You write. You cast. You curse a little, love a little, and sit with things others fear. You feel people’s hearts before they speak. You laugh darkly at the ones who don't believe you’re really ill, and bless the ones who show up anyway.

I’ve got one foot in the mundane world and one in something stranger — older. I read people. I hear what they don’t say. I know when a storm is coming before the clouds break. And I’ve learned that the truth — however cracked, however strange — is worth writing down.

🌑 Welcome to My Living Hell Where the lights flicker, the truth slips out, and the fridge is always humming.

This blog is part journal, part ritual, part middle finger to a world that tries to polish pain into something palatable.

I don’t do toxic positivity. I do real. I do heatstroke visions in the conservatory. Conversations with the fridge. Ghosts of family past. Wheelchairs with homicidal tendencies. And moments of stillness so sharp they cut through the noise.

There’s love in here — somewhere beneath the salt and ash. But you’ll have to sit with the dark to find it. That’s the deal.

So if you’ve ever been made to feel like you were “too much,” “too complicated,” or “not enough” — come closer. But gently. The veil’s thin here. And I see straight through.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

          “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                   By storm and silence, I survive.”