Ellie Potts's Blog

To my readers. What would you like me to talk about next month? Is there a certain thing I brought up that you would like to know more? Is there a certain magic or system you would like to know about? Certain writing tips you want me to discuss? Sharing is caring and since it’s going to be December I wanted to ask you my readers what you would like to read about.

What technology would you be better off without, why?

There are technologies that expand us—tools that help us connect, create, and imagine. And then there are technologies that shrink us, designed not to empower but to exploit. These are the trickster machines: the endless scroll, the manipulative notification ping, the algorithm that feeds on our attention like a hungry ghost. 

Step One: Naming the Exploiters 
Write down the technologies that drain you. Maybe it’s the app that keeps you scrolling past midnight, the ads that whisper you’re never enough, or the game that turns joy into compulsion. Naming them is the first spell of resistance. 

Step Two: Ritual of Refusal 
Light a candle and place your list beside it. Speak aloud: “I am better off without you. You do not define my worth, my creativity, or my community.” Let the flame remind you that attention is sacred, not a commodity. 

Step Three: Communal Reclamation 
Replace the exploiters with rituals of your own making. Instead of the ping of a notification, let music guide your rhythm. Instead of the scroll, let conversation or journaling be your mirror. Share with your community how you reclaimed your time—because freedom multiplies when spoken aloud. 

Closing Reflection 
We are not Luddites; we are magicians. We choose which technologies to invite into our circle, and which to banish. When we refuse the exploiters, we reclaim our cycles of rest, play, and creation. We remind ourselves that we are not products to be consumed—we are beings of ritual, story, and magic. 

Transition & Release: November closes the door on autumn’s shadow work and prepares us for winter’s stillness. 
– Cannabis as Companion: Used here as a ritual herb—sparking laughter, softening edges, and opening space for reflection. 
– Communal Magic: A ritual that can be done solo or shared with friends, blending sensory play, music, and food.

Steps of the Ritual

1. Set the Circle
   – Light a candle or incense with grounding scents (cedar, clove, or sage). 
   – Place a small cannabis flower or joint at the center of your altar as a symbol of release and transformation. 

2. Cannabis Invocation
   – Whisper an intention into the smoke: “I surrender what weighs me down. I invite laughter, softness, and magic.” 
   – If consuming, take a mindful inhale—imagining fog lifting from your body, clearing space for joy. 

3. November Farewell Offering
   – Write down one thing you’re ready to let go of from this month (exhaustion, procrastination, grief, etc.). 
   – Burn or tear the paper, letting the smoke or scraps carry it away. 

4. Sensory Play
   – Pair cannabis with a playlist of grunge/alt rock that clears emotional fog (think Nirvana, Soundgarden, or Garbage). Here is mine. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0RXS45MHC9hfFKB5LGa7E0?si=2H90XZn8RTWfsCIS6rVqLw&pi=55zjMNERQDKa2
   – Add a tactile element: hold a stone, sip a spiced drink, or stir a pot of soup—anchoring yourself in warmth. 

5. Communal Spark
   – If with friends, pass the joint or share edibles as a playful “torch of release.” 
   – Each person names one shadow they’re releasing and one spark they’re carrying forward. 

6. Closing
   – End with laughter, a toast, or a silly dance. 
   – Seal the ritual by saying: “November, I honor your lessons. December, I welcome your stillness.” 

Optional Additions
– Cannabis Kitchen Spell: Infuse butter or oil earlier in the day, then bake cookies to share at the ritual. 
– Playful Mischief: Add cannabis humor—like naming your joint “The Wand of Release” or your edible “Shadow Cookie.” 

What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make? Why?

Life rarely hands us the easy path when we’re standing at the threshold of change. The hardest decisions—the ones that knot our stomachs, fog our minds, and demand courage we’re not sure we have—are often the ones that carry the deepest rewards. 

Why the hardest choices matter: 
– They force us to confront fear, uncertainty, and vulnerability. 
– They strip away illusions, leaving us face-to-face with our values. 
– They become rituals of transformation, marking the moment we chose growth over comfort. 

I’ve lived this truth. 
I’ve made hard decisions: to move to a different city, to quit a toxic job, to step away from a position where I was stagnant. Each leap felt terrifying, but the rewards were always better—better jobs, better ways to improve my living situation, better opportunities to grow into the person I wanted to be. 

Think of it as a communal spell. 
Every time we choose the harder path, we model courage for others. We show that risk can be ritualized, that discomfort can be reframed as sacred pause, and that payoff isn’t just about success—it’s about becoming more fully ourselves. 

Ritual Prompt for Readers
– Recall a hard decision you’ve made. Write down the fear you felt, then the payoff that followed. 
– Create a playlist that mirrors that journey: one song for the fear, one for the leap, one for the reward. 
– Share your ritual with someone who might need courage right now. 

Rituals for Every Body, Every Cycle


Magic Without Barriers
Magic is not about elaborate tools or perfect performance. It’s about connection — to ourselves, to cycles, to community. For sensitive souls, neurodivergent practitioners, or anyone navigating exhaustion, accessibility means rituals that honor the body and spirit as they are, right now. 

When we adapt our practices, we widen the circle. That inclusivity itself becomes sacred.

Principles of Accessible Magic
– Sacred Pause: Rest is ritual. A nap, a sigh, or a foggy day counts as spellwork. 
– Sensory Choice: Adapt textures, sounds, and lights to your comfort. Swap incense for tea, candles for fairy lights. 
– Everyday Altars: A kitchen counter, a playlist, or a favorite mug can hold intention. 
– Low-Energy Rituals: One-word prayers, hand gestures, or listening to a song can be enough. 
– Communal Adaptation: Design rituals where participants can opt in at their own level. 

Ritual Practices
– Pocket Spells: Carry a stone or bead to touch when grounding is needed. 
– Playlist Magic: Curate songs that match emotional cycles — fog-clearing rock, whimsical grunge, or gentle ambient. 
– Accessible Sabbats: Celebrate seasonal shifts with sensory-friendly activities like journaling, cooking, or quiet walks. 
– Humor Spells: Banishing everyday chaos with playful charms (goodbye parking lot madness, hello calm commute). 

Advocacy Through Ritual
Accessible magic is also advocacy. By sharing sensory-friendly guides, low-energy adaptations, and whimsical alternatives, we model care and inclusion. Each adaptation is a spell of belonging, each ritual a sanctuary for misfits and sensitive readers.

Closing Spell
Accessible magic whispers: 
“You are enough. Your cycles are sacred. Your softness is spellwork.” 

I invite you to share your own adaptations — together, we’ll weave a living grimoire of inclusive practices.

Do you or your family make any special dishes for the holidays?

The holidays aren’t just about the dishes on the table—they’re about the hands that prepare them, the laughter that fills the kitchen, and the stories that rise like steam from a pot. 

In my family, food is more than sustenance—it’s a spell we cast together. Pumpkin bread warms the house with its sweet spice, chocolate gravy turns Christmas brunch into something decadent and playful, and tamales remind us of the patience and love tucked into every fold. 

But the real magic isn’t just in the recipes. It’s in the way we gather—rolling dough side by side, sneaking tastes from the mixing bowl, or telling old stories while chopping onions. These rituals turn ordinary ingredients into extraordinary memories. 

Holiday cooking is a kind of alchemy: flour becomes tradition, sugar becomes laughter, and every shared dish becomes a new memory to pass down. 

The best thing about food is that it connects generations. We inherit recipes like heirlooms, but we also create new ones—adding our own flavors, our own quirks, our own stories. 

So whether it’s pumpkin bread, chocolate gravy, tamales, or something entirely new, the holidays remind us that the kitchen is where memory and magic meet. 

Holiday Kitchen Spell

Ingredients (both edible and magical): 
Pumpkin bread → Earth element, grounding warmth, stability 
Chocolate gravy → Water element, sweetness that flows, joy in abundance 
Tamales → Fire element, patience, transformation, ancestral love 
A candle (any color that feels festive) 
A playlist of your favorite holiday songs or grunge/alt rock for fog-clearing energy 


Ritual Steps

1. Circle the Kitchen 
   Light your candle and walk once around the kitchen, whispering: 
   “This space is sacred, this space is home. Here we stir memory, here we stir magic.” 

2. Bless the Ingredients 
   As you lay out flour, sugar, masa, or cocoa, touch each one and say: 
   “You carry stories, you carry love. Today you become memory.” 

3. Stirring Spell 
   When mixing or kneading, stir clockwise for joy, counterclockwise for release. 
   Imagine each turn of the spoon weaving laughter, healing, and connection. 

4. Taste of Tradition 
   Sneak a taste—because every cook’s spell requires a playful offering. 
   Smile, laugh, and share the moment with whoever is nearby. 

5. Serve with Intention 
   When the food is ready, place it on the table and say: 
   “This feast is more than food. It is love, it is memory, it is magic.” 

Closing the Spell
Blow out the candle, thanking the kitchen for holding your stories. 
Invite everyone to share a memory or create a new one as they eat. 

I invite you to  share your own holiday food spells—what dish holds memory for you? What ingredient feels sacred?

If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?

Imagine it: no more tossing, turning, or negotiating with the snooze button. Just endless hours of wakeful possibility. What would I do with all that extra time? 

– Plot world domination
  Like Pinky and the Brain, I’d sketch elaborate plans on napkin scrolls, fueled by midnight snacks and questionable caffeine rituals. Step one: gather the misfits. Step two: unleash unicorn armies. Step three: insert evil laugh here. 

– Invent strange rituals
  With no bedtime, I’d craft ceremonies for the forgotten hours—3 a.m. candle games, dawn playlists that summon grunge spirits, and shadow-work board games that only make sense at 4:47 a.m. 

– Remix fandom mythologies
  Imagine Sailor Moon guiding us through insomnia spells, Rainbow Brite painting the night sky with neon resilience, and Voltron assembling at 2 a.m. to guard our collective dreams. 

– Host sensory-friendly midnight salons  
  No sleep means more time to gather the community—sharing haunted recipes, crafting rituals for exhaustion, and laughing at the absurdity of being awake when the world insists on slumber. 

– Write horror with a wink
  Body horror becomes metaphor, insomnia becomes transformation, and the monsters under the bed finally get their own blog series. 

And maybe, just maybe, I’d use those hours to take over the world—not with armies or lasers, but with rituals, playlists, and communal magic. Because if I didn’t need sleep, I’d have all the time in the world to turn exhaustion into celebration. 

Mwahahaha… evil laugh echoes into the night. 

But in reality I would be trying to figure out how to sleep. I’d miss the thrall of nothingness, the bliss of sinking into soft sheets, and maneuvering through maddening dreams.

The moon has always been a mirror for our cycles—waxing, waning, glowing, and retreating. In the 1980s, cartoons carried this same rhythm: heroes transforming, communities restoring balance, and light overcoming shadow. What if we read these shows as lunar archetypes? Each phase of the moon becomes a portal into nostalgia, ritual, and playful magic. 


New Moon — Hidden Potential
Rainbow Brite (1984) arrives in a dark, colorless world, embodying the new moon’s unseen spark. 
– Ritual prompt: Light a single candle in a dark room. Imagine Rainbow Brite’s rainbow slowly filling the space. 
– Playlist pairing: “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star (dreamy new moon vibes). 


Waxing Crescent — Growth & Hope
She-Ra (1985) transforms from Adora into She-Ra, echoing the crescent’s emerging strength. 
– Ritual prompt: Write one intention on paper, fold it into a crescent shape, and tuck it under your pillow. 
– Playlist pairing: “Bring Me to Life” by Evanescence (crescent awakening energy). 


First Quarter — Challenge & Balance
ThunderCats (1985), especially Lion-O’s trials, embody the half-light, half-shadow tension. 
– Ritual prompt: Draw a circle, shade half of it, and journal about your current balance of light and shadow. 
– Playlist pairing: “Alive” by Pearl Jam. 


Waxing Gibbous — Refinement & Preparation
Voltron (1984), with its team uniting before forming Voltron, mirrors the nearly-full moon’s readiness. 
– Ritual prompt: Gather five objects that represent your strengths, arrange them in a circle, and notice how they combine. 
– Playlist pairing: “Closer to Fine” by Indigo Girls. 


Full Moon — Power & Illumination
Care Bears (1981) unleash their radiant “Care Bear Stare,” pure full moon energy. 
– Ritual prompt: Stand outside under the moonlight, arms wide, and imagine the Care Bear Stare flowing through you. 
– Playlist pairing: “Shine” by Collective Soul. 


Waning Gibbous — Sharing Wisdom
Inspector Gadget (1983) ends each mission with Penny and Brain quietly holding the true wisdom. 
– Ritual prompt: Share one lesson learned this week with a friend or your community. 
– Playlist pairing: “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears. 


Last Quarter — Release & Endings
Smurfs (1981) often resolve conflict with harmony, reflecting the quarter moon’s closure. 
– Ritual prompt: Write down one thing you’re ready to release, then tear the paper in half. 
– Playlist pairing: “Let It Go” by Def Leppard. 


Waning Crescent — Rest & Surrender
Fraggle Rock (1983) cycles of play and rest embody the waning crescent’s retreat. 
– Ritual prompt: Curl up with a blanket, listen to the Fraggles’ theme song, and let yourself rest. 
– Playlist pairing: “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins. 

Closing
The moon phases remind us that every cycle—like every cartoon episode—has a beginning, a climax, and a gentle fade. By weaving these archetypes into ritual, we honor both our inner child and our present wisdom. 

I invite you to choose your “Moon Phase Cartoon Avatars”. 

Name your top three pet peeves.

Autism isn’t just about differences—it’s about navigating a world that often forgets to honor those differences. Pet peeves aren’t small annoyances here; they’re signals that something in the environment is out of sync. Let’s name a few of the big ones, and then counter them with a little ritual magic and practical wisdom. 

Sensory Overload
The Pet Peeve: Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, music blasting in a store, or the scratch of a clothing tag—these aren’t minor irritations. They can feel like an assault. 

Counter‑Spell: 
– Carry a sensory toolkit: headphones, sunglasses, fidget objects, or soft fabrics. 
– Create a ritual of retreat: step outside, breathe deeply, and imagine a protective bubble around you. 
– Advocate for sensory‑friendly spaces—because everyone deserves environments that don’t hurt. 

Sudden Changes in Routine
The Pet Peeve: Plans shift without warning, and what feels like a small change to others can feel like the floor dropping out. 

Counter‑Spell: 
– Use visual schedules or planners to anchor the day. 
– Build transition rituals: a song, a mantra, or a grounding breath before moving tasks. 
– Practice “micro‑flexibility”—tiny, safe changes that build resilience without overwhelming. 

Being Misunderstood
The Pet Peeve: Autistic communication styles—directness, silence, or stimming—are too often misread as rude, aloof, or “wrong.” 

Counter‑Spell: 
– Prepare self‑advocacy scripts: “I’m not ignoring you, I’m processing,” or “I need quiet right now.” 
– Encourage allies to learn and honor neurodivergent communication. 
– Use alternative methods—text, notes, visuals—when speech feels heavy. 

Social Situations
The Pet Peeve: Crowded, unpredictable gatherings drain energy fast, leaving you exhausted or shut down. 

Counter‑Spell: 
– Choose smaller, structured events where expectations are clear. 
– Pair with a trusted “social anchor” who understands your needs. 
– Schedule recovery rituals afterward: music, walking, crafting, or quiet time. 

Emotional Overwhelm
The Pet Peeve: Emotions arrive like tidal waves—sometimes triggered by something tiny, sometimes by everything at once. 

Counter‑Spell: 
– Ground yourself with sensory objects, breathing exercises, or mindfulness rituals. 
– Create a “calm corner” filled with soothing textures, sounds, or visuals. 
– Channel overwhelm into creative outlets—writing, art, playlists, or ritual play. 

Closing Ritual
Autism pet peeves aren’t quirks—they’re reminders that the world isn’t built for every nervous system. Countering them isn’t about “fixing” autistic people; it’s about reshaping environments, honoring needs, and weaving rituals of respect. 

So next time a pet peeve rises, treat it as a signal, not a flaw. Light a candle, breathe, and remember: adaptation is magic, and inclusion is the spell we cast together. 

The Slippery Season
Late fall is a threshold. The leaves are mostly gone, the light is thin, and the rituals of October have faded into a quiet hush. It’s the season of slippage—where energy dips, ideas scatter, and writing feels like chasing ghosts through fog. 

Writer’s block now isn’t just distraction. It’s transition. The body is shifting. The year is closing. Creativity, like the trees, is shedding something. 

Rituals to Re-enter the Creative Cycle
– Honor the Fog 
  Light a candle. Brew fog-clearing tea (ginger, rosemary, lemon). Write a letter to your muse—even if it’s nonsense. Let the fog be part of the ritual. 

– Compost the Dead Leaves 
  Gather your abandoned drafts, half-formed ideas, and emotional scraps. Don’t judge. Just list them. Then choose one to ritualize—rewrite it, remix it, or let it die with intention. 

– Write the Block as a Character 
  Is your block a sleepy unicorn? A zombie muse in flannel? A haunted typewriter? Give it a name. Then write its origin story. Let metaphor break the ice. 

– Tailwrite with a Friend 
  Choose a prompt. Set a timer. Write together—virtually or in person. Let communal energy stir the embers. 

– Create a Re-entry Playlist 
  Choose songs that feel like fog, fire, and return. Let music guide your rhythm. Sample tracks: 
  – Fade Into You – Mazzy Star 
  – Today – Smashing Pumpkins 
  – Only Happy When It Rains – Garbage 
  – Winter Song – Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson 
  – The Killing Moon – Echo & the Bunnymen 

Reframing the Block
End-of-fall writer’s block isn’t failure—it’s seasonal wisdom. It’s the creative system saying: pause, reflect, compost. 

You’re not stuck. You’re shedding. 

Closing Mantra
The words are not lost. They are underground, dreaming. The block is a doorway. The fog is a spell.