People Live Here Journal Entry: Magick Between Broken Walls

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Pregnant in a crumbling motel, we stitched magick into broken walls. Ritual, prayer, hope, and fierce love became our survival. This is how we kept building, even when everything fell apart.

Magick Between Broken Walls

Original entry date: December 29, 2022 – 18:22

My belly feels so big today.
It’s fascinating, honestly — every day’s a new crash course in how to move through gravity differently. How to breathe differently. How to be differently.
It’s like mindfulness training, except I didn’t exactly volunteer for the class.

We’ve been keeping up with the Resh ritual — four times a day, honoring the sun, trying to catch the rhythm of the hours.
Still learning the words. Still stumbling sometimes.
But it feels ancient. Right. Stitched into the days like a heartbeat.

We’re doing the LBRP too.
I’m trying harder to call on Archangel Michael.

I pray to him:

Michael, we could really use some warming up and drying out down here. This place isn't fit to raise a baby.

Notes from the books say Michael is the quartz crystal of angels — a warrior, a protector.
Good for mastering anger. Good for strengthening magick.
Good for blessing the beginning of something sacred.
Good for showing up when you’re about to collapse and don't know how to ask for help.

They say if Michael’s near, you might see flashes of light.
I’m calling him every day now. Calling for light. For dry walls. For courage.

I’ve been reading more about the angels — Uriel too.
Pentacles in the tarot. Manifestation.
It feels endless, like peeling back layers of an onion I’ll never finish unraveling.
But I’m in no rush.
I’ll peel forever if I have to.

We went to the lab the other day.
The woman checking us in slammed her keys so hard it sounded like a fistfight with the computer.
And all I could think was: That used to be me.

The tiny macro-movements give it away — the way anger leaks out through fingers and clacks and slams, even when your mouth says, No, I'm fine.

I used to hit keys that way.
I used to brake-check strangers on the road.
I used to carry rage so deep I couldn’t even name it.

And now —
I just saw a hurt little girl in her, slamming keys because life’s been slamming her.

I see it everywhere now.
Especially in the ones who just want to help.

We ordered a couple giant binders this week.
Started building our own Magick book — pulling together everything we love, connecting the dots, creating a living web.

We said we'd homeschool ourselves out here.
We are.
And we’re adding a kid to the roster too.
Challenge accepted.

They say the good habits will die after the baby comes.
We say: Watch us.

Michael and Jessica came over yesterday.
Stayed for two hours.
When they left, they said they disabled their social media.
Said they're focusing on art.
Said they meditated for the first time in years.

We prepped burritos today.
Cut hair.
Crocheted a tiny blanket for Truman, with Archangel Gabriel woven into every stitch —
a little love talisman, just in case he needs it later.

I figure if he outgrows it in a week, fine.
It’ll go in the memory box — stitched up with love, fear, hope, and half-muttered prayers.

We had our last ultrasound this week.
He’s in the 56th percentile — perfect, basically.
Heartbeat strong. Kicks fierce.

But I'm struggling.

The thought of having my body exposed at the next exam makes me want to climb out of my own skin.
I cry just thinking about it.
Poked. Prodded. Watched.
Dragged back into every trauma I thought I’d buried.

I’m terrified of birthing in a hospital.
Terrified of the eyes. The hands.
The fluorescent lights that don’t blink.

Even peeing for a drug test used to make me sob.
I know I’ll get through it. I have no choice.
But today, the fear is heavy. And real.

Michael showed us a photo yesterday.
The motel ceiling collapsed in the office.
The whole row of rooms below it — condemned now.
Only a matter of time before the next floor falls through.

This place has no shortage of water damage.
It’s literally built on a sinkhole.

My body aches.
Sleep is broken and slippery.
My pelvic floor feels like it’s unzipping itself at night.
Every time I learn the new shape of myself, it changes again.

Everything is shifting.

And I just keep trying to stitch a little more love into the wreckage before the next shift comes.

In the meantime, I know this will pass.
Good things are coming.

Loui Crow

💔 What pain/struggle it addresses:
Surviving instability, healing from trauma, reclaiming magick and personal safety during pregnancy, carrying hope through fear and brokenness.

🔮 Sacred transformation/takeaway:
That even when everything crumbles — even when the sinkholes open and the body aches and the world feels hostile — love stitched into broken walls still holds. You don’t have to wait for perfection to build a sacred life. You can stitch love into it now.