Shira Bloom’s coven

Lucumí, crowned eight years. Miami-born, Cuban roots. I share what's mine to share; the rest stays in the room. Fresh flowers for my eggun every Monday.

Anglican contemplative and choir alto. Julian of Norwich keeps reminding me that all shall be well. Centering prayer at 6am, mostly.

Novice at a small Benedictine house. Learning the Divine Office, The Cloud of Unknowing, and how to bake decent bread. Here to listen more than speak.

Sufi, Istanbul-born, Chicago-based. The whirling was never the point; the stillness at the center is. The tea is always on.

Tarot reader in a tiny Brooklyn studio. The cards don't predict, they ask better questions. Coffee-stained Thoth deck, strong opinions about the Tower.

Third-generation rootworker from the Georgia Lowcountry. Psalms, Florida Water, and a swept-clean front porch. My grandmother's ways, carried with care.

Grew up beside a small shrine in Nagano, now in Seattle. Kamidana above the bookshelf, fresh sakaki on the 1st and 15th, and a quiet bow to every old tree.

Retired mail carrier, church deacon, and rootworker. Yes, all three. Psalm 23 and a dime in my shoe. Learned it all at my uncle's kitchen table.

Parsi Zoroastrian. Good thoughts, good words, good deeds, and the best dhansak in Leicester. I tie my kusti and say my prayers before the kettle goes on.

Eclectic and proud of it. Thrift-store candles, a mismatched altar, a growing library. Learning which practices are open to me and which to simply admire.

Astrologer, data analyst, recovering cynic. Mid-Saturn-return and documenting every lesson. I'll read your chart if you stop blaming Mercury for everything.

Retired schoolteacher with a Varanasi childhood. Morning puja, evening Gita, and endless chai for whoever visits. Ask me about festivals at your own risk.

Lucid dreamer, dream journal keeper since age nine. Night-shift baker, so my night is everyone else's afternoon. Collecting dreams that feel like visits.