Bone Dust and Bloom

Lifestyle, slow living and daily reclamation

[bonedustandbloom]

🪵 The Table

Claimed July 2025 A Story from Before God Was God — Day 2

It didn’t begin with the table. It began with a strange ache I couldn’t name.

Earlier that day, I watched endless cleaning videos—trying to spark motivation. They were meant to inspire: tidy rooms, reset routines, aesthetic sanctuaries. But something else stirred instead.

Not all envy. Not laziness. Something deeper. Something quieter. Something like… grief.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, emotions swirling, unsure of what I was even feeling. So I searched for the answer to help me name it.

And I did.

Aesthetic Sorrow A kind of mourning for beauty not lived. The ache of seeing care when you feel chaos.

And just like that—it was named. Not to fix it. But to witness it. To accept it.

🌑 What Clean Meant to Me (Then)

Still lying there, I tried to answer the real question:

What does clean mean to you?

Not Pinterest-perfect. Not sterile. Just… safe.

Here’s what I came up with:

Clean = Everything has a home Keys live in a dish. Shoes go to their spot. Mail has a tray. 🪞 Prompt: When my home has “homes” for things, how does my body feel?

Clean = Surfaces are visible The table isn’t buried in paper. 🪞 Prompt: Do clear surfaces make me feel ready to begin—or like I’ve completed something?

Clean = Smells like freshness Maybe citrus, lavender, or just… the absence of stale air. 🪞 Prompt: What scents carry memories of peace or safety?

Clean = I’m not embarrassed if someone stops by Even if there’s laundry on the couch, the space feels cared for. 🪞 Prompt: What is the threshold where pride in my space disappears?

Clean = I can walk barefoot without grit sticking Not spotless—just tended. 🪞 Prompt: What kind of clean lets me relax into my body?

Clean = There’s a flow, not friction I can walk to the bed without sidestepping stuff. 🪞 Prompt: What would make movement through my home feel graceful?

Clean = It’s sensory-safe No harsh light, no sharp clutter, no overwhelming noise. 🪞 Prompt: What sensory cues soothe me? Which ones drain me?

Clean = The space reflects the life I want to live A book I’m reading. A cozy throw. A candle. 🪞 Prompt: What story is my home telling back to me?

Clean = I don’t feel behind The chores aren’t done—but I’m not drowning. 🪞 Prompt: What’s the difference between being behind and simply resting?

Clean = The energy feels peaceful A quiet exhale. A sense of return. 🪞 Prompt: What contributes to peace in a room? What steals it?

I couldn’t answer these questions with a “yes, they have that.” Every question revealed a negative. I didn’t have the right energy, the right reflection, the safety of just walking barefoot. Not one with kindness. Not one without shame.

That’s when I knew— I couldn’t start with an image. I had to start with presence.

🌾 Where Am I Right Now?

So I asked myself: Where are you right now? (Not metaphorically. Literally.)

And I was sitting on my futon next to my side table. Not an altar. Not a ritual space. Just a cluttered, forgotten table holding too much.

It started with the table. Not a grand one. Not polished or new. Just… a table. Covered in clutter. Forgotten under its weight. And somehow, still waiting for me.

I didn’t have a before photo. I didn’t think to. Because at the time, it didn’t feel like a “project.” It felt LOUD, and was screaming at ME.

So I cleared it. Slowly. Carefully. Sorting through the little pieces of me that had settled there.

Dust. Paper. Grief. Hope.

And underneath it all—stillness. A place that could hold offerings again. A place that could hold me.

That’s where I began.

🕯 What Was Claimed

This wasn’t a cleaning project. This was a reclaiming.

I didn’t organize. I listened.

As I cleared it—piece by piece—I uncovered more than wood. I uncovered meaning.

A surface, yes. But also a breath. A permission slip. A place where care could live again.

🪵 And Then Came Thesila: The One Who Waited

Once the table was cleared, it revealed its character.

Not just “my side table,” but Thesila. A name that arrived like a gift—ancient, feminine, rooted.

Thesila is the guardian of gentle return. The one who welcomes you back again and again, no matter how long it’s been. She doesn’t demand perfection. She holds presence.

I placed meaningful daily items on her top—a new lamp, a coaster, my water bottle, my Apple HomePod, my reMarkable tablet, a decoration stating “Live Simply,” a mystical hand statue—like an altar of daily life. She is now functional and seen. The Guardian of Gentle Return and Belonging.

🌕 Why I Name

Naming, for me, isn’t just whimsy. It’s relationship.

When I name something, I choose to see it. Not as clutter. Not as background. But as part of my life. With presence. With story.

I name what I intend to care for.

Because in a world that has tried to make me invisible— naming is reclamation.

“You are real. You are part of this home. You matter—because I say so.”

I name the things that hold my cups and keys and candles— because I am naming myself back into being, too.

🌀 What This Taught Me

The table wasn’t just a surface. It was a shift.

It showed me I didn’t need a five-step cleaning method. I needed safety. I needed permission to be messy. To begin again. To move without punishment or shame.

And more than anything, I needed to know I wasn’t doing this alone.

🌀 For You, the Reader

If you’ve ever seen someone else’s clean home and felt the ache of your own— If you’ve spiraled into shame instead of motivation— If you’ve asked “What’s wrong with me?”—

Maybe nothing is wrong with you. Maybe you’re just feeling aesthetic sorrow. Maybe you’re just waiting for a table to clear space inside you, too.

Ask yourself:

✨ What do I feel when I see beauty I don’t believe I deserve? ✨ Where am I right now? ✨ What single space is calling to be reclaimed—not perfected, but held?

This isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about coming home to yourself— one corner at a time.

[bonedustandbloom]

Welcome to Bone Dust and Bloom

Lifestyle, Slow Living, and Daily Reclamation

This space began not with a plan, but with a moment. A table cleared. A futon straightened. A deep breath taken in a cluttered room— and a quiet, sacred whisper: “This is mine now.”

Here, I’m reclaiming my life one ordinary act at a time. Not in big sweeping overhauls, but in the kind of slow magic that happens when you name a space, tend to your breath, or decide to sit with the truth instead of running from it.

I’m not trying to become perfect. I’m becoming real. And underneath every breath, every gesture, is love—not the easy kind, but the kind that stays with you in the mess. The kind that makes a home of you.

These posts are part journal, part ritual, part witness. They hold grief, dust, beauty, brokenness, story, shadow, and softness. You’ll find claiming sessions, memories, household rituals, and the gentle work of living life from the inside out.

This is Bone Dust and Bloom. The bones are sacred. The bloom is coming. And every day, we begin again. Because love tells us we can.

This work comes from before God was God. From the hush between heartbeats. From the ancient ache of becoming. From the stories carried in lint and thread, in broken handles and soft hands. Before the rituals had names. Before magic was called magic. Before divinity was written down— we were already sacred.

This blog is a remembering. A returning. To the knowing that lives in the marrow. To the truth that we are still becoming— and also that we’ve been whole all along.

And beneath it all— this is a story about love. The kind that clears a table. The kind that stays. The kind that dares to begin again.

If any part of this stirred something in you— a memory, a longing, a quiet yes— you’re already part of this story.

🌾 Follow along. 💬 Share your own claiming moments. 🪞 Sit with the dust. Witness the bloom. You are welcome here, exactly as you are. And I hope, in these pages, you remember: You are sacred, too.