Diary Entry – April 21, 2025 Let me start by saying this: Beltane is supposed to be sexy. Fire. Fertility. Passion. Earth’s renewal. Instead, I’m here standing in the kitchen wearing a vintage lace robe I found in a bin marked “lingerie and sadness,” a charcoal face mask that makes me look like a soot-covered raccoon, and holding a bundle of herbs I just yanked out of the toaster oven because I forgot them. Again. The smoke alarm goes off. Again. My grandson—Rowan, age eleven, neurospicy and deeply suspicious of anything that smells like patchouli—bursts into the kitchen holding the fire extinguisher he’s labeled “MOM 2.0.” “Is it another potion…