#devotional work

Over the years of my life, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of grief. My grandparents have passed, many pets have passed, and even celebrities I loved dearly—like Stan Lee. I’ve experienced grief multiple times throughout my life, and it always followed a similar pattern: a deep sense of sadness, followed by acceptance. I came to terms with loss faster than most, but only because I don’t experience sadness the same way others do—and that’s okay.

But this time… losing my cat has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure.

When it first happened, I made a post over on my Instagram. I took weeks off, hiding away in my own burrow of sadness, struggling to break free from how suffocating it felt. I even spoke about that heaviness in other posts:

𖤓 → Poetic Explanation

𖤓 → Spiritual Explanation

And even now—when I am mostly healed and only a little scabbing remains—I still carry a deep sadness that I never really acknowledged out loud.

Angus was special.

He knew when I was sad. He let me hold and love on him like no other cat. He always wanted to be my shadow, begging for attention, following me everywhere. He wanted to know what I was doing, slept by my head at night, and would sit there listening to me like he was truly trying to understand what I was saying… and most times, he did. I saw recognition in his eyes.

Even my mother noticed it once—when I told Angus he couldn’t get up one way and had to go another. He immediately listened and went the other way. Our other two cats are nothing like that.

With Angus, it felt like a deep soul connection.

I know most people associate familiars with Hollywood or stereotypical depictions of witches, but I truly believe he was my familiar. Months later—through the end of summer, through fall, and now into winter—I am still mourning his loss. I miss that connection. I miss looking over at him and seeing his pupils dilate when I spoke to him. I miss the constant demands for kitty kibble refreshes, or how persnickety he was about the size of his treats—most times ending with me tearing slobber-covered snacks into tinier pieces just for him.

I did everything for him. And not doing those things anymore leaves me feeling… empty.

And yet—even though he is gone—I still feel him.

I’ve felt him many times. Just a few nights ago, I felt a cat jump up at the foot of my bed—the exact corner he always used. I felt the mattress dip. When I sat up to look, he wasn’t there. No cat was there. I couldn’t control my tears after that.

Not long ago, I made a small bottle that held rose petals, his fur, and his whiskers. That bottle now sits snugly inside a little crocheted gray kitty—where an old childhood toy of mine that now holds it like one of her own. But even then, I still felt incomplete. I still wanted to bring him everywhere with me. I still wanted to share life with him.

So… I made another bottle.

This one is meant to stay in my purse, so he can go everywhere with me in spirit.

I think this is just how I cope with loss. Because it’s never death itself that truly gets to me. Death has always been a strange comfort—something I’ve never feared, even if I can’t fully explain why. What I’ve always feared is loss. Losing the feelings, the presence, the comfort that came with the soul that departed.

Life goes on, and so do I—but I find ways to cope. This bottle is one of them.

This time, the bottle is far more personal than the one inside the crocheted kitty. I put true thought and intention into it—something that could bring me comfort in the same way Angus did when he was still alive. And I built this jar not only with Angus and myself in mind, but partially in devotion to Hel as well.

What’s inside the bottle:

⚝ Dried rose petals — a mixed group, mostly red and white, now discolored with time. Roses represent devotion and grief, and dried roses specifically hold love that has passed but still remains.

⚝ His fur and whiskers — when we had to put our sweet boy to rest, our vet kindly shaved some of his fur for me after learning we couldn’t afford cremation. His fur now rests inside the jar, almost like a nest for everything else. I also placed two of his whiskers—something I kept finding in my bed toward the end—to symbolize balance. They act as anchors for the bottle.

[Fun fact: whiskers symbolize guidance and intuition, which makes this bottle even more fitting for my purse.]

⚝ One black tourmaline — a link between me, Angus, and Hel. Protection for both of us. Focused, singular energy.

⚝ Four rose quartz chips — representing love that continues beyond loss. I chose four intentionally, as four symbolizes safety and rest.

⚝ Nine fluorite chips — fluorite is often used in grief work for emotional clarity and gentle mental protection. I placed five purple fluorite chips to represent spiritual peace and transition, with five symbolizing crossing and change. I then placed four green fluorite chips to represent heart healing, gentle acceptance, and emotional balance—again using four for stability and rest.

⚝ Black candle wax — used to seal the jar. These are the black candles I typically reserve for working with Hel. In this case, black represents protection and death—protection over the dead. It is my way of keeping him safe in the afterlife, while also maintaining my connection to Hel.

Now, the bottle is wrapped in a small black sachet and tucked safely into my purse, so it stays protected and with me wherever I go.

This may be my way of coping with loss through spirituality—but perhaps it’s something that could help you too. These bottles don’t have to be for pets. They can be made for loved ones as well, using hair, fabric from clothing, or any meaningful anchor.

Putting this bottle together healed something in me. I can feel it in my chest—it’s no longer tight with grief. And maybe, just maybe, this method can bring you the same relief it brought me.

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