“You should definitely sage your apartment.”

“Do you have sage?”

“Sage out the negativity ASAP.”

“I sent you bundles of sage!”

I get it. I get it. But wait, wait, wait…what the heck is sage?

Last week, my mom sent me enough sage to last me about 5,979 years.  She saw it used on an episode of Real Housewives and thought I could use it to rid my apartment of any bad karma. Ok, so I don’t know if the Real Housewives really did use sage but my mom apparently knows what will sell me on just about anything. Big fan of the Real Housewives franchise. Huge.

One of the five sage packages she sent arrived with a beautiful black vessel made of shell. The vessel itself made me feel all giddy–partly because I love shells and partly because I love saying “vessel.” I quickly scanned the instructions, which included language about smudging and cleansing rituals and waving smoke toward your body. “Hippy Fi” got super excited about getting this going. “Busy Fi” saw another item on her to-do list. “Yes Fi” knew this needed to happen because…well…yes.

During the past few weeks, I’ve experienced some major ups and some major downs. Per my last post, you know about that one major up. Woo boo! But since then, this apartment I live in, aka my Queendom, has encountered some exhausting downs.

For example…

1. I recently had the floors redone. They came out looking like a painting…done by a 2-year old.
2. I had the entire apartment repainted. Tell me if I’m wrong but if I can still see the old paint under the new paint I feel like that’s not right.
3. I had the place repainted again. It looked better. But then one of the painters found me on Snapchat. After asking who he was, he explained to me that his username consisted of words, letters and symbols that somehow spelled “Penis.”
4. Due to some surprise delays with my divorce, I’ve had to go through the process of making my Queendom…my Queendom (in the legal sense, if you will) all over again. This meant completing the same applications, obtaining the same approvals, getting the same signatures that I literally just did a few months ago. “Yes, yes, I know you just appraised my apartment. Yes, you need to come again. Same apartment. No change. Just…yeah.”
5. I decided to get the floors redone so they didn’t look like a 2-year old’s painting anymore. Me and the cats moved out for the week so everything could be done without disruption. When we moved back in, we noticed the floors looked better; but we also noticed my white walls and new rug somehow had fresh black stains. “Hey, Penis…you’re needed on painting duty again. Third time’s a charm, right?”

Yeah. It was time to sage.

I unwrapped the vessel, read the instructions carefully and stared at this bundle of leaves. Still didn’t know what to do. What’s a smudge stick? How do I waft smoke on my feet if I’m using my hand to hold the sage? And, most importantly, which side of the sage do I burn?

After some Googling, I learned a “smudge stick” is the same as a bundle. A” bundle” is the sage leaves tied together with string. You light the end and let the smoke do its thing. I still don’t know which side the end is.

According to the Internet, you sage/smudge your aura and/or space when you move into a new living environment, before and after a guest enters your home, when starting a new job, after an injury or illness, before and after a yoga or healing session or when returning from crowded places. I’m assuming “when your painter’s Snapchat name is Penis” is also a good reason.

I lit the sage. Then I wafted the smoke above my head, on my face, down my torso and legs and then over my feet. Then I walked around my apartment, into each nook and cranny, smudge stick in hand, and chanted, “Air, fire, water, earth. Cleanse, dismiss, dispel,” over and over again. I felt like Louise Miller from Teen Witch when she was casting a love spell on Brad Powell. And I loved it. The little tour also reminded me that I had five plants that were in dire need of water. Whoops.

Now what? Guess we wait and see. Maybe it will work. Maybe it won’t. But it can’t hurt, right? Plus, I have a lifetime supply (thanks, Mom!). And I’m going to be honest. The next morning, my apartment felt and looked different. The walls seemed brighter, the air felt fresher, the colors seemed bolder. It even looked bigger.

As I was walking out the door, I did that cheesy thing that only happens in 80s sitcoms (Family Ties comes to mind). I reached to turn the knob on my front door, paused, looked back at my money pit of an apartment, took a deep breath and smiled. Sigh. I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

Thanks for the sage advice, y’all.