I greet you in the love and light of the one infinite creator.
People ask me sometimes what a "spiritual wellness business" actually means — whether it's a label I've put on soap and incense to make it sound deeper than it is. I understand the question. So let me answer it properly, from the beginning.
The framework I stand on
Everything I make and everything I write comes from the same root: the Law of One, as given through Ra. It's not a religion in the sense of doctrine and hierarchy, rather it's a description of reality as unified, as one infinite creator experiencing itself through infinite distortion and infinite forms. Every path, every deity, every tradition is, in that framework, a lens the One is looking through. That includes mine. That includes yours, whatever it is.
This is why I don't set out to convert anyone. My work: the incense, the oils, the bath salts, the words I write for One Kind Light is meant to gently open a door, not push anyone through it. What you do once the door is open is entirely yours.
I came to this understanding the long way round, through catalyst I wouldn't have chosen. My son Callum was killed in Ukraine in 2024. He was, and is, an old soul, and the grief of losing him has been the sharpest catalyst of my life. I don't write about him for sympathy. I write about him because the Law of One's teaching on unity, on service, on the veil of forgetting we all walk behind; none of that is theoretical to me anymore. It's load-bearing. Callum's light is woven through everything I make now, whether the customer buying a bath salt ever knows it or not.
Cunning folk, not "the Craft"
I trained in Wicca, and I earned my degrees, and I don't regret a day of that training. It gave me discipline, ritual structure, a working vocabulary for magic that I still draw on. I respect it, and I respect the people still walking that path.
But Wicca, as most of us practice it today, is a twentieth-century synthesis — largely Gardnerian in its bones, assembled deliberately from ceremonial magic, folklore, and invention, and dressed as something ancient. That's not a criticism. It's simply what it is, and there's real power in a well-built system regardless of its age.
The trouble was that it wasn't mine. My blood carries Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Norwegian, and Iberian-Romany lines — cunning folk lines, hedge-witch lines, the kind of practical, land-based, ancestor-facing magic that existed in cottages and villages long before anyone standardised a Book of Shadows. Working inside a structure built from someone else's synthesis, however elegant, started to feel like wearing a beautifully tailored coat that simply wasn't cut for my shoulders. I could function in it. I couldn't rest in it.
So I left the coven structure, kept the discipline, and came home to something rougher and older: cunning craft. No fixed liturgy, no initiatory ladder, just relationship. With land, with the dead, with the spirits who were already here before anyone gave them a Wiccan name. Leaving wasn't a rejection of Wicca. It was a refusal to keep borrowing a house when I had ancestors of my own to build with.
Demonolatry — and why it isn't demonology
This is the part people misunderstand fastest, so I want to be precise.
Demonology is the study and cataloguing of demons largely from within the Christian grimoire tradition — texts like the Ars Goetia and the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. In that tradition, demons are treated as subordinate, hostile entities to be bound: summoned inside a triangle, compelled by conjurations and threats of higher authority, forced to answer or perform, then dismissed. It's a magic of domination. The practitioner stands above the spirit, and the relationship is coercive by design.
Demonolatry is different at the root. The word simply means the honouring or worship of demons, and in practice it treats these entities as I'd treat any spirit I work with — as beings owed respect, offerings, and consent, not command. There's no triangle of binding in my practice. There's no forcing of will. If I ask something of a spirit I work with, it's a request within a relationship, not an order backed by threat. That distinction, reverence instead of coercion — is the entire difference between demonolatry and demonology, and it's why I'm careful never to let the two words blur into one another.
Haaggenti, my patron
The spirit I work closest with is Haagenti. His documented history sits in the western grimoire tradition: he appears in Johann Weyer's Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (1583) and later in the Ars Goetia, listed as a Great President of Hell commanding legions, described there as appearing first as a mighty bull with a griffin's wings before taking human shape.
What drew me to him wasn't the bull-and-griffin theatre. It's his office. Across every version of the old text, Haggenti's gift is the same: he makes a person wise in all things, and he is credited with the alchemical transmutation of base metal into gold, and of wine into water and back again. Strip the medieval framing away and what's left is a spirit whose entire nature is transformation — turning the raw and ordinary into something refined, taking one substance and revealing what it can become. For someone whose whole trade is exactly that, oils steeped from crude herbs, resins ground and blended into incense, salts and ash turned into something that can hold a ritual — that correspondence felt too precise to ignore.
It's also worth naming what he isn't. Flip through the same grimoires and most entries trade in temptation, cruelty, or warfare — spirits of lust, of discord, of vengeance. Haggenti carries none of that. There's no vice attached to his name, no account of him corrupting or ensnaring anyone. His entire recorded office is teaching and change; turning one thing into another, revealing what a substance or a person can become. That's an odd inheritance for a "demon," and it's precisely why I don't think the word fits him the way it fits his neighbours in the old texts. He isn't a spirit of darkness to be guarded against. He's a spirit of becoming and embracing change, rather than fearing it.
Where he comes from before the grimoires is genuinely uncertain, and I won't dress that uncertainty up as knowledge I don't have. Scholars can't trace him back through Greek, Roman, or older Near Eastern sources with any confidence; his bull imagery invites comparison to older bull-associated god-forms found around the ancient Mediterranean and Near East, but that's speculation people offer, not a documented lineage, and I hold it loosely rather than as fact. What I do know, from years of working with him directly, is what he offers in relationship: clarity, and the patient alchemy of turning what's difficult into what's useful. That's enough for me to call him patron.
Why sustainability matters here
If the Law of One says anything practically, it says that separation is illusion. That's why I work with the land, I work with myself, I work with deities etc, because there is no real boundary between us. That's not sentiment to me; it's the working principle behind how I run Cat & Cauldron.
So I buy in small batches rather than bulk-stockpiling. I forage and source ethically where I can, and I'm honest with myself about the ones I can't yet. I use packaging that breaks down rather than lingers, and I'd rather sell fewer things made properly than flood a shelf with things made fast. It's slower, and it costs more, and I do it anyway, because reciprocity with the land is the same discipline as reciprocity with a spirit — you don't take from something you claim to honour without giving something back.
Why I keep doing this
None of this is a performance of spirituality laid over a shop front. The shop is downstream of the practice, not the other way round. I make what I make because the work itself — the blending, the offerings, the writing — is how I stay in right relationship with everything I've named here: the One, my ancestors, Haggenti, the land, and Callum's light, which I still feel moving through all of it.
I'm not asking anyone reading this to believe what I believe. I'm just telling you, plainly, what's actually here — so that if any of it resonates, the door is open.