Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark . . .
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
The first time it happened in front of my husband, I was terrified. His face shifted from shock, to confusion, then fear as he pondered the broken wine glass that had lifted off the table and slammed itself into the wall.
We don’t talk about this much, do we? As witches, it seems to be the last frontier–the admission of actualized magic, the kind that movies glorify and cartoon up for the general public. Maybe we are afraid that someone will hunt us down. Mayhap we worry that not all of us are capable, making those of us who are capable the weirdos. Maybe we just don’t speak of those things. I reckon I feel like cowboying up today. Let’s talk about: it.
It just so happens that the Southern Fried Hubby had done pissed me off a bit, it was late, and obviously I had finished that particular glass of wine. Twasn’t the first time a glass flew through the air sans a hand, nor the last. On my anniversary, he wised up and bought two stainless steel glasses (I like to tease him: that could hurt a noggin). A few months later, a student of mine was struggling through a lesson in the backyard, three feet from a nice hearth fire, and the lesson had stretched past my energy level and past my bed time. The scene went something like:
Me: I’m tired, hon. Let’s pick this back up tomorrow.
Him: No, I want it now.
Me: No. Whooped. Close the book.
Him: Not until you tell me about xyz.
Pause. And then? His notebook burst into flames around the edges. Just: poof. After the hubbub of stomping and quenching, he sat back down.
POOF! Up in flames.
Needless to say, he finally saw reason and let me retire to a nice cup of tea and Grandma’s afghan.
Then: there was the First Annual Pagans of the Deep South Gathering. That evening, a priestess from another state announced in a group that she would be taking over my ritual that evening. As a proper Southerner and Hostess, I “blessed her heart” and scooted over–just in time for the stav leaning against my altar to sling itself into the air, hurl itself five feet and bop her pretty little noggin with a nice, satisfying “donk.” While my students ran for an ice pack, the hubby leaned over and whispered: well. I reckon she earned that one.
Of course, I have no idea what he meant by that. That stav must have been the unwitting victim of an imperceptible earthquake. Ahem.
And there are other, more gritty, little moments in time that I shall keep to myself. (A girl has to have her secrets, yes?) When my witchling was younger, he used to beg me to do the fire ball thing for his friends at Halloween. Not wanting to scare the parents (and not being sure about how to explain it as a harmless trick), I would often promise it later, then later . . . all the while shoving candied apples and popcorn towards their schmeared, painted faces until they moved on to exhaustion and minivans bound for home. No need to freak out the muggles.
And so, it wasn’t until I reared my witchy head two years ago with this blog, a Faceplant page and a naiveté born of political pagan exile as a “family trad” that it occurred to me: not all witches do this.
And that’s when the trouble began. (I’ve since suggested a support group for those of us who do the thing.) I’m a big fan of True Blood, but not a big fan of that simpering, over-dramatized Sookie Stackhouse–yet, I find myself occasionally thinking: shut up, nimnut. They see you, they smell you . . . this ain’t gonna end well. My whole life, there have been two kinds of folks hanging about: those who want to eat me alive and those who want to saddle up beside me and check out the scenery from a broom. (Strange coincidence that the latter seem to also do the thing? Right.)
Hang in there. I haven’t caught the scent of what I’m writing about yet, either.
There’s this horrifyingly goofy eighties move, Love Potion Number 9, in which a nimnut drinks the potion and must run through the streets to escape the men (who want to consume her) and the women (who want to kill her). Silly little film that it is, I remember thinking: it’s not fair. (Of course, the potion was chemically compounded. The point still was not lost on my twenty-something brain.) I have heard all of my life: stay under the radar. It was the mantra of my childhood, and one day I’m sure I will wrench myself from the public eye and retreat back into the solitude and freedom of anonymity. I think, if I really dig, that I just wanted someone to run through the streets with me. Or, maybe I wanted to reason with those who were chasing me. Or . . .
I was lonely. Yup. That one makes me feel like I went to class without my britches on.
I think I’ve gotten lost in the labels. There’s Political Paganism (work that needs to be done, but still: an “ism.”) There’s Party Paganism (get yor’ freak on). There’s Egotistical Paganism (why, I have my elevation from the High Priestess of York and the Duke of Dragonland). And then there’s . . . witchcraft. Not the “flashing purple screen, unicorn poop, Halloween” witchcraft. Real, flesh and bone crafters with history, the stuff of legends and memory. But then . . . these are not all the same, either, are they? It occurs to me that those who need all the fluff, need all the ceremony, need all the public appearances are not always the real thing. Some of the most powerful witches I have ever known would scoff at holding “court.” Good luck getting them to do a reading in a public park, y’all. Or taking an online class with them. Or, and here’s the real juice: joining them over a family cauldron. Oh, you’ll indeed know them by their fruits. Have their students worked for years? Struggled through shadow work? Been honest about their lives? Hold to an ethics of nonviolence? Hold their secrets and oaths dear? No? Well, then. What you have there is a party trick. Insta witch, just add water. (Or Koolaid.) Dabbling witches chap my Southern ass.
Yes, yes. I know that this is inflammatory. Y’all know by now that SFW ain’t skeeterin’ away just because it’s scary out there on a limb. In fact? That’s where I feel most alive, the frogs croaking my return to the night, the crickets stringing out one last tune as I rise into the Witching Season, my rooster crowing in the dark against the smell of my fire smoldering in his yard. Yes. It is inflammatory to suggest that magic is real. Come a little closer. But are you sure you want to see?
Wait, I think I just caught the scent of my path here. Smells like witch spirit?
Lean in close, Batchildren. I want to share a secret with you: real witches never do party tricks. Real witches rarely will let you near their sacred family cauldron lessen you are family. Real witches do it root up, not top down–because the moment we forget our beginnings, the magic is ripped from our athames. And that’s only half the field plowed, y’all, because there are some really nasty witches out there. Unethical, mentally unbalanced, egotistical, selfish, cackly things who enjoy inflicting pain and do not answer to the universe for their play. Iffin that’s butter for yor’ biscuit, this is the wrong blog for you, honey. Scat on out of here. Now.
Before I set a notebook on fire. :)
Still here? Then I’ll finish with a story.
Once upon a time there was a baby who had to sleep on its tummy, on account of her nurse had seen wings and had studied over it a spell. When asked why she kept turning the babe onto its stomach, the nurse said, simply: “Dat baby float. You crush its wings otherwise.”
I still sleep on my stomach.
May your witching season be magic, may your magic be real and may you always remember the joy of flying.