It’s the holidays.Bah.

Don’t get me wrong, I usually love the holidays, but let’s be honest: this season is hard for some of us… and this year, I’m firmly entrenched in camp “some of us”.

No, I am not depressed.

No, I am not in despair.

I know what I am: grieving. And grief, especially when you had to tuck it away for awhile and not let it do its full course… well, Beloved, grief is patient, but when it comes, you don’t get to put it back in the box.

It’s like one of those mattresses you order online and it comes all contained and tidy. There is this small warning label about expansion and then the usual suffocation warnings with the packaging. Grief, I have found, is like that. This dense package that you can let sit over there in the corner for a year or two or five, but at some point the external wrapper you’ve had it stored in, maybe hung a few coats on and tried to pretend that it was part of the furniture… you know, that, “Yeah, I see you over there, but you are going to stay over there under that pile of coats or fancy hats or self-help meditation books and affirmations… just stay over there and let me get through this very, very real situation called life. And sometimes that life is a living hell you have to navigate through. You forget about grief because you are trying to survive. Maybe there are kids and a spouse in the mix and the “survive” becomes infinitely more complicated. Throw in pets and yeah… grief… I ain’t got time for you today, tomorrow, or anytime soon.

Wounds need tending. We have to deal with them. They sometimes feel like grief. Wounds may naturally have elements of deep grief woven into their fibers. You may feel that as your trauma heals over the years and as you get on track with this new version of your life, that you’ve dealt with grief. And you have indeed with a certain level of grief, but the grief I am talking about is the kind that once the container you’d kept it in disintegrates, that dense grief expands into an ocean so breathtakingly deep and wide it engulfs you completely and you are unmoored. Adrift in a sea of tears, anguish, and heartbreak.

Therapy. Trusted friends. Journaling. Long walks in nature. Breathing. Boundaries. Sovereignty. Music. Drawing. Painting. More breathing. More nature. Community work. Service work. Mothering self care. Grounding. Prayers. Baths. Rituals. Gratitudes.

Yes. Do all of the things. I’ve done all those things and then some. Ended up in the top 10% of Taylor Swift listeners… there are songs and playlists on repeat that if it had been a vinyl record, I surely would have worn the groove out. Same for Jeremy Soule’s work. Walked hundreds of miles. Journaled books worth of pages. Spent ample time in talk therapy… enough to know I am sane and “doing all the right things”.

And so, for 15 months I have been here. Decades of trauma before that. Other pockets of deep grief before, but nothing, nothing to compare to this vastness.

There are times when it feels like I will drown, but I won’t. I realize that now. There are islands in this sea… sometimes just enough to catch your footing for a few moments. Days. Weeks even. Fulfilling work. An interlude of tenderness. A walk down at the ocean’s edge to play in the surf like a young teen again. The hugs from those you love or deeply care about. Last week, it was a squirrel, who dashed up to my second floor gable window, straight at me as I chose my outfit for the day. We stared at each other and his little perfect paws scratched against the pane, like he wanted to come inside for a cup of tea… or that handful of acorns I had gathered from the library. I laughed and the spunky creature didn’t run away. I stared at him with his dazzling tail and chipper beady eyes… and whispered to him, “good morning”.

Last night, I emailed a most trusted friend my angst about, “this was not the life I signed up for: a simple life, a pleasant life… a life filled with love, laughter, and song. I didn’t want to be the patron saint of tears.” I was pissed… and so frickin tired of grief. Overtired period. This morning I woke and though none of my circumstances had changed, my perspective had.

I do actually have a life that is filled with love. With laughter. With song. Perhaps not in the way I had imagined it. Or always wanted it. Or expected it. But it was there. Well and truly there. There in the wry smile glimpsed on the face of one who matters to me. There in the blue jay’s screech as he points out his empty dish. There in the gawky, goofy gait of a son who has not quite grown into his feet yet. There in the pansy’s cheery bloom. Here it is now in the feel of velvet and feather and satin…in this merry outfit I’ve chosen to greet the day with. The sunlight touching the treetops this morning as it rose all golden and red… the trees were singing this morning… deep and sonorous… harmonic even… with the light that played and glistened on their glowing leaves.

So I joined in the song… saying the words to weave me into the patternwork of my place within the sphere of the here and now. Joy is not happiness. Happiness is ephemeral, like the dew. Lovely and short lived, returning each day in breaths and light breezes. I welcome it always. Joy; however, is able to coexist with the deepest grief. Joy is not giddy. She can be still and even, at times, quite solemn. She can be a fiery column, taking grief and transmuting it into something bearable. Joy can likewise be the soft ember that you can trust to warm you and light your path in the darkest night.

Joy is the wisest and truest of mothers. Able to hold and cradle us… like the ocean itself if we will but relax into her embrace and trust that even if plunged beneath the waves, the slip of joy, like a mother’s hand, or a fond memory within the mind’s eye, will pull us up again to the surface. Perhaps, the deepest joy is the counterweight to the most wretched of griefs… and only able to be found there. Joy is not grief. But true joy perhaps is its foil. How odd that joy can seemingly be sparked by something as ordinary as a fallen leaf or a drunken bee or a fingertip ever so gently tracing skin.

We are held. Embraced. Cherished in her tender arms. Joy is the tendrils woven through all of nature, Joy is. Everywhere present. Filling all things. Sometimes as small as a dust mote sparkling through the windowpane. Noticed or not. You and I are never truly alone.

For today, Friends, I shall be as the otter upon the waves…

Erica Sittler is a Witch practicing her craft in Mississippi where she is an active member of the Temple of Witchcraft. Her magick is in the mundane and in bringing honor and attention to those small things that build a sustainable and adventurous life. She is a Temple Mystery School student under the instruction of High Priestess Sellena Dear.

photo by cottonbro studio from pexels

by Christopher Penczak, edited by Tina Whittle

As a teacher, I find myself saying the same thing in multiple ways because you can never be sure what language, which symbol, and what moment will help someone understand a subtle teaching. Magick is taught in a twilight language of poetry, ritual, and symbol along with metaphysics, philosophy, and mythology. Teaching is often stirring up the right atmosphere and circumstances to transmit an idea that is not easily put into language.

As someone who embraces the perennial wisdom perspective, I find approaching a truth from multiple perspectives quite helpful. As l was raised Catholic, it helps me see a metaphysical truth as universal, the true meaning of catholic with a little “c” and not the dogma and control as found in Catholicism with a big “C.”

In a class on the psychology of initiation, co-taught with a psychology professor, I used Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey as an example. While there are many pros and cons to Campbell’s approach, including some sexist assumptions, he distills some core ideas into an easily digestible formula less esoteric than alchemy, astrology, and folklore. As the basic pattern found in Star Wars, we can use that common knowledge rather than the less familiar Epic of Gilgamesh. Specifically when I spoke of the ending of the cycle—after the initiation process and into the return process with the stages known as Master of the Two Worlds and the Freedom to Live—someone later expressed upset with me and the teaching.

After the trials of initiation, one must integrate and return to the world. The master of two worlds can hold the dichotomy of the seemingly spiritual and non-spiritual worlds, the mythic and the mundane, and function in both. During the quest one can often be dysfunctional in the everyday world, so immersed in the mythic. A successful initiation leaves you living between, but far more functional than before your initiation, as you are privy to the secrets of life, and death. This gets you to the Freedom to Live stage, as with those secrets as integrated experiences, you live more fully in the moment, knowing you are supported by the invisible powers and that things unfold as they should. This isn’t always what your ego wants, but you are not your ego, so that’s okay. Regardless of outer circumstances, one is free.

I used the example in my own life of finding a way to do what I wanted regardless of the circumstances. Specifically, I wanted to get married in a society that didn’t recognize gay marriage. Steve Kenson and I called forth a community of loved ones that would recognize it spiritually, if not legally, and just did it. We did the outside paperwork for the legal rights that our non-legal marriage did not grant. Despite the outer challenges, after my initiation periods that changed my worldview, I did as I felt called to do to live in a genuine and authentic way regardless of how easy or hard it was in society. I wasn’t bound. When something wasn’t seemingly possible, I made it possible in my sphere of influence, even if my sphere of influence for that issue was my own heart and mind. I live my life on my own terms and navigate the consequences of that in the world.

The complaint was that I was giving really bad advice and that not everyone has my resources and privilege. And yes, I have more of both than some and less than others. The levels of both have fluctuated as well at different stages of my life, but I came into magickal priesthood in my early adulthood and proceeded in this fashion regardless, often making sacrifices for my intention while others were less thoughtful about their choices.

The problem with the complaint was that I wasn’t giving advice to others. I was explaining the circumstance of consciousness one lives in after a true initiation into the Timeless Tradition, regardless of religion. I was describing a psychological state. One who goes through the twelve to seventeen steps outlined in the journey, or the seven to twelve alchemical operations, or the ten grades of the Tree of Life, or the three stages of some Craft, becomes this. It’s not a choice. If you haven’t been to the Underworld and back, I’m not recommending it at all. Resources and privilege can make it outwardly easier or harder, but not inwardly. An initiate, if moving forward under the guidance of their inner wisdom, will receive the resources and opportunities needed to fulfill their True Will, no more and no less. Living life on our own terms is not the terms of the ego, but the terms of the soul. With it, there is a strange acceptance of what is in the outer circumstance. Life unfolds. We are a part of that unfolding. In that paradox of the higher will of the soul and the acceptance of what is, we find the living mystery.

I experienced gay marriage before it was legal. One could argue that it wasn’t real, as it wasn’t marriage, but that gets to the fundamental key of this teaching—living on your own terms. Those who would make that argument probably aren’t quite understanding what I am saying, and most likely haven’t been to the Underworld and back, through an initiation cycle. Most people haven’t. They might have experienced it vicariously through movies, television, and books—and there is certainly benefit to that over not experiencing it at all—but it doesn’t provide the integration. In that paradoxical balance, my acceptance of my own marriage did not mean I wasn’t also leading groups to do magick to make LGBTQIA marriage legal, and supporting political work with real-world actions for that same end. And while I continue to fight to protect it as the right is threatened in today’s political climate, it also isn’t the high-water benchmark it was for me twenty years ago. If we lose that right I am still married, because ironically after all that effort, we met a third partner, Adam Sartwell, and did not want to invoke a ritually unbalanced dynamic with the act of a legal marriage between two out of the three of us, so we did not get legally married. That does not define our relationship either, and I fight for those who want that legal right even if I never take it, just as I fight for the legal right to abortion, even though I would never personally have one due to my biology.

We constantly make agreements, as Witches and as people. What can we agree to for the greater goal and what can’t we? We all make agreements in society. This is collectively acceptable, and this isn’t. Witches are known to make agreements, pacts with spirits. What will you do for me and what will I do for you? And we can argue that we make agreements about reality. Metaphysicians often call the “objective” world consensus reality. These are levels of terms, accepted or rejected, in stages of initiation. As Witches we have to decide what are our terms and what are our consequences, and then live them under the greater guidance of our Witch soul.

I used to be a lady. Very compliant.

Very demure as they say.

The smiling, cheerful, obedient one.

When I was a child, there was a song they taught us to sing each day. Like a mantra over and over again. Warning: I have encircled these words to mute and silence the power of them, because I believe songs are spells…this one certainly is a tool for brainwashing young, innocent minds. So, before you read the following words, consider shielding yourself. I want you to see them. To understand them. They are not, however, to have any power or sway or influence over you. Understood?

The song goes, “obedience is the very best way to show that you believe. Doing exactly what the LORD commands. Doing it happily. Action is the key, do it immediately and joy you will receive. Obedience is the very best way to show that you believe. O-B-E-D-I-E-N-C-E. Obedience is the very best way to show that you believe.”

Examine it as you would a creature in Biology lab.

For this, my friends, it what is at the heart of all cults. And so, I can say with firm conviction that I was raised in a cult. It was a form of Christianity. Its variant has its roots in spiritualist movement of the late 1800s and then later the Jesus-is-my-boyfriend version of Hippie Movement, but by the time it reached me, there was a more militant edge to it. An edge that has grown into something so self-righteous that destruction through “holy war” is believed a legitimate option: the most expedient way to bring about their philosophical domination. It is hardly a new pattern. Certain Christians have used it before. As have Muslims. As have Jews. As have atheists.

In days like we are experiencing now, the insistence to comply is everywhere.
Obey…or else you will be punished. And while I agree a certain amount of rules are necessary to maintain balance… that the universe is built on certain mathematical laws and principles that to not heed certainly reaps a consequence…the universe, in general, leaves a lot of room for self expression, creativity, and variance.

There is therefore the personal struggle that each of us must wrestle with in our realm of personal freedom. Looking inward while also casting a far glance outward to see what are the trails and paths of those actions. Where do I fit in this version of society? How do I balance my work, my family, my passions with what are the expectations of me?

For a decade of my early life, I was beaten almost daily to bend me into submission. Compliance. I learned to be as obedient as possible in order to survive. Yet my body kept score. My body would defy. Sometimes in ways that baffled me. That angered me. That frustrated me… because my mind for many, many years of my life was utterly terrorized. Mentally and emotionally abused. Traumatized. Straining to not snap.

But my body.
My body would not be broken.
Out of those beatings came a will of forged adamantine. I made mistakes. Certainly.
Mistakes that cost me my personal freedom.
I traded freedom for children and security.
For what I thought was love and commitment.
I accepted shackles for acceptance.
I lost myself for years.
I look down at my ankle and see a shackle there yet.
Through all of this though, my body did not forget who I was.
Who I am.
Even when my mind forgets and tries to be some version of myself that I am not.
My body knows what purposes I incarnated here for.
My body morphs.
Shape shifts.

Refuses to be contained.
Even as my mind struggles at times to catch up…struggles to understand what was and is happening.

I continue to make mistakes…my mind and body not fully aligned…the body trudges and soars on, like a great migratory creature facing northward towards the pole star, thickening, strengthening its inner resolve: with each tidal step and wingbeat forward and back proclaiming louder and louder, “I will be true.”

Not to some lord.
Not to some ideal.
Not to some creature, beloved or jailor.
I will be true.
To myself.
To my sovereign self. I have seen her sitting on her iron throne with the skulls of her enemies at her feet. Sovereign Queen who wears no crown, but rather with thick anklets of finest gold. Anklets formed from her former shackles.

I will align my mind to know that *this* truth is the  foundational truth.
Though we know the words best through Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “To thine own self be true” is not his original principle. He may have coined the phrase, but the principle is an eternal one.

How can I be true to myself?
I must learn to know myself.
How can I know myself?
I have to listen to myself.
Feel into myself.
Embody myself.
Be here. Right here. Right now.
Feelings come and feeling go like ripples moving over water by the wind’s caress.
What are the deeper currents? The tides of my being?
The roots? That anchor and spread me wider?
How do I know myself?
How do I understand the myriad aspects of myself and give them embraced and welcomed space within the vastness that is my body, complete with the spacious, limitless dome of mind and flowing imagination?
I allow me to be.
Breathe the breath of life into myself.
“As above so below” I incant as I pull down and up strength and courage to be joyfully, fully me.

Allow myself to be the puzzling, quixotic, evolving creature that I am.
Allow myself to be my own mythos.
Sink into myself.
Release the fetters of shame, compliance, and demurred obedience and silently observe with eyes that flicker with the light of ever strengthening will and ever gathering wisdom.

When I speak (or in this case, write), it will be from a heart that honors itself as true to itself.

My voice springs from my own soul…from the blood and bones of countless ancestors…from my own lived experiences…from my own hard-won wisdom. This is whom you wish to listen to. This is who you wish to read…to hold as friend and lover. For this is raw humanity. What each of us craves more than anything: to be fully known and know. As we each utterly are.

This vulnerable, brave, beautiful pulsing life force that is uniquely and only you and me. This is how we change the world that ever commands us to be obedient.

We must be obedient firstly to our own selves. Then to the universal principles that govern the cosmos of which we are a part.

Nodding at you with a slight smile as I whisper, “be sovereign…and breathe.”

Erica Sittler is a Witch practicing her craft in Mississippi where she is a local, active member of the Temple of Witchcraft. Her magick is in the mundane and in bringing honor and attention to those small things that build a sustainable and adventurous life. She is a Temple Mystery School student under the instruction of High Priestess Sellena Dear.

photo by Antonio Filigno via Pexels

by Christopher Penczak, edited by Tina Whittle

Magickal spirituality is many things to me, but two keys have always been the quest for attainment and the intention of embodiment. I see myself as part of an ancient, non-linear, decentralized timeless tradition of magickal priesthood, and I find kinship in others who are also a part of it, in this time or ages past, whether they would necessarily use this description or not. Despite identifying as a Witch at heart, I find this kinship with mystics of all stripes and seasons. What do we have in common? Attainment and embodiment.

The quest for attainment is a paradox, for part of the understanding of it is non-doing in the context of doing, crafting, or working. Through our effortless effort we become what we are always becoming. Our becoming contributes to the becoming of the world, the Great Work. As creatures in the Garden of Time, our eternal becoming—our “I am that I am, thou art that”—is expressed in patterns and progress. In spiritual study, we experience degrees of training, ranks of initiation, or titles of experience. Our most common triune model is trade guild apprentice, journeyman, and master, found in the three degrees of many covens and the three orders of ceremonial magick lodges in the Hermetic Qabalistic traditions modeled in the Golden Dawn systems. The patterns provide a map to understand where you are, where you have been, and to prepare you for where you are going next. Once we attain one step and complete a stage, we really don’t “have” anything but the experience to go onward to the next. Some make the mistake of attaining a title as ownership of a mystery, missing the point entirely.

One can embody a teaching, live a teaching, but not own it. To truly have mastered a mystery one must not just learn it intellectually, or do it through ritual or even life experiences, but digest it and integrate it into the matrix of your being. Those of the magickal priesthood embody the virtues of the mysteries, transforming themselves and remembering what is true in one stage is not always the truth, or at least the focus, in another. At deeper levels of the mysteries, the behavior of the magickal person can be hard to understand as they are working with forces unknown to most. While magickal training can balance the personality, in doing so it can lead to extremes. We can find ourselves on a plateau of one extreme, and if we wait too long before seeking attainment of the next, grow distorted and arrogant in our place. We fail to embody the principle of eternal becoming.

The only way we can truly embody is by attaining, moving, and living in a pattern. We continue to grow and evolve while in the fields of time and space, and return to the eternal with the depth of direct experiences. The only way we can attain is through the integration of embodying the qualities in our day-to-day life. While service to community, veneration of the divine, and the keeping of rituals are all well and good—and are parts of my own practice—many of my peers in the Timeless Tradition do not. Those seeking magick for personal empowerment alone might not yet have opened the gate to magickal priesthood, but even in using it for all the “wrong” reasons, they have opened the door to magickal spirituality (even those looking for power over others as their only goal, from leading the mesmerized to gallantly telling others what they should do, think, and believe). Even then, the door to magick is opened.

And magick has its own ways. While on one fundamental level, it’s a mindless force, like electricity, it has also been personified as a god, as the Egyptian deity Heka, or even the Witch Soul. Magick has its own mind and will at times. Magick has a way. Yet in the magickal priesthood, all use these twin keys, attainment and embodiment, whether they describe them as such or not. The keys are continuously cut into new shapes, but they open each chamber in the temple of the mysteries until the final mystery is reached.

Samhain: Through the Eyes of a Broom Closet Witch

Blessed Be! Welcome back and welcome to “For Broom Closet Witches”, with a new twist! Claire de Lune here, a High Priestess in the Temple of Witchcraft tradition, with the 21st article in our “For Broom Closet Witches” column, where, as a Broom Closet Witch, I turn inward and show that, even if a Witch can do nothing outwardly to celebrate the Sabbats, there will always be ways to celebrate the Wheel of the Year inwardly.

What does it mean to see through the eyes of this Broom Closet Witch? Well, let’s see . . .

During the Season of Samhain, when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is at its thinnest, we turn most easily to thoughts of our ancestors and feel their presence and influence more profoundly, especially if such contact is purposely sought after.

Up until quite recently, I have thought of my ancestors as “other” – those individuals who had their own lives, experiences, and their influence on me from “outside” of myself and people whose remains are now “resting” in their graves. However, lately, especially since having my DNA tested with multiple companies, I have become keenly aware that (as I see it, anyway), my ancestors were not just people who existed prior to, and in some cases, concurrent to my own existence. Furthermore, the way I see it, they still live on – inside me! I am them and they are me! (Maybe not enough to “freak me out” but it is enough for me to look down at my hands and see both my mother’s and my father’s hands at the same time. I see my mother’s hands in the shapes of my fingers and the way I hold them in different positions. Even my cursive writing is very similar to my mother’s. I see my father’s hands in the hair patterns on my fingers, wrists and forearms. (Yes, I said fingers – but much lighter and sparser, thankfully!) Anyhow, back to Samhain.

At Samhain, I celebrate my ancestors’ lives and acknowledge their presence inside me in the form of DNA – my flesh and blood, breath and bone. I have spoken about my ancestors before – about my DNA tests and discoveries, new understandings about my family’s holiday baking traditions from the new vantage point of my DNA results, etc. So, I can say, for example, that I am Norwegian, Saami, Icelandic, Scottish, (even Pict), Irish, Welsh, Native American, Mayan, German, Polish, Hungarian, Greek, Italian, Bulgarian, Turkish, French, Russian, Balochi, Syrian, Iraqi, as well as Syrian and Iraqi Jew, Bedouin, Iranian and more. How is all this possible? Royal, Nomadic, Diasporic, Displaced and Sea-faring people – especially Vikings – who “got around” – as well as Invasion and Colonization.

Connections to different cultures, languages, customs and cuisines of the various ancestries one has discovered can easily be done with a little research, a little reaching out and a little reaching inward to see what aspects of one’s various ancestries may resonate/strike a chord/trigger a genetic memory. I have done this with many of my ancestries, and I have found it most helpful to buy a book or two about each one, especially cookbooks from the various cultures represented in my family tree.

But, until quite recently, part of me has slipped through my fingers and eluded me every time I tried to get a firm grasp on what this part of me means. I desperately wanted to understand and make sense of these particular ancestors of mine, this particular part of myself. I knew that they were there – in the very fiber of my DNA – and that I could not escape their presence in my body and my life. As a matter of fact, I have more of this ancestry than 80 percent of the clientele of the company that I tested with. For me, this is big. This is important. This is real. This is not fantasy.

I have wondered how to honor them, connect with them, know them, pay tribute to their lives. I felt that I should be able to do all this, as parts of their DNA are my DNA and parts of my DNA are their DNA. But I couldn’t, until quite recently, completely take myself seriously, as there has been much downplaying of the intelligence of this population. At this Samhain Season, however, I felt the need to honor this part of myself regardless and hoped that they would grant me the honor of feeling their presence in my life in a real, serious, no jokes, no kidding way.

So now, with much humility and honor, I can proudly say that I am Neanderthal. There. It is done. And so, it is.

But, back to the question of how to know them, honor them, connect with them? My answer came quickly after I seriously asked my Higher Self. And it is so simple. I couldn’t believe I even had to ask. I would know, honor and connect with them the very same way I do with any of my other ancestors – through food – foods that they used to eat and would recognize if they were here today. So, I did a little research to learn about the foods Neanderthals ate. I learned that there have been discoveries made of remains of food in fire pits in caves that Neanderthals occupied. Also, through the analysis of dental calculus found on the teeth of Neanderthal skeletal remains, it is now known that, among other types of food, three items that I can easily access today are Pine Nuts, Bison and various Greens.

So, first I buy the food, cook it (or not, depending on the type of food it is), and eat it with the intention of connecting with my ancestors. Then, in a light meditative state, I see what insights come to me – what intuitions, what mind’s eye visions, flashes of scenes of places and faces, memories, as well as automatic writings. I also look for dreams and daydream visions. If one is able, shamanic journeys are very helpful. A pendulum is also useful for Yes/No questions.

The particulars of my findings through the above methods will remain in my Book of Shadows.

I hope this article has been helpful, and until next time –

Merry Meet, Merry Part and Merry Meet again!

Samhain Blessings,
Claire de Lune

Meditation does not come easy for me. I enjoy meditation journeys to be sure: I have an active imagination and it loves meander and discover along a guided path. Sitting still in silence is another thing completely. Yet, for the past several months, without fail, I have been diligently sitting for five minutes of “being still”. Then seven minutes. It is a daily struggle. So this week, I decided to flip my morning routine on its head. Explore a different way of approaching my morning routine: meditation, my three mile walk, my set of morning prayers, and the little rituals of devotion.

Act 1

I walked first. Put aside the exercise tracker and simply walked for the joy, the pleasure of being in fresh air, seeing and listening, being a part of the dawn breaking. It was the same number of steps as before, but this time it was looped in as a visceral part of my meditation practice vs something I’m doing to keep myself from weighing over 200#.

On the final mile of my walk, I gathered random flowers, magnolia pods, acorns, leaves, a funny little plastic skeleton hand the size of your inner palm that had somehow landed on of curb and made me laugh. I chuckled and chattered back and forth with a squirrel as I passed under his pine tree, tried to imitate the mockingbird who followed me a ways, perhaps she was curious to see what I was carrying. Perhaps I stole her breakfast? Sky shifted from deep navy blue with the silvered, creamy crescent moon to pale grey, to pink, to metallic lemon gold which portended warmer weather later that day. Sunlight scattered a myriad of diamonds on the small inlet of pewtered water. I was able to rescue a few earthworms who had strayed too far onto the asphalt (why do earthworms do that?). It was a peaceful lighthearted walk, till suddenly it wasn’t. There was the squirrel, dead on the edge of the road, his eye bashed in. His little paws posed like he had dropped an acorn and not realized it. Perfectly cupped with sharp little black nails.

I bent low and studied him, checking to see if he was possibly breathing. Maybe he was just knocked out and would now be blind in one eye, like a scrappy pirate. The fur on his tail ruffled lightly in the breeze. He was so newly dead I could feel the heat rising off of him… like he was surprised to find himself dead and his little spirit Squirrel self was studying his now dead corporeal self with vivid curiosity. Years ago, I would have carried his carcass home to show my children, so they might examine and touch a squirrel up close without fear of being bitten. (yes, I very much have done that very thing in the past… much to my kid’s embarrassment and chagrin… that I would walk down the neighborhood street carrying a dead squirrel by the tail to show them) Today, however;  my heart was merely shocked and saddened. Hadn’t the two of us creatures just shared a silly conversation? The same type of jolly conversation we have been sharing for months each morning as I walk under his tree? Now he’s dead. What was I supposed to do? I lifted the miniature red roses from my pile of gathered treasures and laid them gently between his delicate paws and cute oversized nose. Perhaps he could still smell for a moment? Perhaps, his little spirit self could smell… or at least know that a fellow creature had shown him honor as he rested there? Perhaps his little surprised spirit self could now move on and do whatever it is that spirit squirrels do.

This story is not going to be a morality tale on mortality. Act 1 thus ended.

Act 2

Quietly it began with this now small bundle of gathered things and me crafting a mandala of gratitude. Usually, I save making ritual plate offerings for special occasions, not just a random Tuesday morning walk. Besides, who was I making the offering for? What deity, saint, spirit, or element was I trying to connect with? The squirrel? No. I was simply creating a work of beauty from nature for Nature. To spin with my hands and imagination a pattern of loveliness where before had just been the broken or retrieved bits of randomness. I put a small bowl in the center of the now decorated plate and to it added a fingered dollop of butter, a spoonful of honey, and a splash of milk. Nestling a tea light on the squishy butter, I peeled added some fresh segments of clementine around the gap between the candle and the rim of the bowl, licking my fingers, nibbling on the extra pieces of fruit: sharing in the offering. I was feeding it and it in turn was feeding me. Mutual blessing. Match struck as I lit the small wick and incense. Stare at the finished piece admiringly, wafting the fragrance in and around the plate. I didn’t say any words. Didn’t think any profound thoughts. Simply stood there quietly for a few moments watching candle flame, smoke, the intricate texture of leaves, flowers, and small skeleton fingers.

After a few moments, I moved the ritual plate to my main altar and did my usual ritual tending that I do, none of which is elaborate. All of it; however is tied into my personal, daily acts of devotion and focus. I will “attend”. Stand watch. Remember. Call to mind with each flame; each pour; each softly spoken word. Not to gain favor. Not to curry a “you owe me now” balance sheet. Understand: I am vain, proud, and quite stubborn. These small actions remind me that there are a lot of things out there “greater than” myself. That I can hold the duality of being a sacred sovereign self under the golden vast infinity of powers, forces, and energies beyond me in breadth, scope, and depth. It’s refreshing to hold complete personal agency with and for myself while simultaneously acknowledging and honoring my place within the cosmos.

Act 2: there is merit in a creative, contemplative task done in silence.

Act 3

Some folks don’t like the use of the word prayer. I get it. Use another word. Maybe it’s mantras, incantations, affirmations, or readings. Whatever one chooses, coolio. For me, it’s a set of three small “prayers/invocations” that I play to a set piece of instrumental music (Skyrim’s “Past to Present”). Act 3 involves full body movement, memorized words, timing, and attention to both cadence and flow. It is (for me) a form of dance. A dance in both the physical and the astral realms. A dance requiring keen listening focus. A dance that gets sweeter and more effortless in its motions with repetition. It grows, evolves, adjusts itself to the day at hand. It becomes a sublime act of grace. Shimmering and luminous.

Act 3: my devotion is a living flame expressed through music, words, and motion

Act 4: Finale

Finally, finally we get to the actual “meditation” part of the morning. Here at the end of it all and yet, it is the beginning of all the rest that is to come that day. Recently, a close friend was encouraging me to practice deep breathing more seriously… as a true mindful intention. “However you must: change your position, throw yourself over a chair, ground on the floor, breathe deep. Make it a part of you. As often as you can throughout each day. Learn how to truly breathe deeply so that you may find calm and reset at any time. At any moment.” This wise person so full of grace and healing benevolence. I pay heed. I breathe deeply and slowly. Earbuds in. Green noise on, pushing out all other sounds. My skull a resonant cave. These days, part of my meditation is also a breathing and humming meditation set to another, newly discovered song (Cradle/“Midnight Hum”). It is breath and hum and improvisation. Mesmerizing. Engaging. Beckoning. Six immersive minutes where there is nothing but the mutual breath and harmonic hum. Abandoned and lost in the fullness of it. Tears stream silently down my face. I am not sad. Not delirious. Not on some emotional high. I am deeply calm, anchored to the core. It is rather, connecting to the joyspring  well that is found within my innermost, vibrant self. That often quiet, still, deep joy, filled to overflowing. So full my eyes leak. My personal life still feels like a bit of a shitshow right now. More grief than anything. Grief, Grief, when, O when will you finish your intense coursing through me? Shall I bear grief and sorrow forever? I don’t know. If grief is in one hand, joy is in the other. In this space of deep wounds, past trauma, cleaving pain, loss, of grinding, piercing, wrecking transformation that I am navigating, there is an undercurrent of the deepest joy. Unshakable. Refusing to be extinguished, even when diminished. Despite, or maybe made more so, joy seeps and grows through the cracks of everything when other parts of my being are scorned, mocked, berated, ignored, mind-fucked, gaslit. This present journey that at times feels like I am once more treading the myriad levels of hell… and back again. Like Persephone, Joy reminds me. There is juxtaposed within hell itself: joy. Not fleeting happiness. Joy. Found within the deepest hidden spring softly glowing with the energetic, loving current of Universe: eternal Source itself.

When I give myself the gift of time each morning, room is made for me to see more clearly. To notice and acknowledge that unbounded, untamed eternal joy from which mine is sprung. Joy in so many things. The simplest of things: a beloved’s smile seen in my mind’s eye, the tiny hidden flower nestled in the grass, genuine connection with complete strangers, the savory goodness of a good meal: be it ordinary or a “feast de verte”. So much joy, Sweet Ones, waiting to be seen, smelled, tasted, explored, discovered. Acknowledged as the counterweight to sorrow.

The Final Act: deep magick is in giving ourselves over to everyday, found joy.

Blessed Be.

Erica Sittler is a Witch practicing her craft in Mississippi where she is a local, active member of the Temple of Witchcraft. Her magick is in the mundane and in bringing honor and attention to those small things that build a sustainable and adventurous life. She is a Temple Mystery School student under the instruction of High Priestess Sellena Dear.

Photo adapted from a photo by Cottonbro Studio via Pexels.com

by Christopher Penczak, edited by Tina Whittle

One of the things I was always taught—and which I now pass on to those I teach—is that we shouldn’t be casting circles and doing magickal spells when we are ill. What do we do when we are always ill? Cases of chronic illness and unknown illness can make it hard for us to follow that guideline, and I am certainly not saying anyone with chronic illness cannot be a Witch. Yet as a student of the occult sciences, where magick is not simply a cultural expression but a metaphysical, energetic, and tangible reality, I tend to heed the advice of my elders mostly because of my past experimentation and learning that when I didn’t, there were deep reasons to the things I was easily dismissing as archaic and unnecessary. Every good student gets their fingers burned now and then, and the trick is to make little mistakes to learn from and avoid the big and spiritually damaging ones.

I had a friend many years ago write a manuscript on the very topic, but sadly the book never saw print and he focused on other things. Recently the topic came up again in class, and the student involved suggested sharing these theories, thoughts, and guidelines in the form of an article.

So why can’t you do magick when sick? Three reasons, if not more—focus, energy, and pattern.

The first reason is that proper execution of effective spells requires some clear focus, an ability to concentrate. When you are feeling ill, that is diminished. I know many, myself included, who have learned to move through distractions and moments of unclear focus when necessary, putting whatever is going on with us aside to do the magick. And you should build the skill and discipline to do so, but when you are sick, it is a factor that can contribute to the failure of your magick and leave you feeling even less focused after the expenditure of effort.

The second reason is the mechanics of energy. Magick is entwined with life force. Even if you are using other sources of energy—and ideally you should be, whether support from spiritual allies or the ingredients in the charm or the burning of the candle—your intention and will are wrapped into your life force, and part of you guides the magick even if you are not the fuel. When ill, that vital life force is naturally going inward, in a time of consolidation, to fuel immune responses or repair of damage. When we are ill, our bodies automatically undergo many processes to bring us to health, and they all require vital life force and the attention of our bodies. That is why many of us like to sleep when sick, to shut down anything that is unnecessary to let the body do its job. When you are doing magick when ill, you are reversing the flow for a time, and robbing the body of what it needs in this mode. The automatic responses don’t necessarily understand your intention and can think you are sicker, and then respond harder because the process has been disrupted.

Our vital life force can often be seen as waves going in and out from us, into the greater sea of life force. Intentions roll out in waves, and when the spell succeeds to manifestation or fails, that wave of life force returns to us on some level. We can have many things going out at once. Some parts of our vitality are easily replenishable, but our bua and others are finite and limited; our bri and our magick can include both of these vital currents. This why you are also cautioned to not do more than three spells per Full Moon circle, to not spread your energy and focus too thin, or deplete yourself too much. If we set too much into motion while sick, even if it’s for the intention of healing, we might not have enough vitality to maintain the recovery process and instead cause further sickness or injury.

Lastly, we have pattern. Illness has a pattern to it, or a vibration. Illnesses have distinct energies and spirits. Your state of being—your own vibration, energy, and state of mind—influence the magick you are working. Magick initiated and fueled by anger is different than magick drawn from love. Cold and clear magick is different than passionate magick. All can work, but all feel—and manifest—differently. When the state of your being is permeated with the vibration of illness, that gets woven into the pattern of your creation unless you are strictly doing self-purification magick. Do you want that as part of the manifestation of your spell? I have found those who have successfully done magick when ill often have manifestations that don’t turn out, ultimately, the way they wished. The issue might be they got exactly what they asked for, but not what they wanted, due to poor wording or unclear focus. They might get it, but not be in a position to use or enjoy it because they are still ill, or the manifestation itself is subject to decay more quickly than normal: a successful opportunity that dries up, a new job or new love that doesn’t last, a protection that diminishes at an inopportune time leaving one exposed. The nature of the illness is wrapped into the magick, sometimes bringing joyless manifestations or inflamed manifestations. I wouldn’t cast wards of my home when sick, or do a spell for love or romance either, but those are my personal lines on the matter.

So when people are temporarily ill with short-term prognosis of recovery, tradition suggests waiting before doing magick. The guide for me is that if you are taking time out of work or canceling social plans, then cancel magickal plans until you resume normal activities. You can’t necessarily call back parts of you from other spells prior to being ill, but you don’t want to add to loss of energy. If those spells done previously manifest when we are ill, or just after, they will bring a little personal boost to the tides of life within us.

When someone has a long-term illness or chronic condition, there is a lot of learning to manage energy levels for all things, including magick. Everyone is different, but if you are still doing work/going to work and attending social events, then consider how magick and spells fit into the expectations and management of your energy. Sometimes with the levels of both mental energy and life force, you might have energy for work and family/friends, or work and magick, but not work, spells, and your relationships, so you have to pick and choose priorities and necessities for energy levels at these times. It’s not impossible, but it becomes more of a challenge to manage with any chronic condition.

There is not a specific guideline on the types of magick you can and cannot do, or should and should not do when ill, short term or chronically, such as candle magick is good, but potions are not. It can vary with the Witch. When you are doing magick when experiencing a flare of a chronic condition, there are three factors to consider:

1) Do I have a clear intention, and can I focus upon it long enough to do the spell?

2) How much energy does the spell require on my part? Do I have that? Do I have easy access to other sources that will fuel the spell and it will just require my intention and guiding presence?

3) Will the symptoms and spirit of my illness, its pattern, adversely influence the effect of the magick? Will there be long-term affects I can’t see right now? Are these influences simply a part of my life now, and not a big deal to manage?

If I can do the spell but not have the focus for the entire ritual of the sacred space, this is when fellow practitioners, covenmates, and tradition-mates can be a great aid. Simple folk practices of magick might be what you are called to do, foregoing a formal ritual, though the formal ritual can give you the built-in containment, amplification, and protection. Without it, you might be trying to dive deeper than you can breathe without your diving suit. While it can be a fashion to forego a formal magick circle, the old traditions I learned said that as much as possible, your spells should be in a circle, turning an act of thaumaturgy into one of partnered theurgy. You commune with the divine intelligence rather than your personal desire alone and have the protection and magnification of the energetic temple that is the circle’s sacred space.

So think about that and the underlying issues of illness and ask yourself, what do you feel up for? If in doubt or even as a doublecheck, do a simple divination on your plans. While divination can take energy and focus too, and the patterns of illness might obscure our clarity, a simple yes/no divination should be in your abilities, and if you are not up for that, then you really shouldn’t cast circle and do a spell. If you can, then divine your answer and go forth with you magick.

For more on living with chronic illness as a magickal practitioner, check out the new book Chronically Magickal, by Temple High Priestess Danielle Dionne, available from Llewellyn Worldwide.

by Claire du Lune

Blessed Be, and Blessed Mabon! Claire du Nord here, a High Priestess in the Temple of Witchcraft tradition, with the twentieth article in our “For Broom Closet Witches” series.

Mabon, the Wheel of the Year Sabbat that comes after Lughnassadh/Lammas and before Samhain, is another Harvest Celebration – the Harvest of Fruits – as well as the recognition of the Fall Equinox.

Mabon always feels sort of like a turning point for me – an unexpected twist in the road – a step away from the familiar toward something new and different. It isn’t always immediately clear what that change will be or how it will manifest – just that there will be a change. Kind of like the three abandoned newborn kittens – wait, no, make that four – (another one was found and brought to me two days after the first three.) – that I am now taking care of. So now there are kittens sleeping in my living room when just a few days ago there weren’t any. And then there is my new Craft Name – Claire de Lune – that I will officially be adopting with the signing of this article!

Being a Broom Closet Witch can mean that one’s Sabbat experiences happen inwardly, for the most part, as outwardly observed Sabbat celebrations are not always possible for many Broom Closet Witches.

So, after a full Wheel of the Year cycle of articles about the types of outward celebrations that I, personally, can “get away with”, (given my own circumstances), “For Broom Closet Witches” will see a shift from the outer Sabbat experiences to the inner Sabbat experiences in the year ahead. Beginning with Samhain, this column will be taking a turn inward, exploring the inner landscape and terrain of the Sabbats, as seen through the eyes of a Broom Closet Witch – me! I look forward to seeing how this new perspective develops.

There will also be a new title for the articles, also beginning with Samhain:

For Broom Closet Witches: (Sabbat Name): Through the Eyes of a Broom Closet Witch

For this Mabon’s celebration, I decorated the table with a purple tablecloth and a purple accent runner. I bought some artificial fall leaf bouquets and placed purple candles on either side of the vase:

I also added some pinecones:

And here are the decorations with a Mabon refreshment platter:

There are grapes:

Pomegranates:

Apples, with their characteristic five-pointed star:

And walnuts:

I hope this article has been helpful, and until next time –

Merry Meet, Merry Part, and Merry Meet again!

Mabon Blessings,

Claire de Lune
(Formerly: Claire du Nord)

A watermelon decided to show up in my desolate flower bed. I say “show up”, because none of us planted it there: it sprung from some passing bird dropping. I say “desolate” because the flower bed is in reality nothing more than red mulch over hardened earth. There are no flowers. Not this year, save the fake ones in a pot nearby. This melon decided to show up right near my front steps where I could watch it daily… watch it in the dry, barren heat of Mississippi’s hellfire August, with no rain for weeks and temperatures wavering near 100 degrees each day. Watch this melon. First the two leaves standing upright, shouting in their little sing-song voices, “Whooo hooo! Over here! Look what we are doing!” I watched them, at first assessing that they were watermelon…wondering how they got there, and then waiting for them to shrivel up and die in the heat. I gave them no water. I was not merciful. I was not kind. I wanted to see them wither and die under the oppressive sun, their fragile, water-laden vines and leaves unable to take the glare and brutality of this particularly wretched August. Yet, the melon just kept sending out more leaves. Big and lush and deep green.

We have been taught, in our version of animist witchcraft, that flora, fauna, and lapis come to you in seasons to be teachers and guides along the path of life. This merry melon has been one such teacher for me. For me, who struggles to find my authentic self under the layers and masks and protective shells I have encased her in. For me, who longs to sing and dance merrily and yet is terrified of being obliterated by a world that does not care if I exist or not. For me, whose strength is both tender and fragile, whose fecund body produced many children, yet it is now my fertile mind that bursts and flowers with thoughts and ideas worth spreading. This melon simply is. It cascades and overflows and now in mighty, riotous chorus shouts joyously at me to simply be what you were made to be: leaf by leaf, tendril and vine, blossom and fruit. Be who you truly are, despite all the reasons not to. All the reasons perhaps to shrivel up and die. Pay no heed to any of those… just be.