When it finally became obvious to me that what I was by name was a witch, there was an immediate sense of relief: like a missing piece of myself had been found and in this dreadfully dark wandering space where I had been wandering seemingly aimless for years, decades even: in a sense since I was about four years old. Suddenly, in that instant of comprehension, a flickering light appeared, and in that light…a path.
It wasn’t long before a friend had pointed me to the local, Mississippi community of the Temple of Witchcraft, including the Mystery School classes I could sign up for.
So of course, I did. Immediately. Instantly. Let me fast track my studies, my craft, my new “religion” as quickly as possible. I was accepted and then suddenly, strangely, I was not. Somehow, I had signed up for classes in Missouri! (How did I know it mattered the where and when I took classes?) I had to wait for more than a year before the next session of local classes would be offered and then, if accepted, I could participate in formalized training.
As a consolation, I was invited to come to the next Sabbat on the cycle of the year. That’s how I looked at it—as a “consolation”. The hubris and vanity that I had was, and perhaps still peeks out from time to time, truly grimace worthy. I had never been to a Sabbat with my local group. Or any pagan group. I had never participated in a ritual outside Christianity. But, yeah, I was ready to hop on the Mystery School train and ride it straight to high priestess. Fortunately, for all of us, that didn’t happen.
Instead, I was welcomed as an ordinary. Just another curious one welcomed to experience what an eclectic Wiccan ritual was like. There, in that first journey we did as a group, I found stillness and a chance to take a deep breath… and then another. And then I went home. What was I supposed to do between rituals? The only thing I knew to do was to walk outside and get to know Nature as more than something pretty to look at for my viewing pleasure. Now, I could actually attempt to follow the seasons. This new “wheel” that noted the cycles. To sit quietly. Repeatedly. To watch. To soak up the cacophony of being that was both outside myself and yet was now riddling its way through every fiber of my being.
There was a time in my still recent past when I despised the Canada geese who descended by the dozens to my yard and the common space directly across from me. It took me time to go from self-absorbed despising to contrite respecting to profound gratitude for the geese who return year after year, generations of them. To study them. To try to learn from them. To watch the cycle of migrating birds of which these geese are the first to arrive to our small inlet. They are followed by the much quieter mallard and wood ducks. Then the white herons. Then, if we are lucky, the white pelicans.
I began to realize in that year of waiting, while I followed the migrating birds and the cycle of trees and flowers, various bees, gators, stars and the phases of the moon, my life had largely been disconnected from Nature. That nature had no daily place of reverence in my life. What kind of human had no genuine connection to nature? Me. That’s who. Oh, I’m smart. I could tell you the names of more plants than most. I “knew” things, but I didn’t really know anything. What kind of being was I? Did I want to stay this kind of being? One ignorant of cycles beyond the scratch surface? One nearly helpless in the realm of plant medicines, even though my “apothecary” was filled with over 50 jars brimming with all manner of healing? Did I dare use any of them? Would I make folks sicker if I offered them a cup of my blend of tea? It was a horrifying, sober thought… that I could unintentionally truly harm someone in my stupidity. How many books did I need to purchase and not read to show my magickal earnestness? You read that correctly: unread books by the dozens. All the tools, all the knowledge, but basically useless. I was eager, untrained, feral, and desperate for an anchor to give me a sense of purpose.
True, I wanted a spiritual path. What I had to learn; however, was to find my humble place within Nature. And so, I walked and walked and continued to walk. I stood out and gazed at the stars, not knowing their names, just observing them. I watched the moon in her ever-returning cycle. I stopped trying to figure out what it all meant and just let myself be a four year-old child again. The part of me that runs her fingers along the tops of flowering rose bushes, who tastes the drop of honeysuckle there at the base of its blossom. I became a gatherer of acorns…so many different varieties that I gathered from all my wanderings. I attended rituals with my community. Serving in the small ways where I could.
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.