For as long as I’ve identified as a
witch, I thought I had trouble with ‘real’ magic. Spells didn’t come
easy to me, I felt like my offerings and altars were wrong, that I
was making some mistake that no one ever spoke about because every
one else knew what not to do. And I suppose I was, but not exactly
how I thought I was.
I was already doing magic, but not how
I thought I wanted to.
My magic isn’t always mason jars filled
with herbs, crystal points polished like mirrors, or billowing skirts
My magic is standing in my back yard
looking for acorns in jeans and a tee shirt. Baking cookies from
boxed mix for Loki. Potions from tea, emojis sent to myself over kik
for spells, drawing sigils with my tablet. The comfort of silent
spirits while I go about my daily life.
My spells are song lyrics from the
radio, a playlist altar for my deities, wearing stone jewelry to job
Home made tarot cards that I ask about
birthday gifts, a Supernatural ouija board with a glow in the dark
planchette, sigils inspired by my favorite shows.
I was never doing it wrong, I just
didn’t know I was doing it right.
Some days I still wish I was able to
work deep in the woods, twigs in my long hair, black taffeta trailing
behind me like smoke, a raven familiar by my side as I brew my
potions in a real cauldron.
But then my black cat with a deformed
leg will hobble inside, rubbing his head on me, and I’ll draw a
sigil on my arm in gel pen, listening to a song that inspires my
intent. That’s where my magic is.
Dionysos Maenoles, raging wine-dark God,
all I can ask is your love and your fury.
When I am broken, I do not have to be remade;
remind me each crack in my being
has a reason to be; remind me my anger
is righteous in its own way. Teach me moderation
even as you teach me release.
Like Ariadne love me, take me
for your own;
like Pentheus tear me apart.