Charging a Sigil


Write it on a flammable surface and set it on fire (I favour bay leaves)

Carve it on a candle and let the candle melt (you can pick the candle colour according to the spell/wish)

Carve it on a surface with a pyrograph/something hot or carve it on something and put it close to fire where it can charge up.

Draw it on a firework and set it off.

Draw it at the bottom of a tea light and put the candle back in.


Draw it on a windchime and hand it up.

Make prayer flags with the sigils on them, or a simple flag that’ll blow in the wind.

Draw it on something light and non-polluting and let it go with a gust on wind.

Draw it on a balloon and pop it.

Draw it on a paper kite and let it go in the wind.


Draw your sigil on a soluble material and let is dissolve, it’ll also charge the water or draw it at the bottom of your cup and it’ll charge both the water and sigil.

Draw it on something non-soluble like a rock and let it soak or even throw it in the river;

Draw it on yourself when taking a shower and let it wash off.

Draw it on the shore where the water will wash it away.


Draw it on something from nature (so as not to pollute) and bury it.

Charge it with a crystal grid/previously charged crystals

Draw it on the earth.

Draw it on the leaf of a plant.


Place it in the sun or moonlight and let it soak it up.

Draw it with a glow in the dark paint.

Draw it on something that’ll disappear like fog on a mirror, lemon juice, ultraviolet pen and such.

Your own Energy:

Meditate on your sigil by focusing on it while you direct your personal energy into it.

Have it near you or on you during sex or masturbation.

Draw it on yourself and dance, sing, workout.

Have it on or near you during extreme pain or emotional states (anger, joy, sadness, etc.)

Draw it with your blood/drop some blood onto it.


Place it on a charging device (phone, computer)

Place it on speakers and blast music that matches the intent

Sing/Play an instrument to it

Draw it on the sole of your shoes

Draw it on/near a grave/with grave dirt/anything symbolic of death

Post it on a website such as tumblr where likes charge it and reblogs cast it.

Draw it on paper and tear it up

If you have your own way of charging sigils, do tell me, I am curious, and I’d like to add to the list, since this is in no way the only ways of doing so.


Will be made after i finish the reaper and 76 ones. these will be 2.5 inches big for $14 (less maybe depending on were) and will have a pretty dangle of some sort like a windchime. Made of acrylic and will be see through on the gray parts like glass….yus :D Pre-orders eventually :P

taurus people, and especially those with venus in taurus can carry on in a platonic relationship for years and years. they are not always interested in physical intimacy, or marriage for that matter. sometimes it’s just the pure love of the love a taurus has for someone that keeps blowing the windchimes in their heart

anonymous asked:

a lot of native people feel that if you buy dreamcatchers (and specifically dreamcatchers, because they've already been so fully absorbed into White norms that it would be hard to get rid of them) from actual native craftspeople and are respectful of them and what they mean, they don't mind so much, but i guess it would be hard to show that in a comic, and probably not everyone feels that way.

That’s what I asked my friend, who is a native,( however not belonging to the Ojibwe tribe.) I asked them if it were okay if my oc (who is white passing) could own a dream catcher if it was a gift from his mom who bought it from an Ojibwe craftswoman. (They said it was okay, so long as I were respectful about it)

The dreamcatcher was a shoutout to this friend, and I honestly, truly did not mean any disrespect, and I’m very sorry it came off that way. I was originally going to explain in-comic about how the dreamcatcher came into Dallas’ possession. 

I’m a POC, but I’m not native american, so I really appreciated being educated on the matter.

signs as soothing sounds 🍃
  • Aries: crackling fire
  • Taurus: footsteps on gravel
  • Gemini: windchimes
  • Cancer: light rain
  • Leo: thunderstorms
  • Virgo: rustling leaves
  • Libra: tweeting songbirds
  • Scorpio: ocean waves
  • Sagittarius: cicadas
  • Capricorn: ticking clock
  • Aquarius: desert wind
  • Pisces: babbling streams
southern gothic witch aesthetics

southern witches who live in trailer parks where fairies light from windchime to windchime on their porch. who keep protection spells in mason jars, cast dionysian chaos magic in moonshine.

southern witches who work hard on their tiny farms, splitting wood to keep a constant hearth and keeping a careful precise almanac. southern witches who know the ways of their chickens and goats as well as the racoons and possums and deer which rustle about the thicket at nightfall.

southern witches who go to church bright and early every sunday morning and sing “rock of ages” while thinking about the rituals they’ll do that evening. southern witches who use an old tattered family bible in their craft. southern witches who believe in the blood of christ and the love of the moon.

southern witches torn between a rooted love of their homes and the ghosts which dwell in the soil. southern witches kept awake at night by the pain of oppressed spirits. southern witches who have to fight to keep themselves, their families, or their friends safe from hate.

southern witches speaking hexes in a drawl.

southern witches serving enchanted sweet tea on a drowsily hot summer day.

young southern witches-making corn husk poppets, old southern witches sewing sigils into quilts.

there is such strange sad magic to the south. there are such strange wonders here.

If I had an aesthetic, it would be “cute housewife meets witch” and it’s just so conflicting and I have no idea how to express that shit properly.

It’s like jars of herbs, mortars and pestles, and nonstick cookware.

It’s wild hair, simple classic jewelry, and cloaks over mom jeans and peasant blouses.

It’s cellphone cases engraved with mystic runes.

It’s windchimes and edible glitter.

It’s the tossing salt over your shoulder when you spill, the ritual of what you do when you log into the computer, and scrolling through pinterest.

It’s believing in magic and spirits and vacuuming your house while singing along to pop music.

It’s talismans and cupcakes.

It’s razor-sharp knives from William-Sonoma and crystals.

It’s never measuring what you’re cooking, because it’s instinctive magic that you use to make everyone feel good and loved, but presenting it on the good china with a proper table setting.

It’s long skirts and dresses and pinned-up hair and just a touch of makeup when you want to feel pretty, but wearing moons and stars and gems that make you feel ethereal and grounded all at once.

I can’t explain it, but hey there it is.

In The Foundry

I feel as if my eyes
are movie cameras;
a perpetually rolling film,
brown iris lenses capturing moments
so perfect they could almost only
have been directed.
I am in a dimly lit restaurant:
we are a large party several dozen strong.
We are raucous, clamouring,
our voices like windchimes
in the midst of a typhoon -
so much harmony, dissonance
and discord.
In the eye of the storm,
in my small bubble of quiet,
I survey the tables closest to our own
and it is then that I see them.
Just a man, and just a woman,
staring into each other’s souls
as if hypnotised.
Their lips move but I
do not hear their exchange - they
are far too far from me.
But what I cannot hear, I see:
she reaches out a hand,
caresses his dark beard -
her fingers kiss each strand of hair
and his eyes close for a moment.
The tension in his face lessens,
his brow loosens, his lungs exhale
and his lips part.
They do not kiss.
But he takes her hand in his
and opens his eyes to see his sun once more.
All this in the complete silence
of the noise we all were making.
But I sat, quiet, all the loudness nothing
but a static hum, and their love
singing like church bells
on a Sunday morning.
I sat there, silent,
and smiling.

moths, willow trees, grey cotton dresses, dusty windows, old books, creaky wooden floors, broken clocks, howling winds, cluttered attics, woolen socks, piano duets, chests full of lost things, wax candles, foggy mornings, miles of rolling hills, sudden rainstorms, aged photographs, windchimes, echoes, wooden railings with intricate details, wardrobes, dirty mirrors, drawers full of buttons, and forgotten love letters

If her laugh doesn’t sound like summer chimes in the wind, let her hang around on someone else’s porch. There are so few moments and such little time to enjoy another persons soul, so, if you can’t appreciate her music, let her be free in different wind, on different shorelines, different beaches.
Let her sway side to side on another someone’s doorsteps. Let another scoop her up and place her gently away,enjoying the site of her twirl and dance in the winds down the rain, beneath all the Galaxy and night lit sky. If you can’t see yourself sitting on your rocking chair smiling at her simplistic beauty at 82 years old, let her sing that sweet chime song to someone else,
And you can listen to how lonely quiet can be.
—  If You Aren’t In Love With The Way She Laughs, Let Someone Make Her Laugh (coloringtheworldwithwords)