My Dears: I was just cleaning my ritual room.
I was pretty agitated through this substantial task, because the whole big thing was a train wreck. Chaos fest.
So as I gathered up and put away every jar of herbs, every vial of oils, every pen and bit of paper, the random charms and spilled garden soil, crystals, feathers, and stray poplar buds, I realized, “It got this way because magic was afoot.”
Big magic in my wild world doesn’t consist of perfectly painted or chalked out symbols on a mysterious, immaculate temple floor or hooded, robed people chanting the ineffable names of who knows what, wreathed in candlelight and swimming in the smoke of rich incense.
While that does sound kinda fun, that’s not what big magic looks like in my kingdom.
Big magic looks like herb bits everywhere, and a candle dripping wax over there on the altar cloth that will take me forever to get out. It looks like charms, twine and stones and roots, feathers, and drops of my blood.
It’s mixed in with hand drawn personal sigils and my squirrely penmanship I can’t quite read- but it’s okay because I don’t need to.
Big magic smells like extremely fragrant oils I just spilled right in my lap and for sure on the carpet. It smells like my hair starting to burn because I bent too close to the candle to reach for the water from the holy spring. It smells like the lavender in the bowl to my left and dusty angelica powder.
Magic tastes like sticky honey in a jar with prayers tucked in, or pennies in chalices of water or corn meal and salt all over my table top. It looks like my mom’s thimble collection in her china cabinet next to little bottles of my “come to me” oil, a half burned novena candle, ashes of incense, and a handful of skeleton keys.
My magic sounds like the wind outside my window, a dog barking down the street, the crackling candle flame, and precisely the right song coming through my earbuds to which I hum along- probably off key.
Wild magic feels like creeping up the stairs and the hot shower when it’s all done and the exhausted sigh because privacy only happens when it’s way past my bed time. It feels like my eyes fluttering shut, and my skin on smooth bed sheets.
Magic feels like sweet secrets that are gone by morning.
Yes, there’s a mess to clean after enchantment has been brewing. The disaster is sublime. My witchcraft is not pretty enough for instagram. I walk between worlds, whispering incoherent things with my hair in a messy pony and probably wearing pajamas. Yet, when I return later to find golden threads of magic I have woven in between all of the bits of chaos, I know it has flown true.