Thursday, April 9, 2015

Get Witching.

A busy week for a witch can mean suddenly needing to perform healing prayers, rites and charms for a grandfather diagnosed with a serious illness. The second I left the hospital I went straight for the best magic I know, the kind I was raised around; healing medicine.  Mine is very different from mi Tia's, different from my moms, from my various aunts; I'm a green sorcerer, that's what I go to.  Well, gramps needs healing, and all I can do to help on a spiritual level is what I know I'm good at--  and I know I'm a damn fine witch.  So I get witching; stuffing herbs, baking the clay dolly for its work, catching the right moment when Venus was high in her healing phase and my star in the constellation of the hunter shined in my sight, the smells of meadowseet, sweet-grass, palo santo and sage are a soft reminder that the ancestors and beloved dead are everpresent, ready to lead my hands and whisper over air and darkness the secret things I need to know to stay focused and offer all my support to someone I love dearly.

Another busy day for a witch can mean a lot of meditation and fasting and preparation in the arts of dust making... In this particular case, a dust made for a friend from a recipe in my cunning book.  Poison things are a dance with death and devil, a twisted thing that can corrupt all it touches.  I'm careful in the preparation of crab dust; a protection and hexing dust requested of me by a good friend who felt she needs more protection at her disposal against an unwanted guest in her life.  Crab dust does nasty things to nasty people.  

 During the full moon lunar eclipse I got to take a break from the heavy stuff and do the type of magic I'm best suited to; ardent arts- Love Magic.  Venus and Eros were a huge force that evening.  Venus, being the axis upon whom I perfect my nature and know myself, the beacon of the flaming current I feel myself upon; warm, sensual, alive and ripe, was my muse for the evening as I prepared for all the drinks for me and my partner would need for the creation of joyfully red magic.

Drink of the Blood Lunar Flame:
1/2 vial of dew from the woodhorn of an appletree collected on the full moon, hour of Venus
1 cup skyriver mead
1/2 cup cherry blossom water collected on full moon in hour of moon
1 tbsp honeydew honey 

Drink of the Glittering House of Venus:
1/2 cup rosewater
1/2 cup orangeblossom water
1/2 cup sweet red- sweeter the better
A pinch of blue lotus.
- Served in a silver cup on a round copper plate of Venus with the square of Venus etched on the top and the figure of Venus and Eros (with flaming arrow, comb and apple) etched on the back.

Damiana liquor, jasmine water, with vanilla bean, anise and catnip steeped two weeks prior are another favorite ritual drink for rituals in which love talismans and amulets are being created and the red spirits need feeding.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Holy Water and Hexes

Hate and healing,
hex and harmonies,
actions weighed and balanced by people-
who sit in the company of spirits.
They know better than to walk in the sun, or in the moon. 
The truth is found in the middle road, where the best herbs grow,
 in the shade.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Darkyear turning

Now is the darkyear.  I observed the change-of-suns as I have for the last decade, spending my time meditating on the exchange of light to dark and dark to light twice a year, marveling at the glory and wonder of the seasonal changes, making exciting plans and grieving what was lost.  An Cailleach, the hag of winter, the stoney blue-skinned, brittle-boned owl in the frost, carved from darkness, clutching in her hands the cold sun, she rides now.  She is the bride of winter, and I observe her movement with feasting, drinking, missing my loved ones and honoring the finality that permeates the early autumn air.  I also welcomed the king of the dead, of harvest and hunt; now's the time when the dark host rides in the wind and the night lead by the Horned One, wild and shrieking. Between a cauldron of bones and a cornucopia of gathered harvest, stands always the witch, readied for the change of seasons.  We lit our candles, we drank our mead and recited The Song of Lugus and Rosemerta, burned a wicker effigy in the bone pot and reveled in that warm, happy feeling you get when death moves around you.

I spent much of the last few weekends replenishing my stock with this years harvest.  Most of the time I keep sal negro, red dust, brick dust, ghost dust, sal de mar,  orris root spice, white bone spice and polvo de sangre (made with real blood) among other dusts, powders and salts; some for sigil drawing, others for more practical hands on magic.  Each different kind of dust requires entirely different conditions for their creation, sometimes it takes months to prepare just one vial full of a spice, but the results are well worth it; when the bones are rubbed red and the black circle is drawn, it is well worth the effort.  My oils from the summer didn't work out so well, but the weeping birch-sap and honey amber incense I made smells like heaven baking in a sunbeam.  My oak gall ink turned out black as night, thick and smelling of forest and the shade under roots.

Around this time of year, different people or branches of family ask me to come over and perform blessings. The spirits are "acting up", so they call me.  I show up with my kit; powders, philters, dusts and spices, keys, oracles, candles-- tools of all kind, rolled up into my travel bag.  Usually the family plies me with wine and smoke to get me to leave my hermitage, and in exchange I cross the house in black dust, bind it in red dust, circle it in white dust, cross the windows, bind the doorways, seal the wood-stove, hearth and chiminea, bury the blessed nails and break the old spell bottles.  To drive away restless spirits; a bitter root smoke, to bring peace; palo santo, then sage to bless every living or non living soul within.  I sit alone with the dead, poor wine into basins carved from years of Seattle rain the foundations of the big family house, share honeyed whiskey cakes and whatever else I'm asked to procure.   My craft is far different from my mom's medicine, my sister's healing magic, my tia's voodoo, or auntie's oraciones, and I serve a specific function I suppose, which comes in handy when the spirits get restless. If it were as "simple" as purification or warding bad dreams, ma or the aunties can handle it, but when people start getting nervous, they call me.  Usually I just serve as seer for my family, their friends and extended relations of my own, but between Last Harvest and samhuinn I get busy; the wine starts pouring and I have too much fun dancing with the dead.  When the land slows down and the air grows cold, I seem to truly come alive.   

Saturday, August 9, 2014


To the woods, for nightshade, coneflower, cornflower, pears, apples, vervain, mullein and old clay mud from under the rotting pines.

The flowers bust form every corner of the meadow, a blue ocean in between islands of ancient broom bushes.

and I bless every herb at the altar of the ancestors, witches and old gods.