Season of the Witch

I caught myself wondering what I would wear to your funeral. I stood in the walk in closet, the baby strapped to my chest, my hands hanging up sweaters, smoothing the shoulders of blouses. Laundry day.

And I thought: She always liked this one. Perhaps I'll wear it to her funeral. I rub the edges of the sheer blouse between my fingers. No, it won't be warm enough. So in this moment, a moment some would categorize as an intrusive thought, but I think of as premonition, I learn two things:

It will be winter when you die.

I still care enough to look nice for you.

These two thoughts outline a few cornerstones of my magic: premonition, and shadow work. The first revelation can absolutely be considered an intrusive thought, and for some reading this article (the healthy skeptics) you may simply stop reading at this point. I won't be offended. But for those of you who are curious about what my magical practice looks like, what magic looks like to me, I invite you to stay a while.

Back to my laundry premonition. Now, I do not categorize this as an intrusive thought because it lacked the unhinged anxiety that tends to accompany such events for myself. Instead, this was simply an unbidden deep knowing I could feel to the core of my existence. Intuition. Knowing. Inevitability. It's sometimes referred to as claircognizance.

This is often what magic feels like to me. Less of a dramatic staged production of supernatural proportions, and more a benign knowing felt in the preternatural senses we all have, but usually ignore. I spent most of my life ignoring them. Intuition saying to move the water glass, and regretting my stubborn insistence that it was perfectly safe as I sweep up shards of glass. The creepy feeling up my neck when someone perfectly nice is speaking to me, only to witness their blind, destructive rage at a minor inconvenience. And, less often, the thought that someone perfectly healthy won't be with us for much longer.

I don't know where that one comes from. Perhaps they give off a scent, a sheen of illness that my nose can pick up. I've often said to Gerad, "Are you feeling ok?" simply because he smells wrong.

Or maybe I've spent too many years scanning people's physiques in clinic looking for illness, injury, to not help but notice when it's present. Or maybe, like I suspect, it's some unnameable, preternatural sense that I have finally decided to embrace rather than shove aside.

Now, what of my second thought? I mentioned shadow work. This thought is a good example of a portion of my psyche that would benefit from some examination. Largely because it speaks to a history with trauma. Shadow work is a way to uncover and resolve this.

Trauma is a scary word. And, to be perfectly frank, it's also a trendy word. I think it's a good thing that our society, our generation and my daughter's generation-hell, even the older generations-are now in this movement of healing trauma. Generational trauma. Relationship trauma. Childhood trauma. I love that people are recognizing patterns that don't serve us and are choosing to heal for ourselves and our future generations. We deserve that.

But it seems like you can't read the news or watch anything on social media without Trauma running rampant.

And there is nothing more annoying than finding out something you always thought was your cute, manic-pixie-dream-girl personality quirk is actually just a coping mechanism. It's just a trauma response, babe. As is most of your personality. And guess what? You aren't as unique as you would like to think.

I found that to be a shocking and hard pill to swallow. But I'm so glad I did.

I've found my own trauma manifests in sneaky, interesting ways. And just when I think I have found the boundary of it, I find a rogue aspect squatting in an obscure recess of my mind. Any practitioner worth their salt knows that we cannot effectively manifest external change, if we do not first heal the being illiciting this change. Rot breeds rot. And health breeds health. You cannot expect change if you are not willing to examine your own patterns and change what isn't serving you. Otherwise we staganate; our reality stays as it is.

In the example I gave, worrying over what this person will think of my outfit speaks to feelings of being judged. Of being moulded into something that I am uncomfortable with.

It tells me that I fear I am not enough.

This is a concept that comes up a lot during my shadow work. What can I say? Old habits die hard. So does learned behaviour. All I can do is continue to acknowledge and remind myself of my worth. If I continuously work from a place of "I am not enough," how will ever expect anything I attempt to succeed? Shadow work, is inherently magical, for it requires us to face our demons, to grow. To overcome so that we may build a better life for ourselves. Or, to use another trending term, to manifest the life we want.

To me, magic is the essence of life. It's the sense of wonder I get when I see the leaves change, the serene peace that blooms in my chest when the first snowflakes fall. It's the warmth that glides across my shoulders in early spring, the relief I feel when I see the first tender shoots of green sprouting among the dead grass. It's the reminder that all things, have a season. And that seasons, even the desolute ones, lay the groundwork for the next. The dead leaves of autumn insulating the ground against winter's frost, winter's melt mulching the leaves which feeds the plants. The bright sun of summer bringing forth the shoots, then the flowers, then the fruit. And the cycle continues on a loop, periods of activity followed by periods of rest. Periods of growth followed by death.

There is an image most people get in their minds, when I say the word witch. Black pointy hat, warts, cats and cauldrons-all iconography from eras past. But what of a modern witch? You might think of Instagram worthy altars, antlers, black dresses and long, manicured finger nails with nail art-the cost of which rivals my rent.

It's true, there are people out there who are into the aesthetic of witchcraft. Tiny glass spell jars, taxidermy on the walls. Dried herbs hanging from rafters and curated apothecary tables strewn with leather bound books. Expensive crystals lining window sills framed by artfully cultured houseplants. There's nothing wrong with this expression of magic, truly. I even have some of these things, myself.

But to me, my magic is less about aesthetic and more about creation. A process by which I get to navigate the tumultuous journey that is life. A thought meditated on, a ritual performed, then tangible steps taken to make my thought reality. Intention stirred clockwise into my coffee to set the mood for my day. Banishment stirred counter-clockwise into bone broth to dissuade illness from my loved ones. Journaling to uncover the corners of my mind that need attention.

My magic is about the process of creation-my reality, my food, my story. It's a lot like writing, that way. The story is always waiting in the wings. It just needs shaping, words on paper, to make it tangible. To take it from the ether of thought into the earth of reality. That's my magic, my witchcraft. Taking my intention, my desire and externalizing it.

My rituals are simple. My beliefs are respectful. Offerings left on tree stumps. A daily hello to the crows on my roof. Moving snails out of the way of foot traffic. Finding joy and beauty in fossils, roots, and bones. Some people find solace in Sunday worship. I find it on my daily walks in the woods. The trees, the earthen path, the river-these are my sanctuary.

And yes, sometimes I set up an instagram worthy spread. Sometimes my magic is herbs, crystals, chants and candles.

But usually, it's a thought while putting away my laundry.

And to this witch, both are equally magical. Both are equally valid.