On Wytchcraft

I was never without the practice of worship. It doesn’t look the same to me as it may to you, and it certainly doesn’t look the same to me now as it did when I was young.

Raised by witches, growing up knowing the security of magic in every aspect of my life, I have been fortunate. I have walked barefoot pathways that opened to hidden worlds, I have danced my body into exhaustion to step into alternate dimensions. I have spent seconds, minutes, hours, swaying in rhythm with the heartbeat of the planet herself as she blessed me with visions and messages and abundant gift after gift after gift.

In my younger years I spent a lot of time (and money) on performative tools. Crystals, altar cloths, carved wands made of obsidian glass, black mirrors, tarot and oracle decks, you name it. I thought this was what made my magic work. Until it didn’t. I could spend hours in ceremony, reciting long, drawn-out rituals at the exact perfect time in the exact perfect place. Little did I know the tools were nothing without me.

I released the noose of spiritual consumerism from around my throat, the more that I learned that the only vessel I needed was my very own waking self. This body, that carries blood and saliva and tears and sweat. These feet that step now between cactus needles and sharp, blistering hot rocks. I close my eyes and I let the wind pass through my hair, I let the salted droplets of mid-afternoon heat fall into my eyes, drip down my bare chest, sink into the red sand. In these moments now, with no crystal, no mirror, no book written by any other human, and I receive. I receive endless wisdom, I receive visions of lineage that I can never know or speak of. There are no words. There is just my spirit, connected to the earth and the living, breathing, pulsing world around me. All I need to do is to sit and to listen. All I need to do is to push my breath a little harder, to match the pace of the wind as it pushes back into me. There is no resounding thunderous moment of revelation. There is instead, a hummingbird who stops curiously close to look into my eyes. There is a crow, sitting high above me and observing in a way that feels familiar. There is the riotous cacophony of coyote howls exactly as my feet hit the dirt outside, late at night while the town is sleeping. This is magic. This is spirit speaking. These are the messengers that bring me what I need, even though I could never pinpoint exactly what that is.

My power comes from my bare feet. My power comes from my dirt-covered hands, sometimes holding a jar of blood that I allowed to collect from me after a month of waiting. My power is mixed with soil, with sandstone, with cactus flesh and spine, with fur left over from the coyotes’ latest catch.

There are no human words for this. There is no price tag that can be put on this. This cannot be written in a book, this cannot be sold in a store or bottled or blessed. This is magic. This is my craft. It is walking, it is swaying, it is crying and bleeding and sweat. It is human, as animal. It is feral. It is divinity.