I need to clear something up: I am a witch.
I’ve secretly known this since childhood — I used to silently cheer on the crone with the green face (I mean, that girl dropped a house on her sister and stole her best shoes). But I had no one to share this hidden truth with.
I didn’t come out until my early 20s. One October evening as my first spiritual teacher and I hung bundles of feverfew, marshmallow, and thyme to dry, I realized that I had never felt so close to home.
There’s No Place Like Home
It’s fitting to use that word — home — because this is the site of a witch’s greatest magic.
I’ve met witches who mend broken hearts and bones. Witches who talk to the dead. Witches who coax the living back to their bodies. But most of the witches I know cast daily spells.
In her kitchen, she’ll brew up a transcendently nourishing stew in her cauldron, even though her cupboards appear bare. In her arms, she’ll nurse a witchling, whispering songs that share all she’s learned. In her bedroom, she’ll conjure the magic of her pleasure, but only if you’re ready. Be sure you are, because it is this very magic that has made men reach for their matches with a trembling hand.
But her most powerful feat: She somehow holds this all together with a force that can only be called magic.
She may not wear a pointed hat. She may not own a broom. But you’ll know her by the way she is at home in herself.
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