On my dabbling in paganism… A realisation.

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I am a witch who does not work magic.

That isn’t to say I don’t believe in such things- I think magic is what’s unknown. Magic is that thing you don’t understand. If you’ve seen that video of someone crying out at the colours in the rainbow created by sprinkler mist, you’ll understand what I mean. That’s magic. I don’t practice it, but I don’t look down on those who do.

To each their own.

I am a witch who crafts.

I have no use for symbolism and prayer, at least, not by themselves. They have no service in my world. Things that are tangible, that have meaning… That’s where I work.

And it is work.

Make no mistake, so much energy (if energy is your thing, energy is… Hmm, a state of being? It heats and cools and moves the universe, a post for another time) goes into knitting, or cooking, or tending a garden. I think that’s where it takes root, this idea of magic, this metaphorical thing neo-wiccans look for in their little Llewellyn books. Where the history fits. Back when living meant working the lands and storing for winter, where keeping rats from the larder and cold from your joints determined who lived and who died. There wasn’t enough space then for useless things. Don’t get me wrong: back then, faith was far from a useless thing. Many people lived and died for faith.

That’s not the point I’m trying to make.

My craft is the tangible.

My craft is in nutrition, the chemistry that goes into the theobromine in chocolate making you feel good and the dehydration from a night of raucous drinking making you feel bad. A teaspoon of peppermint and some boiled water will settle your stomach, and rosemary will add lustre to your hair if it’s dark, or lemon to brighten the blonde.

I knit. I believe in weaving fibre to provide protection. A good scarf will keep a chill away, and after so many hours have gone into the creation of such a thing, the warmth of love will silence a Black Dog. Surely you’ve had a dark night or two where a soft blanket, made by your grandmother, eases your broken heart. A long journey in a biting winter can be gentled by threadbare gloves, gifted to you by your lover, your sibling, handed down through generations, or simply included as thanks for a far grander purchase. These things hold in them goodness as well as function, and that is where I work, that is why I work. Overlooking these things that are so substantial and intrinsic to my being is why it took me so long to understand. I put the weight in faith, and as a result I slipped and slid into the beliefs of those around me: here Wicca, there Asatru, short brief bursts of Buddhism and Catholicism and Vodoun and Thelema. They didn’t work, and I didn’t understand why.

I think I had to finally be alone to find my own way, and come to peace in myself.

I am a witch, but I don’t work magic.

I am a witch. I work my craft.

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