Being a beginner in anything is scary. Everywhere you look, there are other people who are doing so much better and have been doing a thing for so much longer than you have. It’s easy to get discouraged and just give up. My story of how I came to be a witch is full of times when I gave up for one reason or another. However, I kept coming back to witchcraft, and I believe I am finding my way now.
I was in middle school when I first became interested in witchcraft. I devoured the Harry Potter books, Sweep by Cate Tiernan, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed, The Craft – anything and everything that showed bad ass witches taking control over their lives. As a young woman who felt powerless and out of control, that called to something deep inside my soul and I needed to know more. I read every book on Wicca and New Age my library had. I dove into the tragic myths of Greece and Rome. I studied Jewish Kabbalah and mysticism in my synagogue. I scoured the internet for information on magick, herbs, crystals, sabbats, everything I could find.
Ignorantly, I wanted everything to be perfect before I started being a witch. I made lists of herbs and herb lore. I copied down tons of information on crystals. I read, and read, and read. Along the way, I did try a few things. Meditation to calm the mind. Visualization to raise my energy. Teas made from mint and rosemary for headaches. Red raspberry leaf for menstrual cramps. A clear crystal wrapped in orange yarn when my sister was struggling with creativity. I took the first few trembling steps on the crooked path like a baby lamb learning how to walk for the first time.
I didn’t continue on my path. My perfectionism and desire for order turned inwards. I developed an eating disorder. I had unhealthy relationships. I turned into a workaholic. I drank not for pleasure, but to numb myself from my pain. I’m amazingly lucky that I was able to kind of catch myself. Even though I struggled with many things, I was also able to have a relatively functional life. I maintained hobbies like knitting and makeup. I never got to the point where I needed inpatient therapy, but I have been known to cry over the calorie count of pancakes.
Slowly, painfully, I made a series of choices that made it possible to return to my crooked path. I moved states. I found a new community of people who where 100 times more open to the craft. I started to practice tarot. Instead of locking my pain down inside me, I have started the daunting task of opening up all my old wounds and letting the puss bleed out. It’s hard. I still find myself stuck in old cycles, repeating old traumas. However, I know that I can’t be an expert in everything. I can’t wait until I’m perfect to start casting spells or making herbal teas or celebrating the wheel of the year. Every year, every day, I add another layer of richness to my practice. I find another way to be a witch.
This coming year (Samhain to Mabon), I want to dabble more. I want to explore more parts of my craft. Already I find myself being drawn to dark goddesses, the poison path, folk magic from Lancaster, and exploring the Southern cunning of my new home in Florida. The magic I want to work feels thick and sticky and heavy – honey coated fingers and the feeling of a hurricane. It’s dark and deep and intoxicating and it runs in my blood like wine.
I am not the best at witchcraft. I am not an expert. I am not a teacher. And I don’t want to be. I am just someone who is slowly finding their feet. I am walking on my crooked path, trying things out to see if they fit. If you learn something from my tarot readings or ramblings on magic, or learning from my past mistakes, then I’m happy for you. But I only want to focus on my journey, and not about being perfect.
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