My second rebellion in youth entailed the study of witchcraft beginning when I was 18. After studying for a year and a day, I went out and purchased a silver pentagram to wear as a charm, one that hung on my neck until I was 37, several years beyond the point when my practice or interest had waned. For an 18 year-old woman who was poor, without much education or prospects, becoming a witch was a means by which to exercise a degree of control, to boost my sense of self and place in the world. I wasn’t a poseur like some folks who liked to announce themselves a witch without having ever picked up a book on history, lore or application. For me, it was a chance for independent study in herbal remedies, ‘Herstory,’ pagan culture and ritual, crystals and the whole Wiccan tradition. Witchcraft compensates the powerless with a sense of direction, order and purpose. The problem for me with the larger community was that I wasn’t a hippie, but only looked to the craft as a natural extension of feminism, as a four-dimensional buttress against patriarchy. Calling on the goddess of ten thousand names was a way to stave off the dehumanising strain implicit in a culture that hates and fears women. To be clear, all the study, rites, spells and such were a vehicle to harness symbolism and metaphor to improve my life; there was no literal belief in a deity such as you’ll find among monotheists who want to supplicate the daddy in the sky, nor did I become obsessed with power or manipulation as Hollywood later came to interpret in a film about sexy Wiccan schoolgirls. No, I just wanted to be safe, healthy and happy.
Once, early on in my study, I went to pull a dinner shift waiting tables and complained to some witchy-minded co-workers that my period was late. Probably the first thing every newbie, hetero witch learns about are emmenagogues, those herbal treatments we used to say that existed to ‘bring on your period’ or give your menses a kick-start. Since I was broke, scraping by on two jobs to pay rent on a shitty apartment in Philly’s Gay Light District (honest, who knows what to call the area cordoned off by a gay porn theatre, sex toy shop and lots of male sex workers, but GLD sounds accurate), my budget didn’t always cover birth control. Don’t get all judgey, either. 18 year-olds often overlook precaution and good sense. So I was 18 and late. And poor. There’s no way I would have wasted money on a pricey pregnancy test when I was only a week late in the still-no-big-worry-yet-stage. The women took me aside and said we’ve got this bitch, or the 1987 slang equivalent. Back in the kitchen of the vegetarian restaurant they had one of the guys make me a large cup of carrot-beet-cucumber juice. When I was mopping up at close a few hours later, it was time to surf the crimson wave. With a sigh of relief, I forgot about the late period and continued living in the moment like most folks that age.
Those witchy bits of lore remained a priority for many years. The high holy days and summer retreats at witch camp were to be looked forward to with relish. Even my marriage to the accommodating Mr. M was a Wiccan ceremony presided over by a high priestess in a circle of thirteen. You can make out the pentagram around my neck in the bridal shot above. I grew out of witchcraft naturally enough when I went to university as an undergraduate at 24 and grad student at 30. I didn’t need the symbolism of power once I had the sheepskin bona fides. Witchcraft served its purpose when I was young and insecure in the big world.
Yesterday, however, I realised how foolhardy it could be to discount lessons from the craft. Plus this month of the year always revives my interest in the ritual observance of Samhain and the Day of the Dead.
Recently I’ve taken to drinking a glass of veggie juice in the afternoon to cram some more nutrition in my spotty diet. I don’t eat five servings of anything in a day. The only way to consume more veggies is through the juicer. Then late on Friday I plonked two fresh beets, three medium carrots and half a cucumber in the juicer thinking that those lovely beets would level out the bitter strain of the carrot, plus a crispy tang from the cuke. The next morning I woke sick as a pooch, complete with unyielding mud butt. Then the blood came and I wanted to smack my head for forgetting that food is medicine. I can’t offer you conclusive proof that the vegetable mix in liquid form is an emmenagogue for reals, except take my story as a cautionary tale if you are pregnant or hope to be. As much as I enjoy those separate ingredients, there’s no way I’ll combine them again.
Thus concludes this chapter of memory lane.