Craft
I’m a little embarrassed to talk about it. It seems a bit silly.
I’m a witch.
It is absolutely not what you think.
Or maybe it is. I talk to the dead. I read tarot cards. I do spells, and I believe those spells make certain things more likely to happen.
The basis of a lot of my belief is placebo magic, if you want to be unkind about it. My magic works because I believe it will work.
I was raised Catholic, making it all the way through years of Sunday school and mass with incense to get through my First Communion with white frilly socks and a white dress like a bride. After that, my family only attended mass when my grandparents visited. It was the stated rule that we could never, ever tell my grandparents (especially my grandmother) that this wasn’t a weekly affair— we had to pretend that we were regular members of the congregation. My father would bring my grandmother to the fancier Catholic churches around St. Louis— the Cathedral Basilica, the St. Francis Xavier. He did it under the pretense of it being a favor to her, but also conveniently hiding the fact that we were visitors to whatever church we attended.
My grandparents on both sides were deeply Catholic. My parents are less so, as it seems are many Catholics of my same generation. I’m definitely culturally Catholic. I’ve got the guilt. We go to fish fries. I can do the rosary. I like the pageantry of Catholicism, the up and down and kneeling during the service, peace-be-with-you to our neighbor. I could easily blend into the Catholic parish life I chose, put the kids in Catholic school, do good works on behalf of the church. I’ve done a lot of volunteer work with Catholic affiliated organizations, like the St. Patrick Center.
But I’m not Catholic. I’m not Christian. I do think a lot about Jesus and his teachings. There is a great line in the movie Hedwig and the Inch where Hedwig is asked if she has accepted Jesus Christ as her personal Lord and Saviour. She thinks for a moment and says, “No, but I… I love his work.”
I think a lot about the inherent flawed nature of man. The purpose of forgiveness. Recognizing our own limitations. I’m sure I’ll write more about some of these things. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to truly love humans that I feel like I currently hate— I am trying to love my neighbor. I think that a lot of themes around the New Testaments are beautiful foundations for faith through love and forgiveness.
I am less sure of my own beliefs. I am the cliched “not religious but spiritual”.
I’m not sure if there is a God or not. I know that I have had some divine moments where I have felt complete and whole and part of the universe. I also know that energy doesn’t disappear. That gives my hope that my energy will move on somewhere after I die.
Here is what my religion, my witchcraft, looks like. I want to be frank that none of this is original— it echoes and mirrors lots of different cultures and beliefs. I am not original. I have not invented this.
Talking to the dead: Part I
I have an altar. It is a shelf with photos of the dead: my paternal grandparents, my maternal Grandmother, and someone we will call Kingbird.
Miesha occasionally visits my altar.
Every week, I take the photos off the shelf as well as all of the additional items and dust it the shelf. I rearrange the additional items— stones, crystals, incense. I set new trinkets in front of each photo. Sometimes I pull things out of my dollhouse, sometimes from my shadowbox.
I talk to the dead while I clean. Sometimes I just think about them and my memories of them. Sometimes I ask for advice or tell them what is stressing me out.
My paternal grandparents, Grandpa and Grandma Gull, were full of love and life. My Grandpa Gull passed away when I was in my early 20s, but I remember him as a man with a big laugh. He was diabetic but loved to watch his grandkids happily chow down- he would always urge me to get two desserts when we were out, and was delighted when I could eat both. He and my Grandma Gull traveled the world together. She was a larger than life character, who loved old fashions and telling dirty jokes. I like to give them pieces of their own travels that I have in my own shadowbox, a rock from Pompeii or a flat stone from the Bering sea. I put a small tea cup and a tiny fancy hat in front of my Grandma Gull, and I think about the times we went to high tea together.
When I talk to them about my worries, they tell me how smart and capable I am. “You’re a smart cookie. You got this.”
I was very close to my Grandma Sugie, my maternal grandma. (Side note: My maternal grandpa is still alive and kicking and awesome at 94 and likely reading this blog— I love you, Grandpa!) My Grandma Sugie was a tiny woman, under 5 foot. I had frequent sleepovers during the summers with my grandparents. They had a proliferate garden. She named a small creamy pink rose after me because it bloomed in late May, right around my birthday. She called them Grackle roses. I felt like a fancy lady, walking through the gardens with small pruning scissors and a flat basket to collect flowers to turn into bouquets. My grandparents would videotape things for me they thought I would like and save them for when I visited in the summer so that we could watch them together, like Cloud: Wild Stallion of the Rockies. I chose a photo of her in a formal dress from her teenage years as a pageant beauty in Thibodeaux, Louisiana for my altar because she was a little vain and loved those photos from her youth. I like to leave her flowers, pretty rocks, and my miniature baking set from my dollhouse.
When I talk to her, she tells me that she worries about me but that I’m doing great. “I am so impressed with everything you have done. You are going to figure it out.” If I have gotten a fresh haircut, she tells me that she loves my short hair, very French.
I will name the person in the third photo Kingbird. Kingbird was the close of friend of TV. They met through an extracurricular theater camp they, as well as Chick, did every year. In a random twist of fate that happens quite often in St. Louis, I knew Kingbird’s father from high school— he was a year older than me, but we had a mutual friend and hung around occasionally. Kingbird and TV hung around frequently on weekends, having sleepovers and staying in touch through the school year.
Kingbird was 14. They died suddenly and unexpectedly from an aortic dissection caused by an undiagnosed rare connective disdorder. The photo is from a production with both TV and Kingbird. I like to leave interesting and unique things, like my rock with a hole in it or a cool piece of quartz. My children have both added their own additions to Kingbird’s photo, a sticker of a moth that was given out at their funeral and a brochure all about Kingbird’s connective tissue disorder.
When I talk to them I feel weird giving them a voice. Rather than trying to impersonate them, I think about what type of advice my own 14 year old’s self would give to current me. It really boils down to this. “Did you do what you think is right? Yes? Did you do your best? Yes? Then quit complaining, learn from this, and do better next time.”
When I clean their space, when I give them offerings, when I talk to them: I feel surrounded by love.
