The Craft of Witchery

When I was your age, I started making potions. Witch's brews. No one taught this craft to me. It was a knowledge which seemed to have been imprinted in my DNA.

Remember that song you sang in Kindergarten? Stirring and stirring and stirring my brew, OOOOOoooooo! I sang that song, too. And it meant something to me. It stirred a longing deep in my chest. And then I heard - from who knows where - a Shakespearean couplet: “Double, double toil and trouble: fire burn and cauldron bubble.” I knew that sensation – that fire burn and cauldron bubble sensation. Innately, I knew it.

I would go to a secluded part of the woods and set up next to a creek. I dug my fingers into the rich black dirt creating a hole big enough to accommodate a standard mixing bowl from my mother's kitchen - one which I had taken for this purpose. The bowl was placed into the earthen pit. And then I gathered my ingredients.

I collected creek water in a cup, ceremoniously walking down the bank to the edge of the water, filling my cup, walking back up the bank and emptying the cup into my “cauldron.” I repeated this process until there was enough water with which to create my base. I added soil, which I stirred in sweeping circular motions with a stick. Stirring with a stick was elemental in the process. Sometimes the brew was thick, sometimes not.

I gathered ingredients as they spoke to me: the prickly sweet gum balls, which looked like futuristic modular housing for alien beings. These would invoke a higher knowledge, one with which this world is not acquainted. The seeds of maple trees resembling tiny fairy wings would, so I believed, imbue my potion with a bit of fairy magic: part mischief, part delight. The flower petals from the tulip poplar tree - sometimes whole blossoms - would be included. Bits of moss. Oak catkins, which when intact, resembled stringy green caterpillars. But I crushed the stamens releasing the granular bits of pollen and stirred them into my brew.

When I had been jolted out of a synergy, whenever I felt displaced or disconnected from everyone around me - but most importantly, from myself – I would make a potion. It wasn't even a conscious decision. I just found myself going to the creek bank and setting everything up. The potion's purpose, which was not known to me at the time, was simply to bring myself back to my core, back to my heart and spirit. It was to reunite me with magic and hence, with life.

Considering circumstances that arose when I was six, it makes sense to me that I would embark upon this practice of making witch's brews. I was deeply injured by someone I trusted. I was violated in a way only a woman can understand. I sought justice from my parents on this occasion but it was to no avail. Some things are better swept under a rug when you are a working parent, exhausted from long hours of a thankless job. It takes less effort to stifle a child and pretend nothing happened than to confront a wrong and stand up against it. I completely understand their perspective now. But at the time, I retreated to my own world of making something new from preexisting crap in an attempt to order my world, to make sense of it all.

Soon after that, I began to make potions. I cast spells of wellness out into the world. Spells of justice, of making things right. As I meticulously selected my ingredients, I felt a personal sense of well-being. I felt right with my world. As I combined my ingredients into the basin I'd planted in the earth, I felt my sense of wellness being projected out into the universe. I felt a powerful force field growing larger around me. I was creating a charm of protection, of self love, and of well-being. I see this now. Back then, I acted on impulse.

As I grew older, I fell out of the practice of casting spells. I followed in the footsteps of those who had come before me. I found employment in order to make money. I married a man. I gave birth to two children. The wildness within me was tamed. I stayed in a small box of acceptable behavior. And this box grew tighter and tighter, compressing me, stifling me.

My daughter began making potions around her sixth year. She gathered rainwater and rich black dirt from the woods. She too stirred her potions in a sweeping, circular motion with a stick. She selected tree bark and acorns, pine needles, leaves and rocks to go into her brew. One day, she found a dead bat in her brew. This was both alarming and mysterious. But we are taught by our Native Ancestors that bat medicine signifies a rebirth – the end of one way of life and the beginning of another. We were getting ready to move to a different state, away from the only home my daughter had known. And so it seemed that the bat had found it's way into the brew for a reason. I cried the day my daughter found the bat and I did not understand why.

In time, I reached a point in which I could no longer breathe. I could not speak. I felt a heaviness in my heart. It became necessary to break out of my small box and to set my heart free. I planted seeds and pulled up weeds. I caressed earth worms and carried water to my plants. I again experienced the sense of well-being that I had known as a child. I grew wild again.

We have a wild streak that should never be tamed, you and I. You will notice when people try to tame you. They will tell you that you can't do something that you want to do. They will tell you that you do not have the wisdom to make choices for yourself. They will tell you how to behave, how to dress, how to manipulate your face and hair to fit their definition of acceptable beauty. They will not see the beauty of your heart. They will not see the beauty of your wildness. It will be hard for you to keep your wild heart alive. But this is necessary to your survival.

When we lose our connection to nature and our urge to create, we lose our life force. We begin to feel sad and lonely, or strangely empty inside. This is because we are neglecting our wild and magical nature: that which creates a desire to dwell among forests, mountains, oceans and rivers, to interact with all living creatures and to make things.

This is why magic is necessary for you to practice. This is why you must make your own potions. It will help you to put order to a world which makes no sense. It is necessary to invoke the help of our Mother Earth because her strength cannot be conquered. Through Mother Earth, we experience the mysteries and wonders of nature. Through her, our urge to create grows strong.

The knowledge of crafting witch's brews can take many forms. Sometimes it is in the form of paint on paper. Sometimes it is in the form of a mask one paints on one's face. Sometimes, it takes the form of words on a page. It could be a cake you bake. Or a song you sing. You must find your own means of crafting a witch's brew. And you must hone your craft well. Do this for your own protection. Do this for your own sense of well-being. It is up to you to carry on the tradition of magic-making.  

The World is Not a Cold Dead Place

I've developed the capacity to gauge the employment status of people who come through my line at Planet Care simply by their countenance. I guess it's a skill that reflects the current state of affairs in America. Maybe it's an evolutionary adaptation. Or maybe the reduced capacity to comprehend everything that goes on around me has freed up the sub-conscious space needed to excel in Extra Sensory Perception. I have experienced several ESP moments of late. They are mundane insignificant moments. But I'm listening to an inner knowing and trusting it is right and that is all that matters.

Case in point: today a woman who used to work at a tutoring facility in the same complex as Planet Care came in. I hadn't seen her in quite a while. In the past, her demeanor has always been extremely pleasant. She has one of those radiant smiles that seems effortless. She has a spunky, energetic gait. The atmosphere around her is relatively clean. By that I mean she doesn't seem to have a lot of psychic baggage which she carries around with her.

Today, her countenance seemed dark. An edginess permeated her atmosphere. Her smile seemed much more forced. She looked as if she had gained weight and her energy level seemed greatly reduced. I asked how things were going "down the way" but felt I already knew the answer. She told me she'd been laid off. And then the anger and frustration revealed themselves.

She's been without a job since February. She's collecting unemployment, ("Thank God!") "But," she says, "I need a freakin' job! I applied for the Community Coordinator position here. But the lady never got back with me. I emailed and emailed and never heard from her. Has that position been filled?!"

It has.

"That pisses me off! She never got back with me! Man! That really pisses me off."

The heaviness grows as the day progresses. People are tightly wound, quick to react negatively to any incident that conveniently presents itself. And as I ward off the onslaught of harshness, I contemplate the events of yesterday: of taking food to a friend with ALS / Lou Gehrig's disease, Tim LaFollette and his wife Kaylan Szafranski LaFollette. Tim's legs have stopped working. His right arm has stopped working. His left arm still functions but it seems like fine movements are difficult if not impossible to maneuver. His face twitches now, an indication that the muscle movements there are on their way out the door.

Tim has to be hoisted by way of a crane-type device and positioned onto a toilet every time he needs to eliminate the contents of his bowels or bladder. This is an elaborate process that involves the application of a body sling which is hooked up to the crane device. The crane is then manually pumped to lift Tim's body. After Tim is in the air, the crane is rolled to the desired destination. In this case, the destination would be a bedside toilet, much like a training potty for children only larger.

Kaylan demonstrates the entire process for me. And Tim eliminates his bowels. And he says, "Welcome to the Human Condition, kathyclark."

And the lady from down the way is out of work.

And I am acutely aware of the fact that with every breath I take, a new gush of oil enters the delicate oceanic ecosphere. And I seriously don't know what to do with that awareness. With each passing moment, life is destroyed. Our most generous Earth Mother has been raped and pillaged for so long and now her wound bleeds openly and steadily in the name of Greed. Our most benevolent giver of life now takes it away. Because we have misused and abused her resources. It makes me want to weep.

And I stand at the check-out line at Planet Care and must pretend this is not on my mind and that I am happy and enthusiastic about my job. Because so many people don't have one. A job.

And I must listen to the mundane complaints of the people around me as if they matter. As if weather matters. As if feeling bad mattered. As if personal indignation matters. People talk all day long about the most trivial shit. This is what we do. It's another aspect of the Human Condition. We no longer know how to be grateful.

The world is far from perfect. But I have not abandoned all hope.

A girl came through my line with her father. She was amusingly garrulous and self-absorbed in the way that teenagers should be. She brought a happy vitality to the scene, like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. Her curmudgeonly father tolerated her in a good-humored way. When she mentioned her upcoming birthday and how she wanted a gift card from Planet Care, I asked her the date of her birthday. And an odd thing occurred: immediately upon asking, in my mind I heard the answer. June 28th. I was surprised and I spontaneously high-fived her in celebration of my ESP moment. This was a very cool sensation. Like catching a wave at just the right point and riding it all the way to shore. But then I became greedy for that vibe and asked what time of day she had been born. I was thinking it must have been around midnight. She wasn't sure, but she thought it had been 10:30 in the morning. And this is what happens when greed rules your thinking. You miss that wave.

These moments of supreme reality and the interactions that occur during them are all that currently matter to me. Well, these and the act of making things. The Earth needs creativity now more than ever. And creativity can manifest in a simple greeting or casual exchange. That's the fun of it, you never know exactly how it will manifest.

So while I observe the results of people motivated by greed and the quest for power, while I watch people destroy the planet and tear each other down with words or violence, as I feel increasingly powerless in the face of atrocities, I look for ways to put something of value into my immediate now. It isn't always easy. But I maintain hope in the simple awareness that wherever there is real human interaction, there is hope.

Which brings me to the title I selected for my blog. It is the name of a record by the band Explosions in the Sky, which I have on vinyl. It is a double album with music on three of the four sides. The fourth side has birds etched into the surface of the vinyl. The label on side one reads "The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place." The label on side two reads, "Because you are listening." Side three reads, "Because you are breathing." In the blank area between the etched birds and the label on the fourth side, the following words are etched in a circle so that they can be read infinitely: THE EARTH IS NOT A COLD DEAD PLACE BECAUSE YOU ARE LISTENING BECAUSE YOU ARE BREATHING THE EARTH IS NOT A COLD DEAD PLACE....."

And that about sums it up. All hope is not yet lost....as long as I keep writing.....as long as you keep reading......all hope is not yet lost.