At the beginning of the pandemic, I bought The Green Witch, by Arin Murphy-Hiscock. A friend had posted her companion book “The Hearth Witch”, and as we settled into the idea that we would be spending a lot more time at home, I wanted to think consciously about the energy I cultivated here.
I could (and someday probably will) write a much longer post about witchery and my relationship with it, but to keep it simple for today: If “magic” is the cultivation and manipulation of energy, and your home feels cozier by curating and arranging objects, scents, textures, and so on… isn’t that magic? Isn’t that a conscious choice to alter the energy of your space? Does there need to be anything more supernatural than that?
The Green Witch takes a similar approach. In its pages, magic is not invoking deities so much as it is taking note of the things that grow around you and how they change through the year. This has turned out to be a valuable piece of wisdom, in 2020.
When I went into isolation in early March*, winter had begun to give way to spring, but there were not yet green and growing things. There was one late March snow, even! Spring broke, eventually. The dead brown shrubs became dense and green. Tulips sprouted and bloomed and died. Roses bloomed in their turn. And now, the wheel begins to turn towards autumn.
For now, it is still summer, but hints of fall creep in. I went for a walk this afternoon, and soaked in this particular late-August moment. The earliest trees have dropped leaves already, so there were yellow leaves to crunch underfoot. They added a tinge of mustiness to air sweet with the smell of green grass, and mown hay. Sometimes on the path, there was an overpowering floral scent I couldn’t track to its source. The sun no longer lingers late into the night. The overpowering heat and humidity of high summer have begun to wane.
I make a point to notice all of it. Look. Time is passing. The year turns. This year is different, on a human level. But natures isn’t concerned with human illness, or politics. Marking time by that continuity feels important in These Trying Times.
That is magic, of a kind, too. It is choosing to make the changing of the seasons sacred, simply by granting them attention. And by spending time in nature and Noticing Things, I am calmed and recharged. I am reminded of my place in the universe. I am an insignificant speck; I am one human among billions, on a speck of a planet orbiting a star that is one of billions in our galaxy, which is one among billions of galaxies in the universe. At the same time, I am a singularly unique individual. No one else shares my DNA, or my biography. I am my own distinct, unrepeated “me behind the eyes”.
That mindfulness is what is necessary to survive right now. Hoard up the happiness that I can from golden afternoons in the woods, and drink it like mana to sustain myself through the inevitable parched spells of existential dread.
I feel like anything I write lately ends on an unfinished note, and this is no different. I feel like there should be a sentence or two more resolution to tie it all into a tidy bow. But I don’t know what that is, yet. And that feels like as much a part of this moment as the leaves and grass and flowers.
*Counting exactly when one locked down becomes fuzzy. My last day in the office was March 16, but I worked remotely the week before because of extenuating circumstances. But it feels like I flew home from my last trip on March 5, and never left home again.
Notebook 