Witch’s Diary: Air Magic


We gather. It always begins this way: a call, and an answer, and we gather. Sometimes bearing plates of food, loaves of bread, offerings of flowers, we bring names and stories of those who need our energies, and we bring our burdens and our baggage, our joys and our successes. We come wounded and bleeding, weary and sore, sad and lost and also ready to do the work. We gather to do the work.

We begin with the names and the stories and then we agree to lay them aside, along with our burdens for a moment, for travel between the worlds is always more difficult when carrying a heavy load.

We ground. We set down roots into the Earth and connect our bodies as vessels to the ever-running spring of energy below. We open, and the energy flows up into the vessel and beyond, to the stars, and our bodies are suspended between the above and the below, centered and ready. We build the container, the world between worlds. Not quite here and not quite there, we remove distraction and invite the unseen guests, with gesture and word and open hearts. They are met with kisses, sighs, and laughter and the love that binds us to one another and to the work. Hand to hand and heart to heart, we greet the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen. Together we greet the mystery.

The work begins. All else set aside, forgotten, we breathe into the center. We walk the winding path. We speak the words of power. We breathe. The breath and the word and the winding path are all, and when the time has come the bowl begins to sing. The energy climbs a ladder of breath, a spiraling staircase of ringing song. We breathe and release the work, release the words and the wish and we are becoming that which we have spoken. The word, the breath are bridges of becoming and we stand on both sides, greeting the new as we bid farewell to the old. We are the work we do. We breathe. Courage. Gentleness. Kindness. Sincerity. Balance.

We undo the doing. The container folds. The circle dissolves as the guests depart. Our offerings accepted, our bodies blessed with words and bits of bread. We speak the words sacred to our line, words only we know to speak, and are connected to the old ones, gone now but not forgotten. We smile under dancing brows.

After, over wine and fruit and bread and cheese, we laugh and tell more stories. The work done, forgotten, we slowly bring ourselves back to the world. The work forgotten, but done. We are becoming, we have become. We are as we were, and we are forever changed. We are mystery. We are catalyst. We are mirabilia.


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