The Witchin' Post

Reflections of Light and Shadow

The Man with the Tao Tattoo

Street Light

I was thirteen the first time I met a spirit at a crossroad. I hadn’t gone there to meet him. I went to meet a friend, though I must not have waited long enough for the spirit’s liking, because later that night, he led me back there. Once there he told me stories, showed me things, and talked to me of magick. Later, when I would speak of him, and the things that happened that night, no one I had been with remembered him, or the things that happened the way I did. From the moment I stepped away from him, to this day, I can’t recall his name. It was very much as if, at some point in the night, I had fallen asleep, and experienced a dream no one else shared, but I had been awake, and I, and everyone present, had been stone cold sober.
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I Was a Teenage Witch


I found witchcraft and the occult, or it found me, in the mid eighties. I was a rebellious teen with big hair, an obnoxious amount of make up, a rocky home life, some pretty shady friends, and some really dangerous habits. It was then, I unexpectedly discovered that the things I had felt and believed my entire life, and had been vaguely alluded to by some of my family members, had names and were real things actually learned, taught, and practiced by others.

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Armchair Magick


What’s more important knowledge or skill? A former teacher of mine used to ask this on a regular basis. Though it took me longer than I thought to really value the wisdom in this question, or its answer.

Growing up my family valued intelligence above most other things, often more than skill or sometimes even first hand experience. So it’s not surprising that most of my life I’ve thought knowledge was a thing to be coveted. Since I do still think this, though maybe now to a different degree, it’s not surprising that for quite a while my answer to the question was knowledge. But how does that compare in value to the application of skill? One can certainly have read a book on a subject and probably be able to relate what was learned from it, but how can that information become applied without the addition of skill?

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Black Salt


Black Salt or Witch Salt is used for warding and protection. There are varying methods for making this salt, but most of them boil down to creating some combination of salt, carbon, and or iron. Some also add protective herbs to the mixture, though opinions on this, and your mileage with them, may vary.

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Confessions of a Pagan Hypocrite

Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman

I’m not your typical anything. Whatever label gets applied to me, be it religious, political, or social, it always turns out my personal views deviate in some way from the traditionally accepted ideas of the group. An acquaintance of mine, who practices Feri tradition, and I have spoken about the emphasis her practice places on paradox and how important is it to her personal path to reach out to those who have been rejected by mainstream society. I very much understand and respect this because, in the past, I have been fortunate enough to count many people who have been treated this way as friends. However, being myself someone who has so often been considered, in the categories I mentioned above, too mainstream to be alternative and too alternative to be mainstream, I have become accustomed to being rejected by pretty much everyone.
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Kitchen Witchery, Literally


My kitchen is magick! I tell this to people often, even to my non-magickal friends. Usually it receives polite giggles. Because they don’t know … I’m not kidding. My family and close friends however, know otherwise. I actually mean it literally. We discovered this slowly after we bought our house almost seventeen years ago. I mean one expects the kitchen of a witch to produce magickal things. Mine on the other hand, does this of its own accord.

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At the Crossroads


The house is quiet. Everyone is sleeping. It’s nearly the middle of the night, time to wake my lookout. I’ve been preparing for three days.

“Do you have everything you need?” he yawns and asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

We drive quietly to the crossroads. The intersection sits next to the cemetery of an old pioneer era church which is rumored to be haunted. Haunted by a witch. Both the church and the cemetery are a popular target for vandals. It’s fenced now, with a locked gate, and the neighbors watch it closely. This is the reason for my lookout. Where I’m working is public property, but I’d rather not be seen or questioned. I didn’t ask him to come, he insisted.

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The Witch and the Shaman


The Witch sat on the stone bench at the edge of her circle, staring into the fire. These last few years had all but destroyed her. Her faith and practice faded into a mere shadow of what it had once been. She had sought the help of the Shaman, out of desperation, if she was being honest. The work they’d done together thus far had been wildly successful. The skill and understanding of the Shaman had melded so seamlessly with the Witch’s natural ability for trance and affinity for shadow. The changes the soul retrieval work set off were sudden and powerful. Those who had seen her after had commented openly about how much better and more centered she seemed, body and soul. She’d felt better too. Literally something of herself she’d lost, had been returned.

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