Witch and Famous

Witches and Wiccans live on the marginalized edges of society. Did you know that? Many of us cannot share our spirituality, religion, or way of life with co-workers, family, or even some friends. Much of the time, particularly through the month of October, and even a bit into November, we must endure questions laced with sneers about flying on brooms, Eye of Newt potions, or casting a multitude of spells. Take with a smile, for if not ridicule then fear and suspicion pop up and without bothering to ask questions, people believe the outlandish propaganda of the generations. Disenfranchised from the majority, Witches, Wiccans, and other pagans learn to seek comfort and community at festivals, magickal shops, and covens. Or, ironically enough, in Salem, Massachusetts.

I had never been to Salem, Massachusetts. I had never been to a place larger than a park where I could be comfortable enough to really be myself – irreverent, regal, powerful, open, and faithful of life’s whimsical mysteries. I was recently invited to sign my books at stores throughout the magickal community of Salem, Massachusettes during their infamous Bizarre Bazaar. Shock and utter amazement overcame me as I walked down the cobbled pedestrian walkway lined with brick buildings. Through the gray mist of rain I stared at magickal shop after magickal shop. Even the tourist shops displayed t-shirts with pentacles and witches. In most communities people are still quite frightened to admit witches exist and here everywhere I look, we were being celebrated. Even Salem’s police logo features a witch flying on a broom.

In the window of The Broom Closet, the store of my first book signing for The Enchanted Diary, The Teen Spell Book, and The Wicca Herbal, stood a six-foot pentacle. I laughed nervously. Could this be real? Was this live or was it Hogwarts? During the signing customers streamed in, asking politely, even reverently, about Wicca and spells. The psychic reader, Lady June, told me she was fourth generation Witch with all the pride and dignity of someone claiming their royal line. And that is exactly what she was doing.

Afterwards I floated to my hotel (not on a broom, but rather ethereally) to find my mother and aunt awaiting me and ready to celebrate my success with a bottle of champagne in spider glasses. Not only was I out there successfully introducing others to Wicca and the Goddess, I was with my people of like mind, and the peeps from home base were loving every minute of it. Hot Damn! The following two days I signed one hundred copies of The Wicca Cookbook at Pamplemouse, a gourmet home, kitchen, and bath shop. My wrist was sore and there was an indentation in my finger. Too cool. Everywhere I looked people from all walks of life and the surrounding states proudly wore their Hallowe’en attire – so many Witch hats, orange and black outfits, black cats, fall leaves, a jubilation of a pagan holiday many people would stamp out. And yet, if they only remembered that Christmas has pagan roots, but ah that’s another story.

Hallowe’en marks the third and final harvest of the year. For me this energy extends throughout the Scorpion cycle, or through November 21-ish. Ancient people perceived a thin veil that separated the living from those who had left Earth – similar to the mist of twilight or sunrise. In Salem, where women were once burned for being witches, they understand that a pentacle, an encircled five pointed star, is a sign of protection representing the four sacred elements, the Divine Spirit, and the connection to all of Life. They know that Witches do not consort with the devil, mainly because we do not believe in a devil. Wiccans and Witches see the Divine as both male and female, similar to the Yin and Yang, an accepted version of the same truth. Early pagans personified the female as the Goddess, Mother Earth womb, and the male as God, who carries the seed of life in a half goat, half green man form known as Pan, quite like Puck from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer’s Night Dream. Pan was painted red in the stories of the insurrectionists and they called him a devil. He is a bit impish and totally horny, but not evil.

In full truth, Witches and Wiccans are tree hugging, dirt worshipping light workers. We value, honor, and celebrate nature and Her cycles. We celebrate eight holidays, known as sabbats. The sabbats are Hallowe’en, Winter Solstice, Imbolc (modern-day Groundhog’s Day – still good for weather divination), Spring Equinox, Beltane (commonly known as May Day), Summer Solstice, Lammas (corn harvest), and the Autumn Equinox.

Yes, Witches and Wiccans practice magick and cast spells. We most assuredly do pray to our ancestors and Spirit Guides for assistance. We cast as much love and light into all our creations, including raising children, cooking food, artistry, gardening, work, making love, and whatever else life brings us. We practice magick so that we may better understand ourselves as the Divine Light that we all share. The “k” in magick represents the heavens, while the “g” represents grounding or the earth. Like the Star of David, magick thusly spells symbolizes the truth that “as above, so below” -- the physical and spiritual enjoy a symbiotic relationship.

On the last night in Salem the wind came. Trees swayed back and forth, tossing their multi-colored leaves in every direction while clouds skittered across a burgeoning moon. The time was drawing near when I would have to leave the comforts of a community that understood, respected, and honored my beliefs and way of life. I was going home, back to a place where most believed Witches only exist in fairy tales and they most often have warts, green faces, and perhaps a flying monkey or at the very least 13 black cats. I carried my new Salem-infused broom down that cobblestone street. My big glass green cape billowed behind me. "You'll fly away, if you're not careful!" shouted a witch standing outside Laurie Cabbots' shop, Crow Haven Corner. "That's the idea!" I shouted back.

My mighty pen would be my sword to puncture the balloons of fear and lies. I am chosen and I will not back down. I can do this.

Finally I snuggled into bed wearing a shirt that claimed “Salem, Massachusetts: Home of the Witch and Famous.” In the wee hours of the morning, I was gently nudged awake by the full moon casting her light directly through my bedroom window. I watched it dance in and out of clouds and float toward the horizon in a midnight blue sky. My 6-year-old son found me in bed and together we watched the golden moon set through the trees. It was the evidence I needed that Salem had found an eternal place in my heart, and most importantly perhaps, that abso-friggin-lutely magick is everywhere. You just need to know how to look.