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The spell had worked.Īs I got older, my witchcraft became less about trying to cause specific outcomes and more focused on helping me become a more purposeful and compassionate person. We compared notes on the times, and they lined up. Was it a coincidence? Or had I somehow summoned it? I still don’t know.Ī phone call from Molly later that night confirmed what I thought must be true: yes, they had kissed.
#Witch it secrets crack
I paced the upstairs hallway of my house, back and forth, back and forth, chanting, gathering energy, feeling a sort of furry electricity running up and down my arms and threw my hands, until - astonishingly - there was a shudder of lightning and a loud crack of thunder.
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I started by trying to telepathically send Molly a message of bravery and held an image in my mind of them kissing. She was going to need magical intervention. She and Tom were both on the shy side, so it was anyone’s guess who would make the first move, if it happened at all. She was pretty nervous, and I was nervous for her. There was the time that my best friend Molly was going to be hanging out alone with a boy she liked.
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Then I sprinkled her with some “love powder” that I’d bought at a New Age shop and sent her on her way. I lit some candles and did some incantations: “Oh kindle the fire of his heart!” I chanted, while trying not to kindle the fire of my suburban bedroom. There was the spell I did for Rebecca, my older sister’s friend, who was hiding in my room during a house party, lusting after some guy who was downstairs. I eventually started doing occasional castings (that’s witch shorthand for casting a spell) for a few trusted friends who were pining for people who may or may not have been pining for them too. (These spells usually called for ingredients like rose petals or fresh cinnamon, but I’d often improvise with whatever I found around the house, such as Sweet’N Low.) Most of my early spells were focused on boys I had crushes on, desperately hoping to make them love me back. Sign up here to receive Wait -, a newsletter that brings you stories about money, power, sex and scrunchies. I scored my first set of tarot cards there, called the Sacred Rose deck, which contained mysterious symbols that were drawn to look like medieval stained glass. This was where I could find precious artifacts like old “Sandman” comics and bootleg CDs of my musical holy trinity, Tori Amos, Björk, and PJ Harvey - artists who wove references to goddesses and Pagan rites throughout howling hymns to female sexuality. I would often coax my parents to drive me to towns many miles away, where there were shops with names like Red Bank’s Magical Rocks or Mystickal Tymes. It led me to a place where magic was something that could be done, not just read about. Still I followed the trail of literary bread crumbs further into the witch’s wood. When you’re a weird kid, you learn to put guardrails around the things you love. My discretion arose from an urge to protect one of the few things that was mine alone. I’d developed an affinity for poetry and purple eye shadow - my own special brand of popularity repellent.īut my interest in magic remained a largely private, solitary pursuit. Witches, I learned from the book, are complicated creatures: sources of great comfort and great terror.Īs I approached my teen years, I was beginning to feel like a complicated creature myself. The villagers come to them in secret whenever they need healing, but in public, Juniper and Wise Child are shunned. My favorite novel was “Wise Child” by Monica Furlong, a story about an orphan girl who gets taken in by a kind witch named Juniper, who teaches her magic and loves her like a mother might. I’d thrill as I read about the alleged mystical energy of the Egyptian pyramids and swoon over the entries on witchcraft in “Man, Myth, and Magic,” a 24-volume “Encyclopedia of the Supernatural.” Trudy was a librarian at a library in central New Jersey, where I spent many a childhood afternoon pawing through the low end of the Dewey Decimal System, where books on the paranormal and other oddities are kept. While I can’t vouch for the veracity of that tale, I do know that a touch on the forehead from her would always make my headaches vanish. My grandma Trudy used to tell us that she had “healing hands.” According to family lore, she once saved the life of a dying horse that, after she pressed her palms to its flank, stood up and trotted happily away. You could say I was primed to be a witch from an early age.