“Misty!”
I tried desperately to focus on her. I made her my world.
“Where is this fear coming from? You are strong, and you will birth this baby when I tell you to. You can do this. You will do this. You are his mother. Bring him here!”
I made her voice my lifeline and I closed my eyes. I let myself fall into a black hole where there was just a singular act of intention. I drew from the deepest place in my heart, the place that was still feral and fierce—the place where my natural instincts overruled my fear—and I pushed.
I didn’t quite realize, at the time, how serious it was. All I knew was Sandy had told me I needed to get it done, and I could hear fierceness in Sam’s voice when he told me I had to do this for Wylie. The whole room seemed to crackle with energy as the nurses and doctors, waiting anxiously to get to work, cheered me on.
I heard very little of it aside from Sam and Sandy’s voices—Sandy telling me when or when not to push, Sam reminding me who I was working for. It seemed to go on forever, and with every breath I tried to fill my lungs with the strength of every mother who came before me, every goddess ever created. I would not fail. My body was absolutely weak at this point, but I was determined my spirit would remain strong.
There was a last, monumental push, and Sandy yelled, “Stop!” The room fell anxiously silent, and I waited for the sound of my son’s voice.
I didn’t get to hear it. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck; he was essentially trapped in a noose. Sandy expertly untangled him, and the nurses and the emergency room pediatrician surrounded him and Sandy. Still there was no cry, no breath. My heart stopped. I repeatedly asked if he was okay, and no one would answer me. I asked over and over, getting louder each time, but all I got in return was silence. My heart actually broke later when I asked Sam why he didn’t answer me and he replied, “Because I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to lie to you.”
Eventually Sandy grabbed Wylie by the ankle and turned him upside down, and as he hung there she smacked him harder than I ever would have thought possible from someone whose job it was to work with newborn babies. Again, she smacked him. Then she turned him over and sucked fluid out of his mouth, and I heard the sweetest sound possible: my baby cried.
I rejoiced, as have countless mothers before, grateful to have avoided the heartache some have had to endure. We had survived, all of us. Our story continued on, joining the legacy of stories that had come before.
It’s easy to look at the births of my children and see a point where our lives were forever altered: the moment I finally had them in my arms, when Sam finally got to feel their realness, to know them as I had for months. But change doesn’t always—perhaps not even usually—happen like that. More often than not, change creeps in slowly, washing away the past bit by bit until you look around and realize you have come to a new place.
As it turned out, Father Emil closing that rectory door was a beginning, not an end. My journey from there to here, all the time in between, that’s when I became a witch. I’m still becoming one, in fact. I may never be done with this journey and I am glad for that. There is always more to learn, more to practice, ways to be better.
I am a witch because I choose to make it so. I make the choice every day because it helps me be my most authentic self. I can point to that door all those years ago and see a beginning, but all the moments that followed are an undeniable continuation of that story; they have added up to where and who I am today. At times, I have stumbled. I have felt lost. I have felt alone and powerless. But I have always found my way back, because I am irrevocably tied to a vast and ever-expanding universe. Like that universe, I am inexplicable and indefinable and ever changing. I have the power of that first initial spark of creation inside of me, at my disposal.
So do you.
In my heart, I know this is true.
A Little Faith and a Lot of Heart
What Wicca Is ... and Isn’t
I am probably, on the whole, a fairly disappointing witch. I’m sorry not to have admitted this up front (here you are, so many pages in!), but it is absolutely true. My wardrobe is light on black robes and crushed velvet, and I’ve never quite mastered the application of a nice thick eyeliner. I don’t go in much for magic candles or power crystals, and the closest thing I have to a reliable, repeatable spell is a really delicious banana bread recipe. I keep a broom and use it in my practice, but not to fly, and I follow the phases of the moon, but for watching when it’s good to begin new things, not so much for frolicking beneath.
As with many things, the myth of the witch is often more intriguing than the reality. I am a normal mom and wife. I have a job I go to every day in a normal office building. I have friends and family I don’t get to talk to enough. I lose track of my keys at least three times a week, and on more than one occasion I have become distracted by this or that and burned whatever I had going on the stove. In no way could I be described as mysterious or otherworldly. I hold no special presence. I can’t even read your tea leaves.
I am a red-and-purple-haired fortysomething trying to enjoy life and find her way. I am just like everyone else.
Also, I’m a witch.
That last thing seems to set me apart a bit, which I’m more than okay with—except for the fact that I think, truly, there’s a bit of witch in all of us. Who among us hasn’t reveled in the sight of an endless, starry sky and felt absolutely astonished at whatever small part in that great mystery we must play? Who hasn’t found themselves falling into a series of unexpected synchronicities that lead us just where we need to be when we need to be there? Who among us hasn’t found themselves in a place where, even if only for a moment, it feels as if we have succeeded in manifesting our innermost intentions? Embracing life as a witch is often not at all what people think, nor what they expect.
You’ll rarely see me traveling to great meet-ups full of pagan revelers, and I don’t agonize over incantations to bring my family or myself more luck or love or money. That’s just not what Wicca’s about—not to me. Even the fact that I call myself a witch is a bit off, as great swaths of Wiccans prefer to avoid that label because of all the connotations it carries. Not surprisingly, most Wiccans would rather not be associated with green skin, magic wands, and nefarious concoctions. (All those poor newts, stumbling around without eyes!) Witchcraft in general, actually, is not synonymous with Wicca. Wicca is a religion based on old witchcraft traditions. Witchcraft itself is not a religion, but rather the acts taken to practice. It is a craft, not a belief system. So, in fact, it is possible to see oneself as a witch and not be Wiccan, just as I can see myself as Wiccan and a witch. (I have found over the years that calling myself a witch works as a great introductory shorthand to explain what I believe, if not exactly how I practice.) It is also possible to be pagan and not Wiccan, just as someone can be Christian and not Catholic.
Wicca, at its heart, is a relatively new spiritual practice that is often misrepresented to the general public. Wicca isn’t spell casting or tarot card reading, nor is it necessarily the female-empowering and goddess-centered religion some believe it to be, though all of the above could very well be part of someone’s personal practice. First and foremost, Wiccans (or “witches,” if you are talking to someone like me) understand the power of intention—the power of prayers, worship, and rituals to affect their environment and help provide guidance in solving the challenges that enclose them. They seek to live in greater connection to the world around them, in order to better draw and harness its energy and their own to affect circumstances.
Perhaps disappointingly, Wicca is not even associated with those famous “witches” of Salem, or with any