by Gabrielle Wade

Until the age of seven, the only knowledge I had of my great  grandmother was a lone, seemingly disregarded portrait hanging on a dark section of wall at the end of my Nanny’s hallway. I remember staring up at it, cocking my head to the side as I took in her dark eyes and flat lined mouth, the black frame surrounding an even blacker image. The frame itself screamed that it was hung purely out of familial obligation, and I could tell the woman in the portrait agreed. She seemed to whisper of power, weeks of watching my Nanny, Lillie May, shiver the slightest bit when she passed the frame only confirmed this. I was about to turn eight when I finally learned her name. “Flossie,” my grandmother said. She was sitting in her rocking chair, staring blankly at the clock while she thought about what to say. My grandmother did not hate her mother. She seemed to be rather disinterested in her, like she had slowly lost the attachment as the years dragged on. Or maybe it was never there in the first place, I’m not one to say. She didn’t end up saying much, just that she was the only female child, surrounded by many brothers. After this, she got up and started making biscuits.

This was the point in my life where I started to make connections. Hearing tales about how my great great grandmothers were evil, how they would tie the tails of two black cats together to see them struggle, or kill them and cook them to ward off spirits, began to correlate with how I came to see Flossie. Little things murmured by my grandmother’s in passing, ancient little tricks their own mothers told them and had been told by seemingly a million mothers down the line, a “Birds hitting the window means death is coming,” or “You can’t find that, deary? Put a few almonds in your pocket,” had always felt natural. I regarded the fact that my great grandmother was a witch with great interest and acceptance, although our views on how the power should be practiced greatly differed. When I was around thirteen, I began to study Wicca. Wicca is a modern religion that is often based on ancient witchcraft traditions. It promotes a very balanced, peaceful life, with a focus on oneness with nature and with the divine. Contrary to popular belief, one can refer to themself as a “Witch” without practicing the Wiccan religion, or even paganism.

I had a friend in eighth grade who believed witches were real. He explained this to me very frankly in gym class one cold autumn morning. We were walking around the track together, huddled close because of the cold, letting out exaggeratingly heavy breaths to see them curl like smoke would. “My mom was a witch, you know,” he said.

“Oh?” I responded.

“Yeah. I’m not kidding. I have a little of her magick in me,” he said, without looking me in the eye.

I proceeded to question him to death for the next five months about every magical thing he knew. I wanted to be apart of this world I already felt so close to. He would buy little books and show them to me, letting me take in all the information I could handle in one sitting. We talked about how we believe in magick, how we had always guessed that our paths were meant to intertwine, to help each other realize that we hold the same magick that graces the Earth inside of ourselves. This way of life, or any way of life that involves diverting from a traditionally Christian path, was not accepted in any area of my life. Living in rural Virginia, Amherst County, to be exact, children were typically raised in very conservative, Baptist or Methodist homes. “Witchcraft” was automatically connotated with worshipping the devil, and there would be no debate on the subject. So, I kept it a secret from everyone but my friend, my sister, and eventually my mother. Both Flossie, who I viewed as my one familial connection into this world, and my best friend, led me to my interest and eventual perusal of Wicca as a religion.

I was drawn in by one book in particular, called “The Goodly Spellbook: Olde Spells for Modern Problems” by Lady Passion and Diuvei. The book is fairly thick, with a sky blue cover that is littered with drawings of the moon, stars, sun, and the Wheel of the Year. A little part of me was ashamed to pick up the book for the first time. I kept glancing over my shoulder as I stood in the middle of the book aisle. Every time someone would enter the aisle or pass by me, I made sure to contort my face into something highly skeptical, sometimes bordering on disgusted. I could not deny to myself however, how nice it felt in my palms. It felt like an entire world was opening up before my eyes as I flipped each page reverently. I decided to buy the book. My mom, Rachael, walked with me to the checkout, and raised her eyebrow at my choice. I kept glancing at her worriedly, hoping she wouldn’t say anything at all. My mother is a very patient, free spirited woman. Standing around 5’4, her loud and buoyant personality make her seem like she takes up more space than she really does. There are still times today where my mother stands taller than me, even with the three or four inches I have on her; she’s just that confident. She wears her hair long, curly, natural, and with her caramel colored eyes, crooked nose, and scar that runs jagged beneath her eye, she leaves quite a striking impression. She didn’t say anything about the book.

I confided in my mother, a self proclaimed Christian, during the car ride home. Her mother had raised her in a baptist household and she had been saved. Although we never attended church, we were very aware of the fact that God had a powerful presence in our lives. As far as I know, the women in my family became baptist beginning with my grandmothers. Their husbands were very Christian and would not tolerate the teachings they abided by while with their mothers. My mother had the heat on high and the windows rolled down the slightest bit, letting us smell the autumn air while staying warm. I admitted that I was exploring religions. Certain ones, like Buddhism, Paganism, and Wicca appealed to me most. My mother did not ask for an explanation. I got the feeling she already understood the appeal.  I told her that I had a very deep connection with nature, and that I wanted it to incorporate into how I worship. She nodded and sagely said, “Just be careful.”

I carried around the book for weeks. I would read it at lunch, in bed, at the dinner table, doggy-earing pages that I liked, that I wanted to revisit, that I wanted to learn more about. Most of them consisted of things I thought were important and things that I wanted to try.  I stuck sticky notes on almost every other page, trying to commit herbs and their properties to memory. I spent more time outside than I had since I was a child. I would sit on my back porch, book in my hands, with my face tilted towards the wind, eyes closed, hoping the universe would whisper to me. I would take walks at the edge of the woods, too frightened to travel beyond the tree line alone. By the time I reached the section on “spells” I felt like an expert. Everything seemed to come so naturally to me. The mind exercises, reading auras and tea leaves, using pendulums, and feeling a connection with the earth between my toes, all reminded me of the way sunlight feels on your face during a particularly chilly morning. I quickly lost the feeling of expertise, however. In modern Wicca, there are a million and one things to learn about, and no time to master them all. There’s the healing powers of crystals and herbs, work with spirits, creating an altar, and casting spells, to name a few. “Spells” are simply little charms which can vary in complexity and intent. It’s like spraying rose water on your temples and wearing a rose quartz stone, known for attracting love, around your neck to bring romance into your life.

Flossie would not have called herself a witch. To do so would have been setting her own death sentence. Whether that be literally or just socially is up for debate. My nanny told me a story recently, about how Flossie would care for two girls, her neighbors, that lived up the hill from them. “Those two girls, they lived there with their father for a time. I was young, but I knowed something happened to their mother, and their dad just didn’t seem right,” she said.

“He kept them locked away in the basement. All of their lives. It’s a wonder they didn’t rot in there,” she scrunched up her nose like she could smell it, “My mom found ways to get those girls water, Gabby. She always did, and we didn’t know how she did it. We used to joke that she had cast a spell on that man to stop him from killing those girls. Looking back, it doesn’t seem far from the truth.”

My grandmother went on to tell me that after the girls’ death it was not a rare occurrence for her mother to speak about seeing them walking. She was seemingly casual about the whole affair, the scandal was rarely spoken of. “I knew my mom could sometimes talk to people that were dead, it wasn’t really a scary thing, more of like a fact. I think that’s why we are so sensitive to things like that, Gabby. It’s something she gave us,” Nanny said. I am almost sad to say that in that moment, I got violent chills. I wasn’t sure I wanted anything at all to do with Flossie’s power. It rubbed me the wrong way. I can say that I am grateful now for this gift that she gave me. It is a powerful thing to be sensitive to the dead, I feel like it gives me a glimpse into a world that I will one day be apart of. I feel like I’m helping souls to not be so lonely.

My journey with Witchcraft has progressed greatly since I began my study. I have a growing collection of books, crystals, herbs, pendulums, and knowledge. I feel like I am better able to spiritually protect and encourage myself and my loved ones from the negative forces that exist in the world. Mostly, it just feels right. I feel so connected with my fellow human beings as well as with the Earth that gave me life. I am proud to be able to offer a solution when my friends tell me that they need something for safe travels, love, or protection. I am honored to carry on a tradition that has been in my family for generations. I feel like I am honoring those women in my family who sacrificed so much for their beliefs.