MOVED

I suppose there exist different ways to look at things. Witchcraft in itself is a specific branch of magic.

If I had to classify, I would say that so far I have encountered four different types of practionners :

1) Those who work with a psychological paradigm, merely relying on « intent ». For them, magic is, and will forever stay, a placebo at best.

2) Those who work with energies. Magnetism, if you rather, but I certainly am no expert. All I know is that it is, partially, scientifically explainable.

3) Those who work with gnosis, transes, and other altered states of consciousness, to convey a power beyond the mind’s boundaries. Meditation, visualisation, are tools they employ on a daily basis. Chaos magick is a good example.

Depends who you ask. Not all witches are the same, nor do we all share the same views, and so-called « traditional witchcraft » is a broad umbrella term. But you are asking me, so you’ll have my opinion. This is a complex question, which unfortunately needs a far more elaborate answer than I wish to give. The simplest asks are genuinely the hardest to grasp.

Stripped down to its bare bones, the meaning of the word « witch » is quite simple. A witch is a practioner of witchcraft, the latter being in itself a specific sort of magic. Historically, a witch serves their own interest, and is clearly identified with malefica - but the line between witch and cunning folk is very thin. A witch is likely to use both healing and baneful magic, cursing from the one hand, curing from the other, for a witch knows « sometimes to harm is to heal and to heal is to harm ».

But it is not so much a question of pacts, dear, than of a certain quality of the soul : folklore teaches us that a witch is, indeed, made - albeit what the term encompasses is subject to interpretation. A witch embodies radical alterity. The Witch went through a certain… challenging process, shall we say, a trial, a test, if you will, oftentimes called initiation. Throughout initiation, the cunning fire of the Witch is lit by the spirits. Chewed up and spat out anew, the Witch has to come back in order to be reborn. Then and only then powers will be granted, and gifts shared.

What makes one a witch ?

A Witch is Other.

Is one born this way ?

« Change it a bit » is an understatement.

Substitution is not that easy. This hair wash was specifically designed for red hair, and heavily based on the mythology and folklore surrounding that color. It is also based on personal needs, wants, and constructions - so that the recipe has changed a bit since its original publication. What stays, however, is that each ingredient is consistent within a system - thus altering them would make no sense I’m afraid. You need to understand how spellcraft, specifically glamours, work.

So ? Make your own recipe. Go learn a bit of cosmetic skills, plant lore and magical properties. Possessing some historical background is always nice. Find out how to enhance your hair’s nature. It takes time, and it takes research, but to be able to create is well worth the dedication you put.

If you have blond hair, you don’t want a Lilith’s Crown.

You want to steal the dappled light of sunbeams and the liquid gold of the bees. You want to fetch the dragon’s jewels, the blackbird’s circled eyes and sparkling beak. You want the tears of the moon, the thread of Ariadne, Jason’s legendary golden fleece, and the phoenix’s ashes. You want to cast your net wide and bring back the coins hidden deep in the sea. You want the powdery pollen of immortality and youth - the veil of Ophelia, and the Belle Dame Sans Merci’s pride. You want the dawn’s first breath, the brazen wings of old angels, and summer’s embers.

« Humans are a narrative species. Narrative gives human life a dimension of meaning that is utterly unknown to animals. »

 Huston, in. The Tale-Tellers : A Short Story of Humankind

I recently learned a valuable lesson thanks to @blackthorn-and-iron, that echoes what @ofwoodandbone recently blogged about : « Take pride in your beginnings and your journey. Write it out. Speak it like people speak about the witches from the 60′s. Speak about it like your own personal lore, like the witches from the Early Modern Period. Know thyself and be true. »

Turns out, my journey started way before when I first thought. Who is born a witch, and who had to claw the title out of the ashes ?

« Speak about it like your own personal lore. » : that is a (writing) prompt that is sure to please @barberwitch and his call for creating your own folklore. So here goes… 

« A moi. L’histoire d’une de mes folies. »

Rimbaud, “Alchimie du Verbe”, in. Une Saison en Enfer

Warning : true omens from a true seer (she will know who she is) will make for an intimate confession, such as I never talked to anybody before.

« On dit que je suis né.e, le jour le plus froid du monde. On dit que je suis né.e, avec le coeur gelé. » 

Malzieu, in. La Mécanique du Coeur

BORN-A-WITCH

The Seer shakes her head. She is an Old Crone, she has seen many students. She speaks broodingly :

“- People these days think magic is something that comes when you read it in a book and decide to put it on like trying a new outfit.”

The youngest says nothing back. She waits. She knows when to stay silent.

“- Folklore tells us something different; it speaks of the witch-blood, the witch-fire, the signs that a child is a changeling, or a cambion… or a witch.”

When the Seer is in a trance, she is a Pythic beauty. Black tears stream down her cheeks, and her voice is like embers and resin smoke - hers, and not hers. She tells her Oracle :

« - The night is cold, but the cold feels more alive than spring. Seven roses break apart in the silver-glinting stream. Dappled moths flit about, drawn to a lantern’s light; it illuminates a woman with hair of fire and skin of snow. She plunges into the stream, and her skin slips away. She falls, deeper, deeper, deeper, but she drowns not.

There’s a moth, always moths for some reason, once perfect white, now stained.

There are feet that ache to go Home but don’t know where it is.

How many worlds are you part of, my dear? I’m sure you know, somewhere, though you won’t admit.

– it’s a silly story, really. The changeling tale, as it’s called, though that used to mean something different. A princess and a pauper; but which are you?

–the price is loss but it’s a price worth paying.

– why are you afraid of going home ?

(Hm. No. I shan’t say that last one, that one’s mine.)

Always drawn to the flame, you, but too scared to ever touch it. But the fire’s in your belly, and you can’t bear to let it flicker. You taste like ash and something lost.

Dear gods my head, and my heart. Whose ache is that, anyway? »

The youngest witch shivers. Don’t ask if you don’t want to hear the answer. Heavy is the weight of the Oracle, of your very own Prophecy. Some words are like fully ripened fruits, about to fall from the branch. They rot in the heart, and consume the soul.

Ignite.

***

Ask anybody to talk about their origins, and what you will obtain will not be the truth.

It will be a story. 

And nothing is more truthful than a story.

The winter she was born into stayed in her blood and in her eyes.

She has cold hands - that much is true. Not anemia-cold - albeit that would be bad enough - but the coldness of the Underworld, the coldness of the ones that were once touched by death. The coldness of a Veil once lifted. Absolute cold blood, and a body that can’t produce its own heat unless it borrows it from another.

For something stole her breath in the cradle. 

The father - he woke up, and found her tiny body suffocating, choking over the darkness of the room. 

The baby skin turned grey, the baby skin was blue. 

The mother slept still.

She was a strange baby anyway - so fair she looked unnatural. Pure milky-snow, colors all washed away by the frosty winter weather - including her hair, white with a silver glimmer. Even in the high mountains where her family lived, this was uncommon.  

Pale all around… apart from a dark mole on her face - a drop of ink about her chin, like a cambion’s signature. Her shame. She would later exchanged it for a scar - a more bearable mark, or so she thought. She would regret.

The night before she was born, her mother dreamt she was giving birth to a very long, very thin cat. People were laughing at her, pointing their fingers at this strange progeny, half-scared (for how could a woman give birth to a beast ?) - but yet the mother loved the baby, yet the mother stood for her. 

She was three weeks early. She came to this world at twilight, when the sickle moon rose in the deep winter sky. No full moon, no new moon - nothing so ominous - just a sickle, cutting through the dark mantle of the night. Growing up, she would cry for the moon if she was not visible, and let her window open for fairy lovers to come through.

When she went to school for the first time, every children just ostracized her like she were a wounded animal. As if she were too bizarre, to take part of their games. True, she was silent, way too quiet, and never playing - it worried her parents so, that such young a child should not play. The isolation. The silence.

And her eyes were so bad she needed glasses aged only eighteenth months, and still does today. But her head and heart understanding complex concepts from the adult world, concepts that should have been way beyond her grasp.

Her favorite bedtime story was a tale called The Little Girl With Blue Hair. In this tale, the little girl has blue hair and starts to notice a fragment of sky, a piece of the sea, a glimmer from the moon, in it. The little girl then goes to a journey, to give everything back to everybody.

“- I just don’t expect my life to make any sense. And I’m trying to stay away from self-fulfilling prophecy. As tempting as it is, having confirmation I may be « Other » is both comforting and utterly distressing. What is my nature, anyway ? 

- You’d be… a red poppy, or a weeping willow, or an apple tree, or a silk-moth, or a lynx, or a dahlia, or a little python, I think. But none of those are affixed yet…or a red orchid… or a jamaica flower… « Red flower » is definitely a theme here.”

In her eyes - of the rarest shade - this ice-cold blue - snowflakes falling gently, but the Fluence growing strong. A threatening power.

« - I always wonder if the signs were already there, or if I interpret what once was so that it matches my narrative now that I identify as a witch. The gifts running in my family. My grandmother teaching me divination. My white hair, my near death experience in an age I can’t even remember. And the fact I knew very early about witchcraft and tried to learn. It might mean everything; as much as nothing. Is it for me to decide what matters ? »

For she came to witchcraft, at last - or rather, Witchcraft came to her. He found her - the Devil, the Man in Black, the Witch Father. He waited till she came to the Isles, and he caught her, in his tender-loving claws.

One night in January, she was lying in her bed, thinking about it all, longing for it, heart thumbing. She was listening to the wind hurling outside. 

Suddenly she felt an urge, a call to go outside (she was all naked, mind). Sub auspices Lunae, she could see herself opening the door, and going out into this tempest they had. 

The Wild Hunt was there. 

Then she flew. 

The wind was messing with her hair and whipped her skin, strong and powerful. And the grass was cold and wet under her bare feet. She walked, in the middle of the field, and ended up meeting a tall, black figure with a horned-skull head, towering on a throne. 

He said : 

“- What were you expecting ?" 

And she replied : 

”- No throne". 

Then he stood, opened his arms (he had very long fingers), and as he clasped them around her naked body she woke up.

She understood.

On the night of the Blue Blood Moon, she went to the threshold near the river when the sun was about to set. She brought some mulled wine she made and a honey bread she baked during the day. 

She found the perfect spot under a hawthorn tree, eaten by ivy. Nervous but determined, she called for Him, the Witch Father, as a feral child, and performed the Red Meal. She drank the blood, she ate the bone, and share it with the land spirits. It was a sacrifice of her flesh, but she had no idea - yet. 

She saw a shadow silhouette across the river bank, swiftly passing by. She abjured her baptism, done to her in her infancy, and renounced any preceding allegiances - she cut the link that still tied her to grandmother…’s faith. 

She anointed her forehead with the mixture. She poured the wine and the bread onto the ground and to the river. Then in exchange for a hairlock and a drop of blood she was gifted four hawthorn thorns - not one more : she knew it when the wind blew her black candle as she was reaching for the fifth. She tried anyway, and was told to give it back. 

Geese shrieked above her head. 

The ritual was complete when the wild moon rose on the horizon, bleeding and mad. 

The rest of the story is a secret the Toad only will tell. 

Enhancer. A simple but versatile ritual incense to be used for all sorts of deeds as to give them a name.

Grind the following in a mortar and pestle until you get a roughly even mix. Add a drop of raw honey to stick your plants together. Burn on a charcoal disk.

- 1 part Myrrh

- 1 part Frankincense

- (1) Red Rose

- (1) Bay Leaf

- 1 tbs Rosemary

- 1 tbs Juniper Berries

To awaken the Serpent, Sprowl, Witch Fire, and raise the Power.

Grind the following in a mortar and pestle until you get a roughly even mix. Add a drop of raw honey to stick your plants together. Burn on a charcoal disk.

- 1 part **Myrrh**

- 1 part **Dragon’s Blood**

- 1 tbs **Hibiscus Flowers**

- 1 tbs **Hawthorn Berries**

- 1 tbs **Juniper Berries**

- 1 tbs **Cinnamon**

- 1 **Red Rose**

For the one that wish to enchant their hair so as to convey vital force, power and dreadful Beauty in its most vibrant, terrible core, a preparation is known. Warning : use this caution - sublime *is* an *awe*some thing.

This personal recipe is designed for copper / red / ginger hair.

INGREDIENTS

- **Dragon’s blood** (resin or powder)

- **Snakeskin** (a small piece)

- **Your own blood** (**menstrual blood** is a personal favorite due to its heavy mythological background - a few drops will do)

- **Rosemary**

- **Hibiscus flowers** and/or **Poppy** and/or **Red Rose** (a handful)

- **Cinnamon** (either stick or ground)

- **Cloves** (3)

- **Myrrh** (essential oil)

PREPARATION

Finely grind together the dragon’s blood, the rosemary and the snakeskin in a mortar and pestle. Add a few drops of your own blood.

Cover with water and gently boil the mixed flowers and spices until the petals have faded and lost all color. Stir your potion with caution, then let it cool down.

Add 1-3 drops of Myrrh essential oil before use.

USE

Wash and rinse your hair with this lotion on the first shampoo after your hair dye.

I recognize the Devil I work with as the Man In Black, the Witchfather (He who makes witches, and under whose tutelage and initiation I thrive). He is the one who dwells at the crossroads - liminal spaces - and this is where I go fetch Him - between land, sea and sky, between night and day, between the Waking State and the Dreaming one. He is highly localized, very much tied to the land, yet utterly universal. My Devil may not be yours, and there is a truth in that understanding - a truth in the form, mask and disguise He takes. Who he really is is less relevant than what He really does - to the aspirant : you will be tested. And you will not know how nor to what extent until you either fail or pass the test. He grants power and takes it just as easily. He is a fairy lord of the hedge, where human civilization fades, the lord of the Wild and the lord of the Hunt. He marks the witch to be, see that it bears to their soul thus radically separating them from the rest of humanity. He bestows the flame, lights and kindles the Witch Fire. How this is done is a mystery between the Devil and the witch. What is paid and what is sacrificed, too - but suffices to say He marks the Witch-as-Other. This is no infatuated pride for this is first and foremost a choice; and a sacrifice. He lays such choice for the Witch and in that he is the trickster of old. His teachings are simply ineffable. You are following a story, pulling a thread from the Wyrd and catching glimpses of the Tapestry that underpins it all and all of a sudden the story twists and changes, becomes a snake and then a leaping hare and then it’s... gone.

Quite frankly, a wand is a complicated tool that I have never felt really attracted to, nor do I have any real use for it. I’m more of a knife person. The wand (traditionally made of hazel) derives from ceremonial magic, mostly, I understand, to command and compell, but the way I approach and work with spirits does not require one, nor does the type of magic I practice. I do have a stang however, which is not really traditional by any means to be completely honest, as it looks more like a forked stick than a tall pitchfork, so I suppose I can talk to you a bit about that.

When I performed the sacrifice of the self that was asked of me to take my first step on the path that is now mine, my spirits guided me to the perfect place for the ritual which has since become my privileged power place. I was lucky enough to be sheltered by a hawthorn tree there, and in my candor at the time I did not realize how... peculiar that was. Hawthorns are fae trees - to this day still Ireland locals refuse to cut any part of it down in fear of enraging the Fair Folk. There are certain taboos surrounding the tree’s powers, eerie prohibitions about harvesting it and inviting it into your home, and any practionner reasonably versed in folklore would proceed with caution here. Had I known what hawthorn looked like in winter at the time, I might have think twice about its patronage, for the ways of the Pale Ones are odd. This tree and I now have an agreement as it happens, a complex understanding of mutual interests. I was instructed to take four thorns - no more, no less - which I paid the blood price for, and came back the following week after an ominous dream to find a forked fallen branch waiting for me there as I knew I would. Yet another gift from a tree that is not particularly known to be generous - in fact, quite the contrary. I smoothed it down with sand paper and treated the wood with beeswax and magic oils. It is properly shoved and has been approved of, and so is my stang my night-mare now.

Hello, dear.

If you, indeed, have been bewitched, I’m afraid what the situation will boil down to eventually is a battle of skill and power between you and them, as per any curse removal. It’s an opportunity for you to learn. With a bit of a methodical mindset, you can find your way out.

First, a heads up : if it happened, it means your personal protections weren’t effective enough, for whatever reason, and allowed for a mishap. So you need to have a good think and understand why you ended up in that situation. How did that happen ? Did they gift you something ? Did they give you something to eat ? Did they work from a distance ? Think. This is very important. The more honest you are, the more effectively you’ll deal with the problem.

It’s hard to swallow, but as a witch, you need to invest a great deal in protecting yourself, both in body and soul, and your environnement - especially your home. Always work in layers in order for it to be more compelling. What this means is that having only one protection won’t do shit - it’s a luxury you can’t afford. You need to have multiple bareers set up all at once. Without giving too much away, I’d advise you to work in at least three ways - indetection, defensive, and offensive. In other words, first layer is dedicated to decoys and illusions of all sorts. The goal is to make yourself invisible. You’d be surprised how effective that is : if your attacker can’t find you, or is tricked to the wrong place, then so much for their spells. Hide your name away, use glamours, bury witch bottles in your backyard… whatever works for you. Second layer is defensive - your shield, or armour, if you may. This is where you can put triggers for bouncing back the spell to its sender. From amulets to planetary talismans, hagstones to rowan berry rosaries, hex signs to broken mirrors… your pick. Third and last layer is offensive - your sword. A hill I will die on is that sometimes attacking first is your best move, so pack every punch you have for that last one. Iron nails, jaw bones, crossing oil, war water, black-handled knife or obsidian arrow; keep them all handy - at this stage it is all bite and no bark.

Any spirits, guides, gods you work with, can assist in the work. Petition them.

Now onto the nitty-gritty. First comes verification. Are you under a spell’s influence ? Is there, indeed, a way to know for sure ? There certainly exist a few tricks to help you figuring that out - drops of olive oil, or a lock of your own hair, are well-known to carry the imprint of a spell. Divination, if you’re any good at it, will also help finding the correct answer. Then if it does turn out you’ve been bewitched, who did it ? Late @Ofwoodandbone had a very effective way to « prick and stick » a witch who bespelled you by burning a needle on a candle flame. The first person around you to complain about stings is your malefactor. I’m sure you could twist that spell to use rose thorns instead - what do you think, isn’t that appropriate ? I would find a red one. Trance states, spirits (servitors especially), dreamwalking, or your own fetch could also all track down the caster’s signature and let you know who they are.

Finally - the removal. A proper « removal of the heart » would work amazingly, but I don’t know what your experienve level is, so here are a few folk charms you might find helpful.

Fast for at least two days eating only vegetables and refrain from sexual intercourse. On the morning of the third day, find a snail and let it slime all over your chest, then pin it to a thorn tree (again, a rose bush would be ideal, but blankthorn is said to be the more agressive). Burn one of its roses and scatter the ashes in a river.

If you can’t/won’t, take a fresh egg instead and roll it all over your body - it will absorb the evil. Crack it open under a tree, if possible at a crossroad (be practical : a roundabout will do), then go back home without looking back.

An alternative would be to tie a piece of your own clothing to an old tree - when the cloth falls apart, you are cured.

Smoke the hell out of your body with a strong exorcism plant (I’m thinking juniper or blackberry).

Recite « The Exorcism of the Eye » from the Carmina Gadelica while bathing in a river.

Take a beer bath between two white candle and repeat as needed - Draja Mickaharic literally wrote an entire book on the topic of purification, and any of his magical baths will do wonders. Simpler even. Stand in the rain for as long as you can. Then go home and wash your hair. Do not forget your ears, hands, and chest especially - they absorb a lot, and I mean a lot. You can rub them with dirt, salt, mud, argile, ashes or charcoal beforehand. Rinse abundantly.

Snatch the moon’s reflection in a mirror and drive it all over your body. Take your time - I said all of your body. Bathe in that cold light, and emerge renewed. Know that you can do the same with the blood-red morning sun for healing effects.

It is no secret that knot magic is a powerful and versatile art whose uses are for everything and anything ranging from protection and healing to curses and bindings. Folklore has it that old spinning women sure knew how to weave stories and charms alike. The power thus raised stays contained within the spell of a sensuous narrative made visible, where charms and words of power intrigued, mixed, and were carefully entangled together. It is a visceral skill the Spider knows how to keep. So does the Silk-Moth.

I ritually dyed the threads of my two bone tatting shuttles. Ox or stag, I couldn’t say. But these are old tools, found in an antique store - polished by even older hands. They moved, knitted, saw perhaps. Hands of Fate, they imbued these thread winders with patience, dedication, and care. Passed down from a woman to another - an intricate web of heritage and lineage, now reborn by the Witch’s will. One is red for blood, fire and life. The other is black as night, for all baneful deeds performed in pitch darkness. For I am the Parca, I am the Moira.

Adaptation of Carmina Cadelica’s « Charms for Sprain »

Bride went out

In the morning early,

She found the legs of the horses

In fragments soft;

She put pith to pith,

She put marrow to marrow,

She put bone to bone,

She put membrane to membrane,

She put sinew to sinew,

She put vein to vein,

She put blood to blood,

She put tallow to tallow,

She put flesh to flesh,

She put fat to fat,

She put skin to skin,

She put hair to hair,

She put warm to warm,

She put cool to cool.

As she healed that

Always be wary of what sounds easy.

« if you want to be loved

and to love in return

pluck the fairest of my buds

and dip it in spring water

add a drop of your own blood

add a drop of theirs

then let my red rose blossom there

your love will arise grow last and die

the time of its flowering

ignite consume pierce

breathing white

breathing red

a rose is

a rose is

a rose

passion is

passion is

passion. »

***

© Daniel A. Schulke, Viridarium Umbris

About the Houzle

Rings of life and death, the Red Meal’s implements are narrowed down to bread, wine, and salt. Salt and wine for the land, bread and wine for the heavens above it. « Salt is the Key of Things ». Salt and salary derive from the same Latin origin. A worker’s wages were paid in salt because salt was precious - it preserved meat, fish, and vegetables from rot. Thus salt represents human labour - it equates with sweat, toil, life and work. People can be measured in terms of whether or not they are « worth their salt ». A witch must know the value of salt, in life as in acts of magic.

About Spinning

The « Weaving Arte » concerns itself with the Wyrd because the Wyrd is a tapestrie woven by each individual. It is a female and magical arte in that female divinities (Parcae / Moirae) held patronage over spinning craft skills. Stars, clouds, words, even the fabric of time itself are but threads in the hands of the right innovative talent to spin and weave. « Historically, the virtues of femininity and spinning were synonymous, as were the enchantment they ensue. ». Spinning is one of the most potent gifts of the gods and a true skill to master within the Craft. « All Fate is wound upon a spindle created from a great (dis)staff. […] There is no passage beyond the moon if we seek Her reflection only. »

About the Rose

« Red as blood and pale as death, the roses hold the secrets of countless mysteries. ». The pale rose is the cool ambivalence of reason - the mind, logic and philosophy. The scarlett rose is stained with lust, love and passion. A « rose of corporeality », for matters of the heart, indulgence as ecstasy. Where white and red roses grow together, Death always comes to claim its due. Occultists and lovers morbidly invoke this premise in perpetuity. Pearls of misunderstood wisdom hidden in plain sight, revealed only to those with eyes to see.

About the Stang

« Shoding » a stang is not done to contain its power nor to prevent its leaking, for the former negates its symbolic reason and the latter dissolves the purpose of all magic. The reason is more profound. The iron nail is the (horse)shoe forged by the gods to seek permission to ride. It is the conspicuous key, the authority given in the shoe afoot the « horse ». It is sure proof of the right by the Stang’s bearer to wield it as the « Night-mare » - that beast which procured the soul’s flight, for the horse is a vehicle of flight. « Without that shoe, your Stang is just a stick and you are without a valid key into these realms. »

About Sacrifice

The word « sacrifice » stems from the Latin « sacer » meaning « making holy ». The purpose of sacrifice is sacralisation - surrender to Fate. « Sacrifice : the giving up of something precious to the Source. To offer something of little value dishonours your gods. It is a spiritually powerful tool for bringing you closer to them. ». Sacrifice is a call from blood to blood, life to death. It forms a bridge. « To oblate is the act of presentation, as to libate, is the act of engagement with the offering, the release of the gift. » Are we not Cain as much as Abel ? « Take all you are given, give all of yourself. » Self is the penultimate gift. « When all is consumed from within, does not the Great Devourer remain without ? In the waning act of disintegration and dissolution, an effluent seed of potential generates anew - Something from Nothing. » One must approach the Mysteries openly and simply, free of ego, intellect and desire. It is not about importance, especially not of the individual. It is about Truth and Beauty. Reduced to our core we become the very heart of who we really are. Hence the false seeker is awarded no useful power over others.

About the Mystic and the Witch

Daring to become, to see and know all is to embrace Truth is to embrace Love. The Witch and the Magician seek fulfilled control and impact upon their environment to effect « a resultant shift in their physical reality ». The Mystic seeks the « knowing », but the Witch seeks to dominate, to « ride » an « other ». The Witch will exploits this, the Mystic may not. « The Mystic seeks answers, discernible to the soul, the Witch seeks results, tangible to the eye. (…) Those of Traditional Craft take from and use both. ».

This is how I was taught

You shall first tie a knot

In the middle of a rope

Thus binding the moon you caught

By willow and mugwort.

You will have the lady but

Ere round the loop do not

Let yourself distraught

For seizing her you ought.

Now when you need it most

Untie the moon’s knot

In the middle of your rope