Make Your Own Magick

I used to think a lot about magick as a way to ground myself, clear my mind, choose a better thought, and change my state. I still use it for all of that. Lately I’m more interested in what happens when ritual meets me somewhere messier.

What happens when grounding finds rage?

What happens when protection strikes too early?
What happens when panic makes a monster?
What happens when an old voice starts playing automatically?
What happens after I mess up?

I want somewhere to put what I’m already feeling long enough to see it clearly and choose what happens next.

Sometimes that changes the feeling. Sometimes it changes what I do with it. Sometimes it gives me five seconds between the match and whatever I was about to set on fire.

That space has become some of the most useful magick I practice.

I’m also a mom trying to remember myself between dishes and diapers. My altar is often the kitchen counter. My wand is my finger. My son orbits my legs while I perform the LBRP and sometimes joins in by parroting the words. The dishwasher runs.

The sacred survives remarkably well around crumbs.

My husband used to read Crowley and Lon Milo DuQuette aloud to me while we sat on a tri-fold cushion in a moldy motel. I was pregnant. We ate toasted PB&J bagels. We had very little.

Some of what I practice now started there.

The Teachers I Carry

Aleister Crowley gave me ritual, symbolism, correspondence, and the idea that intention can be given physical form.

Abraham Hicks gave me a language for attention and emotional movement. Reaching for a slightly different thought became more useful to me than demanding some enormous emotional leap.

Louise Hay brought me to the mirror. She made me curious about the sentences repeated so often that they become the room we live inside.

I’ve changed plenty since first encountering all three. I expect to keep changing.

I take what stays alive in my hands and keep working with it.

Then the Animals Came

While making ANYMALS, I started giving different emotional patterns bodies.

Coyote. Porcupine. Seahorse. Skunk.

Porcupine helped me recognize fear raising its quills before I have enough information.

Turn around. Look again.

Seahorse gave panic somewhere to move.

Skunk taught me about territory, belonging, and staying.

Coyote taught me about getting hurt, gathering myself, and continuing.

The animals gave me handles. Instead of Something feels bad. Fix it. Make it stop, I can sometimes recognize:

Porcupine is already turning. Seahorse is getting swept away. Skunk wants to disappear. Coyote needs to sit on the hill for a freaking minute.

Once I can see the pattern, sometimes I get a choice.

That feels like magick to me.

My Practice

My practice changes with me. Some of it comes from ceremonial magick. Some comes from books. Some comes from music, motherhood, mirrors, panic, art, chronic pain, and whatever is happening in the kitchen.

A pentagram drawn in the air. A hand against my chest. A boundary spoken aloud. A sentence interrupted before it becomes an old reflex again.

Feel. Stand. Move. Orient. Look again. Choose.

My Crow Creed

I honor my body as the first altar.
I listen before fear finishes the picture.
I protect the soft place.
I look again.
I repair what I can if I strike too soon.
I choose what gets to stay.
I trust the symbols that stay alive in my hands.
I refuse to turn what I did into who I am.
I return to myself.
I leave breadcrumbs.
I move with integrity.
I respect the will of others.

Make Your Own

The piece of chaos magick that stays alive for me is simple:

Use what works. Invent what you need. Let your practice change when you do.

A ritual can be elaborate. It can also happen barefoot in a kitchen with cereal stuck to my heel.

A symbol can come from an old magical system. It can also be a porcupine that keeps showing up in your songs until one day you realize she has been teaching you about fear.

I’m interested in magick I can actually use while my life is happening.

That’s what I’m making here.

Make your own.