Joanna C. Valente is a ghost who lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is the author of Sirs & Madams (Aldrich Press, 2014), The Gods Are Dead (Deadly Chaps Press, 2015), Marys of the Sea (The Operating System, 2017), Xenos (Agape Editions, 2016), and Sexting Ghosts (Unknown Press, 2018). They are the editor of A Shadow Map: An Anthology by Survivors of Sexual Assault (CCM, 2017), and received a MFA in writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Joanna is also the founder of Yes, Poetry, a managing editor for Luna Luna Magazine and CCM, as well as an instructor at Brooklyn Poets. Some of their writing has appeared in Brooklyn Magazine, BUST, Them, Prelude, Apogee, Spork, The Feminist Wire, and elsewhere.
Read MoreThis Is How A Witch Is Born
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
There is a young girl named Jolene.
She’s got violent blonde hair and eyes too clear to be trusted. Pretty and vicious by 12, Jolene trained a whole pack of followers to move 10 paces behind her, their mouths open and drooling.
Jolene and her pets are sitting behind me in gym class kicking my lower back, which is covered in a soft spill of dark Mediterranean hair. [Lovers today call it beautiful.] I’m so quiet I barely exist. I’m wearing cheap sneakers my grandmother picked up at the church flea market she sells nail polish at on weekends.
My sneakers are white and goofy and too heavy; I look like a twig in them, the tongue heaving over my tiny ankles. I’m supposed to be wearing the Filas everyone else has. I’m supposed to be everyone else.
From where I sit or hide or cower, it seems like everyone else has dinner at home at 6. Has school photos. Has all of the other accouterments of a teenage palace of cruelty. Popularity is my Queen but I won't sit on my knees at her ugly throne. I am daggers. I am full of poverty and mouths sewn shut. I am instead the town seer. I see the mediocrity of youth that will bleed into adulthood. Sometimes I still want to be mediocre. I want to be loved.
By 6 I’m at home alone with my brother, half my age, wondering where my mother is. Sometimes we walk a mile to my grandmother’s senior citizen center where she says those girls are just jealous. I say, but grandma—they’re pretty. You’re pretty, she says. Pretty girls are jealous of pretty girls.
I am raised in a land where pretty is economy. Where being a young girl means fitting into easy sentences and rules. I put on the FM radio in the bathroom and Nair my lower back. Which only makes Jolene siphon more of me, more of my weakness. I remove my body, my hair; I remove myself.
I want to be like Jolene and her pack but I’m not like them. On my head, I have black hair that gives no fucks. When it rains my hair grows fangs. I’m poor and my clothes smell like the local laundromat. Gin and dust and metallic-something—something like something I’m not supposed to smell like.
Jolene says it’s old people I smell like. I laugh stupidly and awkwardly, boldly, in her face, but I know it. I sleep at my grandmother’s tiny apartment a lot. I cry often into her shoulder; between us, there is a silent question blooming; why is her daughter—my mother—not coming home? She braids my hair, paints my nails, goes to bed early.
I sit up alone for hours perched at the window waiting for my mother to come home. To bide the time, I pull out two books: a 1970s pictorial on covens and sex magic and a book of spells, it’s Wiccan, made for teens, I think—I’ve wrapped both in the dust cover of other books, although I know my mother wouldn’t care if she caught me, but I was raised Catholic and am embedded with a certain fear of the devil consuming my soul for all eternity—and I read them quietly to myself, believing in my whole wide heart that magic was swirling out there, ready to be captured, pocketed, possibly brought to middle school.
I want to wear the capes. I want to draw a Pentagram. I want to understand what I’m reading and become all-powerful. At first, sadness drives me toward ritual, but then I take flight on my own.
Behind my grandmother’s house, behind three huge dumpsters, there is a very, very green sort of open space. Fences surround it and separate it from neighboring backyards and they’re covered in ivy. This green leads down to the local river—Rahway River in New Jersey—which is filled with tiny, people-sized islands and moves through the town, circling through neighborhoods where people have given up on themselves. My whole town is broken. Everyone either dies or is dying or hooked on drugs, and all of us kids have either taken on one of two protective stances: be the bully or be bullied. It depends on your heart; sometimes I hate my heart.
Even if some of us come from decent homes, there is always something rotten in this town. Always a secret. A disguise. An animal searching through the wood. No one is untouched.
RELATED: To Be a Witch: The Balancing Act of Embracing Darkness & Light
I tiptoe to the edge of the river and look down into the rocks. My feet get muddy, I smell the earth; copper, moss, summer water. Across from me—at this point the river is hallow, trickling, maybe 100 feet across, dotted by a shower of flat stones—is the back of three stores: a glass shop, a small pub, a dilapidated house. No one can see me, so I step further toward the water and sit at the edge. I wonder what they would think of they catch me.
My book says I need to look for the mushrooms—that’s where the faeries live. I could maybe befriend them but don’t expect them to be kind, exactly. I could maybe ask them to be my friends.
My book talks about drawing down the moon. I stand in the middle of the green, at times glimpsing behind me hoping my grandmother won’t come out and see me, and call on the sky. I open my palms and stand quietly, feeling the power of the earth rise up through and into me. I look into the shadows of my life and find peace knowing I always have myself, these green places, this water.
I have nothing to distract me. No phone, no real friends, no curfew, no Internet. I only have the earth and the sound of water pulsating. If I close my eyes I can hear my own heartbeat.
I whisper into the blue air, "Please protect my mother." The wind moves; she takes my request.
***
By twenty-five I struggle with my beliefs. It’s not that I don’t believe in anything, it’s that nothing makes sense. Something is out there, I think. I call myself a staunch atheist; I mostly am.
I won’t meet my lovers or my mother in the afterlife. I won’t be consumed by fire. I won’t reincarnate, I think. But I might just evaporate into the mist of the cosmos, become starlight or a patch of bugambilias. My dying body will be the universe exhaling; it’s exhaled a million times today. The world gets bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller. And it means everything and nothing at all.
I find the word "witch" again and again. She follows me in and out of my life. I find myself always standing at the riverbank or wading through the sea, piling aside my sorrow. I find myself washing my hands in blessed rose water. I find myself in dark rooms, in a circle, pulling something out from my chest and putting it into existence. I create rituals I don’t talk about, fearing I’ll be misunderstood.
If I am seen as a witch, I am seen as other. Rebel, dreamer, enchantress, want-er of things bigger. Want-er of more. Maker of light. Purveyor of shadow.
If I am seen as a witch, I’ll be classified, boxed-up, differentiated.
If I am seen as a witch, I won’t get a job or be taken seriously. I won’t be seen as rational. I won’t be seen as me.
And yet, if I am seen as a witch, I’ll be seen for what I am. I’ll be seen as someone who respects nature, respects myself, respects my body. I’ll be seen as someone who resists the complacency of the status quo. I’ll be seen as someone who resists acts of warfare against other humans. I’ll be seen as someone who questions simple answers and seeks something deeper. I’ll be seen as someone who wants to create a life of intention and autonomy. I’ll be seen as someone who, when the palace of night washes over my life, will be able to strike a match in the dark. I do dream. I do rebel. I do exist as a natural thing. I am not separate from the earth. I am not a cog. I am not a mime. I am tending to a careful garden where, throughout time, others have come and gone, tinkering in the magic of self.
A witch is born of trauma. A witch is born of solitude. A witch is born of watching. A witch is born of listening. A witch is born of light.
Lisa Marie Basile is a writer and founding creative director of Luna Luna Magazine—a diary of darkness and light, literature, identity, and magic. Her book of rituals and practices, LIGHT MAGIC FOR DARK TIMES, will be released in September 2018. She has written for The New York Times, Narratively, Grimoire Magazine, Venefica, The Establishment, Refinery 29, Bust, Hello Giggles, and more. She's also the author of a few poetry collections, including the forthcoming Nympholepsy.
How to Create a Witchy Gallery Wall in Your Home
There seems to be a misconception that to curate a proper gallery wall, you have to spend a fortune. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Here are some tips to create your own gallery wall in a short amount of time with affordable materials.
Read More4 Dreamy Stones To Keep By Your Bedside
It is perhaps the most simple part of my nightly routine. These little stones just sit there on my nightstand, exuding their beauty and tiny imperfections, and that is where they stay. Thier role is just to rest there beside me. Yet, their simple presence is so meaningful to the ritual as a whole...the only one I can seem to keep on a regular basis.
Read MoreHow the Words of the Dead Carried Me Home
Awakening Osiris is a celebration of all dark aspects of life and the capacity we possess to overcome them. As Ellis stated, we are all Osirises, each with the ability to create ourselves again and again on our path towards spiritual truth. Through years of research, she amassed such a powerful message, one she believed the world should have.
Read More6 Witchy Spots You Must Visit in Philadelphia
4. The Strange and Unusual
This is a shop of oddities, antiques, taxidermy, and much much more. The entire shop is decorated in purple damask and velour fainting sofas. A stuffed grizzly bear wears a gold grown and lords over you as you browse through dusty ouija boards and spooky wooden dolls rocking in Victorian prams. You can spend a whole day here, flipping through the strange grimoires or asking the shopkeepers about the unique stories each object brings to the room. It’s an experience.
Read MoreBody Ritual: Gratitude Magic
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
Body Ritual is Lisa Marie Basile's weekly column about wellness and finding healing and autonomy in ritual. You can follow her on Instagram for more on this topic. You can read the first installment, on Chronic Illness, here.
One of the things I’ve learned to accept about having a degenerative chronic illness is that I’ll always feel slightly different. You may feel this too, especially when subject to the stigma of being ill or dealing with friends, family, employers or lawmakers who don’t get it.
This is also true for anyone who has suffered some sort of body trauma, whether it is an illness or an accident or something else that happened to you. We have to manage the huge spectrum of emotion that comes along with it, be it emotional or physical. We have this animal inside of us, this strange galloping creature who wants to get out and trample the garden and go wild. That same creature is also sometimes left dejected, wandering, wilted. It’s us, and also not us—so how do you manage that? It has feelings you don’t want to have. It has needs you don't have the energy to meet.
But it also has powers you can tap into.
I wrote in my piece, Body Ritual: 12 Things I Learned About Chronic Illness piece, that feelings around the body aren’t fixed, objective or, at times, rational. But that’s to be expected—we live in these houses for our entire lives, they’re our shells, they’re the place we retreat.
That difference — the feeling of not-quite-ness, or slightly gone-bad, overripe, like a little a sachet of broken bones, like being burdened with the weight of messy genetics and ancestral trauma—is also the very core of magic, at least to me. It’s where we hold those most intense energies and feelings that can be transmuted and transformed.
Those feelings might be anger, shame, exhaustion, rage. All of them, no matter your experience, take up a huge amount of psychic space, gnawing away at your foundation—even if others can’t see. Those energies are seriously powerful, like Hecate at the gate-powerful, like the storm at sea powerful. Use them. It’s free!
Magic is the ability to direct energy, put simply. That concept is simple enough for anyone, witch or not, atheist or not, to put to use. It’s that invisible something that happens when we decide to effect change. With our will and intention, with the energy we put out and direct.
When I’m feeling overwhelmed about my illness, I try and redirect body negativity into body love, gratitude and empowerment. I won’t lie and say YAY GUYS IT ALWAYS WORKS but it does work a lot of the time. And a lot of the time it works with a bit of a magical touch.
Recognize & speak out against ableism
The first problem with how we talk about bodies is that we often insert ableism into the picture. We talk about bodies like they’re all the same, capable of the same things. They’re not. And recognizing and respecting your body and body experience as one notch on the spectrum is key—just as key as recognizing others' experiences.
You also may be chronically ill but able-bodied, and if that's the case, recognize it and fight against ableism for others. Erasing ableism from your vocabulary and mindset will allow you to better support others. Because people suffer, are sick, have disabilities, and are often made to feel alone because of this, gratitude doesn’t have to stop at gratitude. You can support others by listening to them, loudly advocating for their cause, donating your time to them or an organization, and developing ways to include them in the larger conversation. There’s magic in empathy.
Read more about ableism and disability here, by Alaina Leary and watch this video about witchcraft and disability right here.
Spend time practicing gratitude for yourself
I didn’t say “feeling” or “being grateful”—and that’s because it takes practice! Sometimes I like to jot down a few positive aesthetic and also functional things I feel about my body in a day: my thick wavy hair that I got from my Mediterranean family, my newly-formed quad muscles (from swimming), my strong biceps, my crooked teeth—I think they’re cute, and the way my body feels after stretching. I am grateful I can move, have a full range of mobility (one day I could be disabled due to my illness), and that my pain levels are somewhat manageable. I like to focus on those things and remember them when times get tough.
What do you like about yourself? Is it your resiliency? Your endless compassion for others? Your desire to eat healthy and stay fit? Do you try to walk for an hour every day? Do you love your sense of style? Find something, remember it.
Make an altar for your body
Use pictures of yourself as a centerpiece, decorate with pieces of clothing, makeup you use, your oils or perfumes—and light a few candles. Write a letter to yourself and leave it the altar. You’d be surprised by the fulfilling experience of ritualizing self care. Here's a piece I wrote about creating an altar for self-care and setting intentions.
Train yourself to look at the positive
When you get down and start feeling powerless, reroute your mentality in the moment: “what can I do?” (Versus “what can’t I do?” The 100%-serious reality here is that this won’t magically fix anything, but it will get you into the habit of self empowerment. If we have to live with body trauma or illness, learning to manage it is key.
Tap into your needs
Let yourself have what you need—at least some of the time. Rest of you need rest. Go out if you feel like you’re itching for a party. Stretch it you’re knitted up. See a doctor when you know need help. Use complementary therapies if your gut is telling you to try them.
Take a magical bath
One of the rituals I wrote about in my book, Light Magic for Dark Times (September 2018, Quarto Books) I do when I’m feeling stuck—afraid, powerless, rigidly tied down to my illness—is I get in the bathtub, maybe with a few crystals (I have a love for rose quartz; it feels so soft and pure and kind, and for smoky quartz because it is a great facilitator of wading between the darkness and the light), some Epsom salts and essential oils, and a few candles, and I just conjure the archetype of a mermaid or a sea creature—their fluid bodies, their knowledge of the depths, their ability to move between coral and wild sea flowers and threats. I like to imagine all my worries and pain as a small black ball; then I close my eyes and focus on it dissipating, floating away. It’s not easy, weirdly enough, to visualize. It’s difficult. But when you do, it’s incredibly empowering to feel yourself letting it go, and to focus on being cleansed by the water.
Shadow work
Another practice that I love but would not necessarily recommend for everyone (just because it may not resonate in a healthy way for certain folks) is visiting a cemetery—especially if you have family there. Connecting with death, being still and silent with the tombstones, is not only death-positive, helping you to reframe your experience and perception of death, but magical; you are there, with the earth, standing in a place that is the very representation of the natural human cycle. There is a realization that we all die, but that right now we are alive and living and experiencing and capable in whatever way we are capable. There is a beautiful sense of gratitude to be found here.
I say this is a way of performing shadow work because it is an experience that forces you to go in, go deeper, look into that abyss where you hold the greatest fear and uncertainty—and then sit with that, let it bloom, let it morph into a sort of peace. It can put you at peace with your body, even if it seems, on the surface, morbid.
Remember that your body is you, it is not separate. Treat it, yourself, with love. You’re a body of magic.
Lisa Marie Basile is the founding editor-in-chief and creative director of Luna Luna Magazine and community. She is the author of a few books of poetry, including a full-length collection, Apocryphal. Her book Nympholepsy (co-authored with Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein), will be published by Inside the Castle in November 2018 and was a finalist in the 2017 Tarpaulin Sky Book Awards. She is also working on her first novella, to be released by Clash Books in 2019. Her first nonfiction book, Light Magic for Dark Times, will be published by Quarto Books in 2018.
Lisa Marie's work has appeared in the New York Times, Narratively, Refinery 29, Greatist, Bust, Bustle, Marie Claire, The Establishment, Hello Giggles, Ravishly, Marie Claire, and more. You can catch her on the podcasts Into the Dark, Essie's Hour of Love, and Get Lit With Leza. She recently received two Pushcart nominations—for her work in Narratively and The Account. She received an MFA from The New School in NYC.
How to Make Moon And Water Magic
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
Sign up for more magical goodies by subscribing to Lisa Marie Basile's newsletter. And be sure to order a copy of Light Magic for Dark Times, a collection of practices and rituals for trauma recovery, intentional living, elemental magic, and journaling. You can purchase a copy at Urban Outfitters, Barnes & Noble, or your local shop. For our UK, Canadian, Australian, and NZ readers, there are options here for you.
My magic comes to life in water, and consequently, it flowers by the changing phases of the moon. I see moon and water magic as one, inherently and perfectly entwined.
Water is where I energetically recharge and meditate, whether it be in the sea or in the shower. (I'm also a water sign—#scorpio—so it seems fitting that my mer-qualities would reveal themselves in my practice. I've got my moon in cancer, too, so I'm a double whammy of watery lunar goodness).
This is how I see it, and what's always been apparent to me: Water is life, literally; it is immensely profound, healing, powerful and dazzling. It is a force to be reckoned with, never giving up its secrets before it is ready; water is resolved, yet fluid. There’s something beautiful there—recognizing our own need, as a species, to adapt and move while also rooting to what gives our lives meaning. Rooting to our choices, resolving to follow our path, our instincts, our dreams. Evolving. As a child, I would play for hours in the sea, following the waves, intuiting their movement and training my body to roll along with each foamy push. It felt comforting and fun, and, in some way I couldn't articulate, it simply felt right.
We can all use these ideas and energies as tools. You don't need to be a mermaid or a water sign to work with water, I promise. And it doesn't matter what path you're on or what your beliefs are either. For the record, I'm secular. I work with nature, since it's what we're all made of and connected to; I don't believe in gods or goddesses or any deity associated with the elements. It’s this simple: water, as a symbol, can be a transformative force in our lives.
I tend to think of water as a divine force that you can find anywhere--via the faucet, in the Mediterranean sea, in a pond in Jakarta, and in your local pool. (I go into this idea more in a podcast I did with Leza Cantoral's Get Lit With Leza). Here are some ways to connect with water and to ritualize and practice with it in mostly informal, DIY and inexpensive ways.
Immersing Yourself
You can, for one, simply bathe, shower (bathing is better, it uses less water and you can take your time in it) or swim, taking care to ground yourself in the water, noticing the way it feels on your skin, letting it hold you in its care, appreciating its gentleness and respecting its power. Many people forget that magic isn't only made in ritual or through spell-work, but by being near or in nature and simply existing with it, consciously.
If you do bathe, you can add shells to the water or to rim of the tub (just be sure to step carefully! You don’t want a seashell slice; I speak from experience and several stitches).
If getting into a body of water is generally not a possibility for you, that's okay. You can submerge your feet or try the hand-cleansing practices I've listed below.
Water Altars & Practices
Beyond swimming or bathing, where you can be submerged in the powers of water, you might want to decorate an altar (or just a chill-out space) with sea shells, candles of blue or turquoise, and a bowl of salt water or sea water (if you're lucky to be near the sea!). I like to put out a sea altar whenever I feel particularly stuck, stagnant, or fearful, as it represents my ability to be fluid, to let go, to connect with something pure and massive and ancient. I’ve collected some shells from countries of my heritage, which I think of as sacred and full of ancestral power. Otherwise, shells from your local beach are absolutely wonderful! Sometimes thrift stores even carry gorgeous shells.
During long days or hard weeks, I'll pour water into a large bowl and fill it with essential oils, shells (abalone ones are perfect and gorgeous!), crystals (I love to use Aquamarine or ocean jasper) or flower petals. You may choose to add salt.
I'll wash my own hands in it, imagining the tension and grief dissipating. There is great self-care magic in cleansing yourself in a conscious and symbolic way, and I recommend a bowl of cleansing water after work or after a day when lots of chaotic or not-so-nice energies are stuck to your psyche or space.
You might want to burn a blue or green candle while listening to whale sounds as you doodle or stretch. Easy techniques like these can signal your mind to begin thinking and feeling the power of water, especially if you can't near a sea or body of it. (I've always been a fan of blending DIY magic and self-care as-needed, without too many formal rules or structures; I find it allows me to really tap into my instincts and personal power. Chaos magic, for example, makes a lot of sense to me).
You can also carry a sachet bag with a small shell when you need a boost or a reminder to stay calm and flow. Keep it in your bag or purse or pocket and pull it out when you need it. Remember to energetically cleanse the shell in water, by the light of the moon or with smoke so that it can be replenished.
Working with the Moon
You can also boost your personal power with moon work, particularly during the full and new moon, when vibes are high. Luna is very giving, always there for you, keeping us literally grounded to earth. Hint: Luna Luna's name has a few meanings, but one of them is that there are two sides to the moon (the dark and the light) and that we inhabit both, equally, to our benefit.
The New Moon: The new moon is a great time to set intentions, make wishes, and set out a path for change, increased harmony, creativity, resolution, new beginnings. It can also be used to release energies and break out of patterns.
The Full Moon: The full moon is a good time to do any sort of practice or spell-work, but I think of it as a time to renew what I worked on during the new moon, sew big seeds, do seriously potent work and recharge in big ways.
It's also a great idea to be aware of which sign the moon is in during any given day (it cycles through the zodiac). You can use an almanac or a simple app, like Moon, to easily track it. I suggest finding a book that explains in-depth what the moon in each sign means and begin to ebb and flow with that sign's energy. Just because it's not your sign doesn't mean it can't teach you lesson, imbue you with qualities that are hidden deep down (hey, that sign might be in your chart!), or inspire you. I have recently read Moonology and recommend it! It really clearly goes over the basics of moon magic, and it's a great place to start.
Moon phase-focused spells and rituals can give your practice and self-care routine structure, and because each phase is somewhat different energetically, you can time what spells or practices to those qualities. I often make moon water—water that is charged with the energies of the moon—to power my spell-work, use as a pre-night out face cleansing tonic, cleanse my crystals or power objects and brew tea or elixirs.
How to Make Moon Water
Pour some water into a bowl or jar. I like to use mason jars because they have a lid, they're pretty and the light can get through the glass.
Place your jar on a porch, a windowsill, or directly in the path of moonlight. (Definitely cover your water if you're putting it outside).
Keep it there overnight. Many people pull the water inside before the sun comes up, but others do not. This is a personal choice.
You can do this for the new before, during and of the moon phase you're working with, but during the day-of is best.
I talk a lot more about this in my upcoming book, Light Magic for Dark Times, which is all about self-care rituals and practices. PS: you can follow me on Twitter & Instagram to keep up to date.
Lisa Marie Basile is the founding editor-in-chief and creative director of Luna Luna Magazine and community. She is the author of a few books of poetry, including a full-length collection, Apocryphal. She is also working on her first novella, to be released by Clash Books in 2019. Her first nonfiction book, Light Magic for Dark Times, will be published by Quarto Books in 2018.
Lisa Marie's work has appeared in the New York Times, Narratively, Refinery 29, Greatist, Bust, Bustle, Marie Claire, The Establishment, Hello Giggles, Ravishly, Marie Claire, and more. You can catch her on the podcasts Into the Dark, Essie's Hour of Love, and Get Lit With Leza. She recently received two Pushcart nominations—for her work in Narratively and The Account. She received an MFA from The New School in NYC.
Apports and My Love of Shrines
The man told us that this is not his house, but a house he made specifically for his mother, sister, and boyfriend who have all passed. Guiding us closer, he pointed out the poetry on a giant velvet red heart, the center of the front yard. He told us his lover died in his arms, and now he was all alone. He said that he made this for the loves that he’s lost, and he smiled.
Read More3 Witchy Books to Jumpstart Your Magical Year
It is okay to give into the season and stay indoors where it is warm and snuggle in bed with your animals by candlelight with a mug of delicious tea. That if you are a creative type, you don’t have to be generating anything right now. You can use this time to absorb rather than produce. Let this be a time of inspiration collecting.
Read MoreHow to Celebrate/Center the Holidays around Death
Seemingly non-pagan holidays dwell in the midst of winter solstice – their roots are witches. During the darkest part of the year, when the veil is thinnest, we gather for ceremony. This is no coincidence – this is by design. While the days grow shorter and moon light lingers longer, what we really celebrate is not the birth of something or someone, but death. Capricorn season oozes with death. It is covering everything in colder temperatures and frosty layers – it is where things go to die. It is Saturnalia.
Read MoreDracula Is Really Just Every Rapist & Abuser You Know
Joanna C. Valente is a human who lives in Brooklyn, New York. They are the author of Sirs & Madams (Aldrich Press, 2014), The Gods Are Dead (Deadly Chaps Press, 2015), Marys of the Sea (Operating System, 2017), Sexting the Dead (Unknown Press, 2018), Xenos (Agape Editions, 2016), and is the editor of A Shadow Map: Writing by Survivors of Sexual Assault (CCM, 2017). They received their MFA in writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Joanna is the founder of Yes, Poetry and the managing editor for Civil Coping Mechanisms and Luna Luna Magazine. Some of their writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Brooklyn Magazine, Prelude, BUST, Spork Press, and elsewhere. Joanna also leads workshops at Brooklyn Poets. joannavalente.com / Twitter: @joannasaid / IG: joannacvalente
Read MoreProphetic Growth: Tarot Reading for Introspection
BY SIN RIBBON
Most believe a tarot deck’s use lies in divination, cards cast in a particular spread in order to foretell the future, yet many experienced tarot readers will you it is less about seeing into the future and more about providing insight to the individual asking the question. I rarely use tarot cards on others, but whether I’m giving a reading to someone else or divining the cards for myself, the search is always for guidance.
Most of us are worried about something at any given time. When a problem is solved, we shift our attention to a new one. Some find calm through meditation, yoga, or a relaxing hobby, and while these activities are healthy for the mind and body, tarot may provide specific clarity to the troubles that we face. I use the cards to better understand myself, the hidden subconscious layers that are often masked in superficial anxieties. Whenever I face an obstacle, the cards illuminate aspects I may have overlooked or ignored. It frames a new perspective, and that allows me to see things in a new way. Other times, they provide a friendly reminder that I am simply moving through a difficult period and that the light will shine again. They’ve provided me with a great deal of strength and reassurance over the years.
There are a wide variety of spreads (and decks) one can use; no one way is wrong. Even a typical playing card deck may be used, and there are several variations of the traditional tarot as well, some replacing the major and minor arcana altogether in favor of alternate meanings (oracle decks). I own six decks spanning tarot and oracle, and each has its own personality. One deck I use almost exclusively for the traditional Celtic cross formation (ten cards) that I divine for other people; another for decorative purposes in my home, such as pinning the cards to doorways and surrounding artworks; and the others I use for personal readings in spreads that rarely exceed six cards, the choice of deck depending on the answers I’m seeking.
Even traditional tarot decks will vary in meaning between decks. While each card in the tarot has an assigned meaning, every deck creator has their own interpretation. Some decks include reversed meanings whereas others must always be read right-side up. As you get to know a deck, so to speak, you will form unique interpretations of the respective cards; certain cards may appear frequently or carry special meanings.
RELATED: Read Tarot With a Simple Deck of Playing Cards
Divining the cards is a meditative process that requires an open mind. Cards will share truths you may be resistant to receiving, so it’s important to be objective and willing to see from a new perspective. Quite a few people misunderstand the cards and assume they provide clear yes’s and no’s, but the search for wisdom is an internal one. A solution discovered on your own is more powerful than one simply told to you. Many times the reader is faced with aspects of a situation they were subconsciously aware of but had yet to assemble into a coherent whole. I drew a reading for a friend who received several cards highlighting her submissiveness and inability to stand up for herself, sacrificing her wants and needs in the process. She realized this part of her personality was a bigger issue than she had wanted to admit and thus could work on becoming more assertive. This progression from latent problem to personal growth is how the cards are most effective. Often, the cards provide validation for things we suspect may need focus, change, or healing, but we’re too afraid to face those issues until an outside source says, “Go for it!” The cards can provide specific insight in this way which is why they are a part of my personal journey for enlightenment and spiritual growth.
Validation is something we all crave. Whenever I am sleepless with anxiety, upset about rejected opportunities, or feel like my life is progressing too slowly, I turn to the cards. Sometimes they call me to action. Other times, they reassure me that difficulty is a natural part of the journey. Recently, I drew an oracle card that comforted me by telling me that while this point in my life was painful, it was okay to feel hurt. Suffering can be our greatest teacher, showing us the depth of our humanity and stretching our limitations to become stronger and more understanding. Drawing that card assured me that my pain was valid, and all I needed was time to heal. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.
In a strange way, the cards function as more of a therapist, providing insight, comfort, and encouragement when I need it most. They illuminate personal faults while providing guidance on how one can move forward. While one may attempt to foretell the future with tarot cards, I believe that would leave the reader disappointed, as the point of life is not to avoid problems but to change into someone capable of handling them.
If you’re looking to start using tarot and oracle decks, consider shopping around. Choose a deck whose artwork and meanings resonate with you personally. I believe that card divination is merely a translation of truths we already know but which have fallen lost in the sea of doubt and second-guessing. Think of a spread as a diagram of intuition. Tarot and oracle readings are a way of bringing sleeping issues and solutions to light, a method of becoming more honest with ourselves and listening to that still small voice which is always trying to guide us.
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Sin Ribbon is a storyteller on page, canvas and screen—her work culminated from poetry, screenplays, films and paintings. An eclectic blend, she draws from the philosophical and spiritual to spin existential tales of encouragement and consequence. Her works originate from the caverns of introspection and explore issues of identity, origin, loss and depression, and the quest for meaning. You can find her art on her website at https://sinribbon.com and her narrative podcast, 'In Her Burning: A Surreal Diary,' on iTunes.
Winter Comes, It Always Does
BY PEG ALOI
I wanted a grey day, the beggar said, one with huntsmen lurking in the bracken, willowy girls in wet dresses skipping through the bogs, ginger cats slipping down silken copses to dispatch voles and snakes and buckets brimming with mist-ripened plums.
I remember the cries of blackbirds, the poet mused, in the heat of midday, swirling over burning cornstalks, black spirals tracing otherworlds beneath blue clouds gleaming, disappearing into the ravine, into coming twilight, where brown armies of scurrying ants and black covens of twitching cicadas converge, oblivious, waiting in the whispering dark for dew.
I wanted the smoldering brush, the husband said, the winnowing baskets and wagons stacked with pumpkins and leeks, the last sheaf of grain held high by the harvest queen, lips like wineskins plump and red, copper bracelet flashing like green fire, her eyes the summer stars, her belly the moon.
I know the old ones hacked these fields with scythes, the wife insisted, scraping wheat and barley for winter stores, slaughtering cattle at the Blood Moon and salting it in woolen sacks, blessing the horses with cups of cider, rolling russets into the bins and hoarding twists of sugar between candle boxes. We pray for an early snow to soften the fields.
Another day in the countryside is what I wanted, the child said, one that should end as it begins, with tinkling lamps, our skin scented with sour sweat, hot chocolate, by the fire with cheese and bread, songs sung in my head at sunrise, offered as blessings to midnight travelers, sending us off to sleep with melodies, memories, circling like crows at dusk, like hawks of morning.
We go to Safeways now, but it still tastes like magic if we walk 'round the garden three times before supper.
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Peg Aloi: I am a freelance film critic, media studies scholar, and general wordsmith on many topics. My poetry has appeared in Goblin Fruit and Obsidian Magazine. Currently writing for The Arts Fuse, the Orlando Weekly, Cinemazine, Diabolique, The Establishment, and other fine folks, and my blog "The Witching Hour," hosted on Patheos for years, now has its own domain. I am a co-founder of The Witches' Voice, Inc. and its longtime Media Coordinator. I own small baking and gardening businesses, and am studying horticulture. My witchcraft is the hedgewitchy kind, sprinkled with glitter
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