L is for Living Magically

 The observant will notice I missed last week's PBP. This is because I was at the Burlesque Hall of Fame weekend in Las Vegas. There will be a post on that (possibly several) but for right now, simply know that when my sibling and I walked out of YVR airport we both inhaled the damp Pacific Northwest air and sighed with relief. "It's shitty weather!" we cried happily.

The day after our return home, we were unpacking and generally just acclimating to not having to put on false eyelashes while downing dollar margaritas. At some point I turned to Voodoo and said, "you know, it's a relief to be back where all my fucking witch supplies are!" She laughed and agreed.

I didn't even bring a deck of cards with me to BHOF. (This is actually genius strategy if you don't want to wind up doing drunken readings in a hotel hallway at five am.) I certainly didn't bring candles or powders. These things aren't necessary for magic, but you do sort of get used to having them on hand for when drama erupts.

The exact context I've forgotten, but a while back something or other happened, and I said to my sister, "oh, we'll do such and such - let me get the rosemary" or something to that effect. I remember though that I paused and looked at her, and said, "...dude, do you ever wonder what NORMAL people do in these situations?" And she shrugged, baffled.

It's become a joke, now. One of us will go for the spell cupboard and do our very best Tommy Tiernan impression, shouting, "I have no idea what the rest of you do with your fuckin time!"

This isn't to get all witchier-than-thou on your asses. It's more that in the past year I've come to the realisation that somewhere along the line magic stopped being a special thing to me. I've been practising, off and on, for something like fifteen years. That means I am old. It also means I've gone through phases of intense study and utter boredom - I think a lot of people who don't join covens or lodges wind up doing much the same: you fall into a rut, and start fishing about for anything new and sparkly to reignite your interest. Some of the sparklies stick, others don't, and you generally putter along because you're clearly too stupid to give up on magic entirely.

Well. I'm here to tell you that if you putter along long enough, there will come a day when you go on vacation and realise you've spent nearly a week without making a floorwash, talking to dead people, lighting candles, or reading a fortune... and it feels fucking weird.

And this is the goal for my fifties.

When I was younger I felt living a magical life was something you worked hard at. Because things were so fresh and new, it was almost overwhelming - I wanted to be a witch, dammit! Not later. Now! I wanted people to have a problem and all I would say, "aha, let me check my spell book my dear, and I will give you this candle and these herbs" like they did in books and the movies.

The reality involves more gin, but other than that it seems I've accidentally achieved my adolescent dream.

I do not rise each day and greet the four directions. I don't have a cat. I don't make a conscious effort to be witchy at home or at the office or even on stage. But shit creeps in. A thousand small details that I don't generally stop to think about, each of them magical in nature.

That is what I think living magically is: when you get to the point where you're just living, and magic is as natural as breathing, as ingrained as putting on the coffee when you wake up.

And it's shockingly attainable. I think most of you know that already, huh?