I have one word for this season of the witch: bitchin’.

One of the bitchin’ occurrences happened after I gave our class leader, a high priest in a church, a Samhain gift. Yeah, I know it’s pronounced with the ween,  but I like the Sam Hane pronunciation. It sounds like a personification of the concept. Now the HP and I regard each other as smart asses — cut from the same black cloth, if you will.  Although we rarely miss an opportunity to bandy words, I am inwardly  fond of the guy. I wanted to give him a special gift, and thought since there was so much energy in the air, I might as well go with the circuitry.  I presented him with a crystal purchased some time ago, a hand crafted beeswax candle, and a spell. The rhyme was most heartfelt, and I wanted him to realize despite our exchanges, I wanted prosperity and love to walk with him.  I scribbled a spell on torn parchment paper, wrapped the candle in the paper, and bade him to read the spell — but silently. After all, no one needed to know I admired the Hell out of him.  Teaching a witchcraft class in such a “If you aren’t Christian or rich, then the Devil take you” age took a lot of sac.

After reading the spell, he kinda smiled and moved the citrine crystal between his hands. I’m not sure if I witnessed his charging the crystal, but within seconds, the crystal  came alive in his hands. The quartz emitted subtle vibes that though it liked its  human, it didn’t like being rolled around in his bear-like hands.

After commenting that the crystal was going on his mantle, HP directed the students to pass the crystal around and note how it felt in their hands. Of course, I was too biased to note anything except how the crystal struck me as being a beautiful piece of work. Many beautiful things,  however, have passed through my hands.  When I released them, I was no worse for the wear.

I passed the crystal to HP. The thing sang in his hands.

“This crystal has a lot of love and healing.” He told the class. Obviously, he liked the crystal as much as it liked him, which pleased me to pieces.


On another bitchin’ note, I’ve read so much about scrying mirrors, I decided to make one myself. Nevermind the idea that my bailiwick are the tarot and dream work. Nevermind that I’m not going to find obsidian of the size that I need. In this case, black spray paint is going to have to do. After all, my understanding is scrying comes from the inside, not the mirror itself. Any way, I thought making one would be fun. Many years ago, JH found an old, wooden picture frame in the trash. Why on Earth did he bring that thing home eluded me. For years, the thing hung in our garage. A few days ago, I thought it might come in handy if we could find a glass worker — a person who could cut glass and fit it into the frame.  JH decided that he would fix the rickety frame, redo my sandpapering job, and fix the spray painted glass into the frame  (I have the appointment with the can. JH plans to pick up the glass). Hopefully, I can paint the glass without busting it into a million pieces.  When it is done, the mirror will be too large to rest on any table in the house — if I don’t count the dining table. Because I don’t intend to eat dinner with a huge mirror on the table, JH will hang the mirror on the wall, perhaps by the picture of the Lady Fortuna. Because I don’t want to take a chance on breaking the mirror through less than careful handling (not that I’m superstitious. I just know I’d catch Hell if JH’s hard work goes to waste),  I will probably use it only on Sam Hane — or when I want to amp up the info after working with the tarot and dreams.


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