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A gift of a clock is lucky. Luckier still is to hear two clocks chiming together at a happy moment. If you are kissing, happy in company, meeting someone you like, concluding a business deal or launching a project, or indeed, in the midst of any other hopeful occasion, and you hear two clocks striking together, link fingers with the other person, or kiss them on the cheek.
Say aloud:
Several decades ago, writer Paul Kingsnorth went to West Papua to document the physical and cultural genocide being perpetrated on the local Indigenous peoples by the Indonesian army.
Traveling with some men of the Lani tribe, he (and they) came to a break in the trees:
a great sweep of ancient forest rolling off towards the blue horizon. Blue, green: there was nothing else. Everything could have been here at the Creation.
Spears on shoulders, the Lani men turned and sang together, quite matter-of-factly, a song that, Kingsnorth later discovered, was a song of thanks to the forest (Kingsnorth 16).
That Song of the Forest has haunted him ever since.
His life since then—assiduously documented in yearning, visionary prose—has been a search for what those tribesmen had, a state of being which his ancestors also once had, but which has long since been lost: a living community in spiritual relationship with the Living Land.
He left environmental activism, moved his family to a remote farm in western Ireland, hooked up with the local Alexandrians. (I gather that Alexandrians are thick on the ground in Ireland.) Still missing the Song of the Forest, he left the Alexandrians, and was recently baptized into the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Well, Paul, I wish you luck in your journey, and the Sun and Moon on your path. But what would you say if I told you that I could teach you the Song of the Forest? Not the Lani Song of the Forest, but the one that our ancestors used to sing?
In truth, I can't teach that song, to him or to anyone; I don't know it either.
But here's the thing. Kingsnorth seems to have despairingly concluded that, since it's been lost, it's lost forever. But my experience over the past five decades leads me to conclude that, though we may not know the Song now, some day we will.
No, I don't know the Song of the Forest—yet. But let me tell you some of the songs that I do know.
I know the song that you sing when you see an eagle.
I know the song that you sing when you make offerings to the Fire.
I know the song of the Mask that the Horned wears when He dances among His people at the Grand Sabbat.
Fifty years ago, I didn't know any of these songs. Now I do. For this reason, I feel confident that our Song of the Forest is on the horizon, only a matter of time.
Ten years ago, a young woman—now a friend and colleague—came to ask me to be her teacher.
Naturally, I asked the question that you always ask under such circumstances: Why me?
Because what you have is the real thing, and I want it, she replied.
Wishbone folk magic conjures up memories of holiday turkeys. Chickens have wishbones too, though, and the other day I found one. Traditionally, two people break a wishbone together. Each person grabs one of the sides, they make their wishes, and on a signal, they pull at the same time. Whoever ends up with the connector piece gets their wish. So what happens when I'm alone in the house when I find a wishbone?
I thought about drying it for later use. I was not sure if that would work, though, since finding the wishbone while eating was part of the magic. Just like finding a bay leaf in the stew or finding a prize in a king cake, finding is part of what makes it folk magic and not just regular magic.
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Moonstone is a psychic mirror, especially for females. Wise women of ancient India were the first to figure this out. If you are feeling out-of-sorts or off-center, turn to this lovely stone, sacred to the shining orb in our night sky. Under moonlight, gaze first at the moon and then at your smooth, round moonstone and look for the answer to your personal mystery. A message will come to you in the form of a dream this night. Keep a journal at your bedside to record this moonlit message.
Dear Boss Warlock:
I wanted to make some chutney, so I bought some rhubarb at a store, even though as a native Midwesterner I understood that in doing so, I was breaking a major local taboo.
Now I'm afraid of the resultant Curse: that for the rest of the year, I'll be snowed under with gifts of rhubarb from everyone that I know.
Help! Is there any way to escape the Great Midwestern Rhubarb Curse?
Wincing in Winona
Dear Wince,
Whichever gods you honor, my friend, you now owe them big-time. Since the Great Midwestern Rhubarb Curse is a strictly regional phenomenon, there is a way out of your conundrum.
Here's your “Get Out of Hell Free” card, Wince: Local taboos only apply locally.
Before you make your chutney, first cast a circle and, for the duration, declare the entire kitchen to be somewhere else, somewhere that the Curse does not apply—say, California, or Florida.
Good luck, my friend. Let me add that, chutney made, it might very well be politic to send Boss Warlock his own jar by way of thanks for having bailed your sorry Midwestern butt out of this mess in the first place. As it happens, Boss Warlock just loves rhubarb chutney.
My address will be arriving shortly by psychic post.
Boss Warlock
A Note to Readers:
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Gandalf, Glinda and Harry Potter shouldn’t have all the fun. It is a marvelous thing to make your own wand. Start with a tree branch that has fallen to the ground on its own. Sand and polish the rough edges, as it is a wand and not a weapon. Then give it a good smudging. Hot-glue on a large quartz crystal onto the wand near the handle, and hot-glue on any crystals featuring properties that will complement your magic.
