Sometimes I Pretend I’m a Witch.
Sometimes I pretend I’m a witch. On early July mornings, when my skirt flows in ruffled layers, the hem kissing my ankles, and a shall wrapped loosely around my shoulders, I feel an ethereal energy in the air.
My hair cascades down in untamable curls and falls across my face, unapologetically chaotic. My fingernails are painted a rich dark green, my hands are dressed with wire wrapped rings and my wrists are covered in metallic bangles. The silver medallion that belonged to my grandmother hangs proudly around my neck. Joan of Arc, my patron saint. She is a symbol of courage, my constant reminder that it is okay to move against the grain. I brush my thumb over the embossed portrait whenever I need a little extra nerve.
I pad across the floorboards with my trusty watering can, caring for my many plants. They are scattered all around the house; on the stereo speakers, the coffee table, grouped together on the window sills and even the floor. Although I am giddy with delight when I notice a new unfurling leaf or when my prorogated cuttings are ready to be planted, I admit that I pretend to know more about them then I really do. A witch is never done learning. I imagine each plant possesses magical properties to heal loved ones and wound enemies.
Eucalyptus hangs from the door, a charm for strength and abundance. I have jars of dried herbs lining the shelves in the kitchen. Hemlock, juniper, sage, and rosemary. Vegetable broth is simmering on the stove, filling the room with a delectable scent. My tea is steeping in my favourite mug – a brown ceramic dish with a sunflower painted on it and a lopsided handle, found in a box marked ‘FREE’ on the side of the road.
The little thrifted table is my alter. The cloth-bound journal with a gold foil leaf on the cover is my grimoire. Crystals line the edge of the table. Each one hand-picked, calls to me in ways I do not fully understand. I hold one in my palm, cold and soft on my skin. I let my body draw from the stone’s energy; trusting the process.
The sky is dark grey with a hint of plum undertones streaking the thinner clouds. When the rain comes, a burst of excitement runs through me. The windows are open and I breathe in deeply. The warm summer breeze blows through the house while the trees outside bow to its whim. They are humble, accepting of their role in the natural order. I take my cue from the birch and the willow. I am not afraid of heavy weather for I know it is only temporary. I step out on the front porch and perch. I hug my knees close to my chest and enjoy the show. I pretend I summoned the storm myself and relish in its majesty.
Sometimes I pretend I’m a fairy. On midsummer afternoons, when my bare feet cross a lawn of creeping thyme, the tiny purple flowers tickle between my toes.
I gather cuttings from the wildflowers that grow in abundance in the backyard; Aster, Black-eyed Susan, Bunchberry, Queen Anne’s Lace. I am mindful of the honey bees buzzing around me, hard at work. We move side by side in harmony. I, too, am a scavenger, collecting treasures: a perfectly shaped pinecone, a soft magpie feather, a tiny violet to press and preserve. I chase my dog around the yard, laughing and not caring if my skirt gets dirty. I imagine we are off in some far away land, slaying dragons.
I lay underneath the pear tree and admire the fruit of its labor. Most of them are shaped funny and not pear-like at all, but that’s alright. They taste riper than any store-brought fruit ever will. I draw a sketch of our river birch tree, still a baby at only seven. I imagine what it will look like in a hundred years. How different do you suppose it would be? Will my great-grandchildren climb it? Would it remember me if I came to visit?
I like to think gardens can remember. They remember the coarse hands that nurtured them with care. They remember the voices that sang off key while being pruned and watered. They remember the souls that sat amongst their imperfect beauty and still called it a sanctuary. They remember the dreamers who snapped off snow peas and snacked before they ever made it to the kitchen. They remember the afternoon tea parties and the evening cocktails. They remember the midsummer picnics and Thanksgiving feasts. Gardens grow and evolve much like we do. Roots reaching deeper. Stems reaching higher.
From my shady spot under the branches, I can see the bird feeder. I watch the numerous small visitors come and go in a flutter. I’m partial to the White-Breasted Nuthatch – the first (and so far, only) bird that I have fed from the palm of my hand. It never gets old. For a brief three seconds, I get to witness magic and it fills me with immense, childlike joy. I imagine that is what fairies must feel like – to bear witness to the secret magic of the forest. Their job is to preserve that magic. They are the guardians of the forest. I try my best to protect it as well.
Sometimes I pretend I’m a mermaid. When I plunge into the frigid Canadian lake something inside awakens. A beautiful siren from a past life, still sleeping deep within me, comes out to play in the water. Out here, she is free.
She is much braver than I. She is not intimidated by the deep dark sea. Kicking her fins, she swims further. The dock is a tiny speck in the distance, now. Out here, I am weightless. My body sways gracefully in tune with the waves. My hair defies gravity, floating around me like golden ribbons. The lake’s surface sparkles as the sun breaks through the clouds. The water is cold, but I am unbothered for I am home.
I take a deep breath and dive below. I imagine what it would be like to spend hours carelessly collecting starfish and pearls. I would visit the coral reef and help restore it to its proper glory. I would venture through the hollowed ships of the past and leave tokens in honour of the lives lost. I would follow the jellyfish and their free-swimming ways. I wonder where I would end up if I let the current guide me. Would I make friends with the turtles and the seahorses? Would I laugh and play with the dolphins?
One thing is for certain. My dreams rest on the ocean floor, safely tucked away until I am strong enough to reach them. Like sunken treasure, they glisten beneath the surface, urging me to dig deeper.
Sometimes I pretend to explore depths beyond my imagination. And every time, I discover something magical within myself.
