Spelling away sickness

When the broader public thinks about paganism (if they think about paganism), most likely they think of magic and spells. I know I did: my first exposure to paganism was through a pair of Wiccan coworkers in the late 90s, right around when The Craft came out. And so even as I curiously picked up a copy of Vivianne Crowley’s Wicca: The Old Religion in the New Millenium and read Crowley’s calm explanations focused on personal transformation and self-exploration, I always saw Fairuza Balk’s crazed, too-eager eyes whenever Crowley said anything about a spell or incantation. 

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Realizing the sacredness of the body

I’ve been struggling with my body the last few days. I’m just coming off a concert weekend (which had moments of profound meaning that I plan to write about soon), and that’s always hard: four concerts in three days is a lot of standing and interrupted eating schedules, and my body is fond of reminding me lately that I’m no longer in my twenties, that I need to move more and be mindful of what I’m eating. But these past few days have hit me harder than I expected: during the second concert on Saturday I was struggling not to pass out during a long formal piece, yesterday I had to skip participating in an anti-racist march I felt very strongly I should attend, and today I found myself on foot fifteen minutes from my house, suddenly and without warning unable to fathom walking the rest of the way home. This is almost certainly a blood sugar question; my mother is hypoglycemic, and the symptoms are pretty familiar to me from watching her.