The Witches, A Prologue

 

I wake with a little something percolating in my mind, in my heart, whatever that place is where ideas and inspiration and inklings of Something Else get their start. I try to sleep some more, to dream, to let the thing grow, or go away, whichever. But I did not sleep and the thing nags and starts to dress itself in words. Something about witches and blessings and who people assume witches are and who is out there, living magic every day.

Finally, the witches, the words got louder, more insistent that I rise. And I don’t worry too much about the normal morning rituals, of waking the boys, of making breakfast. I throw on my brother’s old overalls and a t-shirt blessing my friend’s war on cancer. I find socks with skulls and my cozy, tired, slippers. I creep down, past closed doors and all of the devices leaching energy from the wall.

Instead of the normal routines, I come to the place closest to the outside, without the chill. The sky is orange, Sun threatening to burn away thick morning fog. One bright star, probably a planet, blazing, undaunted by her sister. I open a window to an onslaught of bird noises. Singing to pull the bright one up, as if they could paint the woods awake.

I think about meditating, but it seems wrong to do so without a bit of movement. Are  the witches gone?  Or are they driving? I move, arms high, swan dive down into a forward fold and on and on through some sun salutations. No time for a mat, I slide across the wood floor in my bone socks, down dog. I thank myself for the practice. Chide myself for its brevity.

And then, with the almost-just-right/good-enough pile of pillows set up – on the couch because the floor is cold – and with a blanket over me, I sit still. I am quiet. I realize that I hadn’t set a timer and, vainly, want to know how gold-star-worthy my meditation will be. I stir and set a timer for eight minutes. Eight? Shut up. It’s better than not meditating.

In that still place, I feel the bird song, the words, still nagging, I visit a sister who may be hurting but I am not sure. I will my body to replace the blood donated yesterday. I drop into the joy of a conversation, a light, fun, teasing but not hurtful exchange with my husband that left me giggling and certain that we made the right choice, with encouragement from the right voices – my brother, my father, our own hearts. And the birds again. And my sister. And … I am done, though the timer hadn’t gone off. I was connected and ready and full. Six minutes. Namaste, birds.

I search for the composition notebook where I attempt to pin the words down. Victory! Buried under a pile of papers and toy cars. I open to the first fresh page and realize that I cannot see the lines. I teach for glasses on my head and remember that they were on the couch when I plopped down last night. Welcomed me with a crunch.  No glasses. How big would I have to write to see it if I use that notebook and a pen? Too big.

So I start the computer and cranked the document size to 170%. And I’m off.

“Not all witches look like Samantha Stevens, Esmerelda, Wanda, or the one from Wicked.”[Note to self, Google her later. She will mean something to readers who don’t know Samantha.] “Four hundred years post-Salem, there is magic everywhere, in mothers kissing their children’s foreheads, in the careful turning of soil and blessing of seeds, in art, in the millions of pots of soup, shared with neighbors…”

And the baby boy, mournfully long and lean and handsome, teetering on manhood, arrives, smooshes into my lap, marvels at the orange of the sun, and invites me to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal.

And the witches will wait.