P is for Past Lives

    I’m crossed-legged on my kitchen table to avoid piquing my cat’s interest. I have a white candle and a stick of jasmine on either side of me. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I hold my prayer beads and silently count out my breaths. Once I am grounded, I silently cast a circle of white light around me. The light surrounds me and forms a sphere of energy around my makeshift altar. I take a deep breath and whisper the following words:

“I call to the dark and the past,

The ancient of days in the realm of repast.

Unleash to my sight the paths I have roamed,

And show me the forms of life I have known”1

For a moment or two, I sit in silence. When I am about to give up, it comes to me in flashes. The sound of popping corks and clinking glasses. People are laughing and dancing. They are all wearing tuxedos and ball gowns. It all goes dark. Now I see a lush garden filled with magnolias and gardenias. The smell overwhelms me. I hear the sounds of children laughing and a dog barking. Blackness again. I feel frail, older now. I’m surrounded by people now, family. It’s raining and they are crying. Darkness again.

I open my eyes and I am once again in my kitchen. I have more questions than answers, but I guess that’s how things like this work. I open the circle, snuff the candle and incense, and climb off my table. I pick up my cat and head to my couch to watch a little TV before bed. Maybe I will learn more next time.

  • Excerpt from my Book of Shadows December 2, 2014


1taken from Ann Moura’s The Grimoire for the Green Witch


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