Witch people

When I was a child, I was a witch. I had a book of spells that I had crafted, half out of ingenuity and half out of necessity (I mean really, how many spells could I possibly remember for turning a person into a frog, or a rabbit, or a hamster?). I wrote pages and pages of spells in that book, complete with made up potion combinations and ingredients. I have no idea where I came up with the words because they were obviously not based on a romance language, and also most certainly not Germanic. Perhaps my mind had tapped in to some deeper power. The power of gibberish. Either way, if I mixed these mythical ingredients together, according to my explicit instructions, it would result in momentous magic. I still remember all of the things I could create with my mashed up words and scribbled handwriting and inaccurate measurements strewn on the page. I could do anything.

And that is the amazing thing about witches. From what I have put together from studying the history of witchcraft and witch hunts in school (Yea, that’s a class, honest. I went to a liberal arts college, what can I say), and through my own reading on the subject, they were a force within themselves. And not the force that is perpetuated today. I never saw them as women inciting terror, flying through the night cackling at the moon. Instead, I always viewed them as women that were able to see what they wanted, and then let themselves have it. And isn’t that an amazing gift? To see something in your sights, and allow yourself to take it? To be smart enough to take it, or quick enough. To just be enough.

The very idea, the idea of enough, is one that we rail against and scream about and are bombarded with in a million different ways. Are you thin enough to fit into the “right” clothing size that society has selected as beautiful? Are you smart enough to get that promotion at work? Are you funny enough to have your group of friends double every time you open your mouth (as opposed to shrinking, which sometimes happens when I talk)?

I don’t know. What is enough? And who defines it? And how do I get it? As I get older, I grow tired of this constant line of questioning. It’s frustrating and unproductive. A constant repetitive interrogation that goes on and on. Instead, I’m starting to realize it’s simply a matter of perspective. I am enough because I say I am. And that is the true magic. The funny thing is, in the end, I guess I turned out to be a witch after all.

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