Spells for the real world

As it’s spooky season, I’m thinking about all the other forms of magic in my life, big and small.

When I was a kid, we’d cook ‘soup’ in tiny tin pans to pour into plastic tea cups and ‘eat.’ The main ingredients were dirt, grass and water. Sometimes a rock or two for flavor. It wasn’t edible, but it did feel like magic.

I still feel that way about making soup, though I use a lot less dirt and grass now. It’s still a sort of magic, throwing ingredients into the pot, stirring with the steam rising. Am I tempted to whisper, “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble”? I am.

Soup is magic, a kind of spell we cast. There’s a wish or a desire—to eat something delicious. To feed our friends and family. To impress with the wonders of our cooking talent. There are instructions to follow—the recipe or a basic formula for what soup should be. There’s an alchemy that defies understanding. How do relatively simple ingredients result in something that is both scrumptious and so different from its constituent parts?

As it’s spooky season, I’m thinking about all the other forms of magic in my life, big and small. I’m thinking about the spells we cast on a daily basis.

Bringing candy to my students in the mid-term dregs of the semester is magic. Candy and spells have a long history together. The out-sized effect a bag of candy has on a class of stressed-out, sleep-deprived students is something to see. Their eyes light up. The sugar rush gives them so much more to say about the readings. They’re so happy you feel a bit like the pied piper, that they might follow you anywhere, or at least, through another day of sociological theory.

Baking bread is especially magic. Bread, flour, water and yeast transforms into this fluffy, perfect loaf. How is that possible? And if you’ve ever listened to a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven, crackling and sighing, you’d never doubt it’s magic again.

A great cocktail is magic. I had one this weekend with a burnt rosemary garnish. Every time I lifted the glass to my lips, I breathed in rosemary and smoke. You can’t have a spell without some powerful smells.

The way my streaming service knows exactly what I want to watch when I turn it on—the Bengals game—is magic. The way my cat’s black fur looks brown in the sunlight.

Healing is its own spell. The way our skin closes up after a cut or the slow fade of a bruise. The healing of all our inner wounds. Facing what hurts us and learning how to do better. Sometimes a spell is as simple as a phone call to the right person in the right moment.

So many spells involve singing and music, because, of course. Music is one of the most magic things of all. This weekend, I made my own magic spell—a spell of healing and restoration.

Sometimes you have to be in a special place for a spell—the top of Mt. Mordor or the house where Tom Riddle was born. Spells require travel, so we got in the car and drove to Louisville. Some spells can’t be done at home.

Spells are meant to be tasted and smelled. The potion must be drunk. Alice must swallow the pill. So we ate a gorgeous meal and drank amazing cocktails.

Spells are communal affairs. Things almost always go wrong when you try to do them alone. I went with my husband. We gathered in an old church with a whole community of people, gathered in the dark to listen to music.

This was a spell I’d been planning for years—to see Joan Shelley, the last musician I saw perform before the world shut down. That night back in March of 2020, I had no idea what was coming. But when it became clear none of us would be going to a concert again for a very long time, I swore I would see Joan Shelley again. I would go back. Full circle. I would un-do it all.

Of course, there’s no undoing these last three years. There’s no going back. Spells of undoing are always dangerous, anyway.

Still, I waited. I bided my time. Some spells take a long time to be completed. There are some spells you can’t cast until the moment is right. At the full moon or midnight. Magic takes patience, too.

This weekend, we gathered in an old Catholic church, the acoustics designed for their own sort of magic. What’s religion, anyway, except magic domesticated and controlled? There was darkness and light. Voices and silence. There was magic, a spell of healing and restoration.

May our wounds be healed. May we find the light in the darkness. May we hear the music. May we always see the magic that’s all around us.

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If you’re in the mood for more spookiness, check out this post about living with ghosts or about wanting to be a witch (I still do).