Deep Magic and a Rosemary Tree

As a teen, I was a witch.

Or what I understood to be a witch, and what, I think, a lot of people would understand to be one too.

I grew from a line of impeccably faithful evangelical Christians into someone who snuck out not to meet romantic prospects or to go to parties, but to wander the nearest forest with a kerosene lantern and undertake rituals in a clearing among the pines. I did not follow a book, or have any sort of guide. I did not call on dark spirits. All I knew was that the Earth and the things living on it had a voice, and that I wanted to speak with them. That they were a choir, and I wanted to join their music.

In my twenties, I was a Christian. Or what I understood to be a Christian, and what, I think, a lot of people would understand to be one too.

I grew from a teen who haunted forests into a young adult who craved structure and care–to be tenderly shepherded by an all-knowing and loving power. I spent my time not among the trees but in a sanctuary. I followed a book; I had a multitude of guides. All I knew was that the children of God had a voice, and that I wanted to speak with them. That they were a choir, and I wanted to join their music.

The children of God, as it turns out, can bite in ways the woods do not, and I am a cautious person. Once bitten, twice shy, was an adage coined for careful souls like me, and it is difficult to unlearn wariness when every day, the fold is shown to hold new wolves in sheep’s clothing. But I’ve never yet lost my faith in the shepherd I sought out–that, I’ll carry with me till I die.

I am trying to unlearn wariness. Wariness of my scars and wariness I was taught in the sanctuary, of opening myself to the world around me. Of listening to the Earth, and the things living on it.

Which brings me to the rosemary tree.

I brought her home last month, because I knew I needed her. Rosemary is a good and giving plant; a steadfast and nurturing friend. Rosemary, since she was made (“Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb that yields seed, and the fruit tree that yields fruit according to its kind”) has been for clearing the mind and body, for opening the same, and for protection. Mine is proving true to type, good and giving, steadfast and nurturing, a daily reminder that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. That all nature sings as round us rings the music of the spheres.

There are two things I believe whole-heartedly, down to the core of my being: that the spheres are turned by a good and loving power, and that the universe we inhabit is full of beautiful aliveness. That the rosemary tree and I each give up glory when we fully and joyously live the lives we were made for. When we give, one to another; me tending her, her tending me, each as we are able. I worship, not just because of the rosemary tree, but with her.

I want to speak with the things whose voices I unlearned. I want to join the great music and the great dance. I want, everywhere, to see glory, and to reflect back what I have seen.

For you shall go out with joy, And be led out with peace; The mountains and the hills Shall break forth into singing before you, And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

Isaiah 55:12

Most High, all powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor, and all blessing.

To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no man is worthy to mention Your name.

Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures,
especially through my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day; and you give light through him.
And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind,
and through the air, cloudy and serene,
and every kind of weather through which
You give sustenance to Your creatures.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water,
which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom you light the night and he is beautiful
and playful and robust and strong.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth,
who sustains us and governs us and who produces
varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

Praised be You, my Lord,
through those who give pardon for Your love,
and bear infirmity and tribulation.

Blessed are those who endure in peace
for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.

Praised be You, my Lord,
through our Sister Bodily Death,
from whom no living man can escape.

Woe to those who die in mortal sin.
Blessed are those who will
find Your most holy will,
for the second death shall do them no harm.

Praise and bless my Lord,
and give Him thanks
and serve Him with great humility.

St. Francis of Assisi

The book I followed has led me to other books. The room full of guides has given way to a history and a world full of them. I am caught halfway between two things–between the witch and the Christian I was. But I am convinced that there is no need to give up magic simply because you call it miracle. That the meaning and potency and importance of things is not diminished simply because the power they hold is granted by something outside themselves; by something greater.

But ask the beasts, and they will teach you; the birds of the heavens, and they will tell you; or the bushes of the earth, and they will teach you; and the fish of the sea will declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this?

Job 12:7-9

I keep the Holy Family on my window sill. I keep them there to remind me of magic: that the divine had a mother, a country girl with nothing to recommend her besides the depth and breadth of her faith. Of her openness to the extraordinary, because when her world was infringed upon by angels, her response was “let it be to me according to your word.“

I keep what I would have once considered witchcraft on my window sill, and what, I think, a lot of people would understand to be witchcraft too. It is a little thing, a bundle of cedar (for protection and cleansing) given to me as a gift, and clippings from the rosemary tree I am working and worshiping with. I draw in breaths of its resinous smell to focus, to help me find the still point, and to remind me of miracles: that I am alive in a world of bright living things. That the universe is full of wonders I will never understand, that I am loved immeasurably, and my sole duty is to love in return.

Whether it is the Holy Family or the rosemary tree that draws my focus and holds it, reminding me to give up glory, it is all worship. It is knowing that the children of God–in all their shapes and guises–have a voice, and I am speaking with them. That they are a choir, and I am adding to their music. And I think, in these moments, that I too, have the Spirit of God.

Amen and amen, and so may it be.