2B — Thursday, October 27, 2016
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Editor’s note: One individual 

interviewed for this article has had 
her name changed due to concerns 
of prejudice, denoted with an 
asterisk.

“Where shall we three meet 

again in thunder, lightning, or in 
rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, 
when the battle’s lost and won.”

— 
William 
Shakespeare, 

“Macbeth”

It was a particularly cold 

evening last October when I 
received the mark of the devil by 
a witch. We were gathered, five 
of us, on her bed, when she lit a 
candle and pulled out a needle. 
It was attached to a No. 2 pencil 
with a piece of string. Sliding 
the tiny blade beneath the flame, 
she walked me through the 
process one more time. So when 
a 
pointillism 
pentagram 
was 

stabbed, one needle prick at a 
time, into the flesh of my pelvis, 
I was ready. Also, the Spice Girls 
were playing.

My friend Helena — tall, silver-

haired, 
perpetually 
wearing 

black — has many tattoos, most 
of which are self-administered. 
When she offered to give me one 
for my 21st birthday last year, I 
was totally on board. College is 
a time for self-discovery, when 
you make mistakes on purpose. 
I don’t regret my stick-and-poke 
tattoo, but to me all it symbolized 
was a youthful indiscretion. It’s 
also tiny, smaller than my thumb 
nail and nestled in a place future 
employers won’t find fault with. 
For me, it’s just a tattoo, and I 
picked a pentagram because I 
thought it would be easier for her 
to draw. For others, it means much 
more.

While 
many 
religions 
are 

practiced on the University of 
Michigan 
campus, 
Wicca 
is 

perhaps the least acknowledged. 
They aren’t making headlines 
or 
causing 
controversy, 
but 

practitioners of the mystical arts 
are as real at the University as 
their beliefs, and so are the fruits 
of their labor. This October, I 
decided I wanted to learn about 
this 
faction 
of 
our 
campus 

community.

I thought of the first place I 

could go in Ann Arbor to find 
witches: Crazy Wisdom Bookstore 
& Tea Room, a cuckoo-for-cocoa-
puffs bookshop located on Main 
Street and East Huron Street. I’d 
gone in once before for the coffee, 
but would have never dreamed of 
buying something in there.

During my visit, I float past 

the glowing crystals and bottled 
incense to reach the shelf of the 
supernatural. My eyes flick across 
words on book spines, and I know 
I’m on the right track — demons, 
vampires. A small collection of 
Joseph Campbell. But no witches.

I keep walking, past some 

intensely tie-dyed scarves and 
entire shelves of incense, until I 
find one devoted to witchcraft. I 
grab two formidable looking texts 
— “Wicca: The Complete Craft” 
and “The Everything Spells and 
Charms Book” — and steal away to 
the tea shop upstairs.

I place my order and flop the 

texts on a window table until the 
barista conjures up a cup of joe. 
The mug warmed by my filtered 
coffee bears the phrase “Om 
Shanti,” which is Sanskrit and is 
also the store’s slogan. “Om” is 
the sacred sound of the universe, 
while 
“shanti” 
means 
peace. 

This definition is written on an 
index card behind the counter 
for the barista’s reference in case 
nosy customers (such as myself) 
inquire about it.

The 
cafe 
is 
surprisingly 

well-lit given the merchandise 
downstairs. The tea shop takes up 
the entire second floor, with big 
bay windows on either side of the 
room. The ceiling is constructed 
with faux-foil ceiling tiles, from 
which elaborate light fixtures 
drip to illuminate the many comfy 
chairs and tables. Wall sconces 
are 
mounted 
on 
the 
purple 

wallpaper, which is also adorned 
with clay blocks painted with 
tarot card symbols. I see angels 
and skeletons, castles and devils 
from my spot by the east-facing 
window. 

The mug also bears the image 

of a naked woman reclining on 
the back of a tiger. I think of this 
as lewd for 0.05 seconds until I 
recall how the Starbucks symbol 
is just as mystical and vaguely 
pornographic.

I tell the barista I’m a reporter 

from The Michigan Daily writing 
about witches. She smiles at me.

“You’ve come to the right 

place.”

Every second Tuesday of the 

month, Crazy Wisdom hosts a 
Witch’s Night Out, in which a 
diverse group gathers in the tea 
house and drinks one potion — 
Good Fortune of Dion Witch’s 
Brew. A blend of hibiscus flowers, 
blackberry leaves, orange peel, 
apple pieces and sunflower, it’s 
a popular herbal blend on the 
beverage menu. However, it does 
not 
tote 
mystical 
properties, 

according to the disclaimer on the 
bottom right of the menu: “Medical 
herbs work best in conjunction 
with a healthy lifestyle.” I was 
right to order coffee.

I’m flipping through the spell 

book first, because of its enticing 
tagline — “Cast incantations that 
will bring you love, success, and 
good health.” I plan on getting to 
the love spells at some point, but 
with my student loans looming 
over me, I’m keen to try the 
Goodbye Debt Spell.

Tools, instead of ingredients, 

are as follows: one large iron pot 
or cauldron, the five of pentacles 
from a tarot deck you don’t use. (I 
feel as though something terrible 
is about to happen to this five of 
pentacles. But what the hell is a 
pentacle?) Finish it off with cedar 
wood chips, sticks or shakes. 
When to concoct it? During the 
waxing moon, of course.

I’m instructed to put the piece 

of wood in the pot, light it on 
fire and slip the card from one of 
my multiple tarot decks into the 
flames. On the night before the 
next new moon, I’m to bury the 
ashes far from my house. I shut the 
book hard enough to startle the 
girl on her phone at the next table.

In the other book I learn the 

origins of the term Wicca, which 
comes from the Old English 
word 
wicce, 
meaning 
“wise” 

or “wisdom.” This tea house is 
basically called “crazy witch.”

It’s time to get out of here.
“Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.”
— 
William 
Shakespeare, 

“Macbeth”

LSA senior Kit Kelly, who 

is 
celebrating 
her 
two-year 

practicing anniversary, tells me 
she wants to make it known that 
she, among other practitioners 
of Wicca, aren’t flighty granola 
hippies. And she doesn’t have 
warts, either.

Kelly 
writes 
in 
an 
email 

interview 
that 
while 
Wicca 

may fall under the category of 
Pagan religions — those that are 
influenced by worship of nature — 
being Pagan does not necessitate 
Wiccan 
beliefs. 
The 
religion 

borrows heavily from other Pagan 
practices, like observing Yule and 
Samhain rather than Christmas 
and Halloween.

There are more than a few 

misconceptions about the Wiccan 
practice that Kelly writes she 
wants to smooth over, and chief 
among these concerns is that it’s 
not some weird hobby.

“First, I think it’s definitely 

possible to be invested in scientific 
logic and also participate in 
Wicca — intention and thought 
has been studied a great deal, and 
our attitudes towards ourselves 
and others have a great deal of 
influence in the physical world,” 
Kelly wrote. “Second, there are 
so many varieties of witchcraft 
that trying to lump us in under 
one stereotype is inaccurate and, 
frankly, offensive.”

Kelly said the end of October 

is the perfect time to discuss 
Wiccan faith given the series 
of misrepresentations that are 
produced by Halloween costumes. 
She believes cartoonish depictions 
of Wicca and witches cast negative 
stereotypes from practitioners in 
the Roma culture — often referred 
to as “gypsy,” nomenclature that 
has been flagged as less than 
politically correct — that have 
equally negative ramifications on 
those who practice witchcraft.

“We are your friends, your 

classmates, your neighbors and 
I encourage you to treat us with 
as much respect as you treat your 
Christian, Jewish or Muslim 
friends — our beliefs are all valid 
and important and we shouldn’t 
be ostracized or stereotyped just 
because we believe in magic,” 
Kelly wrote.

“I was going to fight vampires, 

and my name wasn’t Buffy — I was 

so screwed.”

— 
Patricia 
Briggs, 
“Frost 

Burned”

Most Wiccans on campus just 

want to be left alone — like Art & 
Design junior Ellen Erikson*, who 
identifies not as a Wiccan but as a 
bona fide witch.

“It is a common misconception 

that Wicca is the only type of 
witchcraft,” Erikson wrote in an 
email interview. “While Wicca 
is most often duotheistic and 
recognizes two specific deities, the 
‘God’ and ‘Goddess,’ witchcraft 
as a whole is much more open-
ended.”

Erikson has been practicing 

for a year and a half. When she 
was in high school, her friend’s 
grandmother, a former witch, 
introduced her to the craft and 
lent her a small library of books to 
get her started.

“At the time, it seemed almost 

too good to be true, and although 
I fervently tried a few spells, 
Witchcraft 
always 
felt 
like 

something distant and inaccessible 
to me,” Erikson wrote.

(She describes her sophomore 

year of college as tumultuous. 
Deciding 
to 
transfer 
to 
the 

University after spending two 
years adjusting to her previous 
school, she had found making 
friends and overcoming the stress 
and uncertainty of freshman 
year at her former school was 
challenging. She was unhappy 
where she was, but transferring 
could have easily worsened the 
problems she was having.

Over and over, she asked 

herself: Is Michigan really where 
I want to be? Will it be worth it? 
Where do I belong?

“Although 
my 
family 

encouraged me to make the 
change, advisors, professors and 
other students cautioned me on 
the potential mistake I could be 
making,” Erikson wrote. “I felt 
stuck at a fork in the road for a 
long time. At last, I took one of the 
biggest leaps of faith I have taken 
and transferred.”

It was still difficult — she 

coped with the mounting stress 
associated with culture shock 
and readjustment by partying and 
going out more. But Erikson didn’t 
feel present in social situations 
and had trouble making her art.

“The first time I called myself 

a ‘Witch’ was the most magical 
moment of my life.”

— 
Margot 
Adler, 
“Drawing 

Down the Moon: Witches, Druids, 
Goddess-Worshippers, and Other 
Pagans in America”

The turning point for Erikson 

came the summer after her second 
year of college. She went home and 
relaxed in the familiar company 
of her family and friends. After 
leaving the nest of her hometown 
with a greater appreciation and 
deeper understanding of her own 
spirituality, she threw herself back 
into witchcraft.

“Developing 
my 
practice 

became a huge creative outlet for 
me, which both provided me with 
means of tackling my anxiousness 
and self doubt, and helped me 
reconnect with creating art,” 
Erikson wrote. “Although those 
years were difficult for me, those 
experiences helped me grow as a 
person.”

Kelly wrote that she first got 

involved with Wiccan practices 
after 
suffering 
from 
chronic 

anxiety issues, and feelings of 
being out of control. A friend 
recommended 
she 
look 
into 

the religion as simply a way of 
exercising control.

“At first the rituals were a great 

way to ease my nerves, but I found 
very quickly that intention is 
powerful, and my casting had a lot 
more of an effect on my life than 
I thought it would,” Kelly wrote. 
“Take it from a skeptic and a past 
atheist — the brain is an incredible 
organ and is capable of influencing 
our paths in extraordinary ways.”

According 
to 
Erikson, 

witchcraft exists on a spectrum of 
theologies and practices unique to 
the practitioner.

“I recently came across the 

phrase ‘re-enchanting the world,’ 
which I believe captures the 
essence of what magic means to 
me,” Erikson wrote. “Practicing 
witchcraft has revived my sense of 
mystery and wonder in the world, 
and given me room to develop a 
relationship with spirituality, on 
my own terms.”

For her, whether you’re casting 

spells, doodling sigils during class 
or throwing crystals and herbs 
in your pocket for a little extra 
support on your way to an exam, 
being a witch on campus is just 
plain fun.

“Your average witch is not, 

by nature, a social animal as far 
as other witches are concerned. 

MAGICAL
From Page 1B

 On its surface, “Psycho 
Killer” is the kind of track 
perfect for pretending you’re 
in some spunky retro music 
video. Walking along a dark, 
rainy alley, the steady beat 
drops in just as an inexplicable 
fog wafts across your path. 
It’s spooky, yet playful as 
you saunter to the beat of the 
music. Byrne’s unsteady voice 
makes the thought of actually 
being confronted with a crazy 
murderer seem not at all as 
daunting as its reality.
 When listening more closely 

to the lyrics Byrne is so casually 
spitting, though, the catchy 
sheen begins to ship away to 
reveal something more sinister. 
That first, haunting chorus is 
preceded by, “I can’t sleep cause 
my bed’s on fire / Don’t touch 
me I’m a real live wire.” Byrne’s 
vocals go on to become more 

and more unhinged — much 
like the psyche of the titular 
killer. The repeated fa-fa-fa’s are 
almost manic, warning listeners 
of the madness behind them. By 
the end of the track, that jaunt 
through the alley turns from 
benign to life-threatening.

- CARLY SNIDER

SPOOKY SINGLE REVIEW

A

“Psycho Killer”

Talking Heads

SIRE RECORDS

There’s a conflict of dominant 
personalities. There’s a group 
of ringleaders without a ring. 
There’s the basic unwritten rule of 
witchcraft, which is ‘Don’t do what 
you will, do what I say.’ The natural 
size of a coven is one. Witches only 
get together when they can’t avoid 
it.”

— Terry Pratchett, “Witches 

Abroad”

Erikson said she wishes there 

were opportunities to network 
in her community, but as most 
witches that don’t broadcast part 
of their identity, it’s difficult to get 
out and meet other Wiccans and 
witches. When she first came to 
Ann Arbor, she was disheartened 
by the infrequency with which 
local meetups occur — and rarely 
on campus.

“Asking people if they are a 

witch isn’t exactly the best way to 
start a conversation. Personally, 
I would love to be a part of a 
witchy community on campus,” 
she wrote. “I believe that having 
the ability to practice with others 
would strengthen my belief in my 
own spirituality.”

Kelly belongs to a coven of 

witches in the Midwest called 
the Coven of Stars, but noted 
that getting all of its members 
together can be difficult. The 
past few years, she’s ventured 
as far as Kalamazoo to celebrate 
Samhain with a few of the coven’s 
members, but the whole of their 
order has yet to convene at once.

“When we gather, we tend to 

plan the rituals we do in advance, 
and these typically relate to the 
holiday we’re celebrating,” Kelly 
wrote. “On Samhain, we create a 
bonfire and do a lot of cleansing 
and try to cast for new beginnings, 
because it’s the holiday that marks 
the end of the harvest season and 
the beginning of a new part of the 
year.”

For 
Kelly, 
Facebook 
has 

been an incredible resource in 
finding other witches, and to 
crowdsource ideas for spells. She’s 
also been part of several groups 
online that do outreach work with 
new witches and discuss different 
factions of witchcraft.

Kelly wrote that she considers 

herself a moon priestess, and her 
practice focuses a great deal on 
healing and cleansing. Last year, 
she was able to attend HexFest in 
New Orleans, which is a festival 
that brings practitioners together 
from across the country.

“I was able to meet and learn 

from a few voodoo practitioners,” 
she wrote. “Voodoo is based 
in African lore and focuses on 
making deals with spirits in order 
to gain power. The origins and 
practice of this kind of magic 
is so far flung from what I’m 
comfortable with, and I think it’s 
silly to try to group us together.”

“Wisdom is one of the few things 

that looks bigger the further away 
it is.”

— Terry Pratchett, “Witches 

Abroad”

For me, the road to the witch’s 

house is lined with sorority 
houses. Erikson has agreed to 
perform a little something with 
me, but it’s shocking that she 
could 
have 
possibly 
escaped 

identification as a witch in a sea 

of Canada Goose jackets and 
pumpkin spice lattes.

Erikson says she’s not sure 

how much her roommate knows 
about her status as a practicing 
witch, but isn’t too worried about 
it coming out.

“Why would someone suspect 

somebody else is a witch?” 
Erikson said. “I think that’s a 
weird thing to think. But once you 
do know, I think there’s a lot of 
little indicators.”

Erikson’s room features many 

artifacts that I find strange and 
sobering. Strange would be the 
colony of crystals on her bedside 
table that she refers to as an altar, 
and sobering are the posters 
on her wall — Blondie, and the 
quintessentially collegiate “Pulp 
Fiction” — that could just as 
easily hang in my room. Also the 
shoes under her table, black with 
chunky heels, are the same pair 
that just came in the mail from my 
online order.

The spell she has chosen will 

bring good luck and prosperity — 
but I’m reminded about an earlier 
goal and ask about love spells.

“Oh man, those are always 

tricky,” she says. “I’ve done them 
too, but I’ve always felt weird 
about them. I do the ones (where) 
I’m calling someone, so they 
come to me, so I don’t feel like I’m 
manipulating anything. But those 
are really fun to do.”

Sitting on the floor of her room, 

she pulls out a small journal and 
a massive English dictionary. She 
cracks the cover of the latter to 
reveal a secret compartment from 
which she extracts the spell’s 
ingredients. I watch as she forms 
a pentagram using three yellow 
tea candles and a figurine of a 
black cat. They will represent the 
four directions — air, water, fire 
and earth — as well as one for 
spirituality. Usually she uses five 
candles, but she’s running low. 
For the point representing fire, 
she uses a small cone of incense 
that she picked up in Santa Fe 
because of the smell. She ignites 
the incense with a hot pink lighter.

She pulls out the journal, her 

book of spells, and flips through 
the pages.

“I used to keep it just lying out, 

but my roommate told me that 
she read it,” Erikson said. “So I 
was like, ‘OK, I’m going to move 
it now.’” 

She explains each ingredient as 

she spills it into a clear glass jar the 
size of my second toe, carefully 
held over a black bowl that will 
be taking the place of a cauldron. 
She doesn’t have basil, so she subs 
in frankincense. Otherwise, the 
mixture of pink sea salt, pepper 
(to force out negative energy), 
all spice, nutmeg and regular 
table salt that make up the spell 
becomes my keepsake.

Because she is so rarely alone, 

Erikson mainly performs simple 
spells and rituals.

“In a dorm, there’s always 

people around,” Erikson said. 
“Like, I never know when my 
roommate is going to pop back in. 
Even if I know she’s not coming 
back for a certain time, I feel if 
someone might come in. It just 
distracts me.”

Some 
spells 
have 
chants, 

something that Erikson finds a 
little too kooky. She prefers to 
perform in silence, focusing her 
energy on the ingredients that 
she’s adding. Standing in for a 
wand, Erikson waves a green 
crystal in a stirring motion over 
the concoction.

She blows out the candles, 

counter-clockwise, ending the 
spell. She lets the incense burn, 
and the aroma fills the entire 
room. Later, as I’m standing on 

the sidewalk waiting for my Uber, 
I can still smell it on my jacket.

“Since man cannot live without 

miracles, he will provide himself 
with miracles of his own making. 
He will believe in witchcraft and 
sorcery, even though he may 
otherwise be a heretic, an atheist, 
and a rebel.”

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, “The 

Brothers Karamazov”

Armed with these fresh aromas 

and perceptions, I return to Crazy 
Wisdom. The invisible cloud of 
herbs which greets you at the 
door — a combination of sage, rose, 
sandalwood, lavender and thyme 
— smells exactly how hugging my 
grandmother feels. I allow myself 
to remember for the first time in 
years a similar store that I went to 
in high school called Earth Lore, 
in Plymouth, Mich., not far from 
where I grew up. There were more 
artifacts than books in the shop, 
and I would go with my best friend 
Gina after class and gawk at the tiny 
Buddha statues, or look at the rows 
of incense sticks in a kaleidoscope 
of colors. I don’t remember 
thinking it was ridiculous, or 
looking down on those who would 
go in. We got a kick out of it in a 
voyeuristic, indulgent way. Like 
seeing a romantic comedy with 
your friends. It was a burst, brief 
and pure, of joy.

I sit at the same table as last 

week where the same smiling 
waitress deposits a cup of coffee 
in front of me, and I reflect on the 
utter tranquility of the scene.

A blond boy is lounging on 

a gray couch scattered with 
textbooks, tucked beneath a table, 
which holds a pot of tea belonging 
to the woman in glasses and a gray 
sweater. Two women sit only a 
few feet away from me, bodies 
bent toward each other over their 
round table, speaking in tones as 
smooth and secretive as the light 
gurgle my coffee makes when 
I take a sip. Something soft is 
playing that reminds me of a song 
by Colin Hay.

I consider the deadlines of the 

newspaper to which I have sewn 
my time and lifeforce. I consider 
unfinished class assignments, how 
often I’ve talked to my parents and 
whether or not I’ve disappointed a 
friend by my constant away status, 
like an AIM reminder that I’m not 
as present as I could be in my own 
life. I think about how over the 
course of writing this article, I’ve 
dyed my hair black and started to 
wear the color more frequently. 
I look at my tattoo and wonder 
whether or not it means more to 
me than I first thought.

Traffic 
continues 
to 
pass 

beneath the window to my left. 
A construction crew tears into 
the concrete of the street with a 
construction machine that looks 
like a massive shovel. Children 
pass in strollers, pushed by 
parents on their cell phones. And 
yet I can’t hear any of it. A jazzy 
tune with a faster tempo takes 
off in the tea shop. The espresso 
machine whines. I sip my coffee. 
This room, this space, is an oasis 
of peace. It kind of feels like magic.

