4 Witchy Podcasts You Need In Your Life

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

The podcast is a strange animal. Music is usually the go-to while traveling or doing work, while books pass the time and fill our lives with beauty. But where do podcasts fit in? Do they require less or more work? Maybe both? They're educational, entertaining, and reminiscent of a time when broadcast radio floated like music throughout the home. You can simply play one and let all fall away.

Luckily, podcasts exist for every single nook and cranny of the Internet and all the different weirdos surfing it. For us witches, we've got a bevy of wonderful options. Not only do these podcasts serve as a reminder that we're not alone, they truly teach us. They bring us together. They enlighten us on practices, beliefs, and cultures. They create a little bright world where we can grow as practitioners and people. And they're fun. 

Here are my favorites:

The Fat Feminist Witch is one of my favorite podcasts, maybe ever. I adore Paige, the host, who is not only well-versed in witchcraft and magical practices, but regularly approaches issues relating to mental health, the body, race and culture, and wellness. Her personal touch is moving and complimentary, and contextualizes the podcast's focus on modern witchcraft. This is what a real witch thinks about and feels and considers, one might think while listening. On top of that, her guests are interesting, her book reviews are stellar, and her off-the-cuff conversations are enlightening, intersectional, and emotionally open. And funny!

A recent favorite episode: Glamour Magick with Deborah Castellano

The Witch Wave is an excellent podcast for those witches and learners who want a deep dive. Pam Grossman, its host, carefully curates her podcast--ensuring diversity both in its guests and its topics. While she always makes an effort to clarify ideas, beliefs, or words, the questions asked aren't all easy or foundational. She digs deep with her guests and gets to the roots and nuances of the conversation, exhuming ideas that may not be widely spoken about and pressing for more. What you come away with is a comprehensive look at a given topic and a sense of true humanity and context. Pam Grossman is thoughtful, generous, and open-minded in a magical way, and her guests are always the same. 

A recent favorite episode: Jessyka Winston of Haus of Hoodoo

The Serpent Cast is an explosion of awesome in every.single.episode. This podcast blends sex-positive talk and the spiritual (which is a perfect and necessary combo). Hosted by Annabel Gat and Sophie Saint Thomas, they'll cover everything from witchcraft and herbs to gender and sex toys. It's funny, fun, smart, enlightening and sexy. Oh, and I once won a sex toy from them via an Instagram contest. They made my damn day.

A recent favorite episode: Sonia Ortiz, Medium, Tarot Reader, and Artist

Hippie Witch: Magick for a New Age with Joanna DeVoe is one of my favorite podcasts--not only because it's ripe with excellent information on every aspect of the occult, but because its host (Joanna) is kind, thoughtful, balanced, honest, and truly interested in giving space and voice to all sorts of ideas and beliefs. She's funny (like, very), quirky (expect a live and let live style to this podcast), highly intuitive, and deeply empathic. You'll learn about everything from faeries to moon magic to creativity to spirit guides. She interviews dozens of folks, including authors and witches, and she's even interviewed me about my forthcoming book, Light Magic for Dark Times.

A recent favorite episode: Cultural & Personal Shadows Revealed Online

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Lisa Marie Basile is the founding creative director of Luna Luna Magazine—a digital diary of literature, magical living and idea. She is the author of "Light Magic for Dark Times," a modern grimoire of inspired rituals and daily practices. She's also the author of a few poetry collections, including the forthcoming "Nympholepsy." She has written for The New York Times, Narratively, Grimoire Magazine, Sabat Magazine, The Establishment, Refinery 29, Bust, Hello Giggles, and more. Lisa Marie earned a Masters degree in Writing from The New School and studied literature and psychology as an undergraduate at Pace University.

Reviving the Magical Life and Times of the Three Kings

BY COOPER WILHELM

A little before my time, the story goes, the church at the end of the street commissioned a local artist to paint the stations of the cross, and when he did he surprised everyone by including the church elders in the paintings as apostles, townspeople, Roman soldiers, and the like. The story also goes that, although they still kept the paintings, being included in them made the church elders upset. Back when I still went to church, the culture of the church at the end of the street maintained a separation between church stories and church gossip. The Bible was long ago, your life was your life, and it would be frankly rude and a little creepy to discuss any relationship between the two in any detail. 

So, when the pastor allegedly rode off on his motorcycle with the choir master’s daughter, leaving behind questions about a significant amount of money missing from the church coffers (so the scuttlebutt goes, I can’t confirm any of it), it is likely no one drew comparisons between that and, say, the Exodus or something in Revelations. And it similarly stands to reason that when a congregation of Georgian immigrants joined the church, and three of them subsequently performed as The Three Kings during the yearly nativity play, many didn’t think much of the significance of this beyond the fact that “We Three Kings” sounds significantly better in Russian.

But the significance of these Kings, and significance of coming to embody them or any other figure in this direct way is clearer now after having read an excellent new book by Alexander Cummins: A Book of the Magi: Lore, Prayers, & Spellcraft of the Three Holy Kings, volume 3 in Revelore Press’s Folk Necromancy in Transmission series. A broadly researched and well-crafted exploration, Cummins’s book demonstrates the ongoing relevance of the Three Kings over the last millennium and a half, and offers a surprisingly practical guide for including them in your own spellcraft.

Cummins begins with a racing review of 1500 years of Three Kings lore, showing how as the first to bow before Christ and thus the first to demonstrate proper Christian devotion, their position in Christian discourse was frequently ancestral. Although they were not saints per se, and not really Christian either, the Kings still became venerated as holy models for Christian piety, and became the subjects of shrines and pilgrimages.

In time, the Kings came to exist in a space that might blur the present-day lines between worship and witchcraft. Early Christian pilgrims would make or use eulogiae of the Kings, which came in different forms including essentially talismanic clay amulets featuring images of the kings and made from the soil of sites holy to them. Often these clay tablets would be crushed and swallowed in the hopes of benefiting from their miraculous properties. Cummins also lays out how the Kings’ following a star was used during the Renaissance as a model of a kind of Christian astrology to validate astrology as an acceptable and holy art.

This ancestral role the Kings played also went beyond the spiritual and into the political. Spanish colonists in the New World made use of the idea that the Kings, having come from the four corners of the earth to adore the Christ child, could be viewed as universal ancestral figures representing all peoples of the world to claim that colonized peoples had ancient connections to Christianity that they had merely forgotten. In so doing, Cummins argues, missionaries gave themselves the horrifying added rhetorical power of retroactively colonizing the dead in addition to colonizing the living.

But, Cummins argues, these “efforts to convert native populaces gave [colonized peoples] mythic structures that could be adopted to challenge that very colonising authority.” The colonized, in being told that The Kings had been pilgrims from their own lands, were then able to use The Kings to claim their right to be kings themselves. During yearly Epiphany celebrations honoring The Kings, colonized peoples took up the European practice of dressing as the Kings and demanding tribute, to the anxiety of colonial authorities. In 1609, rumors began to circulate through Mexico City that black residents had chosen the night of the Epiphany to elect their own kings in a symbolic challenge to colonial authority. These symbolic acts of reclaiming power became, in Cummins’s telling, a source of fear in the hearts of local colonial rulers: “The shackles placed by colonial masters upon the ancestors of their servants and slaves had been thrust into the fire of their nightmares and had been forged back into crowns.”

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The treatment of this particular aspect of the history of The Kings can feel a bit quick, and might well leave the reader asking for more detail, especially into how the politics of the use of The Kings in anticolonial activity evolved. But the primary focus of A Book of the Magi is how, as ancestral magicians, the Kings came play a role in traditions of magic and sorcery, and for this Cummins collects and lingers over a number of great finds and experiments.

Jumping hither and yon in what could serve as a kind of Medieval Grimoires 101, Cummins skips through a number of different spellbooks to present examples of The Kings being invoked work wonders. Included are magical operations to, say, use The Kings and iron nails to ward off epilepsy as described in The Black Dragon, or to call upon The Kings and use “[p]ills made of the skull of one that is hanged” to cure rabies from Jean Bodin’s Of the Demon-mania of the Sorcerers and Reginald Scot’s The Discoverie of Witchcraft.

Cummins presents these in detail, and some are quite elaborate, especially the rites using The Three Kings to command spirits to bring the practitioner treasure or to transport the practitioner great distances. But the real marvel of this book comes when Cummins moves from reporting the contents of centuries-old texts and begins to describe operations that incorporate his personal research and experimentation. For Cummins is not simply a historian, but also a practicing sorcerer and diviner, offering spells “built upon [his] study of traditional Hoodoo and related folk magical methodologies, chiefly of course African-American Conjure and Latin American folk magic” and based on “discussion with professional rootworkers and Hoodooists.” And it is in this final section of the book that the idea of working with the Kings becomes much more personal and that A Book of the Magi really shines.

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A magical experiment involving The Kings from Reginald Scot’s The Discoverie of Witchcraft

Here the spells take on a very practical tone, using materials one can assemble on a budget to develop tools for magical workings. Cummins offers methods for making oil for safety while traveling, incorporating the Three Kings into your altar, and invoking their help with a kind of crown: “Wear the crown when you are studying magic or searching for something. I have found this Crown assists in divination (a form of searching after all), as well as performing these sorts of magian operations.” There’s even a cake recipe.  

In so doing, Cummins reveals the relative slimness of this volume for what it is: an invitation for you to pick up this journey and begin your own explorations. Whether it be the history of Three Kings lore, where any of the episodes Cummins covers in page-long summaries might warrant or already have the dedication of a full book, and any of the spells might offer a framework for you to adapt to your own needs and knowledge.

The Kings become more than something to simply be learned about or engaged with, but something to be harnessed and embodied. Much like the church elders painted into the stations of the cross of the three men singing “We Three Kings” in Russian, we might let our faces become the faces of The Kings, our voices become their voices, our tongue become their tongues, and—more vitally—we might make their power our power.   

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 Cooper Wilhelm is an occultist, researcher, and poet in NYC. He is the author of three books of poetry, including DUMBHEART/STUPIDFACE (Siren Songs/2017). More at CooperWilhelm.com and on twitter @CooperWilhelm

This Is How A Witch Is Born

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

There is a young girl named Jolene.

She’s got violent blonde hair and eyes too clear to be trusted. Pretty and vicious by 12, Jolene trained a whole pack of followers to move 10 paces behind her, their mouths open and drooling.

Jolene and her pets are sitting behind me in gym class kicking my lower back, which is covered in a soft spill of dark Mediterranean hair. [Lovers today call it beautiful.] I’m so quiet I barely exist. I’m wearing cheap sneakers my grandmother picked up at the church flea market she sells nail polish at on weekends.

My sneakers are white and goofy and too heavy; I look like a twig in them, the tongue heaving over my tiny ankles. I’m supposed to be wearing the Filas everyone else has. I’m supposed to be everyone else.

From where I sit or hide or cower, it seems like everyone else has dinner at home at 6. Has school photos. Has all of the other accouterments of a teenage palace of cruelty. Popularity is my Queen but I won't sit on my knees at her ugly throne. I am daggers. I am full of poverty and mouths sewn shut. I am instead the town seer. I see the mediocrity of youth that will bleed into adulthood. Sometimes I still want to be mediocre. I want to be loved.

By 6 I’m at home alone with my brother, half my age, wondering where my mother is. Sometimes we walk a mile to my grandmother’s senior citizen center where she says those girls are just jealous. I say, but grandma—they’re pretty. You’re pretty, she says. Pretty girls are jealous of pretty girls.

I am raised in a land where pretty is economy. Where being a young girl means fitting into easy sentences and rules. I put on the FM radio in the bathroom and Nair my lower back. Which only makes Jolene siphon more of me, more of my weakness. I remove my body, my hair; I remove myself.

I want to be like Jolene and her pack but I’m not like them. On my head, I have black hair that gives no fucks. When it rains my hair grows fangs. I’m poor and my clothes smell like the local laundromat. Gin and dust and metallic-something—something like something I’m not supposed to smell like.

Jolene says it’s old people I smell like. I laugh stupidly and awkwardly, boldly, in her face, but I know it. I sleep at my grandmother’s tiny apartment a lot. I cry often into her shoulder; between us, there is a silent question blooming; why is her daughter—my mother—not coming home? She braids my hair, paints my nails, goes to bed early.

I sit up alone for hours perched at the window waiting for my mother to come home. To bide the time, I pull out two books: a 1970s pictorial on covens and sex magic and a book of spells, it’s Wiccan, made for teens, I think—I’ve wrapped both in the dust cover of other books, although I know my mother wouldn’t care if she caught me, but I was raised Catholic and am embedded with a certain fear of the devil consuming my soul for all eternity—and I read them quietly to myself, believing in my whole wide heart that magic was swirling out there, ready to be captured, pocketed, possibly brought to middle school.

I want to wear the capes. I want to draw a Pentagram. I want to understand what I’m reading and become all-powerful. At first, sadness drives me toward ritual, but then I take flight on my own.

Behind my grandmother’s house, behind three huge dumpsters, there is a very, very green sort of open space. Fences surround it and separate it from neighboring backyards and they’re covered in ivy. This green leads down to the local river—Rahway River in New Jersey—which is filled with tiny, people-sized islands and moves through the town, circling through neighborhoods where people have given up on themselves. My whole town is broken. Everyone either dies or is dying or hooked on drugs, and all of us kids have either taken on one of two protective stances: be the bully or be bullied. It depends on your heart; sometimes I hate my heart.

Even if some of us come from decent homes, there is always something rotten in this town. Always a secret. A disguise. An animal searching through the wood. No one is untouched.

RELATED: To Be a Witch: The Balancing Act of Embracing Darkness & Light

I tiptoe to the edge of the river and look down into the rocks. My feet get muddy, I smell the earth; copper, moss, summer water. Across from me—at this point the river is hallow, trickling, maybe 100 feet across, dotted by a shower of flat stones—is the back of three stores: a glass shop, a small pub, a dilapidated house. No one can see me, so I step further toward the water and sit at the edge. I wonder what they would think of they catch me.

My book says I need to look for the mushrooms—that’s where the faeries live. I could maybe befriend them but don’t expect them to be kind, exactly. I could maybe ask them to be my friends.

My book talks about drawing down the moon. I stand in the middle of the green, at times glimpsing behind me hoping my grandmother won’t come out and see me, and call on the sky. I open my palms and stand quietly, feeling the power of the earth rise up through and into me. I look into the shadows of my life and find peace knowing I always have myself, these green places, this water.  

I have nothing to distract me. No phone, no real friends, no curfew, no Internet. I only have the earth and the sound of water pulsating. If I close my eyes I can hear my own heartbeat.

I whisper into the blue air, "Please protect my mother." The wind moves; she takes my request.

***

By twenty-five I struggle with my beliefs. It’s not that I don’t believe in anything, it’s that nothing makes sense. Something is out there, I think. I call myself a staunch atheist; I mostly am. 

I won’t meet my lovers or my mother in the afterlife. I won’t be consumed by fire. I won’t reincarnate, I think. But I might just evaporate into the mist of the cosmos, become starlight or a patch of bugambilias. My dying body will be the universe exhaling; it’s exhaled a million times today. The world gets bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller. And it means everything and nothing at all.

I find the word "witch" again and again. She follows me in and out of my life. I find myself always standing at the riverbank or wading through the sea, piling aside my sorrow. I find myself washing my hands in blessed rose water. I find myself in dark rooms, in a circle, pulling something out from my chest and putting it into existence. I create rituals I don’t talk about, fearing I’ll be misunderstood.

If I am seen as a witch, I am seen as other. Rebel, dreamer, enchantress, want-er of things bigger. Want-er of more. Maker of light. Purveyor of shadow.

If I am seen as a witch, I’ll be classified, boxed-up, differentiated. 

If I am seen as a witch, I won’t get a job or be taken seriously. I won’t be seen as rational. I won’t be seen as me.

And yet, if I am seen as a witch, I’ll be seen for what I am. I’ll be seen as someone who respects nature, respects myself, respects my body. I’ll be seen as someone who resists the complacency of the status quo. I’ll be seen as someone who resists acts of warfare against other humans. I’ll be seen as someone who questions simple answers and seeks something deeper. I’ll be seen as someone who wants to create a life of intention and autonomy. I’ll be seen as someone who, when the palace of night washes over my life, will be able to strike a match in the dark. I do dream. I do rebel. I do exist as a natural thing. I am not separate from the earth. I am not a cog. I am not a mime. I am tending to a careful garden where, throughout time, others have come and gone, tinkering in the magic of self.

A witch is born of trauma. A witch is born of solitude. A witch is born of watching. A witch is born of listening. A witch is born of light. 

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Lisa Marie Basile is a writer and founding creative director of Luna Luna Magazine—a diary of darkness and light, literature, identity, and magic. Her book of rituals and practices, LIGHT MAGIC FOR DARK TIMES, will be released in September 2018. She has written for The New York Times, Narratively, Grimoire Magazine, Venefica, The Establishment, Refinery 29, Bust, Hello Giggles, and more. She's also the author of a few poetry collections, including the forthcoming Nympholepsy. 

Body Ritual: Gratitude Magic

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

Body Ritual is Lisa Marie Basile's weekly column about wellness and finding healing and autonomy in ritual. You can follow her on Instagram for more on this topic. You can read the first installment, on Chronic Illness, here.

One of the things I’ve learned to accept about having a degenerative chronic illness is that I’ll always feel slightly different. You may feel this too, especially when subject to the stigma of being ill or dealing with friends, family, employers or lawmakers who don’t get it.

This is also true for anyone who has suffered some sort of body trauma, whether it is an illness or an accident or something else that happened to you. We have to manage the huge spectrum of emotion that comes along with it, be it emotional or physical. We have this animal inside of us, this strange galloping creature who wants to get out and trample the garden and go wild. That same creature is also sometimes left dejected, wandering, wilted. It’s us, and also not us—so how do you manage that? It has feelings you don’t want to have. It has needs you don't have the energy to meet. 

But it also has powers you can tap into.

I wrote in my piece, Body Ritual: 12 Things I Learned About Chronic Illness piece, that feelings around the body aren’t fixed, objective or, at times, rational. But that’s to be expected—we live in these houses for our entire lives, they’re our shells, they’re the place we retreat.

That difference — the feeling of not-quite-ness, or slightly gone-bad, overripe, like a little a sachet of broken bones, like being burdened with the weight of messy genetics and ancestral trauma—is also the very core of magic, at least to me. It’s where we hold those most intense energies and feelings that can be transmuted and transformed.

Those feelings might be anger, shame, exhaustion, rage. All of them, no matter your experience, take up a huge amount of psychic space, gnawing away at your foundation—even if others can’t see. Those energies are seriously powerful, like Hecate at the gate-powerful, like the storm at sea powerful. Use them. It’s free!

Magic is the ability to direct energy, put simply. That concept is simple enough for anyone, witch or not, atheist or not, to put to use. It’s that invisible something that happens when we decide to effect change. With our will and intention, with the energy we put out and direct.

When I’m feeling overwhelmed about my illness, I try and redirect body negativity into body love, gratitude and empowerment. I won’t lie and say YAY GUYS IT ALWAYS WORKS but it does work a lot of the time. And a lot of the time it works with a bit of a magical touch.

Recognize & speak out against ableism

The first problem with how we talk about bodies is that we often insert ableism into the picture. We talk about bodies like they’re all the same, capable of the same things. They’re not. And recognizing and respecting your body and body experience as one notch on the spectrum is key—just as key as recognizing others' experiences.

You also may be chronically ill but able-bodied, and if that's the case, recognize it and fight against ableism for others. Erasing ableism from your vocabulary and mindset will allow you to better support others. Because people suffer, are sick, have disabilities, and are often made to feel alone because of this, gratitude doesn’t have to stop at gratitude. You can support others by listening to them, loudly advocating for their cause, donating your time to them or an organization, and developing ways to include them in the larger conversation. There’s magic in empathy.

Read more about ableism and disability here, by Alaina Leary and watch this video about witchcraft and disability right here. 

Spend time practicing gratitude for yourself

I didn’t say “feeling” or “being grateful”—and that’s because it takes practice! Sometimes I like to jot down a few positive aesthetic and also functional things I feel about my body in a day: my thick wavy hair that I got from my Mediterranean family, my newly-formed quad muscles (from swimming), my strong biceps, my crooked teeth—I think they’re cute, and the way my body feels after stretching. I am grateful I can move, have a full range of mobility (one day I could be disabled due to my illness), and that my pain levels are somewhat manageable. I like to focus on those things and remember them when times get tough. 

What do you like about yourself? Is it your resiliency? Your endless compassion for others? Your desire to eat healthy and stay fit? Do you try to walk for an hour every day? Do you love your sense of style? Find something, remember it. 

Make an altar for your body

Use pictures of yourself as a centerpiece, decorate with pieces of clothing, makeup you use, your oils or perfumes—and light a few candles. Write a letter to yourself and leave it the altar. You’d be surprised by the fulfilling experience of ritualizing self care. Here's a piece I wrote about creating an altar for self-care and setting intentions. 

Train yourself to look at the positive

When you get down and start feeling powerless, reroute your mentality in the moment: “what can I do?” (Versus “what can’t I do?” The 100%-serious reality here is that this won’t magically fix anything, but it will get you into the habit of self empowerment. If we have to live with body trauma or illness, learning to manage it is key.

Tap into your needs

Let yourself have what you need—at least some of the time. Rest of you need rest. Go out if you feel like you’re itching for a party. Stretch it you’re knitted up. See a doctor when you know need help. Use complementary therapies if your gut is telling you to try them.

Take a magical bath

One of the rituals I wrote about in my book, Light Magic for Dark Times (September 2018, Quarto Books) I do when I’m feeling stuck—afraid, powerless, rigidly tied down to my illness—is I get in the bathtub, maybe with a few crystals (I have a love for rose quartz; it feels so soft and pure and kind, and for smoky quartz because it is a great facilitator of wading between the darkness and the light), some Epsom salts and essential oils, and a few candles, and I just conjure the archetype of a mermaid or a sea creature—their fluid bodies, their knowledge of the depths, their ability to move between coral and wild sea flowers and threats. I like to imagine all my worries and pain as a small black ball; then I close my eyes and focus on it dissipating, floating away. It’s not easy, weirdly enough, to visualize. It’s difficult. But when you do, it’s incredibly empowering to feel yourself letting it go, and to focus on being cleansed by the water.

Shadow work

Another practice that I love but would not necessarily recommend for everyone (just because it may not resonate in a healthy way for certain folks) is visiting a cemetery—especially if you have family there. Connecting with death, being still and silent with the tombstones, is not only death-positive, helping you to reframe your experience and perception of death, but magical; you are there, with the earth, standing in a place that is the very representation of the natural human cycle. There is a realization that we all die, but that right now we are alive and living and experiencing and capable in whatever way we are capable. There is a beautiful sense of gratitude to be found here. 

I say this is a way of performing shadow work because it is an experience that forces you to go in, go deeper, look into that abyss where you hold the greatest fear and uncertainty—and then sit with that, let it bloom, let it morph into a sort of peace. It can put you at peace with your body, even if it seems, on the surface, morbid.

Remember that your body is you, it is not separate. Treat it, yourself, with love. You’re a body of magic.

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Lisa Marie Basile is the founding editor-in-chief and creative director of Luna Luna Magazine and community. She is the author of a few books of poetry, including a full-length collection, Apocryphal. Her book Nympholepsy (co-authored with Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein), will be published by Inside the Castle in November 2018 and was a finalist in the 2017 Tarpaulin Sky Book Awards. She is also working on her first novella, to be released by Clash Books in 2019. Her first nonfiction book, Light Magic for Dark Times, will be published by Quarto Books in 2018. 

Lisa Marie's work has appeared in the New York Times, Narratively, Refinery 29, Greatist, Bust, Bustle, Marie Claire, The Establishment, Hello Giggles, Ravishly, Marie Claire, and more. You can catch her on the podcasts Into the Dark, Essie's Hour of Love, and Get Lit With Leza. She recently received two Pushcart nominations—for her work in Narratively and The Account. She received an MFA from The New School in NYC. 

How to Make Moon And Water Magic

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

Sign up for more magical goodies by subscribing to Lisa Marie Basile's newsletter. And be sure to order a copy of Light Magic for Dark Times, a collection of practices and rituals for trauma recovery, intentional living, elemental magic, and journaling.  You can purchase a copy at Urban Outfitters, Barnes & Noble, or your local shop. For our UK, Canadian, Australian, and NZ readers, there are options here for you.

My magic comes to life in water, and consequently, it flowers by the changing phases of the moon. I see moon and water magic as one, inherently and perfectly entwined. 

Water is where I energetically recharge and meditate, whether it be in the sea or in the shower. (I'm also a water sign—#scorpio—so it seems fitting that my mer-qualities would reveal themselves in my practice. I've got my moon in cancer, too, so I'm a double whammy of watery lunar goodness). 

Sea spells and seashells🌊 I was born a water sign (#scorpio), and my moon is in cancer 💦🌚As a child, I spent long weekends at the beach with my family. (I absolutely wore my Ariel fin to the shore). This was before poison happened in my family...and those days by the sea came to an end. I soon learned that the water was my symbol for peace, and my memory for purity and togetherness. I have always felt a draw to water as a secular person, for energy recharging, for sea spells, for rituals of cleansing and recalibration. Water is the closest thing to god for me: it’s life, it’s creation. I could swim for a day straight without stopping. 🌊 I keep a Rose of Jericho (resurrection flower) in my bedroom as a symbol of rebirth and adaptation, and it feeds on water to unfold from its dead state into a blossomed thing. I am a Rose of Jericho, we all are. It’s also been 6 months, to this day, since I started using water as therapy and exercise—swimming or cycling or simply doing crazy plyo pool fitness routines. I do it to manage my health condition, but also because every moment I’m in water I connect back to the source. 💦🙏🏽💦

A post shared by Lisa Marie Basile (@lisamariebasile) on Dec 9, 2017 at 10:19am PST

This is how I see it, and what's always been apparent to me: Water is life, literally; it is immensely profound, healing, powerful and dazzling. It is a force to be reckoned with, never giving up its secrets before it is ready; water is resolved, yet fluid. There’s something beautiful there—recognizing our own need, as a species, to adapt and move while also rooting to what gives our lives meaning. Rooting to our choices, resolving to follow our path, our instincts, our dreams. Evolving. As a child, I would play for hours in the sea, following the waves, intuiting their movement and training my body to roll along with each foamy push. It felt comforting and fun, and, in some way I couldn't articulate, it simply felt right. 

We can all use these ideas and energies as tools. You don't need to be a mermaid or a water sign to work with water, I promise. And it doesn't matter what path you're on or what your beliefs are either. For the record, I'm secular. I work with nature, since it's what we're all made of and connected to; I don't believe in gods or goddesses or any deity associated with the elements. It’s this simple: water, as a symbol, can be a transformative force in our lives. 

I tend to think of water as a divine force that you can find anywhere--via the faucet, in the Mediterranean sea, in a pond in Jakarta, and in your local pool. (I go into this idea more in a podcast I did with Leza Cantoral's Get Lit With Leza). Here are some ways to connect with water and to ritualize and practice with it in mostly informal, DIY and inexpensive ways. 

Immersing Yourself

You can, for one, simply bathe, shower (bathing is better, it uses less water and you can take your time in it) or swim, taking care to ground yourself in the water, noticing the way it feels on your skin, letting it hold you in its care, appreciating its gentleness and respecting its power. Many people forget that magic isn't only made in ritual or through spell-work, but by being near or in nature and simply existing with it, consciously. 

If you do bathe, you can add shells to the water or to rim of the tub (just be sure to step carefully! You don’t want a seashell slice; I speak from experience and several stitches). 

If getting into a body of water is generally not a possibility for you, that's okay. You can submerge your feet or try the hand-cleansing practices I've listed below. 

Water Altars & Practices

Beyond swimming or bathing, where you can be submerged in the powers of water, you might want to decorate an altar (or just a chill-out space) with sea shells, candles of blue or turquoise, and a bowl of salt water or sea water (if you're lucky to be near the sea!). I like to put out a sea altar whenever I feel particularly stuck, stagnant, or fearful, as it represents my ability to be fluid, to let go, to connect with something pure and massive and ancient. I’ve collected some shells from countries of my heritage, which I think of as sacred and full of ancestral power. Otherwise, shells from your local beach are absolutely wonderful! Sometimes thrift stores even carry gorgeous shells. 

🧜🏽‍♀️I made 100 magical sachets for my Light Magic for Dark Times editor to bring to a sales conference. Each and every one of these little bags were given tons of love & care, and even Ben stepped in to help when my arthritic witchy fingers got sore (lol). With moon-cleansed seashells and tiny candles and a handwritten sea spell in each bag, they aim to help its reader set an intention, make a wish or find a moment to summon healing or courage. 🧜🏼‍♀️ ps: I have a few leftover! I may actually make these available at an upcoming @lunalunamag event. #lightmagicdarktimes

A post shared by Lisa Marie Basile (@lisamariebasile) on Jan 28, 2018 at 8:18am PST

During long days or hard weeks, I'll pour water into a large bowl and fill it with essential oils, shells (abalone ones are perfect and gorgeous!), crystals (I love to use Aquamarine or ocean jasper) or flower petals. You may choose to add salt.

I'll wash my own hands in it, imagining the tension and grief dissipating. There is great self-care magic in cleansing yourself in a conscious and symbolic way, and I recommend a bowl of cleansing water after work or after a day when lots of chaotic or not-so-nice energies are stuck to your psyche or space. 

You might want to burn a blue or green candle while listening to whale sounds as you doodle or stretch. Easy techniques like these can signal your mind to begin thinking and feeling the power of water, especially if you can't near a sea or body of it. (I've always been a fan of blending DIY magic and self-care as-needed, without too many formal rules or structures; I find it allows me to really tap into my instincts and personal power. Chaos magic, for example, makes a lot of sense to me). 

You can also carry a sachet bag with a small shell when you need a boost or a reminder to stay calm and flow. Keep it in your bag or purse or pocket and pull it out when you need it. Remember to energetically cleanse the shell in water, by the light of the moon or with smoke so that it can be replenished. 

Working with the Moon

You can also boost your personal power with moon work, particularly during the full and new moon, when vibes are high. Luna is very giving, always there for you, keeping us literally grounded to earth. Hint: Luna Luna's name has a few meanings, but one of them is that there are two sides to the moon (the dark and the light) and that we inhabit both, equally, to our benefit. 

The New Moon: The new moon is a great time to set intentions, make wishes, and set out a path for change, increased harmony, creativity, resolution, new beginnings. It can also be used to release energies and break out of patterns. 

The Full Moon: The full moon is a good time to do any sort of practice or spell-work, but I think of it as a time to renew what I worked on during the new moon, sew big seeds, do seriously potent work and recharge in big ways. 

It's also a great idea to be aware of which sign the moon is in during any given day (it cycles through the zodiac). You can use an almanac or a simple app, like Moon, to easily track it. I suggest finding a book that explains in-depth what the moon in each sign means and begin to ebb and flow with that sign's energy. Just because it's not your sign doesn't mean it can't teach you lesson, imbue you with qualities that are hidden deep down (hey, that sign might be in your chart!), or inspire you. I have recently read Moonology and recommend it! It really clearly goes over the basics of moon magic, and it's a great place to start.

Moon phase-focused spells and rituals can give your practice and self-care routine structure, and because each phase is somewhat different energetically, you can time what spells or practices to those qualities. I often make moon water—water that is charged with the energies of the moon—to power my spell-work, use as a pre-night out face cleansing tonic, cleanse my crystals or power objects and brew tea or elixirs.  

How to Make Moon Water

• Pour some water into a bowl or jar. I like to use mason jars because they have a lid, they're pretty and the light can get through the glass.

• Place your jar on a porch, a windowsill, or directly in the path of moonlight. (Definitely cover your water if you're putting it outside).

• Keep it there overnight. Many people pull the water inside before the sun comes up, but others do not. This is a personal choice.

• You can do this for the new before, during and of the moon phase you're working with, but during the day-of is best.
  
  I talk a lot more about this in my upcoming book, Light Magic for Dark Times, which is all about self-care rituals and practices. PS: you can follow me on Twitter & Instagram to keep up to date.

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Lisa Marie Basile is the founding editor-in-chief and creative director of Luna Luna Magazine and community. She is the author of a few books of poetry, including a full-length collection, Apocryphal. She is also working on her first novella, to be released by Clash Books in 2019. Her first nonfiction book, Light Magic for Dark Times, will be published by Quarto Books in 2018. 

Lisa Marie's work has appeared in the New York Times, Narratively, Refinery 29, Greatist, Bust, Bustle, Marie Claire, The Establishment, Hello Giggles, Ravishly, Marie Claire, and more. You can catch her on the podcasts Into the Dark, Essie's Hour of Love, and Get Lit With Leza. She recently received two Pushcart nominations—for her work in Narratively and The Account. She received an MFA from The New School in NYC.