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  In 1692, the sleepy town of Salem Massachusetts was swept with fear as the most infamous witch trials of colonial America rocked burgeoning province. While not impervious to the witch trials which had been sweeping Europe over the course of the preceding centuries, America had managed to avoid the wild, superstitious fear until the 1640s. Several trials occurred in the 1640s, but only in 1647 did New England have its first execution of a witch. A smattering of accusations and trials occurred over the next several decades, but the peak of the witch-hunt in the early Americas ultimately took place in Salem and its nearby villages.

  The most well-documented of the early American cases, the trials of Salem spiraled from cases of childish magick to a socio-political nightmare that took the lives of a significant number of the female population of the township and its surrounding areas. The witch trials encompassed both purported actual witches, like the confessed enchantress Tituba, to the young girls whose immature attempts at divination were tied together with later seizures, speculatively from the eating of or exposure to psychotropic grain or other natural products. As the American lowlight of the Burning Times, the Salem Witch Trials represent an important, although tragic key point in the the anthropology of magick.

  As I happened to be in Massachusetts this past weekend for an archaeology and heritage conference, I was able to make a pilgrimage to the pleasant New England town of Salem. Be it out of respect for the witches and innocents persecuted by the infamous trial or a morbid curiosity about gothic matters, Salem has become a tourist Mecca. And while many things in Salem have an element of kitsch about them, there is still much respect for the town’s solemn role in the history of witchcraft, both with regards to honoring the dark events that brought it notoriety and valuing the role it has for the modern Wiccan, Witch, and Neo-pagan communities because of its occult connotations.

  My tour through Salem started off with a green bang. As we drove into Salem proper, my co-tourist and I discovered that Salem Commons was featuring an ecological rally for a green Salem (good cause!). We began our official tour with a brief visit to the National Park Service’s Visitors center for Salem, mostly to collect the relevant maps and brochures that were necessary to navigate the town. A meandering stroll around town led us past such amusing things as a local Pirate museum and some of the Witch museums of wax figures, none of which took our fancy enough to actually go in. Though these museums probably certainly have their charm, I was more keen to skip such secondary and third resources and go straight to the primary. And thus my principal goal for my Saturday afternoon in Salem was visiting the actual historical points of interest.

  This kicked off with a visit the Burying Point, the oldest graveyard in Salem. Somberly perched on high ground in the city center, the Burying Point contains several of the dignitaries associated with the witch trials, many relatives of famous colonial personages, and my particular favorite concept (from my warped archaeological perspective) an exciting array of tombstone iconography representative of the seriation of styles prominent during the late 17th and early 18th centuries (super dorky reference, but I am quite a fan: Remember Me as you Pass By, Chapter 4 of James Deetz’ seminal book on historical archaeology and the cultural implications of gravestone iconography In Small Things Forgotten: An Archaeology of Early American Life). I had been planning on taking some pastel rubbings of some of the iconography, but sadly, very prominent signs forbade against this artistic endeavor. I did , however, manage a respectful rubbing of Emily Dickinson’s grave marker (“Called Back”) earlier in my trip.
The Burying Point is also the home of the Witch Trials Memorial, an artistic series of granite benches and inscribed paving stones which memorialize “the events of 1692 … as a yardstick to measure the depth of civility and due process in our society” (per the Salem City website).

  Following a quick trip to A&J King’s fabulous bakery (walnut cinnamon buns to die for!) and brief tours past some of the more architecturally exciting bits of downtown Salem, we headed for the most pop culturally iconic monument in the town: the Bewitched Statue. As pictured at the start of this article, the statue is a bronze casting of Elizabeth Montgomery as Samantha Stevens astride her broomstick and against a crescent moon. Placed in Salem by TVLand, it is a fitting memorial to one of television’s greatest and most respectful representations of witchcraft in the modern world, as well as a testament to the role Salem holds as a place of magic, forever associated with the witches (and falsely accused magicians) of the New World. As a bright spot in the history of witchcraft, the show Bewitched, and its commemoration in Salem, provides a perfect counterpoint to the dark history Salem is typically associated with.

  More meanders through town ensued, including trips into several of the touristy cum magickal shops, which although great, could not compare to the Sacred Mists Shoppe (if you haven’t been to the bricks and mortar version of Shoppe in Napa, it is well worth a trip of its own! Go!). And finally, after some fabulous frozen custard, my co-tourist and I headed over to the Maritime Museum and House of Seven Gables. Though the pirates obviously held strong appeal, it was the House of Seven Gables I was more excited to see. For one reason or another, it seems most American high school curriculums include Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlett Letter, but I believe his House of Seven Gables to be the far superior and more engaging text. The story of a lingering superstition, the politics of the witch trials, and a cursed set of families, the dynastic saga peaks at the invasion of a distant cousin who manic-pixie-dream-girls the lineages out of their various plights. Hawthorne’s cousin’s house that inspired the tale still perches along the waterfront in Salem. The house is a stunning piece of period architecture which serves as a historical testament both to the book, and the family’s own actual connections to the Salem witch trials that inspired the initial cursed events of the classic tale.

  Though Salem’s place in the history of witchcraft is a dark legacy, the town of Salem remains an important focal point for magick. The idea of ‘The Witch’ has come a long long way from the hysterical fear it once elicited. Modern role models for the wiccan and neo-pagan communities like Bewitched or even Harry Potterhave done much to move away from the evil stereotypes once associated with being a witch. But in order to appreciate how far society has come out of the broom closet, we must fully understand how deep the fear of the ‘other’ represented by magick has come. We must memorialize the dark times in order to fully appreciate the light.

  This week I am presenting an archaeological paper at the Digital Heritage conference at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst (excitingness!). And as I am in the birthplace of one of my favorite poets, Emily Dickinson, it seemed apropos to share one of my favorite works with you: one which emphasizes the notion of utilizing one’s imagination and finding fantasy and magick in the mundane elements of life.

  Dickinson’s A Murmur in the Trees subtly emphasizes the idea of seeing beyond the regular world into what I have always interpreted as a sort of faerie realm or different dimension which coexists with our own. It advocates for seeing the world as brightly techno-colored as we can, and holding that close to ourselves comfortably, without insisting that others must see it as well. Though it is not overtly a magickal bit of literature, it hints at the otherworlds magickal practices attempt to reach and at a calm understanding of the unity between those worlds and our own. I do hope you enjoy it (and wish me luck at the conference!):

A MURMUR in the trees to note,
Not loud enough for wind;
A star not far enough to seek,
Nor near enough to find;

A long, long yellow on the lawn,
A hubbub as of feet;
Not audible, as ours to us,
But dapperer, more sweet;

A hurrying home of little men
To houses unperceived, –
All this, and more, if I should tell,
Would never be believed.

Of robins in the trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
Although I heard them try!

But then I promised ne’er to tell;
How could I break my word?
So go your way and I’ll go mine, –
No fear you’ll miss the road.

  Garlic and superstition have gone hand in hand for millennia. A tasty, natural curative –garlic’s power as a magickal protective charm and as a potent remedy has remained strong from ancient times through to the present day.

  Worried about vampires? No problem. Carry some garlic and decorate your doors and windows with it. The use of garlic to protect against these pop culture prevalent denizens of the night is perhaps the most ubiquitous use of the aromatic bulb known today.

  But its usage as a form of apotropaic or warding magick is far more ancient. The ancient Egyptians would utilize it to protect the sanctity of contracts and oaths. Medieval miners would carry it down to the mines with them to ward against evil spirits like the invisible and mischevious German kobolds. The pungent odor and easily portable bulb and cloves of the garlic plant ( allium sativum) made and, indeed, still make it, an ideal charm against evil in all of its multiple forms. Its Sanskrit name Rasona or Lasuona actually means ‘Slayer of Monsters.’ But not all of the monsters it protected against were of the fiendish variety. More often then not, it was the monstrous interior medical ills that garlic was utilized to protect against.

  The second century AD Roman physician Galen of Pergamon labeled garlic as a ‘theriac’ or antidote which eventually translated into its widespread usage in imperial Roman medicine as a universal panacea or curative. In Ayurvedic medicine, one of the earliest ongoing systems of homeopathic curatives, garlic was utilized as an aphrodisiac, stimulant, and charm against virulent diseases like smallpox. Indeed, the sulfur and selenium components within the garlic bulb which presumably originated as a defense mechanism against hungry predatory animals result in garlic’s scientifically recognized properties as a valuable antiseptic, which does indeed aid in protecting against bacteria, inflammation, and viruses. Recent studies indicate that the consumption of garlic may help prevent against certain types of cancer. Garlic was recognized early on for its curative powers, but we are only just exploring the tip of the iceberg of what its wonderful biological magick can do for our own biological systems.

  Biomagick aside, my particular favorite fact in the litany of garlic’s history (some of which is included above and others of which you will encounter in Sacred Mists fabulous Herbalist Course ) relates to its ritual usage. Garlic was once the primary offering to the great Greek goddess of magick herself: the mighty Hekate. The third century BCE philosopher Theophrastus recorded in his botanical texts Enquiry into Plants and On the Causes of Plants how garlic would be offered at crossroads and in front of the three-faced statues dedicated to Hekate found at such places.

  SO the next time you throw a bit of delicious garlic into your cooking, take a second to speculate about the long legacy of interaction between garlic and humankind. For at least five thousand years men and women have consumed this tasty plant and utilized it in their magico-medicine practices. It is a tradition of tastiness and superstition predating biological scientific fact, one which you are continuing by adding it into your daily diet.

Is your city a god or goddess?

  One of my favorite things about the socio-political phrase ‘the separation of church and state’ is that it does not include pagan concepts when it separates out ‘church.’ Organized monotheistic religion is automatically cast as a bias for political motivations, while the more spiritual ethos like those practiced here are allowed a place at the table. Political iconography is full of pagan and esoteric occult elements which subtly play on the psyche of the masses to promote ideas of community and nationalism.

  Just take a look at the statue of Liberty. She’s not just a pretty lady wearing a tiara and holding up a torch. She is a sculpture of the Roman goddess of Liberty. And yet she is not a museum statue, or a remnant of a bygone age. She is actively worshipped as a symbol of welcome for the huddled masses searching for the promised land of the American Dream. And for those already in the United States she is a perpetual guarding symbol of the democratic spirit she so poignantly embodies. Overall, she was an entirely apropos gift from the republic of France to the United States: the first government of the modern era to successfully practice democracy (the only previous working variant having been in 5th century BCE Athens).

  The Statue of Liberty wears a stylized toga comparable to those of Republican Rome (an antique civilization the France of the past three centuries has actively idealized). She carries a tablet of laws (the political variant of the moral Ten Commandmants) and a torch of enlightenment. But most intriguing of all ~ is her crown. Her crown hearkens back to ancient traditions of city-goddesses, where the deity most associated with the city (or the personification of the city itself) would wear a divine mural crown symbolic of the city’s walls or battlements. From the creation of the first cities there has been an implicit identification of the city as an anthropomorphic divine figure ~ a protector of man analogous to the city battlements she wears on her crown. The most prominent iconographic depiction of this centers on the ancient Near East, where the Tyche city- of the Phoenician coast reigned supreme. She was a symbol of the town’s prosperity and linked to the well-being of their inhabitants, the various Tyches could be counted on to guard the fortune of her denizens.

  Anthropomorphization, or the transformation of a concept or inanimate object into something human, is something man and womankind intrinsically does to make these concepts or objects relatable. We do it in a myriad of different ways, both in ancient times and modern, often without even thinking anything of it. We name our cars. We treat our domesticated pets as human children. We even cast the gods in our own image, and then justify this by saying that we were cast in his or her image and that thus it is an infinite playback loop. By granting the space we live in, i.e. the nation, the city, the street, the house, etc a personhood, we make it easier for us to relate and understand the understandable.

  Why does it rain? Because the weather god is sad. Humanity, even perceived humanity, implies an understanding of culture and emotion. In casting human forms on the divine, we cast them into a society which parallels and interacts with our own and therefore can be understood as a grand godly soap opera. It makes the big scary unknowable things about the universe fathomable while still retaining some elements of their mystical mysteries.

  Creating these humanistic symbols also builds a community, who, if they have nothing else in common, at the very least possess this shared iconography. Just as sports teams has associated colors, team jerseys, and a mascot ~ so too can this team building psychology be applied at wider levels of society. The personified nation, be it in the form of the statue of Liberty or the likes of the Roman Empire’s Roma, acts as a visible totem for people to follow and share.

  Gradients of civic divinity can be seen throughout modern society. From the goddesses on state seals to the magickal spells implicit in state, government, and even school models. The deification of space and of concepts is happening all around you.

  And so, this week I ask you to look around your world and inquire into how many wonderful gods and goddesses may be going overlooked and in need of a bit of your attention. Is your city a god? Does your school have a patron goddess? What do you anthropomorphize and why? Why is it so important that humankind does this?

Isis may be the more famous “witch-deity” of ancient Egypt, and Thoth is viewed in later mythology as her assistant, but Thoth is actually the older of the two; and perhaps: the more subtly powerful. Indeed, in the Old Kingdom, at a period when the city of Hermopolis/Khmun ruled over the Egyptian landscape: Thoth was a leader of the main pantheon of gods, known as the Ogdoad, where he represented the moon. The curve of the crescent moon, so closely resembling the beak of the ibis bird earned Thoth his name and totem animal. The name “Thoth” is the anglicized version of the Greco-Roman Tehuti, from the hieratic “dhwty” (believed to be pronounced something along the lines of ‘dee-how-ti’ or ‘do-out’), which means “he who is (or is like) the ibis.” The association with the ibis is also a reference to early creation myths where Thoth took the form of an ibis during the formation of the world. In some of the earlier creation myths, it was believed that it was Thoth who technically created the world, sometimes in his own capacity, and sometimes acting as the force behind the creative thought of another, higher god, typically the god Ra.

Thoth was believed to be the philosophical power or force of thought (hence his wife Maat’s specific role as the idea of good and pure thought). He was the action which turns thought into being. Thus he is also attributed with the creation of both speech and writing: those two arts, so taken for granted in the modern world, but which allow mankind to communicate their thoughts to one another. Thoth therefore represented the idea of translated knowledge; and when knowledge is power, the person or deity responsible for it and its communication holds the proverbial key to the Upper and Lower Kingdom.

The idea of Thoth and the importance of speech and writing were so important and well recognized in ancient Egypt that most prayers thank Thoth for the ability to communicate with the divine, even if they are actually trying to communicate with a different god more specifically. One of Thoth’s many attributed epithets is “He who listens to prayers,” which is a sort of ancient joke: if Thoth is invoked in every prayer, he therefore gets to hear every prayer and can eavesdrop on the conversations of the other gods and their parishioners. Even in death, funerary prayers were not addressed just to the more direct gods of the dead, but also to Thoth.

The written and spoken word were both considered powerful magicks. Spoken magick relied not just on everyday speech, but on using the correct pronunciation, tone, and cadence when speaking; and these were facets of what was taught in the texts and temples of Thoth. Most, if not all writing, was initially considered magickal. For: in being able to read and write, one was literally channeling the power of Thoth into a concrete and physical form. And it involved a high degree of controllable training in order to both read the symbols and recreate them as writing. Thoth was therefore the god of scribes and palace administrators; and he was invoked in almost all forms of written communication, including that between the ruling powers and foreign dignitaries. Though not the patron deity of many of the Pharaonic dynasties, he was powerful enough to be integral to their rule.

The written word gave the power of Thoth a corporeal form which could be physically used in magickal rituals. Eating words was supposedly a way in which the magickal power of the texts and the heka of Thoth could be channeled directly into the consumer.

He could also grant the deceased further gifts for the Underworld if he felt so inclined. And if, in reading the ib, he encountered a powerful mage or witch to his liking, he might employ their soul further to do his bidding. The ancient Egyptians believed there were many aspects to the soul, and this is partially responsible for the complex and unique funerary arrangements for which they are so famous. But other than the ib, the other aspect of the soul which specifically intrigued Thoth was called akh. The akh was the ‘effective intellect’ or magickal knowledge which the person may have possessed. If the tomb was disturbed, thereby disrupting the ability of the various aspects of the soul to unite: it was the akh which would come back and, for lack of a better word: haunt the tomb or the robbers who desecrated its final resting place. In this sense, the akh might be considered a type of ghost. If, when Thoth assessed the soul, he found the akh of the deceased particularly powerful, he would offer them a role as one of his or Isis’ magickal companions (or in some instances enslave them). These elite groups of akh spirits existed as a semi-divine co-hort of minions which the two sunnu or priests of the gods, Isis and Thoth could call upon to enhance the strength of their own heka or send out on individual missions.

For more on Thoth and other witch deities of the ancient world, look forward to the College of the Sacred Mists upcoming class History of Witches in the Western World, taught by yours truly.

  If you, like I, have ever pondered the plurality of culture in modern Wicca and Neo-paganism, then you should read this book.

  If you have ever wondered at how Celtic symbolism, the Kabbalistic Tarot, Native American Spirit Animals, and the use of yoga, kundalina, and chakras (etc) can all be blended together within New Age counterculture and contemporary spiritual practices ~ then you should read this book.

  How and why did all of the ancestral traditions come to be peacefully united within the context of modern paganism? How has the cultural diffusion of the world at large contributed to such a delightful polygenesis or amalgamation of past and present? If your interest is piqued at this very notion…then you ought to read this book.

  Sabina Magliocco’s Witching Cultures: Folklore and Neo-Paganism in America is not just an ethnographic exploration into modern Neo-paganism, it represents a new and important step in the anthropology of the contemporary magickal community. Unlike the classic foundation texts on the anthropology of modern witchcraft like Hutton’s The Triumph of the Moon and Luhrmann’s Persuasions of the Witch’s Craft: Ritual Magick in Contemporary England, Magliocco’s work does not just seek to explore the existence of a magickal community and their perceptions of magick, but rather strives to understand how the multi-cultural magickal menu came to be so diversified. In attempting to understand how magickal and spiritual traditions are borrowed and hybridized into contemporary practice, Magliocco explores the underlying anthropological meanings and psychological back-story behind such acceptance and incorporation. It is not a history book, it is an examination of modern practices. Though it is light on the structuralist anthropological theoretical framework it was undeniably written in, it is a groundbreaking text in pagan and (by association) wiccan studies.

  Witching Cultures: Folklore and Neo-Paganism in America is a celebration of how the practice of modern magick delicately and respectfully crosses cultural boundaries to create approachable and shared meanings. As Magliocco concludes “The art of magic allows our imagination to transcend the boundaries of local blood and geography, to experience, at least in part, other cultures and time periods and feel empathy with other living beings (237).”

  Of all of the witchy texts I have reviewed lately, Witching Cultures: Folklore and Neo-Paganism in America by Sabina Magliocco is my new favorite and I highly recommend you give it a go.