I have been reading some blogs, and my brain is whirling. What is my own magic in actual words?
It is my ritual blacksmithing, the chants and work that I do to create ritual tools, knives, spears, and now hatchets. Once my freight arrives my metalworking will be taken to a new level. It is my ritual powders that I use to work with the world around me, inhaling my sacred smokes and sharing them with my Ancestors, feeding my Artificer that works with me and protects my home. It is the coffin nails imbedded in my Nothing Post, whiskey imbued with mugwort, wormwood, and mullein stalks to drink with the wandering dead. It is my ritual beads being used in chanting as I walk down the street, of visiting forgotten crossroads by the light of the stars above me. It is the art of being primal in a country setting, on the fringe of society – tucked out of the way.
And even that doesn’t cover it. My brain will be swirling for a bit on that. Such a simple question cannot be so simply answered.