 I’ve been reflecting on an interesting question. A friend of mine recently wrote a blog post about burning sage, pointing out that while many influencers have labeled it a “closed practice,” historically, it never truly was. That got me thinking about Vodou.
Is Vodou a closed practice—especially in today’s world? Vodou plays a central role in my spiritual life, walking hand-in-hand with my witchcraft practice. I work with the spirits, honor the lwa, and engage with the tradition in a deeply respectful and dedicated way. I feel confident answering general questions and guiding beginners on their own spiritual journeys. And yet, like many others who walk this path, I understand that some knowledge—particularly the inner, initiatory mysteries of Vodou—is not available without formal initiation. That said, many practitioners openly perform rituals and invite the public to participate. So it raises the question--how “closed” is Vodou, really? There is a clear line between practicing Vodou as a spiritual tradition with devotion and respect, and being brought into the deeper current through initiation. The latter opens access to secret rites, the structure of sosyetes, and the full transmission of lineage teachings that cannot be gleaned from books or observation alone. But here’s the nuance: Vodou has never been entirely hidden. In fact, it is both private and public. Rituals like fèt lwa (spirit feasts) and seremoni (ceremonies) are often held in open spaces, and it’s not uncommon for initiates to invite guests, observers, or community members to participate. Vodou was born out of communal necessity and resistance, and it thrives in connection—with spirits, ancestors, and people. A great example of this openness can be seen in the work of Sallie Ann Glassman, a respected Mambo Asogwe based in New Orleans. She regularly holds public Vodou rituals, including ceremonies for St. John’s Eve and major lwa feast days, which are open to the community and often attended by both practitioners and the simply curious. Her work demonstrates how Vodou can be practiced with transparency, respect, and accessibility—while still maintaining the integrity of the tradition. So, is Vodou closed? The answer is both yes and no. Yes, in that there are sacred teachings, spirits, and rites that are only shared through initiation and within the walls of a sosyete. These inner workings are protected for a reason—they hold power, lineage, and responsibility. But also no, because Vodou is not elitist or exclusionary. Many practitioners, even those who are not initiated, maintain deep relationships with the lwa and practice respectfully. Public rituals, open education, and spiritual community support are part of the living tradition. Vodou is adaptive, communal, and resilient. Which brings me to another question I’ve been considering: Has Vodou become more solitary in modern times? There’s no doubt that spiritual practice as a whole has become more individualized. The rise of digital platforms, solitary study, and personalized spirituality has shifted the landscape. Some practitioners connect with the spirits privately, especially if they don’t have access to a local community or are not yet ready for initiation. However, Vodou by its nature is community-centered. While solitary devotion is certainly possible—and sometimes necessary—Vodou is designed to be practiced in community, where the spirits are fed through collective energy, drumming, dancing, and ritual service. Sosyetes remain strong, especially in Haiti, New Orleans, and among diasporic communities. Initiation still holds meaning, and public celebrations of the spirits continue to thrive. So yes, modernity may encourage a more solitary path at times, but Vodou remains rooted in community, connection, and living tradition. Vodou isn’t a monolith. It lives differently in Haiti than it does in New Orleans, and differently still in the homes of solitary practitioners around the world. But one thing remains true: it demands respect, humility, and a willingness to listen—to the spirits, the ancestors, and the elders who keep the tradition alive. Whether you’re a devotee, an initiate, or someone simply curious about the path, approach Vodou not as a trend or aesthetic, but as a powerful, living current of spirit. If you're called—listen. But listen well.
0 Comments
Some stories begin in dreams.
Mine began in death—and in birth. I was born on November 1st, the Day of the Dead. In Haitian Vodou, it is Fèt Gede, the day when the veil thins and the dead dance. It is the day of the Guede spirits—wild, wise, and unrepentantly alive. Even as a child, I felt more at ease among the dead than the living. Cemeteries were places of comfort. I felt spirits whisper on the wind, tug at the edges of my dreams, and speak through silence. I never feared them. I knew them. The spirits had been walking with me long before I could name them. But it wasn’t until the white serpent came that I understood. In a vivid dream, I saw it: a glowing white serpent winding through deep dark water, eyes like stars burning through darkness. It didn’t speak—it didn’t need to. I woke up breathless, knowing something in my life had shifted. It was a call, not from this world, but from beyond. A summons from the lwa. Around that time, I was performing a belly dance at a spiritual gathering. My movements were fluid, trance-like, something old awakening in me. Afterward, an African shaman approached me. His voice was reverent, certain. He said, “You were not dancing alone. I saw two great serpents above your head—twisting and spiraling in the air. They were blessing you.” I felt the truth of it in my bones. In Vodou, Damballah, the sky father, and Ayida Wedo, the rainbow serpent, are the primordial pair—creation itself. He is the keeper of peace, she of divine balance and blessings. Their presence confirmed what my soul already knew: I was being called. And so, the path opened beneath my feet, winding like a serpent through New Orleans Vodou—a vibrant, living current of ancestral power, ritual, rhythm, and reverence. It was there I met Maman Brigitte. She did not whisper. She came with fire. With grave dust and laughter and bones rattling beneath the ground. Guardian of the cemeteries. Wife of Baron Samedi. Queen of the Guede. She came to claim me, and I knew: She is my met tèt, my head. Being chosen by a lwa is not passive. It is a fire that burns away falsehoods, a current that carries you whether or not you think you're ready. Maman Brigitte taught me strength through grief, truth through shadow, and how to walk between worlds with dignity. She is fierce love, sacred rage, and healing wrapped in laughter. When I light her candle, pour her rum, and sprinkle her hot peppers, I feel her presence like a pulse under my skin. She reminds me: “You were born of the dead, for the dead, to serve the living.” And so I serve. The lwa are not distant deities. They are family. They ride us, guide us, correct us. They demand respect, but return it tenfold. And when they call—whether through a dream, a dance, or a whisper in the graveyard—you will know. I honor them with offerings, song, and devotion. And sometimes, I return to the white serpent in my dreams, still winding, still watching, still leading me deeper. “Papa Damballah, serpent of the heavens, cool my head. Wrap me in your peace and silence the chaos around me.” “Ayida Wedo, rainbow of creation, flow through my spirit and awaken the blessings in my path.” “Maman Brigitte, mother of the cemetery, keeper of bones—light my way through the dark and teach me the strength of laughter through tears.” I've been engaging in a lot of magickal work lately. Between my responsibilities in the mundane world and my spiritual practices, I’ve hit a period of burnout. Constantly needing to be “on” — energetically, emotionally, and psychically — is incredibly draining. The hardest part? Sometimes we don’t even realize how depleted we are until we’re running on empty. In the world of magick, power is often seen as endless—a stream we can always draw from with the right herbs, words, or intent. But even witches, with all our intuitive wisdom and ritual tools, are not immune to burnout. Just like anyone who pours themselves into a craft, energy work can lead to exhaustion, disconnection, and a sense of spiritual depletion. This phenomenon is what many call magickal burnout.
Magickal burnout happens when a witch becomes spiritually and energetically drained from too much ritual work, emotional labor, psychic output, or even over-identification with their path. It’s not just being tired; it’s a deep fatigue that seeps into your spells, your altar, your connection with your tools, and your sense of magickal purpose. Burnout can stem from:
Witches heal in deeply personal and cyclical ways, just like the moon. Here’s how many begin the return from burnout: 1. Rest Without Guilt Step away from active spellcasting, divination, or rituals. You don’t need to prove anything to yourself or the universe. Rest is sacred. Your magick isn’t leaving you—it’s waiting. You can’t pour from an empty cup! “Even the moon disappears once a month.” 2. Return to the Earth Reconnecting with the elements in their simplest form is often the balm burned-out witches need. Walk barefoot on grass. Sit under a tree. Watch water flow. Let the natural world remind you of cycles, not productivity. 3. Simplify Your Practice Strip things down to their essence. One candle. One breath. One prayer. Magick doesn’t require elaborate tools—just intention and presence. 4. Work With Healing Energies Instead of casting for outcomes, focus on energy work that nourishes: Reiki, aura cleansing, herbal baths, crystal therapy. Invite your own healing into the circle for once. 5. Reconnect Through Creativity Burnout often disconnects us from the joy of creation. Paint, sing, write spells without using them. Let magick be art again. 6. Honor the Void Some witches find comfort in doing nothing magickal for weeks or even months. That’s valid. You’re still a witch when you’re not practicing. Magick lives within you, not just your rituals. When you begin to feel curiosity return—maybe a tug to pull a single tarot card, or an urge to light a candle—you’ll know you’re healing. Let the return be slow. Let the spark grow back on its own terms. And when it does, your magick may feel different. Quieter. Deeper. More rooted in self-care and awareness. That’s not regression—that’s transformation. Magickal burnout is not the end of your path. It’s a crossroads. A whisper from the universe asking: Can your practice love you back as much as you love it? To all witches feeling empty, tired, or lost—your power is not gone. It’s just resting. And when you're ready, it will rise with you. In the world of tarot and divination, it’s not uncommon for querents—those seeking guidance through a reading—to return with the same question multiple times. While it’s natural to want clarity or reassurance, especially when grappling with uncertainty, repeatedly asking the same question can hinder more than help. For both ethical and practical reasons, readers should consider gently redirecting querents when this happens.
1. Respect for the Process Tarot is not a magic eight ball. It's a nuanced system meant to offer insight, not repeated yes-or-no answers. Each spread is a snapshot of the querent’s energy and circumstances in a specific moment. When the same question is posed repeatedly, the depth of the reading diminishes. Rather than providing new clarity, it risks muddying the waters and creating confusion. Redirection helps uphold the integrity of the reading process. It encourages the querent to engage more deeply with the answers they’ve already received rather than attempting to override them with repetition. 2. Avoiding Dependency One of the greatest ethical concerns in spiritual work is the risk of creating dependency. When someone repeatedly asks the same question—often out of anxiety or desperation—it can become a cycle of obsessive behavior. Rather than empowering the querent to take action or make peace with the unknown, it reinforces helplessness. Redirecting the question helps break this cycle. A skilled reader can guide the querent to explore why they’re stuck on this question and what steps they can take to move forward. Instead of asking, “Will they come back?” again, a better question might be, “What can I do to heal and grow from this experience?” 3. Promoting Self-Reflection Tarot is most powerful when it facilitates introspection. If a querent returns with the same question, it often signals that the real issue hasn't yet been identified. Redirecting the question allows for a deeper reading, one that may touch on underlying fears, patterns, or lessons that need to be addressed. Encouraging questions like “What am I meant to learn from this situation?” or “What’s blocking my ability to move forward?” can open the door to real transformation. 4. Honoring Free Will Repeatedly seeking the same answer can imply that the future is fixed and immutable, which goes against the spirit of most divinatory practices. Readings are meant to offer insight—not dictate fate. Each choice a person makes shifts the trajectory of their path. Redirecting the question reminds the querent that they are not powerless. Instead of focusing on outcomes they cannot control, they can shift their energy to what they can do—whether that’s healing, letting go, or taking bold action. 5. Preventing Energy Contamination From an energetic perspective, every reading leaves an imprint. Continually asking the same question can clog the energetic flow, resulting in distorted, contradictory, or unclear messages. This can be frustrating for both the reader and the querent. Redirection helps clear the energetic slate, allowing for a cleaner, more meaningful interaction with the cards or other tools. When a querent returns with the same question, it’s not a nuisance—it’s a signal. It signals pain, confusion, or a deep need for validation. But rather than enabling the repetition, the reader has a responsibility to guide the querent toward more constructive inquiry. By redirecting repeated questions, readers can uphold the sacredness of the divination process, support the querent's growth, and ensure that the reading remains a tool for empowerment—not a crutch. Gentle redirection isn’t shutting the door—it’s opening a better one. In modern witchcraft and spiritual communities, hexing and cursing are often controversial topics. While many practitioners follow ethical frameworks like the Wiccan Rede ("Harm none") or the Threefold Law, others take a more nuanced, situational approach to magic — one that recognizes the right to defend, protect, and even retaliate under the banner of justice.
Let’s be clear: hexing and cursing are not acts to be taken lightly. But that doesn't mean they are inherently unethical or unjustified. In fact, under certain conditions, they can be empowering, protective, and necessary. Why Hexing and Cursing Can Be Justified Hexes and curses are simply tools — energetic and intentional acts meant to create an outcome. Like fire, they can warm or destroy. The morality of the action lies not in the spell itself, but in why and how it is used. 1. Justice Over Passivity In a world where systems often fail victims, magic can serve as an alternative form of justice. If someone has harmed you or others — through abuse, manipulation, cruelty, or systemic oppression — and all mundane avenues have failed, cursing may be the only recourse left to assert your power and restore balance. 2. Self-Defense is Not Harm A curse cast in defense of your body, mind, or spirit is not a breach of ethics; it’s an act of self-preservation. Just as you wouldn’t hesitate to lock your doors or call the police if threatened, a curse can act as an energetic boundary. In these cases, it is not about malicious harm — it’s about survival. 3. Shadow Work in Action Shadow work is the practice of facing your darker aspects — anger, grief, rage — and integrating them rather than denying them. Hexing can be a ritualized way to process these emotions with intention and release, preventing them from festering into destructive behaviors in the mundane world. Why the Threefold Law Doesn't Apply to Everyone The Threefold Law — the belief that whatever energy you send out returns to you threefold — is rooted in Wicca, but not all witches are Wiccan. Many traditions, especially in folk magic, conjure, and chaos magic, do not recognize this law as binding or even relevant. Key Points:
When and How Hexing Can Be Safe Performing a hex or curse safely — emotionally, spiritually, and magically — requires preparation, clarity, and responsibility. 1. Be Clear in Your IntentVagueness leads to chaos. Know exactly why you are performing the curse. Are you protecting yourself? Seeking justice? Ending harmful influence? The more focused your intent, the safer and more effective the working. 2. Ground, Cleanse, and ProtectHexing can stir up intense emotions and energies. Always:
4. Know Your Tools and SpiritsSome spirits or deities respond to calls for justice — others don’t tolerate being invoked for curses. Work within the bounds of your spiritual allies and traditions. If you’re unsure, seek guidance through divination or a trusted mentor. Final Thoughts: Ethics Are Not One-Size-Fits-All Hexing and cursing are not about evil — they are about choice. They are about acknowledging that sometimes, harm has already been done and simply turning the other cheek allows it to continue. Magic is not just love and light — it’s also fire and steel. The right to use all parts of your practice — even the darker ones — is sacred. Just make sure you wield it with integrity, reflection, and respect. Remember: Justice is not the absence of harm — it is the presence of balance. A local man was arrested recently. What he was accused of isn't really the point—at least, it shouldn't be. We’re supposed to live in a society where innocence is presumed until guilt is proven. But then the cruel, dehumanizing comments by people who think they are perfect.
I started Pagans Behind Bars with no funding, no major platform, and no expectations of praise. It was born from a simple yet radical idea: that even those who are incarcerated deserve compassion, community, and a connection to their spirituality. Especially those who walk the Pagan path—a path already misunderstood and marginalized by mainstream institutions. What does the project offer? On paper, not much: letters, resources, a listening ear. But in practice, it offers something that many people inside prisons haven’t felt in a long time—kindness, connection, and the validation of their humanity. I do not judge. That’s a decision I made a long time ago, and one I stand by. Not because I think everyone is innocent. Not because I’m naive about the darkness that can live in people. But because I understand that judging someone by the worst thing they’ve ever done erases the entirety of their story. It dehumanizes them. And in a world where the system is already stacked against so many, that kind of erasure is not justice—it’s cruelty disguised as moral superiority. Let’s talk about that system. The criminal justice system in this country is broken—partly because of the way it is built, but also because of the people who feed it with their judgments. You know the ones. The folks in the comments section under every arrest report: “Lock him up and throw away the key.” “What a piece of trash.” “I’ve got a wood chipper for sale—discreet delivery.” They speak like judge, jury, and executioner, as if they’ve never made a mistake, never hurt someone, never broken a law. As if their shit doesn’t stink. What they don’t see—or refuse to see—is how this judgment spills over long after the time has been served. Reentry into the world is a battleground. People trying to rebuild their lives after incarceration face doors slammed in their faces every day:
Pagans Behind Bars is my way of pushing back. A letter, a prayer, a kind word—these may seem small, but to someone sitting in a cold cell, they can mean the world. They can be a reminder that someone still sees them as a person. Someone still believes in their capacity to change, to grow, to heal. I don’t pretend that spirituality will solve everything. But I know it can be a lifeline. And for many, it already has been. If you’re reading this and thinking, “But what about the victims?”—don’t worry. I think about them, too. I hold space for their pain and healing. But I also hold space for the truth that two things can be real at once: harm was done and the one who caused it is still human. I created Pagans Behind Bars because our community needs to show up in all the places society forgets. If we truly believe in redemption, in personal transformation, in the power of magick and the gods—we cannot turn our backs on those who need it most. Not everyone is called to this work. But everyone is called to compassion. I have a confession to make.
I’m guilty—guilty of doing the very thing I constantly urge my clients, friends, and loved ones never to do. I’ve been holding on to the past. Clinging to it. Living in it. For the last ten years, I have quietly carried the weight of a life I left behind. Since I moved away from Boston, I have been trying—perhaps too hard—to recreate what I once had. I searched for it in Flagstaff. I reached for it in Tucson. I tried to summon it again in Florida. And here in Richmond, I finally stopped trying to recreate my former life. But it wasn’t in triumph that I stopped—it was in surrender. And with that surrender came sadness. I missed the life I had in Boston. I still do. I missed the woman I was—the one who was constantly moving, teaching belly dance classes, performing, producing shows, hosting events, always chasing the next inspiration. I missed the rhythm and the chaos of it, the flow and fire of being fully immersed in a community and a passion. It wasn’t until after one of my recent classes with University Magickus (Magick U) that something shifted. I had a quiet, profound realization: I have transformed. My past is no longer a place to dwell. My old life is no longer the only way to define me. I am still me—but I am not her anymore. I’m no longer the woman darting from venue to venue, performance to performance. I’m no longer curating events every weekend or working tirelessly to maintain the momentum of a public, high-energy life. Instead, my work has taken on new depth and new intention. I am now fully immersed in my craft—teaching workshops and classes on the subjects I love most, the ones that have always pulsed quietly beneath the surface of everything I’ve ever done. I am nurturing my shop, Snake and Bone, with the same love and magick I used to pour into choreography and shows. I am creating art, channeling spirit into bone and wire and ash, weaving spells with my hands. I’m writing—pages, books, truths—and giving voice to stories that have long waited to be told. For a while, I stopped dancing. Partly because of limited space, partly because Richmond hasn’t offered the same kind of performance opportunities I was used to. But it wasn’t just the lack of venues. Something deeper was happening. And then, when we moved into a larger space, I began to dance again—not for an audience, not to prepare for a show or to impress anyone. I danced for me. I moved my body because I needed to—not to be seen, but to feel. To reconnect with the sacred rhythm of my body. To release tension. To pray with motion. To come home to myself. And in that moment, I realized: Dance was never just about performing. It was about embodiment. Connection. Release. It was always a sacred act. Like the serpent I so deeply honor, I have shed my skin. The old version of me, vibrant and full of movement, was not lost—she was a phase in my becoming. And now, here I am. Still me—but changed. Evolved. Transformed. The past may have shaped me, but it does not own me. I am no longer trying to recreate what was. I am building something entirely new.  Zehara & Veles I’ve always had a deep connection to snakes. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to their stillness, their mystery, their quiet presence that speaks volumes without a single sound. Like me, snakes are often misunderstood—cast as dangerous, feared, or cold. But beneath that surface lies something far more sacred and complex.
Growing up, I was surrounded by reptiles. My fascination with them wasn’t just about their scales or the way they moved—it was about their energy. There was something ancient and wise in their gaze, something I couldn’t put into words as a child but felt deep in my spirit. At nineteen, I got my first snake: a delicate ribbon snake I named Eden. That name wasn’t accidental. Even then, I intuitively knew that snakes held a key to some deeper spiritual truth—a truth that, like the serpent in the garden, invites us to awaken. Snakes are quiet creatures. They don’t announce themselves. They observe, they feel, and when they move, it is intentional. That quiet strength resonated with me deeply. I’ve never been one for loud entrances or taking up unnecessary space. I’ve always preferred to feel the room first, to read the energy, to sense what lies beneath the surface. Like the snake, I keep to myself—not out of fear or coldness, but out of deep discernment. There’s power in silence, and snakes know that. Misunderstood is a word I’ve carried most of my life. People see what they want to see. They project their fears onto you, their assumptions, their own discomfort with what they cannot control or define. Snakes carry that same burden. In many cultures, they’re seen as omens or threats—creatures to kill or avoid. But in truth, they are keepers of ancient wisdom. They teach us to shed what no longer serves, to embrace transformation, to move gracefully through life’s cycles of death and rebirth. Spiritually, the serpent is a symbol of profound awakening. From the Kundalini energy coiled at the base of the spine, to the ouroboros that swallows its own tail, snakes embody the eternal dance of life, death, and regeneration. They remind us that healing doesn’t always look like light and love—sometimes, it looks like going into the dark, into the stillness, into the places we fear, and learning to breathe there. When I hold a snake, I feel that energy pulsing through me—ancient, primal, sacred. It’s a communion, a reminder that there is power in being misunderstood, in walking the shadowed path, in moving differently from the rest. Eden, my first snake, taught me that. She was delicate but strong, quiet but wise, and she showed me that it was okay to be all those things too. So when people ask why I relate to snakes, my answer is simple: because I am one. Not in body, but in spirit. I know what it means to be feared for your power, to be judged for your silence, to be revered and reviled all at once. I know what it means to shed your skin, over and over again, to survive. And like the snake, I keep going—quietly, purposefully, sacredly—carrying the wisdom of every transformation with me. New Orleans Voodoo—sometimes spelled Vodou, Voudou, or Voudon—is a unique spiritual tradition born from the blending of West African spiritual systems, Catholicism, Native American beliefs, and European folk magic. Unlike Haitian Vodou, which is deeply tied to specific African lineages and initiatory structures, New Orleans Voodoo evolved in a culturally fluid environment that naturally embraced adaptation, integration, and resilience. One of the most beautiful aspects of New Orleans Voodoo is its inherent inclusivity. It has always been, at its core, a practice of survival, resistance, and empowerment for the marginalized—and that same spirit of openness is what allows sincere seekers, regardless of race, to walk its path.
A Syncretic Tradition by Nature New Orleans Voodoo arose out of the crucible of colonial New Orleans: a city where enslaved Africans, free people of color, French and Spanish colonizers, indigenous peoples, and European immigrants all lived, clashed, and coexisted. In that melting pot, enslaved Africans preserved their traditional spiritual practices in secret, often hiding them beneath the façade of Catholic saints and rituals. As the years passed, these systems organically merged with European folk traditions and indigenous customs, creating something wholly unique to New Orleans. This syncretism isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. New Orleans Voodoo never relied on rigid orthodoxy. Instead, it evolved through community, necessity, and adaptability. Its spiritual core is about honoring the spirits (the Loa or Mystères), connecting with ancestors, and working magic for healing, protection, justice, and prosperity. These are universal human needs, not limited by skin color. The Role of Race in Voodoo Practice Let’s address the question directly: Can white people practice New Orleans Voodoo? The answer is yes—with respect, responsibility, and deep reverence for the culture and the spirits. It's important to acknowledge that Voodoo has historically been a path of empowerment for Black people who were enslaved, oppressed, and dehumanized. That history should never be erased, ignored, or minimized. Cultural sensitivity is essential. But inclusivity doesn’t mean erasure—it means understanding your place within a tradition and honoring its roots. White practitioners must be especially mindful of not commodifying or appropriating Voodoo for aesthetics, profit, or shock value. It’s not about buying a "voodoo doll" in the French Quarter or donning beads and feathers for a social media post. It’s about walking the path humbly, doing the work, honoring the spirits, and showing up with authenticity. Gatekeeping vs. Guardianship There’s a distinction to be made between gatekeeping and guardianship. While some practitioners, especially within more initiatory systems like Haitian Vodou or West African Ifá, may have strict rules about who can be initiated, New Orleans Voodoo is often practiced outside of these structures. There are no central temples or universal initiatory requirements. Instead, the tradition is often passed down through oral teachings, personal mentorship, or spirit-led experiences. That being said, cultural guardianship is still important. Seek out teachers who are authentic, lineage-honoring, and who understand the history and the spirits deeply. Respect their time, their wisdom, and their boundaries. Learn from people of color, support Black practitioners, and give back to the culture that is offering you its spiritual wealth. Spirit Doesn’t Care About Skin—But It Does Care About Integrity Many Voodoo spirits don’t discriminate based on race. They care more about your heart, your intentions, your offerings, and your ability to listen. Spirits like Papa Legba, Erzulie, and Baron Samedi welcome those who come in truth and service. Ancestors may speak in dreams, saints may reveal themselves in moments of crisis, and the Veve may call out to you in unexpected ways. What matters most is that you’re walking the path with integrity. Are you honoring the spirits? Are you studying the history? Are you approaching with humility, not entitlement? Walking the Path with Respect New Orleans Voodoo is a tradition forged in fire—a living, breathing, evolving system that has survived centuries of oppression and misunderstanding. It is a birthright for many, and a calling for others. If you feel that call, listen with your soul, not your ego. Approach with reverence, humility, and the understanding that you are stepping into a sacred tradition shaped by pain, power, and profound spiritual beauty. Yes, white people can practice New Orleans Voodoo—but only if they do so with an open heart, a grounded spirit, and a commitment to honoring the culture, the people, and the spirits that make it what it is. Recommended ReadingTo explore the roots, complexity, and beauty of New Orleans Voodoo and its related traditions, the following books and authors offer valuable insight:
Throughout history, both the serpent and the witch have emerged as potent symbols, often shrouded in fear and intrigue, representing the pursuit of forbidden knowledge, transformation, and resistance against oppression. From the Gnostic view of the serpent in Eden as a figure of liberation to the veneration of serpent deities and oracles in Pagan traditions, these archetypes embody the quest for wisdom that remains concealed from the uninitiated. This article delves into the deep connection that binds the serpent and the witch, underscoring their roles as guardians of knowledge and catalysts of enlightenment.
The Serpent as the Bearer of Gnosis In mainstream Christian tradition, the serpent in the Garden of Eden is cast as a deceiver, responsible for humanity’s fall from grace. However, the Gnostic sects of early Christianity viewed the serpent in a radically different light. In texts such as the “Hypostasis of the Archons” and “The Secret Book of John”, the serpent is a benefactor rather than a tempter. Rather than leading Eve to sin, the serpent offers her the fruit of knowledge, revealing to her the truth of the world’s creation and the divine spark within humanity. Gnostics believed that the world was created by the Demiurge, a false god who sought to keep humanity enslaved in ignorance. The serpent, acting as a messenger of Sophia—the divine embodiment of wisdom—encouraged Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, awakening her to the truth of her divine origins. In this context, Eve becomes a heroine rather than a transgressor, and the serpent a sacred guide, offering the gift of gnosis (knowledge) necessary for spiritual liberation. This re-interpretation of the serpent aligns with the role of the witch: one who seeks and shares wisdom, often in defiance of oppressive structures. Just as the serpent defied the Demiurge, the witch has historically defied religious and political authorities to preserve and pass down knowledge that empowers others. The Witch as the Keeper of Forbidden Wisdom Like the serpent, the witch has long been associated with wisdom—specifically, the kind of wisdom feared by patriarchal institutions. In ancient Pagan cultures, witches, priestesses, and oracles were revered as intermediaries between the physical and spiritual worlds. They possessed knowledge of healing, divination, and magic, serving as custodians of esoteric traditions. Many of these traditions revered serpents as sacred beings. The Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi, was named after Python, the great serpent that guarded the temple of Apollo. In Minoan Crete, priestesses of the Great Goddess were depicted holding snakes, symbolizing their control over mystical forces. In Egyptian mythology, the cobra-headed goddess Wadjet was a protector and bestower of wisdom, her image adorning the crowns of pharaohs. Despite these positive associations in early Pagan traditions, with the rise of Christianity and patriarchal control, the role of the witch was demonized. Women who retained knowledge of herbalism, astrology, and spirit work—much like Eve with her newfound wisdom—were labeled as dangerous. The very same wisdom that had once been sacred became “forbidden,” reinforcing the idea that spiritual knowledge outside of religious orthodoxy was heretical. The Shared Symbolism of Rebellion and Transformation Both the serpent and the witch share a deeply symbolic association with transformation. The serpent sheds its skin, an act that has long been viewed as a metaphor for renewal, rebirth, and spiritual awakening. Similarly, the witch embodies the ability to transform—whether through alchemy, spellwork, or initiation into deeper mysteries. This transformative power is what makes both figures threatening to established authority. The serpent and the witch challenge the status quo, offering knowledge that disrupts societal norms. Just as the Gnostic serpent encouraged Eve to awaken to divine wisdom, witches throughout history have guided seekers toward enlightenment through their own mystical practices. Embracing the Path of the Witch and the Serpent The serpent and the witch have endured centuries of demonization because they represent something dangerous to systems of control—personal empowerment through hidden knowledge. Yet, despite persecution, their wisdom persists in modern esoteric traditions, Pagan practices, and occult studies. To walk the path of the witch is to embrace the serpent’s wisdom, to seek knowledge beyond what is permitted, and to reclaim the power that has been denied to those who dare to question. In a world that still fears the power of the unknown, the legacy of the serpent and the witch remains a call to awaken, transform, and reclaim the ancient wisdom that has never truly been lost. |
Archives
July 2025
|
RSS Feed