What the Witches Taught Me…

 What the Witches Taught Me…

Just one lesson. Truly. Rule Number ONE — and, being the only boy, the only one I was allowed to know.

I was the sole son, and my mother made a point of passing along at least some small piece of what she knew. The rest would remain a mystery, reserved for the little circle of women in that curious family of ours.

Yes, my mother was once an apprentice witch.

She came from the hippie generation and had a fascination with every strange new book that found its way into alternative circles. And I, an admirer of that woman and her ideas, threw myself into each new adventure as though we were on the verge of the most sensational discoveries in human history.

Yoga, Spiritism, fortune-tellers, orishas, Our Lady of Guadalupe, tarot, mermaids, alchemy, prayers…

And somewhere between one fascination and the next, witchcraft slipped into our lives.

My mother read a few books, found herself a gnarled staff in the woods, carved something into the top — a wizard, maybe, or a snake, I honestly can't remember which — cast her spells, collected morning dew in a virgin bedsheet, claimed to know a thing or two about desires and feelings, and I'm fairly sure she even came up with some strange-looking hat…

My boyhood imagination filled in the rest.

But this story stretches across many years.

I started tagging along on my mother's adventures when I was still little. By the time we properly arrived at the witchcraft phase, I was already about nineteen — old enough to doubt almost everything, but not quite ready to stop believing.

I'm getting to the first and only rule they ever passed down to me. Give me a minute. The context matters, and there's some fun in it. Go ahead and light yourself a cigarette or put the kettle on. Get into the mood.

I wanted to believe in my mother's magic. Maybe because believing was a way of staying connected to that private universe she created and kept inviting us into. At the same time, something about it never quite squared with the ordinary, concrete world.

Like a kid who keeps believing in Santa a little too long: you already suspect the math doesn't add up, but you don't dig too deep.

After all, you still want the presents to keep coming.

And I played along. I wasn't exactly some clear-eyed rational observer standing outside all that madness. I even went and bought one of my sisters a spellbook for her birthday.

For my sisters, though, things were getting more serious.

They dove in headfirst.

Alice, my younger sister, was going through some jealousy and rivalry within her group of friends at school. There were crushes involved — which, at that age, obviously made the whole thing far more serious — and she suspected that one of the girls was quietly working against her behind her back.

The problem was figuring out which one.

And, by one of those coincidences that only ever seem to favor witches, my mother and sisters happened to be studying a chapter right around then on spells meant to expose false people. Something like stripping the sheep's clothing off the wolf hiding in the flock.

I wasn't allowed to take part. I didn't see any of it. But I know they gathered the ingredients, sorted the herbs, prepared the ritual, lit the candles, said their prayers and cast the spell.

As I remember it, the intention was roughly this:

— Let the wolf reveal herself, her skin painted red!

And wouldn't you know it — the very next day, Alice came rushing home from school.

I was nearby, ears wide open, pretending not to care.

— Mom! Mom! It worked! That girl from the group, the one I suspected… she showed up at school today with pink patches of psoriasis all over her face!

I gave a little skeptical laugh — disbelieving and curious at the same time.

— Really? Well… how about that. Impressive!

My mother turned her head toward me from the kitchen table.

— Impressive, my boy? And you, Alice? You look a little frightened yourself…

Then, with complete calm, she said:

— We did our magic. We followed the right steps. We asked the Universe. Why would either of you have any reason to be impressed?

Then she reminded us of that old story.

— Remember the people who climbed the mountain to pray for rain? Everyone prayed, everyone asked in faith… but only one little boy brought an umbrella.

She paused.

— Understand? They all asked for rain. But he was the only one who truly believed it would come. And it rained!

Then she ran her hand through my hair and spoke differently. Not like someone giving an order. More like someone pointing out a path on an old treasure map.

— I want you both to do something for me. Cross this word out of your vocabulary for good: impressed. If you want something, don't want it while already doubting it.

She looked at us and added:

— And when it happens, remember: don't be impressed. Be grateful.

Then came that mysterious little smile of hers.

— Human work…

A pause.

— …in partnership with the Universe.

And that was Rule Number ONE.

The first.

The last.

And the only one the witches ever let me in on.

I went on with my life, believing and doubting…

But somehow, still following that advice.

And to this day, when something I've wished for, planted the seeds for, and worked to make happen finally does, I can still feel the first syllable of that forbidden word trying to slip out.

So I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and remember:

I'm the one who asked for the rain.