When my 7-year-old wants something, he wheedles and whines. He's done it since he could put sounds together and point. I don't think he learned this from anyone in particular. Spend five minutes in the toy aisles of a major department store and you'll discover it's pretty widespread. Given that my dog and cat do it too, even the birds at my garden feeder when it's empty, this must be a natural instinct. Whatever the species, nagging represents our first attempts at the magic of summoning.
Grown-up humans, especially neo-Pagan ones, dress it up a bit. With my girlfriends, I exchange rituals to call in money and love. We schedule our spells for a waxing moon. We shout "Trinka-five" several times. We burn dollar bills at the new moon in a silver bowl. We light the properly colored candles, tie ribbons, mix herbs, recite incantations. But the basic strategy is the same as my dog's and my son's: In the quandary of desiring something we don't have and don't know how to get, we petition a greater power. The trouble is, this sometimes succeeds.
|Do my spells actually work, or is it all random whimsy?|
Overall success rates may be low, but as long as desire is strong, intermittent reinforcement is compelling. We'll use our failures as reason to conjure better strategies. We become scientists of spell making. I've learned that borrowed incantations and colored candles (unless poured on the proper moon) won't work for me. My son now precedes his "Mother-get-me-this" spells with, "Mom, I'm not really asking you to buy me anything, I just thought you'd like to see something interesting over here."
But the truth is, when I give into my son's wheedling, it has little to do with his tactics. Rather: I am too tired to resist, I am too joyful to resist, I was going to get it for him anyway, or I leverage it to get something I want from him (how parents wheedle back to their children). But now I wonder: Is this how it is with the divine powers I petition? Do my spells actually work, or is it all random whimsy?
The first time I burned a dollar bill on a new moon, I got a raise. I've continued this practice, and my monthly finances remain healthy. But I forgot it one month, and nothing bad happened. We want our spell work to be as honest and productive as our work in the world, so we apply as much logic to it as we can. When spells don't succeed, we tell ourselves we haven't cleared all unconscious resistance, or that the universe had something better in mind. But underneath the rationalizations, sprouting like mushrooms in the dark, doubts grow. We may distrust our powers, the powers we petition, the idea of magic.
We are conflicted anyway: Wanting things seems spiritually out of vogue. Isn't the greater skill simply learning to love what we have? Perhaps summoning spells are charms we're meant to outgrow. But reading the latest Harry Potter book got me thinking. There was Harry at the TriWizard Championship, facing a huge, fierce, yellow-eyed dragon guarding a golden egg Harry was supposed to retrieve. The dragon spewed real fire and thrashed a dangerously spiky tail. But Harry got his prize. Using a simple summoning spell, Harry called his broom from the dormitory and nimbly flew at the egg.
Harry's practice in summoning paid off. We might take heart from studying his first efforts, dubious as many of ours. His early practice books and quills lost nerve before reaching him, dropping floorward like stones. Perhaps it's silly to take a fictional boy wizard as a role model. But in the realm of the invisible, where imagination is queen, the inspirations of fiction may be the most relevant. Peer deep into pagan roots and you'll find plenty of poets of impossible things. Why not take summoning spells more seriously? What if we really could do more than just nag invisible powers?
There's something else. I see it in the astrology charts of the generation that's made Harry Potter a worldwide phenomenon. Born with transformative Pluto in Scorpio, the sign of magic, these children just might be the ones to discover that magic is real. Perhaps they will need to. There could be real dragons in their future--and real treasures worth summoning. If we follow their lead, we might just help them arrive. Perhaps our children will finally prove there's more genuine power to imagination than has been allowed.