While I’m packing for Witchcamp, I’m not only packing my bags — I’m also preparing for coming home. Preparing for integration, or that fuzzy space after camp (or any magickal experience) that looks like possibility and often slips by too quickly.
Before I can make sense of the mystical.
How will I land after the ecstasy?
I begin with a direction, a place I want to go. What do I really want? What am I seeking?
Sometimes, I am vague and open. Sometimes I am concrete. Sometimes, I change direction after I realize the actual place I’m meant to travel.
I write it down. It’s usually a sentence or two. It might be similar to the intention of the entire camp or a part of a path I might take. It might be a whisper that comes into my head as I give the last offerings to my altar before I leave.
Do this, the godds say quietly. Try this.
Sometimes, like this time, it is less of a direction and more of a gift.
This time, it looks like healing.
I’ve noticed that I tend to take pictures in moments where I should be, well, being. I collect the images to look at later when I need a reminder of where I’ve been. I don’t feel there is anything wrong about this, but the recognition has me curious.
What if collecting experiences in my heart looked like presence and trust? Can I trust my body and heart to hold what happens? Can I trust I will know what I know?
Even though I’m a writer, I tend to be a less than enthusiastic journal keeper. I will write random things down, but I’m not very consistent. And while I think collection can get in the way of experience, I also know there is value in taking notes.
So, I have a journal — and a promise to write down just a few things a day, at the beginning and end of the days. Because I might just be collecting breadcrumbs that lead me to the places I want to go.
I write down quickly, concisely. And I close the book to head into the moments that wait.
The easiest way for me to avoid integration is to schedule myself for work right after Witchcamp. I know it’s not a good idea. I’m tired. I have things to digest. I need to be in a quiet space for a little bit to settle the pieces that have been shaken.
I haven’t always had the luxury of time off. But I have learned that even a few hours can help. A day off is even better.
Quiet. Coming home. Letting my body catch up with my broken open heart — or vice versa.
I think of it like being on a plane. It has to be confusing for a body to be 2500 miles away from its home in less than six hours. Space helps me catch up.
If I don’t have space, I lose my place.
An hour. A day. A breath into between and emergence.
A new thing I’ve been doing is to write myself a letter that welcomes me home. I need that transition, that greeting of ‘old’ me and ‘new’ me. An introduction of selves that know different things — and who want to know each other and come together.
Integration of parts and memories and thought processes. And love.
I welcome home my being from the past. I welcome her into the present.
I open to what comes next.
I will put the note at my desk because I always go there first.
Welcome home, Beloved. Thank you for your magick.