I’m heading off to Witchcamp soon. This requires a little preparation, including packing my bags, heart, and body. Camp is an intense week of magickal mischief and ritual, connecting with friends from around the world, and sleeping under redwoods.
One of my favorite/least favorite parts of the process is packing. I tend to favor the ‘throw-it-all-in-a-pile-and-sort-through-it-later’ approach. This way, I can tend to the preparation over the course of weeks, and things can adjust as I drop more into the magick.
After all, I enter the magick the moment I sign up.
These Winding Roads Take Me Away
I know that magick doesn’t require fancy equipment. Personally, I like my magick and my ritual a little raw, a little unkempt and certainly unfussy. But there’s something about gathering with a group of people in a secret(ish) place that incites the drama for me.
I want to bring the fun clothes. The tall boots. The makeup. The eco-friendly sparkles.
I want to add the fishnet tights, the pleather, the high-slit dress, and the bangles.
I pack it all. I pack the layers of leggings and long dresses and long coats to meet the chill of the morning air (and hopefully keep the mosquitoes away from my skin).
I pack the mosquito repellent because I know I am a tasty treat.
I pack the blank journal, the one I will fill with poems and insights and lessons for when I return.
I pack the long sword because…well, I can this time.
I bring my books to sell.
I bring ritual and altar items, a candle I want to be blessed in the healing circle.
I bring bedding, enough to keep warm in the cooler nights under the trees. Enough to feel like home and to cover the thinnest mattresses.
I bring my heart. The one that has been through breaking and remaking and reworking and recovering since the last time I was here.
I bring a sharper tongue, stronger boundaries, and a clearer sense of myself.
I bring stronger magick, more confidence, and less worry about doing it ‘right.’
I bring my willingness to be met in my vulnerability.
I bring stories of loss and stories of finding.
I bring sarcasm and an outdoor speaker, and a vase of poetry once used as an oracle at this same camp.
I bring what is mine to bring, and I bring some parts that I hope will burn in the fire or sink below the redwood duff.
I come with fifty shades of black, to be sure, but also with immeasurable shares of knowing who I really am.
At least, for now.
Sometimes camp reminds me there is more.