Having ADHD is a lot like possessing a superpower that only works when it feels like it. There’s a misconception that people with ADHD and related disorders can’t concentrate, when in fact the opposite is true: We can focus on things to an almost preternatural degree — we just don’t have any say as to what will hijack our interest. And once our hyperfocus kicks in, we aren’t able to direct our attention to anything else.
In the real world, this translates to being routinely reprimanded at the office for not staying on task and being extremely dangerous at Trivial Pursuit. But as Witches, it makes us awesome at scrying. Plus we’re always bursting at the seams with
useless fascinating occult information that may or may not ever come in handy, but is, at the very least, entertaining.
Here’s an example of how it works.
While reading about the Orphic Mysteries when I should be answering emails, I come across the name Aristaeus. It’s rare to find a Greek God I’ve never heard of before, so I start poking around and discover that he’s the God of cheesemaking and beekeeping.
The bee thing strikes me as intriguing, so I do some more Googling and learn about bugonia, the ancient, widespread Mediterranean belief that bees could be generated from the sacrificed carcasses of bulls. This leads me to a reasonably-priced copy of The Sacred Bee in Ancient Times and Folklore, along with a reasonably-priced ceramic tile depicting the bee motif from an antique Ephesian coin. As a treat before bed, I reread The Secret Life of Bees.
I’m keeping a running list of deities associated with bees — Artemis, Aphrodite, Ariadne, Dionysos, Rhea — and I find a reasonably-priced Bee Goddess pendant on Etsy. I am deeply troubled that St. Ambrose, patron of beekeepers, held antisemitic views and was known for persecuting Pagans; however, the legendary Irish saint Gobnait (a.k.a. Abigail, a.k.a. Deborah), could control swarms of bees with her mind, which is way more up my alley anyhow.
It occurs to me that if I’m going to properly venerate bees, I’ll need more information on them outside of European mythology, so I join the Houston Beekeepers Association. After studying up on which flowers are the most attractive to pollinating insects, I track down reasonably-priced lavender and bee balm seeds to plant in the small patch of soil in front of my apartment, and I curate a home décor vision board for the temple room of the bee-themed Minoan Brotherhood grove I will eventually establish.
I order some reasonably-priced honey from a 250-year-old, family-owned apiary in Crete, with which I will brew non-alcoholic ritual mead. The poet Virgil asserted that bees are the souls of those not yet born, and so I pour offerings to Persephone under Her cultic title Melitodes, “the Honeyed One.”
My attempts to locate a reasonably-priced Bee Goddess statue are repeatedly thwarted by sellers who list reproductions of that one plaque from Rhodes as a “Bee Goddess,” when it’s actually one of the Thirae, and no, white cishet male Classicists, the Thirae are NOT “exactly the same” as the oracular Bee Maidens who taught Apollo the art of cleromancy, so BACK OFF.
The warm aroma of melting beeswax fills my home. Primitive Aegean music spliced with the trance-inducing buzz of a thriving hive drifts from my sound system. I have become the Melissaios. I, too, am Honeyed. My Higher Self has six legs and wings. I am… Bee.
Playing with the cards makes me want shake off the dust and do a reading, and I quickly remember how much I enjoy geomancy. In the musty basement of my frontal lobe, my hyperfocus takes note and starts flipping breakers.
I find five more reasonably-priced decks and launch an online geomancy training and certification program. The bee balm remains unplanted, and I’ve got 3147 unanswered emails. But I’ve constructed a home shrine dedicated to the geomantic Planetary Intelligences, and I’ve hand-copied the Gardnerian Book of Shadows into binary code, so we’ll call it a wash.