My First Love Spell: A Rite of Passage

Somehow, at some point, I came into possession of a copy of Gerina Dunwich’s Wicca Love Spells. I have no idea where it came from–I just found it in a box of my old college things one day. I didn’t do love magic so I thought about selling it, but the cover was pretty, so I added it to my bookshelf. (This is why all my bookshelves are overflowing. Damn those cover designers!)

Now, one of the first things I learned upon becoming a witch was that love spells are an absolute no-no. Because they’re basically mind control, and mind control is a form of harm, and the law of three means that if you cast a love spell on someone you’ll end up with a situation like Sarah in The Craft, and then the guy will get pushed out the window by your unstable covener and yeah, he deserved it because he was a rapist piece of garbage but I mean still.

Right?

Over the years, though, I started to wonder how much puritanism and shame was wrapped up in the prohibition against love spells. Let me be clear: I’m not saying all love spells are fine. But the subtext of all the warnings against them–warnings often directed at women–began to strike me as uncomfortably similar to the stuff I was hearing about women’s desires in the mainstream. Trying to get someone to like you is not proper. The only way to find true love is to be demure and hope. Only “bad girls” go out and try to get what they want, and then they get punished. It seemed very similar to all the condemnations of using drugs for magical purposes–condemnations that sounded like they came right out of a D.A.R.E. lesson plan. Only stupid, fake witches pollute themselves with drugs. Good, smart witches can achieve deep altered states simply by concentrating.

So the book sat untouched on my shelf, but as I grew and practiced, my attitude towards it softened. After all, like drugs, love magic was an ancient aspect of witchcraft. Were we the heroic, enlightened generation that was smart enough to finally end these backwards practices? Or were our ancestors more thoughtful than we gave them credit for?

Of course, I knew there was a good amount of truth to the warnings. See, back in high school a friend told me that another friend had cast a love spell on me. (Oh, teenagers.) When she told me, I immediately thought of a strange moment I’d had a few months before: I’d felt a few minutes of sudden and inexplicable attraction towards the guy who’d commissioned the spell. I’d chalked it up to hormones and, bemused, promptly forgotten about it, but he’d spiraled into an abyss of aggrieved entitlement and despair.

So I knew love magic wasn’t something you wanted to fuck around with. Still, though, I wondered about it.

Then, a couple of years after I found the Gerina Dunwich book, I got a crush on someone.

Oh, lordy loo, was this a crush. It was a crush! I’m talking a turning-into-a-giggly-puddle-when-he-talked-to-me, increasingly-elaborate-romantic-fantasies level crush. But, of course, he made no overtures towards me.

Around this same time, I got some sage advice about wielding power. I was having some trouble coming to terms with the idea of having and using power, and I asked another witch for advice. How could I use power without misusing it? How could I trust myself to tell the difference? How could I perform any magic with the specter of the law of return hovering over me? What if my spells backfired?

His advice was simple: You’ve got to experiment. You’ve got to make mistakes. How will you know how to wield your power as a witch if you’re too afraid of messing up to try anything?

So, with that book suddenly beckoning to me on my bookshelf, I decided to experiment. I decided to cast a love spell.

The book contains a simple spell that involves burning a dried herbal mixture, and as I prepared the ingredients, I put together a careful intention. I cast this spell to heighten my desirable qualities, I thought. I do not intrude on his free will. I will not plant false feelings in him. I cast this spell to nurture any existing feelings he might have for me.

What’s that you say? That spell actually sounds pretty tame and well within ethical boundaries? Well, yeah, I suppose you’re right. Wait, did I mention the part where he was married?

To be honest–and I’ll admit that I was too love-addled to think very clearly–the heart of my intention was this: my desire for him was so strong that I wanted to share the burden. Even if he and his wife didn’t miraculously become polyamorous, I hoped my feelings might be easier to manage if I wasn’t alone in them.

And I wanted to see what happened. Even if the spell rebounded on me as badly as it had for my friend from high school, I wanted to learn what that felt like. I wanted to learn about my power.

So I lit the charcoal and softly chanted my crush’s name as the herbs burned. I visualized myself as beautiful and desirable (no small feat!). And then I let it run its course.

I kept an eye on him, of course. He laughed extra hard at a joke I told the next day and I floated all afternoon. But mainly I monitored myself. I didn’t think for a second that I’d escape unscathed.

And, sure enough, there were consequences.

So here’s the part where I confess all the terrible things that happened to me because of my arrogance and stupidity and warn you all away from love spells, right? Well, it didn’t quite play out like that. Oh, I did start thinking about him a lot more than I had already. The crush grew to the level of a mild obsession. The fantasies became ridiculously inappropriate! And I won’t lie: accompanying the crush was a certain amount of guilt and embarrassment. If he ever found out about the things he was doing to me in my fantasies, I’d have to move to another country and change my name.

But there was another effect, too. A very interesting one. See, I was under a lot of stress at the time, and I’ve always had depression, and thus I was having major problems with my sex drive. As in, I didn’t have one. Obviously the fantasies about my crush were coming from somewhere, but it wasn’t until after I cast the spell that they really took on a physiological aspect. There were a few times when I wondered if I should shut down the spell, cast an antidote or something…but I found I didn’t want to. I was ecstatic that I was able to get aroused again, and so easily. The agony of the fantasies was quite pleasant, and the solo sex was great.

And the guy I liked? Well, the spell never had an obvious effect. But he was a shy, nervous guy, and shy, nervous guys are adept at hiding crushes–especially when they happen to be married–so who’s to say he didn’t feel something? I’m also shy and nervous, so I doubt he ever knew I had feelings for him. I had a little angst that I would damage his marriage somehow, but even monogamous folks are routinely attracted to other people. Nowadays, I love it when my husband tells me about inappropriate thoughts he’s had about other women. If the marriage is strong, it can be as harmless as it is hot.

So, in the end, my crush and I never did get together. The spell eventually ran its course, and thankfully, he never seemed to suffer any ill effects. (After all, if he did, I would have, too.) But I found that I grew more confident around him. I felt prettier. I didn’t hold back as much when talking to him, and our friendship deepened a little. Plus, I collected some good data. I learned how it feels to have a love spell come back to you. I gained a deeper understanding of the difference between trying to force reality into your ideal and approaching a spell lightly, with no expectations. I learned what wielding power feels like.

That experience, to me, was a rite of passage. That spell remains the only love spell I’ve ever cast, but it changed my relationship with magic. I’m not recommending that you all go out and cast love spells on your crushes, of course, and working love magic on people in monogamous relationships probably isn’t the smartest idea in the world. The ethical issues are very real, and the attitude you bring to your spells will determine the effect they have on you. If you’re seeking to control or injure someone else, chances are you’ll only end up hurting yourself.

But don’t be so afraid of messing up that you never learn to sense your own power. Sometimes you don’t think clearly. Sometimes a spell teeters on the edge of your ethical boundaries. Sometimes magic has unintended effects. But the only way to learn is to gain experience.

To this day, my crush and I remain friends–not close friends, but amiable enough to make each other laugh. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I’ll never get my hands on him, but I treasure what we do have. And in that sense, my spell was a resounding success.