Witches: An Essay

 

Hexen 1 - Paper collage on wood panel - 24" x 48" - 2022.

WITCHES

Ever since I can remember, I have been completely fascinated by witches. I was scared of them, of course. There was one living under my bed, and one living in my closet. The witch under my bed had, like Snoopy in his dog house, an absurdly huge subterranean palace of a living space. She was always stirring a wooden spoon in her humongous cauldron of hot bubbling substances. Her biggest evil desire was to add a juicy piece of child meat to her magical soup. I was terrified (well past the age I ‘should’ have been) of leaving a foot sticking out past the bed’s edge - for then, the witch would pull me under and throw me into her pot.

My visions of witches were less informed by The Wizard of Oz (favorite movie) or Disney versions of the evil-stepmother-turned-witch, and more by the classic old German fairy tales that were the foundation of Disney’s worlds. Having German parents who emigrated to the States before I was born, and sometimes embarking on those exciting - and, in the 70s, much more rare - airplane trips to Germany, I was familiar with the lush German forests and fields, and the prominence of nature and a culture of mysticism within them. Anytime I traveled through the German forests it was clear to me that the dense and dark pine trees hid witches’ huts from general view.

Once, my brother made me the most amazing dark green witch’s mask from a cardboard plate - I treasured it. For “Fasching”, the Southern-German carnival, my favorite disguise was always the witch, complete with dresses made from fabric shreds and self-made cardboard fingernails and warts that I applied to my body with glue. Later, herbs, potions, and utensils completed my look. I still mourn the silver cup that I lost in the Cologne Karneval; it had been dangling from my witch’s waist by a long string. (It was an antique - my childhood drinking utensil after I apparently decided to quit drinking breast milk at 5 months, by biting my mother and refusing further such sustenance. She liked telling me how I skipped bottle-feeding and went straight from breast to cup - which fostered early autonomy and manual dexterity.)

But also anytime throughout the year, a favorite ‘prank’ was to dress up as an odd, old, stooped woman with a cackling, cracking voice, ring the doorbell and try to convince my mother that this was not her daughter offering wares from her basket of mysterious goods.

My mother - a powerful, beloved presence in my life. Like a ‘good’ witch, she was my rock, also throughout our somewhat traumatic move to Germany when I was eight. But when I was mad at her, I liked to paint the outlines of a horrid witch’s face on the mirror for her to ‘fit’ her face in, with the words “Mama you are a WITCH” (and sometimes “I hate you”) scrawled below.

It was only later that I realized what fascinated me so much about the concept of witches. A witch is a female person of power who is not determined by a male figure: she is not a queen married to the king; she is not a mother to a (holy, or adventurer) son; she is not a princess  waiting to be saved by the prince. Nor does she aim to please any male figures: She is ugly, old, loud, mean. She is past the reproductive phase. She does not need to be nurturing. She is not accepted socially, and there’s no hope that she ever will be - so she might as well do as she pleases. She takes what she wants. She stands utterly alone in her self-contained power, a power that others don’t understand. She answers only to one force, and that is Nature.

Nature: The witch lives hidden in the forest, or at the very least in a hut overgrown by trees and bushes. She usually has at least one “familiar” - a trusted animal by her side; traditionally, a black cat, or maybe an owl. She knows all about the plants, animals, fungi, lichen and slimes that surround her, and how to put them to use in the magical potions that she brews. She is deeply ensconced in wilderness - away from human society.

The witch moves with the soil, or the wind, or the rain, or the pollen - sometimes she is visible, but mostly she is not. Because she mostly doesn’t want to have to deal with you, human. Only when she is very hungry.

She is a force to be reckoned with. I wouldn’t incur her wrath if I were you.