I hate cleaning. 

No, that’s not accurate. It doesn’t occur to me to clean. There are so many other more entertaining things to do. Do I vacuum or read a book? The answer is always, read a book. And if, by some miracle, I do vacuum, the moment that plug is pulled out of the wall—well, that’s a sign from above that I’m done.

But it’s a new year! Time for me to clear out the old and make space for the new that’s been waiting to come into my life, or something like that. When I try to declutter my home, I often tackle long-overlooked and neglected spaces like the craft cupboard. Those paint-smeared doors haven’t been opened since the kids graduated from high school. The oldest just turned 30. Maybe it’s time. But, as my family would be the first to tell you, it’s a gamble that anything will be cleaned, tossed, or rehomed. The more likely outcome is that the task may begin with emptying and wiping down shelves, but will quickly turn into an adventure with popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners, all held together with almost-dried-out tacky glue. After a mere eight to ten hours, the craft cupboard will have been successfully emptied and scrubbed clean inside and out. And voilà, a mixed-media bedazzled palace for an as-yet-unborn grandchild or great-niece. 

So, you see my problem. To clean in the traditional sense of doing laundry, mopping, dusting – I don’t have the capacity to be that bored for that long on a consistent basis. Fortunately for my family and me, my husband is tidy by nature, calmed by clean, clear counters, and has an innate distaste for knick-knacks. Laundry is done at least once daily, folded, and placed at the top of the appropriate family member’s dresser. As my oldest, aged ten at the time, once said in a moment of clarity, “Sooo, if it weren’t for dad, we’d be living in a big, stinky, hole.” Ah, from the mouths of babes.

However, I have learned many things from my structured husband over these past thirty or so years. One lesson that has stuck with me is “clean as you go.” It’s become somewhat of a habit, but I must continually chant this good advice while I make dinner or bake so I don’t forget.

Just before Christmas, I experienced my own moment of clarity.  I do chant to keep myself on task. That’s like casting a spell, right? Cue falling down the #witchtok hole.

Oh, the crafts! And shiny rocks? I was… enchanted. This had the potential to make the mundane bearable. Anything that keeps me on task must be magic. My New Year’s resolution was to don a witch’s hat and use the broom to sweep evil spirits out of my house. 

I now anoint household surfaces with a protection potion I’ve brewed using pine needles and vinegar. (Like and follow for more.) This helps prevent curses and hexes, such as food poisoning or a nasty cold. I ward the robes (put away laundry). I banish the goblins from the yard (pick up dog poo). I prepare windows and mirrors for scrying (wash them). 

I release the hound to guard the castle and keep the fae rabbits and demon deer out of the garden. My toilet brush is now a magic wand. 

I’ve never had so much fun. I now have an excuse to scatter pretty rocks (crystals) around the house. Of course, I charge them first in the midday sun after the full moon. I water the plants with water I left outside in random can’t-find-the-lid containers beneath a full moon. I cook with basil for luck and good fortune. I stir my coffee three times clockwise before taking a sip. I’m not sure why, but I saw it on Instagram.

 I’m a green witch, an eclectic witch, a kitchen witch, and if you piss me off, an evil witch. 

Do I believe in this? That it is, like, real magic (or magick, as some sources say)? 

Why not? Does it matter? If it gets the job done, then believe me, it’s real magic. 

I’m not a deeply spiritual person, not really. I’m definitely not Wiccan. I don’t dance naked in the yard under a full moon (although once summer hits, all bets are off). But I think this appeals to me and an increasing number of women because there’s a feeling that what little power we fought so hard to gain is quietly being taken away. Maybe this is a way to reclaim some of what we are losing. Because, let’s face it, it’s like comedian Mike Delamont says, “Witches have always existed. It’s mostly just woman making soup.” 

As I was writing this, my practical, tidy scientist husband came to tell me that he had taken down the remaining Christmas wreaths and decorations. That was, “Except for that Wiccan shit you hung over the front door.”

I had hung some juniper to keep negativity from entering our home on the eve of the solstice, which was also the night we hosted the neighborhood Christmas party. Better safe than sorry.

“Oh,” I waved a hand in the air, “you can take that down.”

“No,” he said. “I like it.”