Greetings my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

The Witch’s House

Ronnie and I spent the day running around town, shopping, checking things off our list, and simply enjoying being together. Nothing particularly extraordinary happened, which, in a way, made it extraordinary all by itself.

Of course, we came home with more things that most people would probably call Halloween decorations. We simply call them house decorations. Our home is slowly transforming into the sort of place that feels as though it belongs in the pages of an old storybook. Candles. Ravens. Moons. Strange little treasures. Bits and pieces collected along the way.

In other words, a witch’s house.

And yes, before anyone asks, men can absolutely be witches.

This brings me to an interesting subject: imagination, creativity, belief, and what happens when pieces of ourselves become buried so deeply that we begin to believe they are gone forever.

Becoming Vividly Rae

For years, I believed I wasn’t creative. I convinced myself that I had no imagination at all. My belief system fell apart more times than I can count. I changed blog names more times than I care to admit, always searching for something that felt like home.

Then Vividly Rae arrived.

This time, something feels different.

Vividly Rae isn’t simply the name of a blog. It isn’t just a website. It has become my little corner of the world, a reflection of who I am and who I am becoming.

That thought led me to another one.

I have the feeling that the goddesses are preparing me for a name that will eventually exist within my own small circle of witches and my coven. That will come in time.

Right now, I feel very much like a newborn beginning all over again.

The Name I Have Yet to Remember

That sounds strange to say at fifty-five years old, but it is true. Somewhere along the way, I became so many different versions of myself that I lost sight of the woman standing underneath all of them.

Daughter.

Wife.

Employee.

Caregiver.

Peacemaker.

Problem solver.

Keeper of secrets.

Holder of burdens.

I have been all of those things.

But who am I when all of the labels fall away?

Perhaps that is the journey I find myself on now.

I am not looking for someone to follow. I am not looking for someone to tell me what to believe. I am not searching for another box to squeeze myself into.

I am listening instead.

I am listening to my heart, my instincts, my ancestors, the natural world around me, and the quiet voice that has been whispering to me all along.

I find myself wondering what name they will eventually give me.

Not the name on my birth certificate.

Not the names other people have called me throughout my life.

Not daughter, wife, employee, caregiver, or even writer.

I mean the name that belongs to the woman I have become.

The old stories are filled with people who were given names after they endured trials, crossed thresholds, survived heartbreak, or finally stepped into the fullness of who they were meant to be.

I sometimes wonder whether I am standing at one of those thresholds now.

Perhaps that is why I feel like a newborn and an old woman all at once.

I wonder what name the goddesses will give me.

And I wonder whether, somewhere deep inside, I have known it all along.

The difference is that this time I am not following someone else’s map. I am reading books, taking what speaks to me, and leaving the rest behind.

The Imaginary Friends Who Saved Me

A few nights ago, I watched the Supernatural episode in which people’s imaginary friends appear.

I cried.

Suddenly, a memory returned to me.

When I was very young, I went through an extremely traumatic experience. During that time, I had a companion. I don’t remember her name, but I remember her. She had blonde hair that she wore in braids. We had tea parties together. We read books, colored pictures, sang songs, and played with my dolls.

No one else could see her.

Then, when I was eight years old, another traumatic experience occurred, and another companion appeared.

This one was older, with long silver hair. She was sweet, gentle, and endlessly patient. She would sit beside me, sing to me, read stories, and tell me that everything was going to be all right.

When I told my parents about these friends, they took me to a psychiatrist.

It was decided that I needed help and that these companions had to be removed from my life.

Imagine doing that to a child.

Imagine deciding that imagination is something dangerous.

Imagine taking away the very thing that is helping a child survive.

When Wonder Was Taken Away

After that, something changed.

I slowly lost my imagination, or perhaps I simply buried it. It felt as though I had skipped over childhood entirely and become an adult overnight. As the years passed, painful experiences, criticism, grief, and disappointment slowly chipped away at another piece of me.

Little by little, the wild child disappeared.

Or so I thought.

Grandma Todd and the Protection of Wonder

There was one person who refused to let that happen.

Grandma Todd.

She talked about fairies in the garden, gnomes among the flowers, and the old trolls of legend. She encouraged me to play dress-up, have tea parties, color, read, and dream. She bought me dolls to play with whenever my parents left me at her house.

Grandma even encouraged me to be silly. She sang with me, danced with me, and reminded me that life was supposed to contain joy. We played jacks and pickup sticks, and we spent countless afternoons playing Silly Sandwich, the old Milton Bradley game in which we rolled the dice, moved around the board, and built the biggest, daffiest, silliest sandwiches imaginable.

We drew hopscotch squares outside, and she patiently taught me how to jump rope.

Looking back, I realize she wasn’t simply keeping me occupied.

She was protecting wonder.

She was protecting imagination.

She was protecting magic.

She was protecting the child inside me.

She watched that little girl slowly disappear, and I think it broke her heart.

Perhaps that is why I loved being with Grandma and Grandpa Todd so much.

Their home felt safe.

It felt magical.

It felt like permission.

Vickie Was Right

That brings me to today.

I was telling my sister Vickie that I thought I had lost my imagination and creativity forever when the wonderful, amazing bitch said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“You haven’t lost it. Look at your house. Look at your hair. Look at your makeup. Look at everything you’re creating.”

I love you, Vickie.

And yes, I say “bitch” with all the affection in the world. If you know, you know.

Creative Fire

Ronnie took me to Michaels, and I suddenly realized that I have more projects waiting for me than I know what to do with.

Diamond art.

Ceramics.

Painting wood projects.

Writing.

Decorating.

Creating.

Maybe Vickie was right.

Maybe I didn’t lose my imagination at all.

Maybe it was simply waiting for me to come back for it.

My creative fire is burning again.

I am writing every day. I am transforming our house into a place that feels like home. I am blending the New Jersey childhood I knew, Grandma Todd’s influence, a touch of the Southwest, and my own strange little style into something entirely my own.

The Cinnamon-Haired Witch

I dyed my hair dark cinnamon.

I blew it dry.

I styled it.

I put on makeup.

Anyone who knows me understands what an unusual event this is.

Normally, I wash my hair, throw it into a towel, work in a little smoothing cream and oil, and carry on with my day. My hair is wavy, unruly, frizzy, and absolutely determined to do whatever it pleases.

Then, while I was standing in the shower this morning, I heard that familiar little voice telling me to get out, dry my hair, and make an effort.

So I did.

I asked the goddesses for inspiration, imagination, and creativity, and suddenly I find myself standing at the beginning of another transformation.

Cynthia Saw the Spark

Then Ronnie took me to my favorite little witch shop.

The moment I walked through the door, Cynthia jumped up from her chair and hurried over to greet me. She asked how I was doing, and I told her I was better.

Later, Ronnie sent me back inside to buy a copper goddess chakra hanging, and Cynthia took my hand and smiled.

She told me that I was glowing.

Sparkling.

More than she had ever seen before.

Remembering the Wild Child

So now I am sitting here in the semi-darkness of our bedroom, writing these words and thinking about three things.

Imagination.

Creativity.

Inspiration.

Perhaps the question is not where I go from here.

Perhaps the question is who I become.

I don’t think I am finding myself.

I think I am remembering myself.

And perhaps that little girl never disappeared at all.

Perhaps she was simply waiting patiently for me to return.

Stay feral, dark, and bright, my lovelies. ✨