It's my eleven-year anniversary.
Happy anniversary, me.

Eleven years ago I voided my apartment of all unessential items. I packed two dogs, two cats, paints, clothing, instruments, and a few boxes of sentimentals into a 1997 Plymouth Voyager on its third transmission and drove all the way from San Diego, California to Portland, Oregon in one shot. At 4am on November 8th, 2012, I laid out a blanket on the floor of my new one bedroom apartment and fell asleep in a pile of snoring fur.

Eleven years ago I had this urge to move to the Pacific Northwest and become a witch. I didn't know what that meant, and I didn't have any delusional plans that involved magic wands, levitation, or licking toads. It was a deeper knowing, the kind of knowing without knowing and trusting the unknown, which pretty much meant not knowing wtf I was doing but doing it anyway.

I couldn't tell you the magic formula. There's not gonna be a book called Eleven Steps to Becoming a Witch. I still don't know what a witch truly is. What I do know is I live in this wicked beautiful sylvan paradise where I commune with crows, go on long quests into the wilderness, and heal people with my hands.

Sounds about right.
Sounds about witch.

Oh. And I can fly, too.

CrowTube Channel
Crowstagram
NFT Crowroom
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