Welcome to Solitary Magic
Appalachian folk magic began when the first settlers made their way through the Cumberland Gap, settling in the hardscrabble mountains, determined to make their homes, but this magic is as old as the Appalachian mountain range itself. My people were Ulster Scots, driven out of their homeland by religious persecution, soaring rents, and famine. They descended from the Celtic peoples of the region, and held firm to the old ways. When they settled in Appalachia, they brought those ways with them, blended with healing they learned from the Indigenous peoples, and sprinkled with Christianity. This fusion led to a folk magic that is unique to the hills that I call home.
Hi. My name is Carol. I’m a former Southern Baptist, and I’m finding my way back to the practices of my ancestors, following the path that is rooted in my DNA. On this podcast, I’ll share the history of the folk magic of the region, and share my practice as I learn and grow in knowledge. We’ll talk to people from all walks of life who follow different paths of spirituality, looking for the commonalities, and the way we are more alike than different. If you’re searching for a way to connect to spirit, pick up your walking stick and let's get to exploring.
This is my fourth attempt at a podcast. My first podcast was about leaving religion, and all the madness, both good and bad, that comes with it. I really thought I’d found my niche, ya know? I wanted to expose the toxic theology of the evangelical church, and I hoped the podcast would help me work through all the garbage of wrecking my self esteem and waking up in the middle of the night after having another nightmare of going to hell. I worked hard on writing the scripts. I did hours of research. I had theme music. And I stopped recording after a handful of episodes.
I moved on to my heritage, determined to share the beauty of Appalachia to the masses. I worked hard on writing the scripts. I did hours of research. I didn’t even make it to theme music. I never released an episode. I had some really nice artwork for the website that I never launched though.
I then told myself that it was time to focus on something meaningful. I’m a stepmom, and it’s not an easy thing to be a stepmom, so I figured a podcast would help others who are doing this whole stepparent thing. I had killer artwork, I worked hard on writing the scripts. I did hours of research. The theme music was kickass. I plugged it on my social media. I recorded two episodes. In the middle of writing the third script, I froze. A wave of depression hit me like a tsunami.
I didn’t want to do it.
So I just stopped. I stopped trying to come up with a theme for a podcast. I figured it just wasn’t for me, that I would have to find something else to scratch this creative itch I’ve got.
And then I heard my name called.
Now, if you’re not from Appalachia, you may be wondering what the big deal is about hearing my name called. But to me, hearing my name called brought tons of memories flooding back. Memories of growing up in Appalachia, of my mamaw Ruby teaching me how to make biscuits and gravy, and soup beans and cornbread. Of taking the simplest of ingredients and turning them into delicacies. Or sitting with my great grandmother Cynthie, listening to her stories of the old times, watching her craft healing poultices in her kitchen and burying spell jars in her yard.
In my culture, hearing your name called is an omen. Omens can be good or bad, so you have to be able to discern between the two. But the most important piece of advice from both of my grandmothers was “If you hear your name called, no you didn’t”. It was something you ignored. If it was meant as a good omen, it would be followed up by a clear sign of something positive. Best to just ignore it and move on with your life.
I’ve heard voices call out before, back when I was a young’un on my mamaw’s front porch, but this time felt different. It settled into my bones and didn’t fade from my mind. About a week later, my family and I were browsing through our local peddler’s mall. The place has everything; old books, old furniture, nunchucks… and in one booth, on the very bottom shelf, I saw something that made me stop in my tracks.
When I was growing up, my mamaw Cynthie loved to collect things. Dolls, glass, all kinds of kitchen trinkets. And one thing she had was my absolute favorite. It was a green carnival glass punch bowl and glasses. The way the light would reflect off the iridescent glass would make tiny rainbows dance through her kitchen. When she passed, my mom inherited that punch bowl, and she passed it onto me when I got married. It has been with me for almost 30 years, through a dozen moves. It’s perfect. We use it at every holiday, filling it with summer punch and Christmas wassail. It’s my prized possession.
I’ve wanted to collect more of this glass for years, but after a million yard sales, thrift stores, and internet searches, I had never been able to find anything that matched the color and design of the punch bowl.
Until this trip to the peddler’s mall. Tucked in that bottom shelf sat a fruit bowl, the green iridescence reflecting the light from the windows. My mamaw Cynthie had delivered.
I was raised around magic, even though the church completely forbade anything that resembled witchcraft. My mamaw Cynthie was known around the holler as a healer, as a wise woman who could discern what ailments you had, or if you were going to have a baby. She had prophetic dreams, and I’ve already mentioned how she crafted healing remedies from ingredients collected from her property. She was a repository of our history, of the ways of the elders. She loved Jesus, but she didn’t go to church. She said churches were full of hypocrites, and Jesus didn’t care if she went or not. She read her bible, and she used it in her healing.
Growing up, I didn’t realize that Cynthie and the other old folks of the holler were continuing traditions that started centuries before with our ancestors. I just knew that if you saw an owl in the daytime, it was a bad omen. A bird in the house was an omen of death. If a black cat crossed your path, draw three x’s in the air to ward off bad luck. Always leave a home through the same door you came in. Reciting Ezekiel 16:6 would stop a nosebleed. When I began studying witchcraft and magic a couple of years ago, I began to realize that the way I was raised, the sayings I grew up hearing, the herbs and tinctures I grew up using, were magic. A very old, very powerful magic.
But before we get into the meat and potatoes of what this podcast will be, I need to give you some backstory.
I had therapy last week, and my therapist assigned some homework. She wants me to identify two values from a list, and answer some questions about them. I’m supposed to talk about behaviors that support those values, and give examples of when I’ve lived those values. I haven’t even started. I just stare at the pages and break out into a sweat.
This is the thing about growing up and spending four decades in a high control religion. I was never allowed to have my own values. My values were imposed on me, dictated from a book by a man standing behind a podium. It was lazy morality. I didn’t have to think about any of it. I just had to follow what the book said. Or, more accurately, I had to follow the pastor’s interpretation of the book. Either way, someone else decided what my values were. When my mother beat me with a fly swatter for talking in church, I was taught the value of respect. When I was sexually harassed by an elder of the church, I was taught the value of forgiveness. When I was forced to attend services multiple times per week, I was taught the value of tradition.
Now that I’ve been out of the religion for six years, I can see just how twisted this value system is. This vertical morality that cares nothing about the harm of others, just as long as God is happy. Everything in my life revolved around making God happy, even as it drove me crazy. Self esteem was a dirty word in the church. I was unworthy of love, of forgiveness, of joy. I had no inherent value. My value was only through God, and the only reason I was alive was to glorify him. We sang songs celebrating this. We would stand, arms raised, tears flowing, praising a deity who told us we were worthless. The most pious among us were the ones who showed the most humility, who welcomed the trials of life, because persecution equaled righteousness. It was a competition to see who was the most pitiful. Cancer? Praise God. House burned down? Hallelujah. The more doom and gloom, the better. To be happy was fleeting. You wanted the joy only the lord could give, and that meant you wanted the trouble to come, so you could feel joy in the hard times. What kind of god would push this onto the creation he was supposed to love?
So that’s why this homework assignment from my therapist is almost impossible. I feel like a 14 year old trying to figure out what I believe. I’m starting over from scratch at almost 50. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.
This is why so many of us who have left high control religions continue to talk about it. For many of us, we didn’t get to experience childhood in a normal, healthy way. Our childhoods were dictated by horrible nightmare stories presented in cute little puppet shows and art projects. Noah’s ark was painted on our Sunday school classroom walls, complete with cute little animals and fluffy clouds. Never mind the fact that the whole story is about a narcissistic god who murdered a whole planet because his feelings were hurt. Ignore the fact that the whole story is an impossible farce. Look at the cute giraffes and elephants. We learned about David and Goliath, and listened to stories about how David cut off the giant’s head after killing him with a pebble. The story of Job taught us that it’s important to have faith even when the devil tempts you and ruins your life, but in reality, it’s a horror story about a god and a demon having a tea party and making a bet, then god giving Job a new family after he allowed his old one to be slaughtered. What a loving god.
We stood in lines in the front of the church and sang about being in God’s Army. We were taught to put on the armor of god to protect us in battle. Our childhoods were filled with more blood and gore than any video game. And that’s not even talking about the story of Jesus and his crucifixion.
We were told that our natural instincts were evil, that we couldn’t trust our hearts, that our bodies didn’t belong to us. Girls were berated for showing their shoulders, and blamed when they were assaulted. Modest was hottest. Purity rings were the rage. We were compared to used chewing gum and trampled on roses. We were expected to keep our legs closed until our wedding night, then expected to be sex sirens for our husbands, available anytime he wanted it. We were blamed when our husbands cheated because our sexually repressed selves couldn’t perform the way our husbands wanted. We were expected to stay one step behind, agree, stay under the umbrella of protection. We were convinced that our main purpose on the planet was to bear children and continue the indoctrination. We were to be polite, quiet, forgiving, and always pleasant. Not too loud. Keep your opinions to yourself. Discuss them with your husband. Don’t make a scene. Serve everyone else. Our fulfillment came from taking care of everyone else. Self care was a sin of selfishness. It was pride. Serve until you work yourself into an exhausted depression, but then beg god to forgive you for not serving with a grateful heart. Bear it all with a smile. Be a good little girl.
And girls were girls and boys were boys. Boys will be boys. They were taught that it was the girls’ responsibility to keep them pure. That when they felt attracted to a girl, it was her fault for not covering up. But boys sow wild oats. Just don’t marry the girl you sowed with. They’re damaged goods. Find a good girl, a pure girl. Boys don’t play with dolls, they don’t cry. They are manly, tough, they play with cars and in the dirt. They fish and they hunt and they bring home the paycheck. Their women do the cooking, and the cleaning, and the child rearing. The men make the decisions. They serve in the church offices. They are the pastors and the deacons. Women set out the meals for dinners on the grounds. Being gay is the worst sin. Everything else can be forgiven, but that? No way you’re seeing heaven if you are attracted to the same sex. And there are only two genders. There is no room at the table for originality or expression. God is perfect. The bible is without error. At least, the way the American pastors interpret it. Guns are holy.
In other words, it’s messed up.
I am having to unlearn everything. From parenting to being an equal partner in my marriage. I’m starting over, and that’s scary. But what I’ve learned on this journey out of religion is that there are better ways to look at things. That life is more than black and white, that the colors of life are vibrant and swirling. There is no “true path”, no one way to heaven. There are many paths, many journeys, many afterlives, and all of them are unique.
I mentioned before that the history of Appalachian healers and spell workers is as old as the mountain range itself. Traditions formed from old Celtic beliefs and practices, mixed with indigenous medicine and spiritualism from the other cultures who were spread across the region. Even though my family was extremely religious, they held true to the superstitions of the holler. The old practitioners added Christianity into their magic, using the scriptures in their spells. The very mountains my ancestors settled in after crossing the Cumberland Gap were part of the same mountains they left in the Scottish Highlands. The mountains called to my people, drawn there by the spirits that occupy them.
I saw my first ghost when I was seven. I was playing in our garage one evening, and I saw a man standing in front of the garage door, looking at me through the window. I asked mom who the man was, but she couldn’t see him. I argued with her until he vanished. Thing is, those windows were at least 7 feet off the ground. I started having dreams about events that hadn’t happened yet, and I could pick up on vibes when I walked into a room of people. But these things were not allowed in my church. These things, these spidey senses, were from the devil, according to my upbringing. So what did I do? I repressed it. I pretended I couldn’t see random people walking around that no one else could see. I ignored the bad vibes that came off of some people. I tucked all of it away, and relegated it to my “sin nature”. I turned my back on my heritage, on my abilities. And that ghost I saw as a kid? Come to find out, he’s my guide. He’s been with me throughout my life, showing up when I need him the most.
So I’m reconnecting with all of it. I spend time in meditation, I’m learning to ride the hedge between this world and that. I’m meeting ancestors and guides on my walks. My mind and spirit have been opened to possibilities I never knew existed. And I can’t help but think that if I had been allowed to pursue this when I was young, my life would be completely different now. I spend my time working with plants, growing things, putting my hands in the dirt. I started my whole garden from seed this year, and my tomatoes are works of art. I’ve pickled peppers, and I’m growing pumpkins to carve for Halloween.
I also spend time staring at the moon, listening to nature, learning to identify the voices of my ancestors. I am learning how to tap into the magic of the earth through the things that grow around me. I am more free than I’ve ever been. I find joy in the mundane tasks of daily living. I can feel the spirit of the universe in everything. It’s very cool.
So that’s it. I’m turning 50 in two months. Half a century. And it’s only now that I feel like I’m finally living, finally tapping into my purpose. I feel like a kid again, which is great, since the first go around wasn’t all that fun. That whole repressed evangelical upbringing kind of put a damper on being a kid. But it’s also a bit terrifying. I have so much to learn, so much to unravel. The world is huge, and I’ve only seen a tiny fraction of it.
I’ve entered the crone stage of my life, and I’m here for it. I’m finding power in myself, in feeling my connection to every living thing. I’ve fought my way out of indoctrination, and now I’m ready for whatever the universe throws at me. This is the reason I’ve named this podcast Solitary Magick. I’m an introvert by nature, so the thought of joining a coven, or finding people with similar interests is off the table. I also connect to Spirit much easier by myself.
And listen, I’m not a “professional witch”. Is there even such a thing? Witchcraft has so many avenues, so many different ways of practicing, that I think it’s impossible to be a “professional”. I’m a novice, a beginner, an infant. I want to use this podcast as a kind of journal, a place for me to jot down my thoughts, to explain my workings, and to share things I learn along the way. I want to invite other solitary practitioners to share their stories. I want to talk about oracle decks, mediums, and ancestors. I want to do more to understand this great big universe we share, and how our different beliefs add to its tapestry.
I hope this podcast can grow into a vibrant, diverse community. People who practice magic, and people who are just intrigued by the idea. I want to welcome different points of view, and share the things I learn. I may be a solitary practitioner, but I know there is so much to gain by being open to people.
So if you’re ready to journey with me as I find my path, welcome. I think we’ll be good friends.
Thank you so much for joining me on the first episode of Solitary Magick. I’ll link my website and socials in the description. Feel free to connect! If you would like to be a guest, let me know!
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