I remember the first time I was exposed to the world of esoterica (not to be confused with the literary erotica of Anis Nin, which came about much later). I was a 14-year old kid growing up in a small resort town in Northwestern Wisconsin. Life was pretty predictable and measured by the changing seasons. Then suddenly, the smooth and steady rhythm was thrown out of sync with the arrival of Maria and her mother Gail. Two gypsies blown into town on a wish carried along by a dandelion seed in the wind. Gail purported to come from Romanian lineage of roving fortune tellers who could read the coffee grounds in the bottom of your cup. Maria hated her mother’s nomadic nature and wanted to put down roots and did her best to blend in with the townies. However, Maria stood out like an Easter bonnet at a swanky Christmas cocktail party. Too bright and totally out of season. Of course, this is what I loved about her. She was different. Worldly. Weird. Plus, she had a mother who could tell the future.
One day, Maria invited me over to the ramshackle cabin she and her mother were living in. I wasn’t sure if the cabin even had heat, but Maria said the digs were only temporary. I shrugged my shoulders and thought it was kind of exotic with tawdry Indian tapestries covering knotty pine walls, mismatched furniture scattered about the rooms and a mysterious haze of incense hovering in the air. Gail asked if I’d like my cards read. I had no idea what she meant and expected her to pull out a deck of playing cards. Instead, she pulled out a cigar box filled with Zig-zag papers, matches, a roach clip, a dried bundle of herbs and a dark blue silk scarf dotted with tiny stars. Gail slowly unraveled the scarf to reveal the most beautiful deck of cards I’d ever seen. The illustrations were both mesmerizing and frightening. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Gail instructed me to think of a question as I shuffled the cards. I handed back the deck to her, which she cut it into three neat piles and stacked together. Then with a flamboyant flourish, she fanned out the cards in front of me like a peacock tail.
The blood rushed to my face when she flipped over the first card revealing the Lovers. The second card was the Three of Swords. The third card was the Death card. I could feel my heart falter as I gasped in fear. Gail chuckled and told me not to jump to conclusions. Maria rolled her eyes trying to lighten my dark mood.
Go figure, the cards didn’t lie. That summer my heart was cracked wide open and my two-timing crush unceremoniously ditched me for the “other” girl. Gail had predicted my teenage heartbreak. However, what really impressed me the most was the “ritual” she performed before she did the reading. The little bundle of dried herbs was something she called a smudge stick that was made from dehydrated sage leaves tied together with thread. The only sage I was familiar with came in a bag of stale bread cubes my mom used to stuff the cavity of the big bird she roasted every Thanksgiving.
Gail lit the smudge stick and waved it around the cabin like a sparkler as she called on our guardian angels to bless the space and clear out any unwanted entities. The idea of unwanted entities really-really freaked me out and reminded me of the movie Amityville Horror, which freaked me out even more. But then the earthy aroma of the burning sage wrapped itself around me. I felt better. Grounded. Safe. That was my first experience with esoterica and unseen energetic forces. The idea of being able to clear out unwanted energies from a space was intriguing, but above my head at that time. The only thing in my head was boys, boys, boys and the chance to tap into Gail’s tarot cards for hazy glimpses into the future filled with boys, boys and boys. Eventually, I acquired my own deck of Tarot cards. Over the years, the accuracy of my readings has been spotty. However, whenever I burn sage or use smudge around the house to clean and clear it, I always feel better. Grounded. Safe.
photo courtesy of Brittany Colette