paganism

⚠️ This blog shares my personal, sometimes painful experiences with MS and mental health. My intention is to speak honestly and offer solidarity—not to harm or replace professional advice. I’m not a doctor or therapist, just someone who gets how hard it can get. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. Please reach out to a trusted friend, support group, or professional. You deserve help and hope.⚠️

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction, and use AI to help solve this issue so you can understand it lol

well a very good morning to everyone who reads this blog and hope that things go well and that you have an excellent weekend sending peace healing love and light...

Finding Magic in a Body That Sometimes Forgets

The Goddess never promised us perfect bodies.

She promised the turning of the Wheel.

Birth. Growth. Decline. Death. Then the mystery begins again.

As Wiccans, we celebrate the seasons because they remind us that nothing remains the same forever. The mighty oak stands tall in summer, sheds every leaf in autumn, sleeps through winter, and returns again in spring.

Perhaps our own bodies are simply another season of the Wheel.

Living with Multiple Sclerosis can feel like your own body has declared war upon itself. The nerves misfire. The muscles rebel. Fatigue arrives like an unwelcome spirit, settling over everything until even making a cup of tea feels like climbing a mountain.

From a medical perspective, MS is an autoimmune disease. That understanding matters, and modern medicine has brought treatments that can slow its progress and improve quality of life.

But medicine isn't the only language people use to understand suffering.

For many Wiccans, illness is not a punishment from the Goddess, nor proof that we've somehow failed spiritually. Nature itself is full of storms, broken branches, lightning strikes, and trees that grow twisted yet continue reaching for the sun.

Why should humans be any different?

When I light a candle, I don't expect it to cure my MS.

I light it because even the smallest flame pushes back the darkness.

When I walk through the woods, I don't believe the trees can repair damaged myelin.

But they remind me that life continues, even when it changes shape.

When I celebrate Lammas, Samhain, or Beltane, I'm not pretending my symptoms disappear.

I'm remembering that I'm still part of something much older than my diagnosis.

The Wheel keeps turning.

Some days my body feels like winter.

Everything slows.

Everything hurts.

Nothing grows.

Other days are spring.

Energy returns, if only for a few precious hours.

I have learned not to curse the winter.

Without it, I would never recognise spring when she arrives.

Perhaps magic isn't about making disease disappear.

Perhaps the greatest spell we ever cast is refusing to let illness define who we are.

The Goddess is present in the healthy body.

She is equally present in the scarred one.

The God walks with the marathon runner.

He also walks beside the person moving at eight miles an hour on a mobility scooter.

Neither path is holier than the other.

Both are sacred.

If MS has taught me anything, it is that strength isn't measured by how far we can walk.

It's measured by whether we choose to keep walking the Wheel, however slowly, however painfully, and however differently from what we once imagined.

Blessed Be.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

twitter@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Simple. Gentle. Like a spiritual permission slip written in soft candlelight. But then reality. Then people.

The Wiccan Rede isn’t a fluffy motto for floating through life like a chiffon-draped faery. It’s a challenge. A dare from the universe. A whispered reminder:

“Behave… or the cosmic slap is coming.”

🐍 The Hard Part: “Harm None”

This is where most of us trip. “Harm none” sounds saintly until you actually try it. Have you met people? They’re messy, loud, selfish, loving, broken, healing, hopeful, cruel, and kind all in the same breath.

You’re going to harm sometimes. With words, with silence, by accident, by simply existing differently than someone wants you to.

The Rede isn’t saying you can avoid harm altogether. It’s saying: don’t be careless. Don’t throw hexes around like confetti. Don’t wield your will without thought.

Real compassion is hard work. It means stopping to breathe before you lash out. It means trying really trying to see another human as a tangled ball of needs and pain, not just “the enemy.” And when you do harm (because you will), it means owning it, repairing it, not pretending it never happened.

🕸️ “Do What Ye Will”

Now for the fun part. Freedom.

The Rede doesn’t cage you. It doesn’t hand you a checklist of “good witch” behaviours. It says: choose. Make your will real. Sing to the moon. Dance barefoot in your kitchen. Call on gods, ancestors, or just the wild stubbornness in your own chest.

You’re allowed. You’re free. That’s the beauty.

But hidden in that freedom is a catch: responsibility.

If your will becomes sloppy, selfish, or cruel, it doesn’t matter how beautiful your altar looks you’re feeding chaos, not craft.

So if you manifest a clingy Capricorn with mummy issues instead of your dream soulmate… that’s on you, sunshine. Magic is only as precise as the witch casting it.

🔮 The Rule of Three: Karma With Interest

Every thought, every act, every muttered curse what you send out ripples back.

The “Rule of Three” isn’t about math, it’s about consequence. Energy multiplies.

When you spit venom, it doesn’t just stick to the target. It circles back and coats you, too. When you bless, heal, or protect, that good energy lifts you as well.

Think of it like throwing a boomerang with a jet engine strapped on: it will return, and it might hit harder than you expect.

So yes, when Mildrid from HR steals your stapler and you mutter “may you stub your toe forever,” don’t be shocked when the universe gifts you with a coffee spill, a sulking cat, and a cracked phone screen.

🕯️ The Ritual of Not Being an Arsehole

Here’s the deepest magic of all: It’s not in fancy robes, obscure herbs, or knowing which phase of the moon is best for prosperity spells. Real witchcraft is how you live.

Showing up for your friends when Mercury’s in tantrum mode.

Choosing peace over pettiness (most of the time).

Walking your path without trampling someone else’s.

Offering kindness like you’d offer salt: simple, necessary, life-preserving.

It doesn’t mean you never curse, never rage, never slam the door. It means you own your power. You wield it deliberately. You don’t waste it proving points to people who don’t matter.

That’s what the Rede is trying to whisper: your will is sacred, but so are the ripples you leave behind.

🌕 Final Blessing (Such As It Is)

So here’s the Rede, in plain language for a messy, human, hurting, healing world:

Do what you will. Love deeply. Harm carefully. Own your magic. Own your consequences.

When you must hex, do it artfully. When you must forgive, do it fully.

Live your craft. Not with perfection, but with presence.

And for the love of all that is holy—try not to set anything on fire. Unless, of course, it’s part of the ritual.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.