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My father tells me stories from his childhood, of my grandfather tending to his father’s grave, of my great-grandmother who prayed over my father to make him grow, of black clad ancient women who drank spirits and whispered in Italian for him to visit them. My father is a product of immigrants and tradition and I am a product of his stories.

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Italians are a deeply spiritual, deeply superstitious people. When my great-grandfather lay dying in his bed of tuberculosis, he prayed out to the Virgin Mary begging for his life and he was healed. Every summer to honor her, my great-grandfather took his three children to swim in the polluted waters surrounding Brooklyn because the Virgin would protect them; his unwavering faith and devotion to the Virgin would keep his children safe from the sewage and pollution.

With this in mind, I found my transition to witchcraft only natural. Spiritual forces are all around us, listening and waiting.  They’re rooted in tradition and cloaked in various names spanning eons and languages, far more ancient than we can grasp.

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