The House Keeps Secrets: A Spell Bag Workshop with the Feral Witch

Aug 20

10 min read

Some magic is meant to be carried. Some things are better kept close.

There are things we inherit from our families that arrive neatly packaged with an explanation: a recipe written in somebody's handwriting, an old photograph with everyone's names carefully written on the back, a wedding ring passed down through generations, or that one hideous piece of furniture nobody is allowed to get rid of because Great Aunt Mildred would be furious.

Then there are the other things.

The things nobody quite knows how to explain.

A superstition that your grandmother insists you follow, even though she has absolutely no idea where it came from. A particular way of sweeping the house. A prayer whispered before doing something important. A charm tucked into a purse. A coin carried to the casino. A little bag filled with objects that, to anyone else, look like a completely random collection of crap.

My great-grandmother had one of those bags.

And, as it turns out, that little bag has stayed with me a lot longer than I realized.

I Am Not a Hereditary Witch

Before we get too far into this, let's address the witchcraft elephant sitting in the room.

I am not a hereditary witch. In fact, I find the term hereditary witch to be utter bullshit when it is used as some sort of spiritual credential, particularly when it comes packaged with that very specific "I know more than you because my great-great-great-grandmother was a witch" attitude.

You know the one. The person who somehow manages to turn having an interesting family history into a spiritual hierarchy, as though witchcraft comes with a bloodline-based ranking system and somebody is going to hand them a little gold badge that says Senior Witch, Level 12.

Nope.

We don't do that here.

I don't believe that having a witch somewhere in your family tree makes you more legitimate than someone who picked up their first tarot deck last Tuesday, and I certainly don't believe ancestry gives anyone permission to look down their nose at another person's spiritual practice.

There is no magical aristocracy.

However, I do believe our families can leave things behind that are worth paying attention to, and those things are not always the dramatic stories we imagine when we hear the word witchcraft.

Sometimes what survives is much quieter.

A superstition.

A ritual.

A prayer.

A particular way of doing something.

A story repeated so many times that nobody remembers who started telling it.

Or, occasionally, a little bag that your great-grandmother carried around with her while playing the penny slots.

My Great-Grandmother's Good Luck Bag

My mother's family came from a small mining town in Pennsylvania, and growing up, my great-grandmother used to tell me about the old "superstitions" she had learned as a young woman.

There were things like rubbing a potato—or your wedding ring—on a stye in your eye, because apparently potatoes and jewelry were perfectly reasonable medical interventions before we collectively decided that doctors might be a better option.

There was the rule about sweeping the house toward the door, rather than sweeping inward, because you don't want to sweep all the good fortune right back out or, depending on the tradition, you don't want to bring unwanted energy further into the house.

And then there was her good luck bag.

My great-grandmother loved the penny slots, so naturally she had a little bag of things she carried with her when she went to the casino, because apparently even gambling required a spiritual support team.

One day, she showed it to me.

Inside was a coin, a St. Jude prayer card, somebody's baby tooth—which I believe was either mine or my grandmother's, although apparently this was information nobody thought future generations would require—and a picture from a book of an Amish barn symbol. The same kind of barn symbol hung in her kitchen as a decorative picture.

To me, it was simply Nanny's weird little bag.

I didn't sit there as a child thinking, Ah yes, fascinating evidence of intergenerational folk practice.

I was a kid. I thought Grandma had a weird bag. But I remembered it.

And sometimes the things we remember without understanding why are worth revisiting.

The Strange Pull Toward the Mountains

My sister and I both grew up in Southern California, and neither of us has ever lived anywhere other than California, yet throughout our lives we've both talked about feeling an inexplicable pull toward the Appalachian Mountains and the folk traditions associated with that region.

Not in the way someone says, "I want to go to Nashville because I like country music."

It was stranger than that.

There was something about the mountains, the stories, the old traditions, and the folk magic of Appalachia that seemed familiar in a way neither of us could explain, even though geographically and culturally, it wasn't where we'd grown up.

My great-grandmother had been gone for more than fifteen years when, about two years ago, I was doing some ancestor work and had one of those moments where intuition stops politely suggesting things and starts grabbing you by the scruff of the neck. Mine basically said:

"Get a damn Ancestry.com account."

So I did.

I started digging through family records and found family history reaching back to the Civil War—names, places, documents, people whose lives had been reduced to a few lines in somebody else's genealogy database. Then something happened that I still find difficult to explain in a way that doesn't sound completely fucking bonkers. I had a very strong intuitive feeling that there was a woman somewhere in my family line who needed to send me a message.

So I kept looking.

And eventually, I found her.

"Old" Moll Derry

My sixth-times-great-grandmother was Moll Derry.

Moll Derry is a legendary figure associated with witchcraft and folk magic in the Mid-Atlantic, remembered in local tradition as a fortune teller and a woman accused of witchcraft, with stories placing her in the region around the Appalachian foothills.

As is often the case with figures who lived far enough back that history and oral tradition have had several centuries to mingle, the documentation, folklore, and legend don't always line up neatly—and honestly, that blurry territory is part of what makes folk history so fascinating. There are stories about Moll Derry that have been repeated and reshaped over generations, and there are historical questions surrounding what can actually be verified about her life.

So no, I'm not going to stand here and tell you that every piece of the Moll Derry legend is documented historical fact. But I will tell you that finding her in my family line made me stop and look backward. Really look. Because suddenly I was seeing my great-grandmother's good luck bag differently.

The coin.

The prayer card.

The tooth.

The symbol.

The superstitions.

The rituals.

The little things she had learned growing up in Pennsylvania and passed down without ever sitting me down and explaining, "Today, child, I shall teach you the surviving fragments of our family's folk-magic tradition."

She just told me about the things people did. She carried her bag. She swept the house a certain way.

She rubbed a potato on a stye. She played the penny slots. And maybe that's one of the most interesting things about folk magic: it doesn't always announce itself as magic.

Sometimes it just looks like something your grandmother does.

You Might Not Know Where Your Magic Came From

This is the part of the story I want you to carry into this workshop, because you might know exactly where your ancestors came from, or you might know very little about them at all.

You may have grown up with family traditions that were carefully preserved and explained to you, or you may be the person staring at a family tree wondering why everyone before 1900 apparently decided that recordkeeping was optional.

You may have no idea why a particular culture, landscape, tradition, herb, symbol, or form of folk magic keeps catching your attention.

And perhaps you've dismissed that feeling because you've convinced yourself you're probably doing it wrong.

Stop doing that.

You don't have to manufacture a lineage that isn't yours, and you certainly don't need to claim someone else's tradition simply because you feel drawn toward it. What you can do is become curious.

You can learn where a practice comes from, understand the people and cultures who developed it, respect the traditions you're studying, and then pay attention to what resonates with you.

Because sometimes you don't know your ancestors. Sometimes you stumble across them.

Sometimes you don't know the history until you start pulling on one little thread and suddenly discover an entire fucking sweater.

And That's Where Spell Bags Come In

Across different folk-magic traditions, people have carried intentional collections of objects, herbs, curios, prayers, symbols, and other materials for generations.

The names change.

The cultural contexts change.

The specific practices change.

And those differences matter, because there is no single, universal "spell bag tradition" that belongs to everyone.

You'll encounter terms like spell bag, charm bag, sachet, mojo bag, and other names associated with particular cultural traditions, but those words aren't interchangeable simply because they all involve a little pouch.

We're going to respect those distinctions rather than flattening every tradition into one giant Pinterest board labeled Witchy Things.

What interests me is the broader human practice underneath it all: the desire to take something intangible—an intention, a prayer, a hope, a fear, a desire for protection—and give it a physical form that can be carried.

People have been doing versions of this for a very long time.

They've carried coins, herbs, bones, prayers, photographs, written petitions, religious symbols, charms, pieces of clothing, stones, and objects connected to people they loved.

Sometimes they called it superstition.

Sometimes they called it prayer.

Sometimes they called it folk magic.

Sometimes they probably didn't call it anything.

They just knew that the object mattered.

Your Spell Bag Isn't a Magic Vending Machine

Now, before anybody gets too excited, let me be very clear about something:

We're not going to throw three random herbs into a little pouch, whisper something dramatic over it, and then assume the universe is contractually obligated to fix our lives by Thursday.

That's not how I'm teaching this.

We're going to talk about intention, because if you don't know what you're trying to accomplish, you've basically made a tiny fabric junk drawer.

We're going to talk about correspondences, because understanding why you choose an ingredient is much more useful than blindly memorizing a list you found online.

We're going to talk about symbolism, because an object can have a traditional association while also carrying a completely personal meaning for you.

And we're going to talk about intuition, because I don't want you walking around thinking witchcraft is just memorizing an enormous encyclopedia of things you're allowed to believe.

If rosemary traditionally represents protection, that's useful.

But if rosemary reminds you of your grandmother's kitchen and makes you feel safe because of that association, that matters too.

If a particular stone represents courage in a book but, to you, it represents surviving the worst year of your life, I'm far more interested in that personal relationship than whether you've selected the "correct" crystal according to some listicle written by a woman named Moonflower Ravenwolf who sells $38 intention candles.

Learn the traditional correspondences. Understand them. Respect where they come from. Then learn how to listen to yourself.

So What Calls to You?

That's what I want you thinking about when you choose the materials for your spell bag.

Not What am I supposed to pick?

Not What would a real witch choose?

And definitely not What if somebody tells me I'm doing it wrong?

Instead, ask yourself:

What kind of magic calls to me?

Is there a particular folk tradition you've always been fascinated by?

Is there a place you feel strangely connected to?

Is there an herb whose smell immediately reminds you of home?

Is there an object you've carried for years without ever really knowing why?

Is there a symbol that keeps appearing in your life?

Is there something you associate so strongly with protection, prosperity, love, courage, grief, healing, or transformation that you don't need a correspondence chart to explain it?

When you sit down at the table during this workshop, don't second-guess yourself into oblivion.

If something calls your attention, investigate it.

If something feels meaningful, pay attention.

If you're curious about a particular tradition, learn about it.

And when you find the things that belong in your bag, don't worry about whether they're impressive enough, witchy enough, or aesthetically pleasing enough to photograph for Instagram.

We're not making fucking décor.

We're making something personal.

Come Make Something That Belongs to You

During The House Keeps Secrets, we'll spend time talking about the history and traditions surrounding spell bags, the role of intention and correspondence, and the ways people have used objects and materials to carry meaning through different folk practices.

Then you're going to make your own.

You'll choose an intention, select the herbs, objects, symbols, and other materials that support that intention, and assemble your spell bag with guidance from me.

And while you're doing it, I want you to pay attention to what you're drawn toward.

Maybe you'll choose something because of its traditional correspondence.

Maybe you'll choose something because it reminds you of somebody you love.

Maybe you'll choose something because you can't explain why the hell you keep reaching for it.

That's okay.

Sometimes intuition arrives with a ten-page explanation. Sometimes it just says:

"That one. Pick that one."

You don't always have to argue with it.

The House Keeps Secrets

I think that's what my great-grandmother's little bag taught me without ever actually teaching me anything. She didn't give me a lecture on magical theory. She didn't tell me I needed to memorize correspondences. She didn't claim some special spiritual status because of where her family came from. She simply carried a little collection of things that meant something to her.

And decades later, I'm still thinking about it.

Maybe that's the real beauty of folk magic.

It survives because somebody carries it.

A grandmother teaches a superstition to a child.

A child remembers a strange little ritual.

A prayer gets tucked into a wallet.

A coin gets carried to the casino.

A symbol gets hung on a kitchen wall.

A bag gets passed down.

And somewhere, years later, somebody opens that bag and finally starts asking why.

Maybe you know exactly where your magic comes from. Maybe you don't.

Maybe you have ancestors calling your name from the other side of an old family tree.

Or maybe you're the person who is going to start something entirely new.

Either way, you don't need to prove that you're a "real witch."

You don't need to win the witchcraft Olympics.

You don't need permission.

You need curiosity, respect, intention, and the willingness to actually listen when something keeps calling your attention.

And sometimes, you need to follow that little voice in your head when it says:

"Get a damn Ancestry.com account."

So come curious. Come open-minded. Come ready to get a little weird.

We'll learn the history, talk about folk magic and correspondences, explore how intention becomes something tangible, and then we'll make a spell bag that belongs to you. Because some magic is meant to be carried.

And some things are better kept close.

The house keeps secrets.

Maybe it's time you carried one of your own. 🖤🔮