19 rusty iron nails. Let the witchcraft commence.
I know this will probably be an unpopular “opinion,” but despite all the things I’ve read or visual depictions I have ever seen of her, this is how my Yayá – Rosa Caveira – appears to me.
Most often, I should say. She has appeared in any number of guises, if you will. But most constant, she comes to me as an older woman, very vibrant in color (not at all dressed in the somber tones or black), bedecked in jewelry of semi-precious stones and draped in shawls and kerchiefs. She appears neither black nor white, but with worn and leathery copper skin (more akin to a Mexican or eastern Indian complexion).
I drew her with a closed mouth, but she often smiles a toothy smile – all of her teeth gold and gums stained black with either smoke or indigo.
Her eyes – as you’ll see, I drew her without irises or pupils, because this is how I portray spirits so that I may differentiate spirit from mortal – are dark and sparkly with kindness and humor, heavy with laugh lines and crow’s feet.
Her voice is the most wonderful, I think. Deep and throaty, husky, but sweet. She has this mischievous humor and infectious laugh – though she is very reserved to speaking. She speaks only when absolutely necessary, instead choosing to observe and guide.
As an energy, she has this low (VERY LOW) crackling warmth, like the last embers of a fire, exuding on you a complete sense of security and trust, as if to say: I am here, I am watching, I am helping, I trust you to know what is right.
Perhaps that is why she appears to me as a grandmother, as my grandmothers – all of them – have raised me most, and have about them a similar energy.
From her I have come to be, but she is not as fiercely protective, as she has seen enough to know that given ample opportunity, I will do what is right for myself and she is there to support any decision I make.
She tells me nothing, and instead shows me the way so that I may find the truth for myself.
And to her, I extend the utmost gratitude and love. That is why I have written this, though I know that she already knows.
Thank you, Yayá, for all that you have done and all that you will surely do. I love you dearly.
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- Patsy Moses, 74, was born in Fort Bend Co., Texas, a slave of the Armstrong family. She tells of charms and “conjure,” many learned from ex-slaves.
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- Charles Harrison “C.H.” Mason was an American Pentecostal–Holiness and denominational leader. He was the founder and first Senior Bishop of the Church of God in Christ.
Today, much of the information that comes up on Google searches for the terms hoodoo, conjure, rootwork, conjure doctor, conjure doctors, spiritual doctors and more land on commercial hoodoo enterprises with the focus on commodity as opposed to cultural preservation. This site focuses on the latter. Find information here about the people who made it possible for others to profit from the traditions, while remembering most of these original conjure doctors and spiritual mothers lived in poverty. In the very least, my hope is that those who profit off of southern conjure traditions will begin paying a daily homage to these forgotten ancestors by pouring a daily libation of water and thanking them for their contributions; albeit, unknown to them today. Please share this website with others to make the voices of our ancestors heard. Theirs is the most important one to include in the current narrative.
Conjuredoctors.com provides free information about conjure doctor cures, remedies, core practices, harms and cures, household receipts, articles, resources and an alternate perspective on the history of hoodoo.
It’s a work in progress but lots of good info here!
Pagan/Witchy/Energy Work Advice Wanted
I’m looking for any assistance/suggestions/whatever in regard to cleansing a home space. I believe that smoke cleansing with sage won’t
do the trick and want to see what other methods you guys might suggest.The
space is very heavy and clogged up. The energy in the space can make
people physically tired/fatigued, sore, mentally fatigued, angry, upset,
feelings of despair, cause fights, etc. Do you guys have any
clearing/cleansing suggestions?
Have you tried a floor wash?
Oak ash, vinegar, black salt, pine tar (if you can find it), spring water/lake water/river water/creek water/rain water/(as a last ditch) distilled water, and couple glugs of Florida Water couldn’t hurt.
Revel;
in the discomfort
your presence
Sows,
Make them see,
Make them all
See what they fear:
For our kind,
Are but a mirror
Into the fractured psyche,
Of the ignorant,
Who would cast us into fire —
We are Other,
We are Enemy,
For it is we,
Who might force them to see,
That which they truly —
Wish to be
Outliers,
Cast from the purgative womb,
Of a broken kingdom,
An exile in white,
While our lineage weeps
Adorning mantillas of somber retribution,
— for having been vessel to the Damned,
Our condemnation,
Is our saving grace
For is it that which
Breaks the shackles of expectation,
We are Nature,
This is our reclamation,
Of what hath been stolen,
In the Garden of Life Everlasting,
When Man plucked the fruit from the bough,
The Serpent coiled around our waist,
And we lowered our skyward arms to him;
The choice was never ours to make.
And then the Tyrant spit forth acrid dominion,
He told his Bastard Children,
“Take naught from Them,
For they dare know more than I!”
And the Silver-Tongued One sought shelter in our tresses,
Hisssing sssuch sssoft ssspoken sssongs,
They took from Us,
Just as their Creator stole life from Our Mother—
The Garden—
We are the overgrowth,
We are the devastation,
We are the winding root,
And coiled vine fingers,
Of the Gods —
Of our Kin —
Mahakali –
Perses –
Eris –
We are the Horsemen:
We have come to Destroy
So that we,
Might,
One day,
Start again:
Let us ride.
Blow the trumpet!
Let us ride!
Be hushed in silence!
Let us ride!
Let loose the raven unto the skies!
Let slip the leash of hounds gone wild!
The trees shall quake and the rocks shall shudder
The clouds shall howl and be torn asunder!
LET US RIDE.
The River
If I were to tell you: “A man crossed a river.”
And were to ask you: “How?”
What would you say?
And if were to tell you: “There is a bridge.”
Would you say he took it?
And would you ever truly know?
No.
And if I were to tell you: “He waded through the shallows.”
What would you say if I asked you: “Why?”
Would you ever really know?
No.
And if I were to say: “This is the man who crossed the river.”
And showed you his face.
If I told you his name.
Could you tell me why?
No.
And if I said: “This man with me once crossed a river.”
Would you ask him: “Why?”
Or just let him go: never knowing?
There are a thousand ways to cross a river.
And a million reasons why.
Revel;
in the discomfort
your presence
Sows,
Make them see,
Make them all
See what they fear:
For our kind,
Are but a mirror
Into the fractured psyche,
Of the ignorant,
Who would cast us into fire –
We are Other,
We are Enemy,
For it is we,
Who might force them to see,
That which they truly –
Wish to be
Outliers,
Cast from the purgative womb,
Of a broken kingdom,
An exile in white,
While our lineage weeps
Adorning mantillas of somber retribution,
– for having been vessel to the Damned,
Our condemnation,
Is our saving grace
For is it that which
Breaks the shackles of expectation,
We are Nature,
This is our reclamation,
Of what hath been stolen,
In the Garden of Life Everlasting,
When Man plucked the fruit from the bough,
The Serpent coiled around our waist,
And we lowered our skyward arms to him;
The choice was never ours to make.
And then the Tyrant spit forth acrid dominion,
He told his Bastard Children,
“Take naught from Them,
For they dare know more than I!”
And the Silver-Tongued One sought shelter in our tresses,
Hisssing sssuch sssoft ssspoken sssongs,
They took from Us,
Just as their Creator stole life from Our Mother–
The Garden–
We are the overgrowth,
We are the devastation,
We are the winding root,
And coiled vine fingers,
Of the Gods –
Of our Kin –
Mahakali –
Perses –
Eris –
We are the Horsemen:
We have come to Destroy
So that we,
Might,
One day,
Start again:
Let us ride.
An Invitation
Tonight I worked in my usual cemetery, the one dearest to my heart – for no real reason other than it has a very positive atmosphere and the dead therein are all (for the most part) accepting and even helpful to my workings. I paid my way in (there’s a pile a coins at this point) as per usual and worked under the center-most tree I “stitched” to the Figueira/Infernos line.
This, too, is the cemetery in which I have worked with Baron Samedi and on the New Year (or thereabouts) consecrated the church bell (that had been moved from a nearby church that was torn down) in his honor. By which I left food, drink and an effigy.
I thought little of it, the few times I had returned, leaving odds and ends, but tonight I investigated more throughly to find that the keepers of the cemetery burned the effigy and replaced it where I had left it. It was angry.
No matter how ignorant they might be, burning an effigy of a Lwa atop a veve and offerings just doesn’t sound like a wise idea REGARDLESS. But I will leave any punishment to Samedi, I think, should he be as offended as I was.
I won’t lie, I did leave a warning, if you would, scrolling his veve GIANT on the broad face of the brick “tower.”
That aside, my work went very well. Lots of smoke and fire and ash and dancing beneath the boughs of the short tree. I even brought my Yayá cauldron to amplify the energy. The moon is not yet full, but bright, and I placed it on the boundary of where the trees shadow ended and the moonlight began.
My work’s intent: to bring forth the person at the Gate. The last few weeks, I’ve been plagued by visions of a man within a gate. He is coming through, but I cannot see his features, for the light is behind him.
I know this is a sign that someone (in the flesh) is coming; for what reason, I’m still unsure. But my work was to act as a beacon, an invitation for him to come – draw him to me, so that what must be done might be so.
Despite its tattered appearance, this bowl is like my child. As you can see, the sugars in the juniper I burned this evening ran up the walls with the fire.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
The Qedavian Apocrypha 