This is an unpublished, original beat story written for the Covering Religion class of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism.
It’s pouring rain outside, but all Christy Tomacek can think about is the sun shining.
It’s a dreary Friday evening in downtown Manhattan. Cracks in the asphalt, a blackened stretch flecked with irregular depressions and patches, fill up and expel rainwater in a perpetual cycle. Residents in thigh-length black felt peacoats shield themselves with a myriad of objects as they shuffle into the lobbies of their high-rise apartment buildings. An old woman takes shield under the newly-constructed stone awning of the New York City Family Court building, her reflection a blurred facsimile in the enormous glass panes that make up the building’s façade. Another man, caught without cover by the fountain in Foley Square, irritably makes his way toward the barren but enclosed Chambers St. subway entrance, his head down, defeated.
Three blocks below a hushed Canal St. and 17 floors high in the sky, shielded from the rain that falls on so many others, 19-year-old Tomacek is sitting in her windowless kitchen preparing to celebrate.
Tomacek is happy. Spring has arrived. For her, that means it’s time to cast a spell.
That’s because Tomacek is a witch. More precisely, she is Wiccan, a nature-based branch of Paganism, the umbrella term for a number of spiritual faiths derived from pre-Christian religions. Tonight marks the beginning of Imbolc, one of the four fire festivals (or “Sabbats”) in Wicca, midway between Yule, the winter solstice, and Ostara, the spring equinox. In the northern hemisphere, the midway point is marked when the sun reaches fifteen degrees of Aquarius. (With consideration to the inclement weather outside, it seems as if Aquarius has decided to use Lafayette St. as the starting point for his deluge.)
There are many ways to celebrate Imbolc, and most Wiccans use the first full day of the holiday – in this case, Saturday – to gather in meetings called “open circles” to celebrate with food, drink and music. Since Tomacek is a college student short on cash and community contacts, she’s decided to kick off Imbolc her own way: by charming a cup of tea.
“I’ve always been a water person,” Tomacek said. “Water has to do with emotion – creative energy. I’ve always been there. That’s why I like tea.”
As she pours the boiling water from the teapot over the tea in the earthenware mug, a blood-red hue emanates from the metallic cube submerged inside. Tonight, Tomacek has chosen to make vanilla berry cream tea, which consists of bits of hibiscus, apples, raspberries, and vanilla. It’s a strong tea, one that she chose because it’s seasonally appropriate and one of her favorites. As the water flows over the lumps and flakes inside the cubic tea parcel, tiny clouds of red shoot out of the perforations in each metal side of the box.
“This is one of my best teas, so it seems appropriate for a ritual,” she said. “I’m not going to use my crappy Celestial Seasonings. I think it’s very evocative of spring, and this is a higher holy day than most.”
Once the hot water inside the mug has been suitably darkened, Tomacek opens up a hard-bound notebook in front of her to where she has written words for this occasion. She places her right hand over the mouth of the mug, palm down. Steam escapes through the gaps between fingers and rises over her fingernails, which are painted a glossy black. She takes a breath, looks to her passage, and begins reading aloud.
The earth warms,
The sun strengthens,
Leading us to new life.
The Goddess watches
As her son grows,
The God giving his light.
May this light bless us
As new breath thaws us all.
So mote it be.
She wraps both hands around the mug – covered in a sunflower design, incidentally – and takes a timid first sip. The locks of her once-blonde hair, now dyed purple, curl around one of the sunflowers on the mug. The liquid is still hot, but she perseveres, then places the mug back on the table.
“The basic idea is that you want the god and goddess to bless your workings in a way,” she said. “I wrote this out to be appropriate for the season.”
Since Tomacek is marking the beginning of Imbolc, the goddess in her recitation is Brigid, Celtic goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft. Much of Wiccan practice derives from Celtric tradition. Like many witches, Tomacek wrote her own words for the occasion.
“It’s more personable that way,” she said. “What I say changes every year. I usually make it up as I go along. It feels right because you’re sharing your work with the gods. You’re sharing your feast with the gods.”
It has not even been 30 minutes since Tomacek spoke her words aloud, and already the rain outside has slowed to a drizzle. People are still shielding their heads with newspapers and briefcases, but the man in the park is gone and the woman by the court house has disappeared. In her place, the moonlight is reflected off the building’s glass panels, giving the falling droplets an extra glimmer. Inside Tomacek’s apartment, all of the lights are on. She said it’s to welcome the coming light of spring.
Tomorrow’s a new day. So mote it be.
A ritual for a rainy day
This is an unpublished, original beat story written for the Covering Religion class of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism.
It’s pouring rain outside, but all Christy Tomacek can think about is the sun shining.
It’s a dreary Friday evening in downtown Manhattan. Cracks in the asphalt, a blackened stretch flecked with irregular depressions and patches, fill up and expel rainwater in a perpetual cycle. Residents in thigh-length black felt peacoats shield themselves with a myriad of objects as they shuffle into the lobbies of their high-rise apartment buildings. An old woman takes shield under the newly-constructed stone awning of the New York City Family Court building, her reflection a blurred facsimile in the enormous glass panes that make up the building’s façade. Another man, caught without cover by the fountain in Foley Square, irritably makes his way toward the barren but enclosed Chambers St. subway entrance, his head down, defeated.
Three blocks below a hushed Canal St. and 17 floors high in the sky, shielded from the rain that falls on so many others, 19-year-old Tomacek is sitting in her windowless kitchen preparing to celebrate.
Tomacek is happy. Spring has arrived. For her, that means it’s time to cast a spell.
That’s because Tomacek is a witch. More precisely, she is Wiccan, a nature-based branch of Paganism, the umbrella term for a number of spiritual faiths derived from pre-Christian religions. Tonight marks the beginning of Imbolc, one of the four fire festivals (or “Sabbats”) in Wicca, midway between Yule, the winter solstice, and Ostara, the spring equinox. In the northern hemisphere, the midway point is marked when the sun reaches fifteen degrees of Aquarius. (With consideration to the inclement weather outside, it seems as if Aquarius has decided to use Lafayette St. as the starting point for his deluge.)
There are many ways to celebrate Imbolc, and most Wiccans use the first full day of the holiday – in this case, Saturday – to gather in meetings called “open circles” to celebrate with food, drink and music. Since Tomacek is a college student short on cash and community contacts, she’s decided to kick off Imbolc her own way: by charming a cup of tea.
“I’ve always been a water person,” Tomacek said. “Water has to do with emotion – creative energy. I’ve always been there. That’s why I like tea.”
As she pours the boiling water from the teapot over the tea in the earthenware mug, a blood-red hue emanates from the metallic cube submerged inside. Tonight, Tomacek has chosen to make vanilla berry cream tea, which consists of bits of hibiscus, apples, raspberries, and vanilla. It’s a strong tea, one that she chose because it’s seasonally appropriate and one of her favorites. As the water flows over the lumps and flakes inside the cubic tea parcel, tiny clouds of red shoot out of the perforations in each metal side of the box.
“This is one of my best teas, so it seems appropriate for a ritual,” she said. “I’m not going to use my crappy Celestial Seasonings. I think it’s very evocative of spring, and this is a higher holy day than most.”
Once the hot water inside the mug has been suitably darkened, Tomacek opens up a hard-bound notebook in front of her to where she has written words for this occasion. She places her right hand over the mouth of the mug, palm down. Steam escapes through the gaps between fingers and rises over her fingernails, which are painted a glossy black. She takes a breath, looks to her passage, and begins reading aloud.
The earth warms,
The sun strengthens,
Leading us to new life.
The Goddess watches
As her son grows,
The God giving his light.
May this light bless us
As new breath thaws us all.
So mote it be.
She wraps both hands around the mug – covered in a sunflower design, incidentally – and takes a timid first sip. The locks of her once-blonde hair, now dyed purple, curl around one of the sunflowers on the mug. The liquid is still hot, but she perseveres, then places the mug back on the table.
“The basic idea is that you want the god and goddess to bless your workings in a way,” she said. “I wrote this out to be appropriate for the season.”
Since Tomacek is marking the beginning of Imbolc, the goddess in her recitation is Brigid, Celtic goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft. Much of Wiccan practice derives from Celtric tradition. Like many witches, Tomacek wrote her own words for the occasion.
“It’s more personable that way,” she said. “What I say changes every year. I usually make it up as I go along. It feels right because you’re sharing your work with the gods. You’re sharing your feast with the gods.”
It has not even been 30 minutes since Tomacek spoke her words aloud, and already the rain outside has slowed to a drizzle. People are still shielding their heads with newspapers and briefcases, but the man in the park is gone and the woman by the court house has disappeared. In her place, the moonlight is reflected off the building’s glass panels, giving the falling droplets an extra glimmer. Inside Tomacek’s apartment, all of the lights are on. She said it’s to welcome the coming light of spring.
Tomorrow’s a new day. So mote it be.