“Do magic every day.”
It’s a fairly simple, straightforward command, don’t you think? Four words etched out in the imperative. DO – there’s my verb. (Curious how other languages I’ve studied often compress “to do” and “to make” into a single verb. To be a do-er is to be a make-er, one who creates and effects change.) DO (CREATE/MAKE/CHANGE) what? MAGIC. Magic, the art, science, and sheer dumb luck of making things happen. “DO MAGIC.” “CREATE CHANGE.” “MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN LUCK.”
A sentence finds completion with a subject (implied to be me) and a verb. Our direct object is intrinsically understood to be tied, irrevocably, to this verb. “Magic” might as well be the noun version of the verb “to do.” But that isn’t the end of this command. DO. MAGIC. How? When? In what manner?
EVERY. Cyclical, steady, reliable, untiring, unceasing. There are no breaks. There are no exceptions. There only is – only can be – the Work. And the Work must be done EVERY – every what?
DAY. Sunup. Sundown. Moonrise. Moonset. Morning to evening, straight on through the night until dawn and back again.
This is perhaps the clearest message I’ve ever gotten from the Morrígan. Many of the Morrígan’s followers would probably hurt themselves laughing if the word “subtle” ever came within shooting distance of their Lady’s name. Shared UPG seems to support that while rarely a talkative goddess, the Morrígan is hardly one to mince words, pull punches, or particularly value fuzzy emotions over pure efficiency. She is a goddess with Shit To Do, and if you haven’t been conscripted into Her personal army, it’s best if you just get out of the way.
This philosophy – of eschewing philosophy altogether and valuing deed and action far, far above word and intention – is not something that’s really been part of my life. If I had to turn to one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, I would surely turn first to Brighid. Brighid the poet, the healer, the wordsmith and fires of inspiration would surely be more suited to who I am than the Morrígan. And indeed, Brighid is part of my spiritual landscape; I keep flame for Her with the Cauldron Cill and look to Her as a font of inspiration for my Gaelic hearthwork with ADF. If not Brighid, then I would look to Manannán mac Lir, whose mysterious, quiet, and paternal temperament matches my own — or maybe I would look to the baudry and uproarious Aenghus Óg, who brings beauty and mirth to even the darkest of hearts.
And yet it is the Morrígan who has me in deepest thrall. It is the Morrígan – Whose true name is hidden away in the tides of time, and so we call Her Phantom Queen or Great Queen instead – I reached out to last night in meditation, seeking direction. It is She Who, I believe, has Work for me to do.
Perhaps you should ask me about that sometime, because frankly I’m not sure how I got here or even where, exactly, I am. I am not the most diligent of practitioners, or of students, or of devotees. I do not feel a particularly close or intimate connection with the Morrígan. I have barely “felt” Her, as I barely “feel” anything spiritual at all. I pray and reach out to Her and Her followers; I research and plan and wonder; I am fairly certain not only of the reality of the Work she has given me, but I am even confident that I at least have a notion as to what, exactly, this Work entails! And yet this – all of this, every drop, every second, every single photon of light – everything I am taking on faith.
I take on faith Her existence.
I take on faith that She hears my prayers, and that She would even care that I give them.
I take on faith my own perceptions of this spiritual reality – however clouded, confusing, or silent it these perceptions may be – are adequate not only for the completion of my Work, but adequate for me.
I take on faith that there’s something there, that I’m not crazy, that this isn’t merely the echoes of a lonely and bruised ego looking to be special.
I take these things on faith because faith is the closest thing to certainty I’ll ever have.
And yet, I can’t say that this concept of faith or my perennial struggles with belief are of any importance to the Morrígan’s grand schemings. If She wanted a close-and-fuzzy relationship with me, then I’m sure She’d have it. It seems more likely that my prayers, love, offerings, and devotions are for my benefit, and more than anything she wants my deeds. The work of my hands and the sweat of my brow, the ache of my muscles and the words of my tongue. She wants my body; she wants my physical reality; she wants results. How I feel at the end of the day doesn’t matter a damn if I didn’t haul water and chop wood to Her satisfaction.
Do magic every day.
What is magic? We could sit around and wax poetic the whole night long, but at a certain point I don’t even think She cares about definitions and understanding. She isn’t asking for comprehension. She’s asking for action.
Do magic. Make change. Create reality. Fuck fate. Fight for what you claim to believe in. Love more deeply than you ever have. Cast spells. Write. Call out injustice. Stop waiting and become. You don’t need to sense energy to manipulate it. You don’t need to understand Me to know Me.
Do. Every day, do.