Drink the Land: Hedgerow Tea

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As a change from philosophical musings, I would like to share a simple practice of mine that helps me connect with the land, plant medicine and the seasons. Now is an ideal time to discuss this, as spring has arrived in the Northern Hemisphere and the greensward is alive with herbs and flowers once more.

I make hedgerow tea at least once a week during the spring to autumn months. In winter I substitute this practice with herbs I have dried myself. The brew is ever changing and reflects the ephemeral nature and life cycles of most medicinal plants that grow here. It is always made fresh, within an hour of picking the herbs, when they are still very much alive. Because I only make enough for one or two cups, very little plant material is needed and over harvesting of rarer species is avoided. The tea is as much an energetic as a physical medicine, its drinking is an act of gratitude and communion, and its effects are subtle.

Most of the herbs we buy are grown overseas, as is our tea and coffee and a good deal of our food. We no longer consume the products of the earth beneath our feet and are disconnected from the seasons and local biosphere. Making hedgerow tea is a small, simple way of getting back in touch with your locality. The aphorism ‘you are what you eat’ may be over used, but it is no less true. By eating and drinking the land, you become a more integral part of it.

I call this ‘hedgerow tea’ because most of the plants I work with grow in the woods and hedgerows, but you could also make it from garden herbs, or those taken from any land you have access to. Obviously, careful identification is essential, which is why I recommend this practice only once you have a decent familiarity with your local plants and have tried them as simples first. If you are new to an area, or to wild crafting herbs, pick up a good local field guide. Roger Phillips’ (shown in the photo) is my favourite for the UK. All you really need to know to begin is which plants are toxic and which are consumable.

How to brew Hedgerow tea:

  1. Go for a walk. This is an integral part of the practice. The walk itself is pilgrimage and offering. It is meditation and communication. Listen and observe and be present.
  2. Gather your plants. This is an intuitive process and the greater familiarity you have with the local plant life, the easier it becomes. I like to take a flower, berry or a few leaves from any plant newly in season, any plant that calls to me or grabs my attention. Sometimes, if I am suffering some disease or symptoms, I keep this in mind and ask the land guardians to guide me to the medicine I need. My hedgerow teas vary in number of plants, from three to twelve different types. The more variety, the smaller amount you need of each. Magical numbers like seven and nine are always suitable.
  3. Give thanks. Whether this is in a physical form, with an offering or libation, or simply with words, music and heartfelt expression.
  4. Check your herbs for insects, carefully remove these, then give them a quick wash to remove any dirt and dust.
  5. Brew your tea. Use fresh water, or spring water if you can and always use a tea pot, as the volatile oils in the fresh herbs will be lost unless there is a lid to condense them.
  6. Take the time to sit and drink. Notice the tastes and scent, the colour of the water (violets will turn it a vibrant blue!) and any sensations or messages you receive as you drink it.
  7. Return the used herbs to the earth (not the bin!) with gratitude.

 

You do not need to be a herbalist to try this, but please do make sure to identify your plants accurately and don’t consume any you are unsure of. I hope you will enjoy your own hedgerow tea and would love to hear about your experiences with this practice.

 

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Human Exceptionalism and the Source of Magical Power

In medieval Europe ‘good’ and ‘bad’ magic were defined rather differently than they are today. While we may be concerned with the intent of the practitioner, our ancestors were more interested in the source of their power. Influential authorities claimed that all magic worked by the influence of demons, and was thus dangerous to the souls of those involved. A handful of intellectuals argued that at least some magic was fulfilled by the influence of planetary forces and/or the occult virtues placed inside plants, stones and animals by God or Nature. Practical manuals of magic included invocations to God, saints, angels, fairies, demons and Roman deities. There is rarely any suggestion that magical power is found within the magicians themselves. If the practitioner is able to gain some personal power, it is always acquired through an outside force.

I’m struck by the contrast between this attitude and that of modern popular magic. Most introductory books insist on the power we have as individual humans ‘inside us’ — untapped psychic potential and the ability to manipulate the universe through our will. We are told that, through training, meditation, focus and ritual, we can increase our own power over other humans and the world around us.

We’ve inherited this concept from the occult revival of the late 19th and early 20th centuries; a movement born in an imperial culture that saw personal power and dominion over the natural world as its birthright. Furthermore, the decline of religious belief and rise of atheism in the West led to an increasing deification of the human. When you place humanity just under God in the hierarchy of being – and then start to question God, it doesn’t take long for our enterprising species to assume the top rung. Influences from the emerging science of Psychology and the influx of Eastern philosophy played their part in this re-investment of magical power. All of a sudden you get suggestions that we, puny mortals – are actually gods in disguise, if only we realised our own potential. Such ideas are evident in the work of Crowley, Franz Bardon and Dion Fortune – all of whom inspired the founders of Wicca and the Neo-Pagan movement. Magical traditions may be counter-cultural, but they are still a product of their time.

The idea of personal magical power is also prevalent in the stories we tell about witches, wizards and humans with superhuman powers. In books and films, magic is often depicted as a form of energy that some special humans can draw upon to gain even more power over the world around them – a neat analogy to fossil fuels perhaps. Half a century of this fiction, and the rise of the New Age movement has helped cement the idea that, if magic exists, it is inside of you. The stones, plants, words – even the Gods – are only window dressing. They help you to feel magical and access your own power. They are interchangeable and a really powerful magician can do without them altogether. This is a projection of our own desire for dominion and the belief that we, as humans, are somehow more sentient, more resourceful, more supernatural than the other beings we share our world with. It is human exceptionalism in the extreme.

As a philosophical experiment, I want to see what happens when we reject this idea completely and return to a pre-modern perspective on the source of magical power. In this world view, humans are mortal, fairly short lived and limited by their own physical and intellectual abilities. However, they inhabit a world full of spirits. Whether these spirits are conceived of as angels, demons, the dead, fairies, planetary intelligences or the animist divinities of place – it is they, and not us, who have magical power. If common plants, stones and animals have occult properties that can help you, and the most powerful being you know is not yourself, but a god or saint – then how do you access this power? You ask for help.

The asking can take many forms, and I am by no means suggesting that medieval magicians were polite about it. They were as likely to command, demand and adjure as petition, but whether they asked ‘nicely’ or not – there was the inherent acceptance that other beings had power and agency beyond our own. The magician worked through contracts, pacts and allegiances, or through petitioning a saint or herb. To my mind, there is nothing more beautiful than the early medieval, Anglo-Saxon herb charms, in which the spirits of the plants are addressed by name and asked for their aid:

Remember, Mugwort, what you made known,
What you arranged at the Great proclamation.
You were called Una, the oldest of herbs,
you have power against three and against thirty,
you have power against poison and against infection,
you have power against the loathsome foe roving through the land.

(The Nine Herbs Charm)

How have we come from this to ‘You can replace almost any herb with Rosemary’ ?

If the magic is not ‘inside us’ – but out there, in a world populated by non-human beings, then we cannot work alone. In fact, we cannot achieve anything more than the non-magical humans we live with. I do not believe that magic is forcing our Will upon the world. Such an attitude, far from being empowering, is full of hubris. We have been forcing our will on the world, without magic, for the past two centuries and it has led us to the brink of ecological collapse. Perhaps we have been too focused on finding our own power to realise that it is not inside us, but all around us? It is time to step back down from our pedestal, and go humbly among the fields and hills, not shouting our demands, but open once again to their needs and wants, to working with beings older, wiser and stronger than we are. A witch or magician is only as powerful as their allies.

Practical Animism

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In my last essay on working with the land I discussed the importance of access and solitude to establishing a relationship with your locality. In the next part of this series I want to look at a few simple practices you can begin once you have this sort of access. But first I’d like to examine the concepts behind them a little more closely, particularly that of ‘practical’ animism.

Animism is a popular topic at the moment, at the innovative edge of the academy and in the occult world. It’s also getting attention at the more radical end of herbalism. I am very pleased to see books coming out like Nathaniel Hughes’ Weeds in the Heart, which approach plant medicine from an animist perspective. I believe this interest is driven by a move away from materialism and a growing awareness of ecology and eco-criticism. In the occult world, it is also a feature of increased syncretism and sharing between different esoteric traditions, especially those outside of Western Europe which have retained more of their spirit-work elements.

But the problem with the term animism is its novelty. It was coined by 19th century anthropologists and originally applied, derisively, to the beliefs of tribal cultures. Edward Burnett Taylor defined animism in 1871 as the ‘theory of the universal animation of nature,’ from Latin anima ‘life, breath, soul.’ This is still a useful definition for us, although it is important to keep in mind that Taylor saw animism as the most ‘primitive’ form of religion and a state of great ignorance, as opposed to scientific materialism. Animism has been applied as an umbrella term to a diverse range of beliefs, belonging to peoples who may or may not accept this definition.

I want to leave aside the issue of animism in anthropology and related disciplines for now, and discuss two expressions of animism you’re likely to encounter in contemporary Western counter-culture. You could call these ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ animism, in the way reconstructionists frequently differentiate ‘soft polytheism’ from ‘hard polytheism.’ But I find this division problematic and inherently judgmental. Instead, I’m going to use the terms theoretical and practical animism.

If contemporary Western animism accepts the central tenet that ‘all of nature is animated’, then two questions immediately arise: what are the metaphysics of this ‘animation’? – and – how do we respond to an animate universe? The first is a fascinating topic of discussion, involving various esoteric and philosophical theories of the soul, spirit, life-force-energy and the boundaries of individuality. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know the answer, although I have a few ideas and am always keen to engage with the question. Theoretical animists are those willing to accept the idea of an animate universe in theory. I’ve spoken with many people somewhere on the spectrum of theoretical animism, and not all have been pagans or occultists. It is a philosophy that appeals to members of many faiths, and of none.

However, it is the second question that is vital to my interests – how do we respond to an animate universe? If you’re born into a culture where animism is the dominant world-view, you’re likely to find this easier. For those of us brought up to believe that ‘animate’ only applies to moving organisms or, at a stretch, those with biological life signs, it will always be a challenge. Accepting that challenge means placing yourself at odds with the rest of your culture. The good news is that you don’t need to define the metaphysics of animist belief to enjoy practical animism, and yes, I mean enjoy. Practical animism can be full of wonder, connection, community and the sort of magic that makes your heart sing. It can also be terrifying, especially if your relationship with the non-human lacks respect.

Practical animism means living in a the world that is not divided between ‘people’ and ‘things.’ If everything is animate, then humans and animals are not exceptional. If a river or a car or a pebble is a person, in the same way your brother or mother is, how does that change the way you live? It should revolutionise it. If you truly acknowledge this world-view, then everything you do becomes part of a relationship. You take your place in a wider society of beings beyond your species. You become at once less exceptional and more connected.

How do we move from theoretical to practical animism? First, we have to decide what sort of relationship we want to have with non-humans. Just like our human interactions, these will be complex. Do we want to develop relationships in which we have power or in which we share mutual respect and co-operation? Can we conceive of a world in which our species is not at the top of the hierarchy of being? Do we even get to decide how these interactions will develop if the other party is uninterested or antipathetic to us?

To begin to with, we need to learn from others. Contemporary cultures with a living animist tradition and those of pre-modern Europe. Imagine, for example, that you are attending a formal event – a wedding or a dinner party, in which you are completely unfamiliar with the forms and manners expected of you as a participant. You do not wish to make a fool of yourself, or offend your hosts – so you watch carefully, listen and observe. If the person next to you knows how to behave, then you follow their example. This is not cultural appropriation – it’s simply learning from those with a better understanding of how to act in an animate world.

The second guide we have, inferior to the first, is our intuition. It is inferior only because it is subject to our own ego-desires and wishful imagination. If we are not careful, we can fool ourselves. The intuition is the only sense we all have that recognises the spirit-world. When we come to a place where we are not welcome, it will fill us with dread. When we are being watched, we will feel that presence. Learning to listen to our intuition is a survival skill, as much as a means of communication. With intuition we can learn how to practice animism directly from the non-human parties we seek to engage with.

Finally, I will add that even though I extol the virtues of direct, solitary engagement with the land – you do not need to have such access to practice animism. The animate universe does not begin where human civilization ends. The chair you are sitting on and the room you are in are just as alive and spirit-haunted as the wildest forest grove. Begin to recognise this and work with your household and urban spirits, and you will be in a good place to engage with those who inhabit wilder spaces.

Theoretical animism is not a weaker form of practical animism, it is a step towards it. We have to rearrange our minds before we can change our relationship with the non-human. However, accepting that the world is animate and treating it as inanimate will not make you any friends beyond the human. The practical animist does not just believe that the mountain is alive, they bow to it.

Working with the Land

DSC_0078The heart of my magical practice is working with the land. When we talk about working with the land we often imagine a deeply rooted connection based on a life-time of living and working in the same region. Such connections are invaluable, however they are increasingly rare. Many modern witches and magicians live in urban environments far from their ancestral roots and move several times over the course of their lives.

This is certainly my experience and has led me to develop a series of concepts, methods and practices for initiating and developing relationships with my new locality. Currently I live in a semi-rural part of Northern England, but I have also lived in outback Australia, in leafy suburbia and in a high-rise in the heart of a modern city. Wherever I live, I’ve always found it is possible to establish and maintain relationship with the land.

This will be the first in a series of posts examining the idea of land-work which I hope will offer some practical information. The practices I discuss are rooted in traditions and folklore from various cultures and are respectfully syncretic. However, they have grown and flowered through direct experience. Tradition is a valuable guide, but each land has its own particular ways and if you listen and observe, it will teach you how to work with it.

When we talk about the land from a magical perspective, we are usually interested in the land spirits and the land’s inherent energy or power. From an animist perspective, the land spirits are those resident in a place. In Norse traditions, they are referred to as land wights or Landvættir. In the Roman world, they were honoured as genii loci. They are sometimes referred to as faerie in British folklore, however that term is also used for the dead and the pre-Christian gods. Generally speaking, land spirits are associated with a particular physical place rather than a culture, tribe or family. They are independent of human recognition or interaction and sometimes disinterested or antagonistic to us. That said, they have historically been accorded respect and given offerings. The land also encompasses the spirit-presences of the plants, animals, stones, rivers, springs, mountains and other beings that inhabit it.

Land power is the energetic force present in the land. The English language is rather impoverished when it comes to terms for the life-force, though I’ve heard traditional witches speak of the red serpent, sprowl or the red thread. I believe modern Druids use the word ‘Nwyfre.’ Much like the life-force present in living bodies, the land has its own complex web of energies made up of flora, fauna, funghi and geological phenomena. The land power of chalk downs feels very different to that of iron rich clay. The energy of a forest differs greatly from that of a mountain range or a desert. Connecting to this power is not only useful in one’s own work, but allows us to recognise and respond to changes in the land. It is not difficult to access. As soon as we enter an environment we become a part of it, whether we are conscious of this fact or not. Indeed, the more we immerse ourselves in the land and give up our illusion of separateness, the greater access we have to this power.

Regular and free access to the land is vital to establishing these connections but can be difficult to obtain. Even in rural environments, land access is heavily contested and frequently privatised. Scotland, theoretically, has some of the most extensive rights to roam in the United Kingdom. However, when I first visited I discovered this right was severely hampered by miles of barbed wire. Getting access to the land can be particularly difficult in urban and suburban areas. Sometimes, it is necessary to broaden our idea of what the ‘land’ means. When I lived in the city, the only unpaved land I had easy access to was the river’s edge. I walked along the shore daily and became familiar with the tides, the waterfowl, the moods and currents of the river. The river itself also had a powerful and ancient spirit to whom I made offerings.

In suburbia, I’ve found public parks and undeveloped land offer sites for access. Of course, land doesn’t stop being land because its built over and paved. Cities have their own spirits and energies. Personally, I’m more comfortable with wild or rural landscapes, and most of what I write here concerns working with such environs, but that doesn’t mean that urban land is any less magical. If you likewise need some wildness, then regular journeys to a national park or nature reserve may offer a solution. Returning regularly to the same place, even if it is hours from where you live, is enough to establish a connection, especially if you go alone and give yourself time to fully immerse in the landscape.

Solitude is integral to my work with the land. The reason for this is very simple, when we are with other humans we are enclosed in a bubble of humanity. We filter our experiences through their reactions and the weight of their presence makes it harder to detect more subtle presences. Being alone with the land is itself a deeply magical experience. Even if you don’t have access to remote wild places or live in a city, being unaccompanied will give you a greater awareness of the energies and spirits around you. Gain access to the land, and spend time there alone. This is the cornerstone to all land-based practice.

In future posts I look forward to discussing different types of land spirits, methods for raising land power, eating the land, beating the bounds, the relationship between land and memory, intuitive magic, augury and several methods for developing and deepening a connection with your locality. If you have any questions please leave a comment.

Re-enchantment and the role of the Magician

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In the early 20th century Max Weber, a German Sociologist, proposed that the modern world had been ‘disenchanted.’ He described the Western world view as having de-mystified nature, instead relying on a rational, materialistic outlook embodied in science, bureaucracy and the law. Weber attributed this change to the introduction of Protestant forms of Christianity and the scientific revolution. Although later scholars have argued that this process has been incomplete, there is still a great deal of evidence for a decline in magical belief at all levels of Western society over the last three centuries.

The magician (under which term I include all practitioners of magic) cannot escape disenchantment. Although they may personally espouse a world view that denies scientific materialism as a dominant ideology, they remain part of a society which widely considers magic to be fictional. This has affected a change in the status and role of the magician and increasingly marginalized their skills and work. Although magicians have for centuries been ‘outsiders’, there was once a place for licit magic whether in the form of priesthood, divination, healing or protection. Other forms of magic, including necromancy and maleficia, were historically perceived as genuine threats and legislated against. Although we now have, (at least in the UK), more freedom under the legal system – this too is a symptom of disenchantment. We do not legislate against things we consider ‘imaginary.’

The way magicians respond to disenchantment varies. Some find explanation for their experiences and practice in the hard and soft sciences; psychology, quantum physics etc., thereby conforming their magical world view to loosely fit the more widely accepted scientific one. Others simply ignore disenchantment, embracing their place outside of the shared world view and seeing no need to justify or explain their beliefs. A few, myself included, study historical world views in an effort to better understand why the modern world rejects magic. By replacing our mental furniture with that belonging to an older culture, we attempt to experience the world as it was pre-disenchantment – through the eyes of an ancient Greek, a medieval Christian or a Renaissance philosopher.

I feel that all of these methods of dealing with disenchantment are valid. Yet while they allow us to come to terms with the fact that we believe in magic in a society that does not, they rarely do much more. I’m interested in findings ways that magicians can actively influence the shared world view of their cultures, in favour of re-enchantment.

Re-enchantment is a challenge. Many of us have struggled to overcome skepticism, prejudice and even fear-for-our-own-sanity in becoming involved with magic. We know that this process is not easy. However, I also believe our society is ready for re-enchantment. We have come through the industrial era and seen the damage that is done to our world and ourselves by a quantitative, materialist world view. An increasing interest in magic-as-fiction reflects a desire for magic-as-reality. Even within the occult community there is a push away from seeing magic as a glorified self-help tool, towards re-engagement with the spirit world and learning from other cultures who have maintained an enchanted perspective.

Magicians – as individuals who have succeeded in re-enchanting their own reality, are perhaps the best placed to encourage re-enchantment in our cultures. I feel the heart of this mission lies in engagement. Making connections with others in our communities who suffer from disenchantment and helping them re-connect to magic, whether through history, nature, story, music or art. I am greatly inspired by magicians who do not simply ‘preach to the choir,’ but actively share their experience and knowledge beyond the occult and pagan communities. This does not necessarily mean becoming a public magician, outing one-self as a witch/druid/mage etc. As empowering as that may be for the individual, I’m not sure it does much to convince a dis-enchanted public who view such titles are belonging to pure fantasy.

I do not have the solution to dis-enchantment, but I am very interested in finding new ways to overcome it. I believe this must be done by putting aside the ego – the desire to be seen as magical ourselves. I feel our methods must be subtle, but powerful; stories and rituals and healing shared. If we are to re-enchant the world for others, it is not enough to tell them about magic, they must be allowed to experience it in some undeniable way, for themselves.

Thirteen Pathways of Occult Herbalism – Book Review

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While eagerly anticipating the release of Daniel A. Schulke’s The Green Mysteries, I have been fortunate enough to receive a copy of Thirteen Pathways of Occult Herbalism, a companion volume of essays on topics related to plant magic. As a long-time admirer of Schulke’s landmark Viridarium Umbris, one of the first modern works to treat esoteric herbalism in depth, I harbour high expectations of these new titles.

Thirteen Pathways is a slim volume (138 pages) containing four essays, a short preface and bibliography. I have the trade paperback edition, which is nicely bound and printed and features beautiful illustrations by Benjamin Vierling. I found the preface particularly refreshing, written in a simple style in the first person, it clearly outlines the objective of the work:

The purpose of Thirteen Pathways is therefore to examine routes by which we can learn the occult nature of plants, and in doing so, incorporate their powers in our own mystical pursuits, and beyond.

Those familiar with Schulke’s writing will be aware of his characteristic style, which tends towards the poetic, archaic and sometimes obfuscatory. Although Thirteen Pathways retains certain poetic flourishes it is, on the whole, an approachable text, clearly and lucidly written. It is my hope that a similar style has been adopted for the forthcoming Green Mysteries.

The first, titular essay was by far the most inspiring in my reading. Schulke briefly outlines the history of Occult Herbalism, and some common misconceptions relating to the subject. This is followed by the thirteen ‘pathways’, or ‘philosophical routes’ and thirteen ‘gardens’. The pathways are given Greek titles and consist of physical, intellectual and magical approaches to gaining herb knowledge and experience. The gardens are described as visions of symbolic landscapes centered around particular ethnobotanical relationships, such as healing or funerary plants.

Unfortunately, the scope of this essay allows only for a brief summary of each pathway and garden, but it is enough to stimulate and inspire the reader into further exploration. The pathways listed do not prescribe working methods but allow the practitioner to examine their own. Thus it is not a working manual so much as an enquiry into the ideas behind varying approaches. I have long felt that there is an over-emphasis in modern ‘traditional’ witchcraft on entheogens and poisonous plants, to the exclusion of other forms of plant magic. In the ‘gardens’, Schulke helps to redress this balance by placing equal value on diverse varieties of human-plant relationships including perfumery, cosmetics and cloth making. Familiar with the idea of planetary ‘gardens’, I enjoyed the originality of Schulke’s ethnobotanical approach. I believe ‘Thirteen Pathways’ to be a stimulating read for any esoteric herbalist, although not one aimed at the beginner.

Admittedly, I was less excited by the other essays included in the book. I had already read ‘Transmission of Esoteric Occult Knowledge in the Twenty-First Century’ in volume 2. of Verdant Gnosis. The final two essays are very short and approach the topic from a more academic perspective, looking at the history and anthropology behind occult herbalism and drawing upon diverse global traditions for examples. I found both of these pieces to be broad overviews of loosely related concepts, rather than deep investigations of particular practices. There was little I had not encountered previously. For example, the content of ‘The Green Intercessor’ on fallen angels will be familiar to readers of Schulke’s past work and books like The Pillars of Tubal-Cain (Jackson & Howard, 2000.)

For those who have enjoyed Schulke’s previous publications, I consider Thirteen Pathways a worthwhile acquisition. I am curious to see how the ideas expressed in the titular essay are addressed and expanded in The Green Mysteries, and have high hopes for the forthcoming volume.

Thirteen Pathways of Occult Herbalism can be purchased from Three Hands Press.

Undefining the Hedge Witch

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Where does the term ‘hedge witch’ come from and what does it actually mean? If you begin to research this question, you are likely to come across two popular answers:

a) Hedge witch is a term coined by Rae Beth in her 1990 book Hedge Witch: A Guide to Solitary Witchcraft. It describes a solitary practitioner of a Wicca-like religion. According to Beth :

This is rather like the old-time village wise woman or wise man: one who ‘knows’ and worships the Goddess and her consort, the Horned God; one who practices spellcraft for the purposes of healing and teaches the mysteries.

or – b) Hedge witch is derived from the Old High German ‘hagazussa’ via the Anglo-Saxon ‘hægtesse’ and means ‘hedge rider’ – referring not to a physical boundary hedge, but a metaphysical one. I first came across this definition on Dawn Jackson’s site in the early 2000s and have since found it reflected in subsequent books and websites on traditional witchcraft. Sarah Anne Lawless states:

The word hedgewitch comes from the Saxon word haegtessa meaning ‘hedge-rider’. The hedge in hedge witchery is not a fence of shrubs and wildlife, but instead represents the border between our material world and the otherworld – the unknown.

Both of these definitions, while containing a kernel of truth, are based on assumptions. By examining these assumptions it will become apparent that neither is fully satisfactory in a historical sense, and that an alternative source may be necessary to explain the term.

Rae Beth’s book is a primer on neo-Wicca, and contains most of the fictionalised history promoted by similar works in the latter part of the 20th century. Beth is correct in assuming that there is a historical precedence for the ‘village wise woman or wise man’ (a figure discussed in current scholarship as a ‘cunning woman/man’) but incorrect in assuming these individuals practiced anything like Wicca. That said, it may very well be true that Beth coined the term ‘hedge witch’ in modern parlance or, at the very least,  that she was the first modern pagan or occultist to use it.

The second definition relies heavily on linking ‘hedge witch’ to ‘hægtesse’ and ‘hagazussa.’ The problem therein being that etymology is a slippery, shape-shifting creature that rarely gives a straight answer. The meaning of these Old High German and Old English words has been debated by scholars since the 19th century, with interpretations including: forest-demon, fence-rider and whore – it is also synonymous with ‘lizard’. I am inclined to agree that in general, ‘hagazussa’ and its derivatives indicate some sort of witch or female spirit associated with flight and crossing the boundaries of enclosures. The word ‘hag’ is rich with meanings, including witch, fury, old woman, enclosed wood and as a verb, to harass! I feel that the similarity and connections between ‘hag’, ‘witch’ and ‘hedge’ (which might possibly be related to hag by way of OE: hecg – fence) has led to an irresistible temptation among modern witches to state that hagazussa = hedge witch.

However, sharing linguistic roots is not sufficient evidence of a direct ancestry between two words that appear centuries apart. To prove that ‘hedge witch’ is derived from ‘hagazussa’ and ‘hægtesse’ would require evidence of use in the intermediary period and I can find none. The earliest use of ‘hedge witch’ I have so far been able to uncover is in the Gardeners’ Chronicle, Horticultural Trade Journal 1895, where it is given as a common name for the fungus Phallus impudicus. 

If ‘hedge witch’ was not in use prior to Rae Beth’s book, then where did she get the term from? I think it likely that she’d been reading fantasy fiction. In 1977 Dianna Wynne Jones uses the term ‘hedge-wizard’ contemptuously in her novel Charmed Life. By the 1980’s ‘hedge-witch’ also appears in the work of Debra Doyle and James Macdonald. I have no doubt there are other, potentially earlier, examples I’ve yet to uncover. The ‘hedge wizard’ has since become a popular trope of fantasy fiction and can be found in the works of Mercedes Lackey, Terry Pratchett and George R. R. Martin. The term even has a wikipedia page, which describes the hedge-wizard as being of a low educational background (not formally schooled) and associated with rural settings, noting that it may be used in a derogatory sense.

The OED gives the following definition for ‘hedge’:

Born, brought up, habitually sleeping, sheltering, or plying their trade under hedges, or by the road-side (and hence used generally as an attribute expressing contempt), as hedge-bantling, hedge-brat, hedge-chaplain, hedge-curate, hedge-doctor, hedge-lawyer, hedge-parson, hedge-player, hedge-poet, hedge-wench, hedge-whore, etc.

I believe it is in this sense that hedge-wizard and hedge-witch enter fantasy fiction, and from there, or through a similar logic that Rae Beth adopts the term. Her concept of a solitary, rural, self-taught or apprenticed ‘wise woman’ is, after all, not too far from the OED definition. The connection here is not so much a relation to literal or spiritual hedges, but in the lack of formal education, professional qualification or association with a body of practitioners.

So where does this leave us? Does it invalidate ‘hedge witch’ as an identifier for modern witches? Is it actually an insult? Can the term be re-rehabilitated and reclaimed in any way? The following is my personal opinion; I have long been fond of the hedge witch. I feel Rae Beth’s use of the term inspired a lot of people who were looking for a form of witchcraft more like that of the cunning folk. The phrase fills a necessary gap and is perhaps more comfortable as a self identifier than wise-woman, cunning-man or fairy-doctor. The word ‘hedge’ is very potent to anyone living in a country like Britain, where hedgerows define so much of the landscape. It is also a symbolic word, suggesting liminal places and boundaries to be crossed, both physical and metaphysical. Even the derisive use of ‘hedge’ suggests a certain anarchic spirit, a solitary figure, self-taught and practical. Hedge witch is not a grand or flattering title, but that is part of its charm, indicating a rough and rustic craft.

It cannot be denied that modern paganism and occultism has been influenced by fantasy fiction, in the same way that pre- and early-modern magic was influenced by classical mythology and folk tales. The word ‘witch’ itself, was derogatory for centuries, and so there is an amusing irony in this compound term . Like ‘witch’ I think ‘hedge witch’ can be re-claimed and re-invented, to serve those who identify with it. While I would argue with anyone who tried to define ‘hedge witch’ as either a solitary Wiccan – or – a practitioner of spirit-flight, I don’t see why it cannot be used by both. The hedge witch may not be a direct descendant of the hedge-rider, yet the ‘hagazussa’ is certainly part of European witchcraft’s history. Etymology is a fascinating subject, but an imprecise one, and a poor tool with which to establish one’s historical authenticity. I have long been frustrated with the endless debates over how to define ‘witch’ – as if a word could have only one meaning. There is freedom to be found in undefining the words we use to define ourselves and a humility in acknowledging their messy origins. So, accepting that it owes as much to 20th century fantasy as pre-modern history, I am very happy to call myself a hedge witch.

 

Bibliography:

Beth, Rae, Hedge Witch

Davies, Owen, Popular Magic: Cunning-folk in English History

De Vries, Eric, Hedge-Rider: Witches and the Underworld

Jackson, Dawn R., Hedgewytchery 

Lawless, Sarah Anne, Hedge Witchery

Morris, Katherine, Witch Words: The Origin and Background of German Hexe

Oxford English Dictionary: Hedge

Image: Wellcome Library, London