Did the Magic Disappear?
I have been moving things around my home again. Not because anything is out of place, but because I am. Every so often, I fall into this cycle of shifting objects, wiping down corners, and rearranging shelves, trying to settle something inside myself. I think I am doing this again sooner than I usually would because the weight I carried after cleansing someone else settled into me more deeply than I expected. It was not my energy, but it attached itself in a way that has taken longer to shake off. There are still lingering remnants, small pockets of heaviness that sit at the edges of my days. I can feel them when I walk through certain rooms, when I pause too long in a doorway, or when I catch myself staring at an object and realizing I do not know why it feels out of tune. I am still recovering from it, still trying to clear out what clung to me.
As I move through my space, I have been struck by a quiet realization. Many of the things I created with my grandmother are gone. Not misplaced. Not tucked away. Simply gone. It is strange how you can live your life surrounded by certain objects, certain memories, certain pieces of your own history, and then one day you look around and realize they have slipped away without you noticing. The memory that keeps circling back, the one that keeps tugging at me, is the witches’ brooms.
If I close my eyes, I can smell the earthy wood and the cinnamon we tucked into the bristles. I remember how much I loved that scent, how it reminded me of her baking filling the whole house, warm and sweet and safe. We made so many brooms together, more than any one house could ever need. We decorated for hours, talking and laughing, weaving intention into every knot. Those afternoons felt like their own kind of magic, the kind that settles quietly into your bones.
Now I am realizing that I do not actually know what happened to them. I find myself wondering if she gifted them, letting them carry a bit of our magic into other homes. Maybe some hung by someone else’s doorway, quietly protecting a space I never stepped into. Maybe they were tucked into corners of houses I never saw, doing their work without ever being acknowledged. And the ones I kept in my room, the ones I remember so clearly with their textures and colors and the way they made me feel safe, somehow disappeared without me noticing. It is unsettling to think about how something can be part of your everyday world and then slip away so quietly that you only realize it is gone years later. It makes me wonder what else has vanished without my awareness, what other pieces of my past dissolved into the background while I was busy surviving.
Maybe that is what this cycle is doing, not just rearranging my surroundings but revealing the quiet absences. The things that slipped away without me realizing. The magic that left the room so gently I did not feel the air change. It is a strange kind of grief, the kind that does not come from loss you witnessed, but from loss you did not notice until long after it happened.
About Witches’ Brooms
Witches’ brooms, or besoms, have always been more than decorative objects. They are tools of boundary, cleansing, and protection, and every part of them carries intention. The handle offers grounding and stability, the bristles represent movement and clearing, and the herbs or spices tucked inside add layers of purpose. When we made them, we were not just crafting something pretty. We were creating guardians for the home. A broom sweeps away stagnant energy, marks thresholds, protects the space, and quietly reminds you of the magic you carry. Even as a child, I understood that these were not toys or crafts. They were extensions of the home’s spirit.
Making a broom is simple, but it is also deeply personal. You gather a branch or dowel for the handle, bristles or twigs for the sweep, twine to bind them, and herbs or charms to tuck inside. Each knot becomes a choice, each wrap a small promise. You decorate it in colors that feel right, trusting your hands to know what the broom needs. When it is finished, it holds your energy, your memory, and your intention in a way few other tools do. There is something grounding about the process, the repetition, the texture, the scent of herbs, the quiet focus. It is a ritual of creation that feels both ancient and intimate.
Where a broom lives in the home depends on what you want from it. Placing one by the front door protects the threshold and keeps unwanted energy out. A broom in a corner helps keep the room’s energy moving. One on an altar symbolizes cleansing and readiness. Above a doorway, it guards the space. Near a bed, it protects dreams. Wherever it rests, it becomes part of the room’s energy, quietly doing its work. Over time, you can feel when a broom has settled into its role, when it has become part of the home’s rhythm.
Like any magical tool, a broom does not last forever. Its energy shifts as yours does. You refresh it when the bristles feel dull, when the herbs lose their scent, when the space around it feels stagnant, or when you have gone through a major change. Sometimes refreshing is as simple as adding new herbs or rewrapping the twine. Other times, it means letting the old broom retire and creating a new one that reflects who you are now. Magic changes as we do, and our tools evolve alongside us. A broom that served you well in one chapter may not be the broom you need in the next.
Maybe the brooms disappeared because their work was done. Maybe they protected what needed protecting. Maybe they carried the magic of those years until it was time for them to go. Or maybe I am only now noticing their absence because I am finally clearing enough space inside myself to see what is missing. There is a quiet ache in that realization, but also a strange comfort. Magic does not always vanish. Sometimes it simply moves.
Either way, the memory of making them is still here. The smell of wood and cinnamon is still here. The magic my grandmother taught me is still here. And maybe this cycle I am in, this rearranging, this cleansing, this remembering, is my way of finding my way back to it. Maybe the magic did not disappear at all. Maybe it has been waiting for me to notice it again.
If you feel called to explore this tradition more deeply, the Library is always there to guide you further.