Before I tell you about this staff let me tell you about my original staff. The one that I loved so dear, and to this day just cannot replace.
When I was in high school, a young innocent wiccan, before my nightmare with my ex, and before my short-lived conversion to Christianity, I had a staff. I had found the tall, sturdy branch in 6th grade, and had sanded it, picked it clean, polished it, and loved it very much. The branch had once been infested with either termites or carpenter ants, but the insects had only created chaotic grooves in the wood just under the bark, so when I had let it dry in the hot summer sun between 6th and 7th grade, and peeled off the test-brown bark, I found the surface to be beautiful and the staff strong.
I loved that staff. I kept it in my room, and really, I didn’t carve it or paint it or burn designs in. I’ve never cared for marring the natural beauty of the wood. It had gourds that hung from it’s end, thumping and clunking as I walked. They were attached with simple cotton cord, but they were firmly attached and never slipped out.
Before I had moved out of the house I was raised in, I had gone on a trip, leaving the staff as it had always sat (leaning by the front door, secure in its low-traffic corner). When I came back I found it destroyed in the same corner, everything attached to it ripped off. It was the first thing I had noticed when I walked in the door, and instead of being happy to be home, I went from zero to full on batshit insane in two seconds flat. Unsuprisingly, nobody fessed up, and I had abandoned unpacking my things to try and repair my staff.
When I moved out, I had kept it in my old room, standing (once again) in the corner. My boyfriend at the time (the psychotic ex) had encoraged me to abandon my old tools from my pagan past, but it was the one thing I couldn’t destroy. It sat, depreciated, alone.
But then my step-dad got remarried, and everything in the old room was purged. Many things lost, including my staff. I was heartbroken.
2, now almost 3 years later, I’ve reconnected with my pagan faith. I’m no wiccan, but I’m starting from the basics- in particular I’m going through a wiccan group for classes. It’s freeing to be able to look back and go ‘well, now I know why I couldn’t shake my morning salutations, and that weird niggling feeling deep inside that someone was being left out every time I said God, or why my first instinct in times of stress was to dive into a book about paganism (which I deftly hid away from cruel prying eyes)’. I can say I tried to walk the path expected of me- but it wasn’t right.
In my healing, I had an urge to create a new staff, one that I loved and care for as much as my old one. I had searched high and low for the right branch to speak to me, but none came. A friend heard me complain one day, and gifted me a plain staff, crooked in a few places, dark and heavy. It was almost the polar opposite of my old one. But it shone. It was beautiful, strong and sturdy. It was made for me.
I found what belonged to it, and began my work.
I’ve always seen magickal tools as a constant work in progress. As you grow, your tools do too. You’ll know when they need alteration and change, and you’ll see when it’s perfect. Don’t be afraid to put it together, then take it apart. Don’t be afraid to trim or re-tie or do what you need to get it perfect for you.
This staff- my new staff, is about half-a-head taller than me, just perfect for my height. I have 3 quartz crystals attached, a tail from an arctic fox, a chicken foot, and a rose quartz attached to a lock of my own hair. I know more will be added as I go, as things call to me or stand out to me.
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