Note: this story is part of a series called “The Bitter Winter: Surviving and Healing Appalachia. For context and the full collection of stories, check out this page.

Some of my best memories come from the time we lived in that Wizard house at the end of my Short Granny’s holler. I bet you’re wondering why I keep calling it the Wizard house, though. Well, remember that Warlock I talked about earlier? The one my grandpa supposedly cured?

The Wizard house was his house.

I remember digging in the yard as a kid and we would dig up the most peculiar things. Mostly jars with strange objects in them. Things like barbed wire, thorns, buttons and seemingly random odds and ends. We did what any curious kids would do, of course. We opened those jars to harvest their treasures.

Now that I’m an adult and have been a practicing witch for over a decade and a half, I wince at that fact. There’s no telling what misfortunes I’ve invited into my life by opening those jars. After all, some things should be left just as they are. Some magicks should be left undisturbed.

There are plenty of other stories about that house and the strange things that happened there. Like the fact that I vividly remembered spending time with an old woman who lived in a clearing behind the Wizard house, only to find out in adulthood that she (nor the clearing) ever existed.

It goes to show that magic never truly dies, and in that, hope for renewal lives on.

The Blizzard of ’93

Maybe that’s why that Wizard house was the perfect setting for the worst of the three blizzards I’ve survived; the blizzard of ’93.

I was six years old at the time and my mama was pregnant with my little brother. Now, you need to know that the blizzard of ’93 was a BAD storm. Historic, even. It was so bad that the adults had to take turns staying up at night; not just to tend the fire, but also to keep the pathway to the door clear.

We worked together to make it through, though. We carried in wood and coal for the stove and helped to melt snow to fill a washtub for baths. It was a lot of work, but we were fortunate enough to have the warmth and means to cook on that old wood stove. Some folks in the area didn’t have half that, and later in my life, neither did I.

Community and Resilience

Now, if the adults were stressed about making it through, they didn’t show it. I hold firmly the image of them-mostly womenfolk-sitting around the table laughing and playing cards. It’s an odd thing to think about now, given what I know about the dangers of winter storms. As a child, though, it was kind of fun.

Maybe it’s because everything was a game, and the shuffle, shuffle bridge background noise of my childhood has been with me ever since. I remember lying on a palette in the room next to the kitchen, trying desperately to hear what the adults were talking about. Between the laughter, shuffling and hushed bits, I did learn a few things.

I learned that you should never let a cat in a crib wtih a baby; lest the cat steal the baby’s breath. I learned about the time my great grandma heard a child laugh and knew he was going to die. Sure enough, he died shortly after that. Most of all, I learned about the role that hope and community play in survival.

Magic and Memories

My Grandma Eula Mae was never very far from a deck of cards. I remember her laid across her bed–a notebook, pen and endless game of solitaire before her.

I wish I had thought to ask her what it was about cards that brought her such comfort–but I think I know the answer because I am much the same. It’s really grounding, you know…the act of shuffling cards. I think that it calmed her and kept her centered. And for a woman who went through all the storms she went through, she was calm.

Like, scary calm.

She could write you a letter dripping with kindness and still cut you to pieces. You see, my Grandma Eula Mae was no harsh blizzard; she was the quiet wind that settled in before the storm.

The Role of Games

Like many traditions in the area, there were other practical applications for her connection with the cards–and games, in general. Intuition and pattern recognition were essential for survival. They’ve fallen out of use a bit today–what with technology and the opioid epidemic. But for our ancestors, those skills were used to forecast and to help make decisions admist chaos.

It was more than play; it was training.

Knowing what I know now about Awen and the importance of play in connecting to the Divine Creative energy, it’s no surprise that these games were the harbinger of hope during these dark times.

So I say to all of you. You would do well to find those places of light from your life and hold steadfast to them…even if it means you have to face and clear out the shadows.

The gift of hope is there for you to grasp and without hope, even the smallest of storms can be too much to bear.

Hope Becomes Avoidance

…but the story doesn’t end there. You see, there was one more blizzard in my life that I’ve yet to mention and with the time I have left, I want to say a few words about it.

Well, I don’t really WANT to talk about it because it’s from a pretty unpleasant time in my life. I’m going to speak on it, though, because the lesson of hope would be incomplete without it.

When I was in my early teen years, we lived in this old run down trailer. It was so bad that icicles would form on the outlets and it had holes so big in the floors that Opossums would sometimes make their way inside. We rode out the blizzard of ’98 there–just my mom, brothers and I.

I mean, we got by just fine. At the end of the day, we had no choice to make the best of it. But it wasn’t easy. Nothing about living in that old trailer in the winter was easy.

That year, just like every other year, we insulated the windows to help with the cold. It made that trailer such a dark place.

But after darkness comes hope and every year, when my mom declared the end of winter, we would remove the insulation from the windows. I don’t now how to describe the warmth that would come over me as the fragments of light filled the room.

Yes, there’s hope in the returning spring…as long as you don’t look too far ahead. As long as you ignore the fact that the cold and darkness will come again…and again….and again.

I think that if you do that exceptionally well, hope can become avoidance.

That was certainly true for most of the women I know from back home. There are just too many things that happen in those hollers that no one talks about. Toxic marriages an family relationships abound, but everyone shows up to church on Sunday with picture perfect smiles.

I’ve seen women hit their knees at 3 a.m; praying for softness, safety and change. When no peace comes, they pray harder and they blame the devil and they blame themselves but the do not blame the hands that harmed them.

I’m guilty of it, too. For most of my life, I’ve held on so closely to the light that I’ve lost who I am.

Facing the Shadows

Remember when I said that stories saved my life? It’s because I used them to pretend the shadows didn’t exist at all. The bad parts (or ‘shadows’) became characters. I gave them a name and locked them away and then completely disconnected from them. I was able to understand them, but not feel them.

That’s not to say that the story of who I was and who I am isn’t true…because it is. The problem is that it’s not the full truth.

I work so hard to show the world how great and radiant I am and because of that, I’ve forsaken my inner wounded child. Now that shadow part lives inside of me and it loves to whisper pretty little nothings in my ear. It tells me that no one will ever love me–unless I give them everything I have.

It tells me that I can keep nothing to myself and so my body pays the tax for my brain’s misfiring. I offer myself up to the lowest bidder and then forget to cash the check.

It’s like I’m standing on the street holding up a sign that says:

“Will work for attention”

I want you all to think I’m worthy…so maybe then I’ll think I’m worthy. Until I shift my thinking, that part of me will never be anything more than the trash that lives in that trailer on the edge of the woods.

The Path to Healing

You know, writing these stories was an exercise in Shadow Work for me. Out of all the places I went, that last bit was the hardest to write. I wanted to point that out because poverty trauma is real, y’all. I don’t think we acknowledge that much and so we end up with broken people with broken thinking.

It’s an epidemic of self-loathing and low self worth. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m projecting there.

The truth is that I really feel like no one would respect me if they knew where I came from. In those moments of self-doubt, I can close my eyes and see 15 year old Ashley staring back at me. No one knows the depths of my sadness quite like she does.

I started writing a story not too long ago about a porcelain doll. She was used and discarded and now she’s lonely and broken. She lives in a deep, dark cave without even the tiniest fragment of light shining through. She’s more than just a character in a story. She is me and I am her. I know that I cannot be whole until I put her back together.

…and some days. Well, most days. I don’t feel strong enough to do that.

I am doing it, though–slowly but surely. Through therapy and Shadow Work and telling my stories in rooms full of people, I am on the path to healing. I hope you found something in all of this that gives you strength to face your shadows…to find healing in the darkest parts of yourself.

Always remember that you deserve healing. You are worth it, after all.