Around The Simmering Cauldron: The Witch’s Autumn Tea Time

Brewing up a little something special for Samhain.

This was published in Enchanted Living Magazine’s Fall Issue.

The air is crisp, and the trees in the wood have donned their fiery coats to stay warm. Soon they will be bare, but for the moment, you’re free to admire the blaze of their finery as you sit outside, a steaming mug warming your hands. Cinnamon and rose–for luck and love–waft up to you as the chill fingers of the wind caress your cheeks.

It is very easy to love at this time of year.

But there’s work to be done, and so up you rise. Your cup stays in your hands, of course; all good witches are multitaskers, and there’s no reason to set it down just yet. 

In your workspace, the little clearing in the woods where it’s just you, the trees, and whatever spirits come by to say hello, the fire needs tending. You kneel down, unbothered by the dirt and fallen leaves that cling to your skirt, and stoke it up. Soon, it sings its crackling song, bright and cheery as the leaves above you. You stay where you are for a moment and sip your tea. 

Overhead, a thick blanket of clouds is doing its best to shield the world from the sun. But there are holes that need stitching, and streams of gold drip from them. When one hits your face, it’s warm; a goodbye kiss from the summer, you think, before it lets winter take its place.

You’ve finished your tea.

You set the mug aside, getting back up to your feet. Nearby, a cauldron sits. It should be much more difficult to move than it is, but you’re quite used to this. You set it over your fire, squishing the flames but not extinguishing them, and in goes the spring water you gathered yourself–cool and refreshing, even on a chilly day like this. Next are the important bits: more cinnamon, for luck, more roses, for love, and then the other ingredients that aren’t quite as nice in tea: a lock of hair, a crushed leaf, stones from the river, a secret you whisper into the steam. There will be more to add later, but for now you take your big wooden spoon–your mother’s, and her mother’s, and quite possibly belonging to every mother in your family–and you give it a good stir.

Now, you wait.

Magic takes time, every witch knows this. So you’ll be here for quite a while. Soon, it will be too cold to work outdoors like this–even now, you can feel the tips of your nose, your ears, your fingers start to chill in the dying sunlight. But for now, the cold is bracing, not bitter; it makes you feel alive.

Around your ankles, you feel something small and furry winding around your legs. Your cat (black, of course, though the sunlight turns her fur and whiskers golden) has come to check up on you. She probably wonders what it is you’re doing out in the cold, when your warm cottage is just a few feet away. Even so, you appreciate her checking in on you.

There is a reason you’re out here, though, outside of enjoying the beauty of a fall day. The veil is thinnest at the turning of seasons, where the whole world is a liminal space. It’s the perfect environment for magic.

You’ve laid out your intentions for this spell, and the potion burbles away in your cauldron as a ray of sunlight lands inside it. That’s just what you wanted it to do. You see, this isn’t a potion for the now, for the cool breeze and bright-colored leaves. 

No, this potion is for later. 

When the world is cold and dark, when you start to wonder if the sun will ever return and despair of ever finding beauty in the world again. When the wind is bitter and sharp, and the sun cowers behind the thick clouds of winter. When you feel as though you ought to just slip away, burrow under your own blankets, and forget the world altogether.

When that day comes–and it will come, it always does–then you will remember the potion you brewed on this beautiful autumn day. And you will warm it on your stove, and you will drink down the golden sun, the bright leaves, the spice of luck and the sweet floral of love. And then, the world will not be so bleak, because you’ll know the sun will return, and soon enough the leaves will fall again, and you’ll fall in love with the warmly lit world, right on the cusp of sleep, just like you do each year.

Because, after all, it is very easy to love at this time of year.

Finally, the last rays of the sun slip below the horizon, and your potion is finished brewing. You can feel the spirits of those who crossed the veil begin to wander as the forest darkens around you–it’s time for them to play, after all. You’re not afraid as you bring over your cauldron’s lid and seal it up; as full of the golden autumn sun as it is, leaving it beneath the light of a harvest moon will give it the strength to stand up to the coming winter. 

Besides, you trust the spirits that begin to mill about; it’s your mother’s mother’s mother and all the other mothers that came before, after all.

Your work is done. So you gather up your mug, and you hoist up your black cat, and you take a moment to blow a kiss to the dead, to thank them for watching your potion as it steeps. And, of course, for making you who you are. 

And then you retreat to your cottage, where a cozy fire awaits in front of your favorite chair and the spellbook you’ve been reading lays open right where you left off. You don your own fiery robe to ward off the chill, then pull a blanket, heavy and old and stitched up right where you always pull it, onto your lap. 

And, at the end of this autumn day, as your cat settles on your lap and you pick up your spellbook, you think of how equally wonderful the autumn tomorrow will be.