For those who know me, it is no secret my love for all things unseen. When I first started studying herbalism in 2021, it was as if a portal opened up and swallowed me whole. I come from a long line of dreamers, of believing in the unseen, women who took action based on a feeling. Stepping into living in the animistic viewpoint of the world required some grounding as I eagerly explored what pulled to me. I found that grounding in two places: 1. my ancestors 2. New Orleans.
My ancestors called me home in the guise of Mary (Santa Maria) as soon as I started working with the plants. You see I am fourth generation Sicilian, my maternal line is rooted in the town of Sciacca. I was told they were farmers, people amongst the sea, growing food to nourish their community.
My teacher, Lisa Fazio, teaches us of the Rhizotomi “root gatherers” who spoke with the spirits of the plants and understood the mycelial patterns of the underworld. They held the traditional healing knowledge, and carried the knowing of the moon’s energy and formulation of each plant.
Returning to my ancestral home was integral in my journey. The more I learned about where I came from, the more I understood what called to me. It was as if I opened a dormant channel inside of me.
I find that familiar magic in New Orleans; the Big Easy. The entire city is buzzing with an unseen energy. The best way to describe it as a charge, when I am there I can feel it heightening every single one of my senses. New Orleans called to me through the music, the feeling, and the winding Oak Trees. My grounding here was never planned, but discovered. When I learned of the Sicilian Immigrants that inhabited part of the French Quarter called Little Palermo, the familiarity of the parishes, and the practices — it all clicked into place for me.
I didn’t mean to write a book about all of this. Writing was, and is, a way to help me make sense of what I am experiencing. To play in the realm of the unseen and the knowledge I received. Below is an excerpt from a fiction piece I have been working on since I started my journey back in 2020. My hope is that this Substack continues to be a place of play and exploring as I continue to learn, and in return maybe help spark somebody else’s journey too.
This city was built on the bones of the sinners. Resurrected with the idea that only one could make it here, “The Big Easy.” Yet, the energy that courses through the blood of this town is something not even the sinners could see. Constantly surrounded by magic only the few know how to tap in - to see it - and bend it any way they desire. My family is lucky enough to be a part of that few. Nobody ever really knows about the Sicilian witches. We aren’t in any history books and we sure as hell don’t have any special graves with visitors from around the world. We keep our ancestry a secret, for if these streets knew what we are capable of doing, then our bodies would swing from the oak trees.
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What a lot of people don’t realize about New Orleans is that it is comprised of four quarters. The first quarter is for the vampires, although our town refuses to call them that they tend to hang out on Burbon Street. They aren’t the most aloof of characters, best known for jeering at the ladies walking by. I do my best to avoid them at all costs.
The second quarter is the werewolves, most people think they only migrate around the swamps but I know better. You can spot them occasionally in the Garden District. They don’t tend to bother people, I think it’s because they don’t really like to be noticed. Although they are never alone, they keep to themselves.
The third quarter is the voodoo queens, said to be run by a descendant of Marie Laveu, these witches take over what feels like the entire quarter although their shops mostly line Rector St. I wouldn’t say I am a particularly a fan of them and I can’t tell you that they are particularly a fan of me. My family has been taught to stay away from the Voodoo practitioners for years, and I don’t tend to head that warning.
Which leaves us to the fourth quarter, the Strega or what they like to call us Italians here in New Orleans: immigrants. As in, we don’t belong. We never will belong. And we might as well stop trying. We populate what they dubbed the name “Little Plaermo.” It’s not the nicest of places, but it is home. You can find it nestled in the lower part of the French quarter. I love walking through our part of the city. I don’t need to reach my house to feel at home.
The smell of muffalata fills my senses, and I smile lightly lifting my skirt to place my bare foot onto the cobblestone walk. The sound of a lone sax dances in the air as I swirl around his stand and return home.
“Josephine, what took you so long?” My mother yells from the kitchen, a pan swinging through the air.
“Sorry mom! I got caught up in the city.”
“Of course you did,” she sighed, “did you bring me my stuff?”
I plopped the sachet onto the table as tomatoes red as blood rolled out of the opening. She smiled kissing my forehead, “Thank you dear.”
Oh my gosh I love your writing. I think we might be kindred spirits. I've never heard anyone else describe so clearly the things I've experienced in my own life. The ability to bend energy, the intense hum or vibration of a place that affects your nervous system, and ways of just...knowing. My grandmother too was Strega, but from the Campania region. You might find my piece entitled Strega Nana well aligned to your experiences. Cheers for the great story and thanks for letting me know I'm not the only one.