On Selkies & Silence
In This Missive:Witch Grift & Sacred SecretsThe Altar I Did Not PhotographOther Posts about SelkiesI have always wrestled with the Witch Wave with its algorithmic intensity. Its illusion-filled manipulations crowd my feeds, noisy with competitive bristle. It feels crowded here.
Over a decade ago I took photos of my altar to share with other witches on Instagram. They never went viral, never hit any sort of algorithmic payload because there wasn’t one. I knew who I was talking to and why. And then one day someone I didn’t know (what we now call a ‘Random Reply Guy’) commented that to post any magical tool or altar online was to drain it of its power.
What if they were right?
I now question my impulse to document things that are sacred to me. I wonder who is it for? That witchy community is gone. Perhaps some are still on instagram, thrown to the algorithmic winds where I will never see them. There are countless practitioners plying their trades on Substack and Instagram. Witchy life coaches, psychics, tarot readers and astrologers. I don’t need these services. I am not their potential customer. Are we building community or a customer/fan base?
In times like these, Hillary Mantel’s Beyond Black feels relevant. A book about psychic grift, trauma & bona fide hauntings, it’s extremely dark—no love and light here, sorry. And yet it’s witchy, powerful and unlike anything I’ve ever read. Mantel’s memoir Giving Up the Ghost is equally haunted but much lighter.
In these moments bereft of ‘audience’—I think of Hillary Mantel, a writer who saw ghosts. Her ability to write about liminality while surviving her chronic illness is nothing less than magical. She would never have called herself a witch. It was not her intention to bring ‘magic’ into the world; she did it anyway.
A year ago I wrote about the New Age Witch Grift here—many of the same themes still dog this blog!
The Altar I Did Not PhotographThis time of year, Orkney is thronged with tourists travelling in packs, eating ice creams and taking photos. Cruise ships—those floating hotels—park in the sea outside Kirkwall, and little boats ferry wealthy tourists back and forth. They circle around the same places and then leave, replaced the next day by others doing the same thing.
It feels crowded here.
Avoiding the hoards is an art. The gloaming has become my friend. The paths less travelled, to misquote Frost, have made all the difference. Last week I was in Birsay and tour buses were parked on the narrow road, depositing crowds at the Earl’s Palace ruins.
Not far off the main road, a path winds seaward. Rabbits in the hundreds run over the low dunes, the tufts of their tails flashing white. Entrances to their warrens—myriad liminal doorways—riddle the path. One must step carefully over them.
A pod of seals lounges on the rocks below, some in a yogic ‘banana’ pose. A little pup swims in the shallows, watching me.
I see selkies all the time. They show up when I am most despairing. Seal medicine. If I take it, I must accept a responsibility in the exchange. They must remain unmolested by me, by us.
On the path leading to the headland, I use my monocular to get a good look at the selkies. I can’t get too close—won’t capture them with my phone camera. The pact I have with these beings is one of distance and silence.
Can you see them?In other news, the Big Frog in my garden has been joined by a baby frog. I have no photos of this good omen. What good omens have graced you recently?
Other posts on Selkies:THESE THINGS I HALF BELIEVE
1 November 2024
Two years ago I set out a plan to write about the folklore of witchcraft in Orkney and its intersection with the lives of Orcadian women accused of witchcraft. During the witch hunts in Scotland, the people of Orkney were slow to demonise witchcraft and the hunts never reached a full blown panic. There are reasons for this that I might unpack further in another post, but the story of the accused is often eclipsed by legend. Scota Bess on Stronsay is an example of a larger-than-life persona—a mixture of storm witch with elements of a creation goddess. The lived reality of an actual woman named Scota Bess, and indeed any historical record of her life, is seemingly lost to the shadow of her tale.
SELKIE·20 April 2023
I am at St. Combs, a fishing village and beach named after the Pictish saint Columba. I was inspired by Sally Huband’s extraordinary book about beach combing, Sea Bean. I revisited this old pastime, something I did a lot when I first moved to Northeast Scotland. I scan the sand and sha…
