Magnify

When I relocated cross-country from Virginia to the Pacific Northwest, I figured I’d meet interesting people and try new things.

The last place I expected to find myself was in a witches’ circle late at night in a sketchy area of downtown Portland, channeling my frustrations into a helpless pastry.

Historically, I’d had few women friends. I’m not particularly girly and have always been shy—plus, my childhood penchant for games that involved past-life recall treasure hunts, invisible spirit horses and Barbies gathering as a witches coven meant I spent a lot of time playing alone. I envied my sister and her lifetime bond with friends she’d made from grade school all the way through college and their shared memories, inside jokes, crazy escapades and absolute reliance on each other. In my mid-30s, I figured my pattern of friendships—few, and of the masculine persuasion—was pretty much set in stone.

One night at a local coffee shop changed all that.

Hot chocolate in hand, I settled by the fireplace and waited to meet some new faces. I’d signed up for a Portland Meetup.com group to make friends in my new city.

Only a half-dozen people made an appearance—all women. I was admittedly disappointed, at first. I’d been hoping to meet a new man and didn’t think I had any real use for girlfriends. We were nearly all new in town, were used to nobody getting our jokes or our rather alternative global perspectives and didn’t have much experience with women as friends.

We started sharing stories, and by the end of the evening, it was apparent I’d stumbled into the genesis of my own Ya-Ya Sisterhood, complete with urban mojo and sometimes even silly hats.

We are the Coffee Coven—because we’re witchy and because we first met at a coffee shop. And because we’ve conducted a voodoo doll doughnut ritual in the middle of the night atop a newspaper vending machine on NW 3rd Avenue.

Two of us had demanding clients who weren’t sure what they wanted but still wanted it yesterday. One had chronic transportation problems, and another was having landlord issues. Yet another had recently been left by her husband. We each needed to vent, in a bad way. So, the Coffee Coven devised a rather unorthodox ritual of release. We headed down to Voodoo Doughnut late one night, dodging frisky goth-punk kids and meth-addicted panhandlers loitering beneath the store’s slogan—“The Magic is in the Hole”—painted on the side of the building.

In a space about the size of my modest closet, Voodoo Doughnut offers pastries like the Memphis Mafia (chocolate chips, banana and peanut butter on glaze), the Arnold Palmer (a cake doughnut covered in lemon and tea powder) and the object of our quest: a voodoo doll doughnut, in the shape of a traditional voodoo doll with raspberry filling (to simulate blood) and pretzel stick “pins.”

Giggling nervously, we rested the voodoo doll doughnut atop the newspaper box and formed a circle around it. Someone offered a spontaneous invocation for sacred space, and as the dozen or so late-night party people and drug-dazed bums looked on, we took turns venting our grievances.

“This is for temp jobs that don’t pay benefits and buses that are always late,” Candace sang out as she plunged a pretzel stick into the doughnut doll.

Next it was Joyce’s turn: “This is for stupid carpeting that won’t stay down even after it’s been installed twice!”

“This is for clients with no business plans who expect me to disregard what they say and read their minds instead!” I sank a pretzel stick into the soft doughnut and watched the raspberry goo bubble out from the wound. There was no magical rush of release, but it still felt strangely satisfying, in a sugar-glazed kind of way.

After we’d each had several turns, we had to figure out what to do with said pastry, a sticky mess now butchered beyond voodoo doll recognition. The city’s trash cans are vending machines for Portland’s homeless, and there were concerns about an unsuspecting soul ingesting all of the negativity we’d just channeled into the doughnut. Eve grabbed a piece of newspaper from the sidewalk, wrapped it around the sacrificial pastry, and buried the bundle under a shrub.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,” she smiled as she finished the job.

That was three years ago. I’m not sure if our late night urban voodoo accomplished anything magical, but it did foster a deeper bond with my new friends.

Since then, we’ve hosted spontaneous cupcake decorating parties at the coffee shop where we first met. We’ve made dress forms out of duct tape. We’ve hiked together to the top of a waterfall to scatter a loved one’s ashes. We’ve gathered on the winter solstice to set goals and intentions for the new year. We’ve held each other’s babies and grandbabies. We’ve shared recipes and heartaches, and we’ve decorated each other’s gardens and bathrooms. We’ve helped each other move in, move out and move on.

Our everyday rituals—brushing teeth, kissing the kids before school, stirring creamer into coffee—bring order and stability to our lives. They give us a comfortable plan to follow. Other rituals—the big events, like baptisms, bar mitzvahs and weddings—mark life’s passages. But sometimes the most cathartic rituals are the ones we create for ourselves, particularly those shared with family and friends.

Now, whenever I need to vent, release or celebrate, I’m not so shy about crafting my own rites. I know where to find Portland’s most magical pastries, and I know my witchy friends are just a phone call away.

Jennifer Willis is a freelance writer of all things sustainable and spiritual. Living in Portland, Oregon, with a rambunctious husky, she is still finding new adventures in her adopted city.