Breath, Blessing, Becoming: On Jewitchery
I was Pagan once. For many years. It was real. It saved me. It taught me to listen to the Earth, to honor cycles, to build altars with intention, to speak with reverence, to touch the sacred with my hands. It gave me a path when I had none.
And then—slowly, painfully, beautifully—I returned to something older. Something buried in my blood and bone. I converted to Judaism. I chose covenant. I chose to stand at Sinai again.
My conversion to Judaism was not a rejection of Paganism so much as a transformation of it. A homecoming. I stopped needing to call many names because I had finally found the One who answered me. I didn’t “move on” out of shame—I moved inward. Deeper. Toward relationship. Toward Hashem.
Still, the rhythms of the Earth did not leave me. The moon still pulled at my body. Fire still spoke in its own language. My hands still ached to shape prayer with salt, breath, and candlelight. And so I found myself asking, trembling:
Can I bring this with me?
Can I still do magic and be a good Jew?
Can I keep my rituals if I’m doing them for Hashem?
Can I still be… a witch?
And then—slowly, painfully, beautifully—I returned to something older. Something buried in my blood and bone. I converted to Judaism. I chose covenant. I chose to stand at Sinai again.
My conversion to Judaism was not a rejection of Paganism so much as a transformation of it. A homecoming. I stopped needing to call many names because I had finally found the One who answered me. I didn’t “move on” out of shame—I moved inward. Deeper. Toward relationship. Toward Hashem.
Still, the rhythms of the Earth did not leave me. The moon still pulled at my body. Fire still spoke in its own language. My hands still ached to shape prayer with salt, breath, and candlelight. And so I found myself asking, trembling:
Can I bring this with me?
Can I still do magic and be a good Jew?
Can I keep my rituals if I’m doing them for Hashem?
Can I still be… a witch?
What’s Actually Forbidden?
Let’s address this head-on. The Torah is clear: certain types of magic are forbidden. In Devarim (Deuteronomy) 18:10–12, we are told not to practice divination, sorcery, witchcraft, spell-casting, spirit-consulting, necromancy, or to burn children in fire.
Sounds damning. But the Hebrew matters. The categories listed include:
The sages understood these prohibitions as warnings against idolatry, deception, coercion, and the illusion of control. Not against all mystical or energetic practices.
What’s not forbidden?
The issue isn’t candles or energy or even the use of spiritual focus. The issue is intention and allegiance. Who are you invoking? What are you trying to do?
If you are trying to replace G-d, it’s forbidden.
If you are trying to control the Divine, it’s forbidden.
If you are calling upon other deities as gods, it’s forbidden.
But if you are lighting candles to welcome the Shekhinah, to focus your heart, to draw healing through G-d’s mercy?
If you are working with breath and hands to create protection, grounded in psalms and G-d’s holy names?
If you are aligning with the cycles of creation because you see Hashem in them?
That’s not kishuf. That’s kavvanah. Intention. Devotion.
Sounds damning. But the Hebrew matters. The categories listed include:
- Mekhashef: a sorcerer using manipulative or deceptive magic.
- Menachesh: divination through omens (like reading entrails).
- Doresh el ha-metim: necromancy, consulting the dead.
- Kosem kesamim: fortune-telling with the intent to manipulate fate.
The sages understood these prohibitions as warnings against idolatry, deception, coercion, and the illusion of control. Not against all mystical or energetic practices.
What’s not forbidden?
- Prayer
- Blessings
- Protection amulets (yes, really—see the Talmud)
- Energetic healing that draws on divine compassion
- Ritual acts that direct the heart toward Hashem
- Sacred names used reverently, not as tools of domination
- Practices that respect, rather than manipulate, creation
The issue isn’t candles or energy or even the use of spiritual focus. The issue is intention and allegiance. Who are you invoking? What are you trying to do?
If you are trying to replace G-d, it’s forbidden.
If you are trying to control the Divine, it’s forbidden.
If you are calling upon other deities as gods, it’s forbidden.
But if you are lighting candles to welcome the Shekhinah, to focus your heart, to draw healing through G-d’s mercy?
If you are working with breath and hands to create protection, grounded in psalms and G-d’s holy names?
If you are aligning with the cycles of creation because you see Hashem in them?
That’s not kishuf. That’s kavvanah. Intention. Devotion.
Magic in Our Tradition
Judaism has always included mystical practices—though we haven’t always called them “magic.” From ancient texts to folk tradition to the depths of Kabbalah, there exists a long lineage of spiritual tools, sacred names, and ritual acts meant to align the human soul with the divine cosmos.
Kabbalah, the luminous core of Jewish mysticism, is filled with practices modern readers might label “magical”: the permutation of divine names, angelic invocation, protective visualizations, numerology, elemental correspondences (Earth with Malchut, Water with Chesed, and so on), and sacred geometry. These practices are never about manipulation—they are about union, reverence, and return.
At the heart of this tradition lies the Zohar—an esoteric, multi-layered mystical commentary on the Torah. Though traditionally attributed to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai in the 2nd century CE, it was likely compiled in 13th-century Spain by the mystic Moses de León. The Zohar offers more than interpretation—it is a visionary landscape where every verse of Torah becomes a portal. Divine light flows through the ten sefirot—emanations of Hashem’s infinite presence—and mystics walk a dreamlike terrain filled with cosmic drama, erotic symbolism, angelic hierarchies, and secret names of G-d. To read the Zohar is to enter a labyrinth of light, fire, and ecstatic longing.
Lesser-known but potent, the Sefer ha-Razim (“Book of Secrets”) is a Jewish manual of angelic ritual, likely compiled between the 3rd and 7th centuries CE. It claims to have been revealed to Noah by the angel Raziel and handed down through generations. Unlike the Zohar’s metaphysical poetry, this text is direct and ritualistic: a step-by-step guide to invoking angelic assistance for healing, protection, divination, and more—organized by the seven heavens and their corresponding angelic orders. Still, its core principle is unmistakably Jewish: all power flows from Hashem, and every act must be carried out with awe, not control.
Even earlier are the Hechalot texts (from heichal, meaning “palace”), composed between the 1st and 6th centuries CE. These writings describe the ascents of mystics through the celestial realms, encountering terrifying angels and divine thresholds on their way to the Merkavah—the Chariot seen in Ezekiel’s vision. These journeys were ecstatic and intense, filled with chants, seals, and divine names. Long before the Zohar, Hechalot mysticism laid the groundwork for a Judaism where heaven could be traversed through sacred trance, and where prayer became a cosmic technology.
King Solomon--Shlomo HaMelech, son of David—stands among the greatest in our tradition: a king, a builder of the Temple, a sage, and a mystic. The Tanakh tells us that Hashem granted him “a wise and discerning heart, the like of which has never existed before and shall never exist again” (1 Kings 3:12). His wisdom encompassed not only law and politics, but the natural and supernatural worlds. The Book of Kings (1 Kings 4:33) describes how Solomon “spoke of trees… of beasts, of fowl, of creeping things, and of fishes”—language suggesting deep esoteric knowledge of creation itself. The Talmud affirms this, stating that Solomon “knew the language of the trees, the birds, and the beasts” (Talmud Bavli, Gittin 68b).
In rabbinic and mystical tradition, Solomon is intimately linked with divine names, angelic knowledge, and magical control over spiritual forces. According to Sefer ha-Razim and other works of Jewish mysticism, Solomon used a signet ring engraved with the Shem HaMeforash—the explicit Name of G-d—to command angels and spirits. The Talmud (Gittin 68a–b) even tells the tale of Solomon capturing Asmodeus, king of the demons, in order to locate the Shamir—a mystical worm used to carve the stones of the Temple without iron. These are not tales of idolatry, but of a sacred magician-king who wielded divine tools in service of holiness. Far from being condemned for his use of magic, Solomon is praised for channeling it within the bounds of covenant, with Hashem as his guide.
And then there’s folk Judaism—the world of the baba, the ba’al segulot, the midwives, the grandmothers. Red threads, salt under the bed, whispering Psalms into water, hamsas and amulets, warding off the evil eye with spittle and prayer. That’s magic. And it’s ours.
These aren’t fringe traditions. These are the lived Jewish experiences of thousands of years. The difference between forbidden and permitted magic is not about aesthetics. It’s about covenant and care.
Kabbalah, the luminous core of Jewish mysticism, is filled with practices modern readers might label “magical”: the permutation of divine names, angelic invocation, protective visualizations, numerology, elemental correspondences (Earth with Malchut, Water with Chesed, and so on), and sacred geometry. These practices are never about manipulation—they are about union, reverence, and return.
At the heart of this tradition lies the Zohar—an esoteric, multi-layered mystical commentary on the Torah. Though traditionally attributed to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai in the 2nd century CE, it was likely compiled in 13th-century Spain by the mystic Moses de León. The Zohar offers more than interpretation—it is a visionary landscape where every verse of Torah becomes a portal. Divine light flows through the ten sefirot—emanations of Hashem’s infinite presence—and mystics walk a dreamlike terrain filled with cosmic drama, erotic symbolism, angelic hierarchies, and secret names of G-d. To read the Zohar is to enter a labyrinth of light, fire, and ecstatic longing.
Lesser-known but potent, the Sefer ha-Razim (“Book of Secrets”) is a Jewish manual of angelic ritual, likely compiled between the 3rd and 7th centuries CE. It claims to have been revealed to Noah by the angel Raziel and handed down through generations. Unlike the Zohar’s metaphysical poetry, this text is direct and ritualistic: a step-by-step guide to invoking angelic assistance for healing, protection, divination, and more—organized by the seven heavens and their corresponding angelic orders. Still, its core principle is unmistakably Jewish: all power flows from Hashem, and every act must be carried out with awe, not control.
Even earlier are the Hechalot texts (from heichal, meaning “palace”), composed between the 1st and 6th centuries CE. These writings describe the ascents of mystics through the celestial realms, encountering terrifying angels and divine thresholds on their way to the Merkavah—the Chariot seen in Ezekiel’s vision. These journeys were ecstatic and intense, filled with chants, seals, and divine names. Long before the Zohar, Hechalot mysticism laid the groundwork for a Judaism where heaven could be traversed through sacred trance, and where prayer became a cosmic technology.
King Solomon--Shlomo HaMelech, son of David—stands among the greatest in our tradition: a king, a builder of the Temple, a sage, and a mystic. The Tanakh tells us that Hashem granted him “a wise and discerning heart, the like of which has never existed before and shall never exist again” (1 Kings 3:12). His wisdom encompassed not only law and politics, but the natural and supernatural worlds. The Book of Kings (1 Kings 4:33) describes how Solomon “spoke of trees… of beasts, of fowl, of creeping things, and of fishes”—language suggesting deep esoteric knowledge of creation itself. The Talmud affirms this, stating that Solomon “knew the language of the trees, the birds, and the beasts” (Talmud Bavli, Gittin 68b).
In rabbinic and mystical tradition, Solomon is intimately linked with divine names, angelic knowledge, and magical control over spiritual forces. According to Sefer ha-Razim and other works of Jewish mysticism, Solomon used a signet ring engraved with the Shem HaMeforash—the explicit Name of G-d—to command angels and spirits. The Talmud (Gittin 68a–b) even tells the tale of Solomon capturing Asmodeus, king of the demons, in order to locate the Shamir—a mystical worm used to carve the stones of the Temple without iron. These are not tales of idolatry, but of a sacred magician-king who wielded divine tools in service of holiness. Far from being condemned for his use of magic, Solomon is praised for channeling it within the bounds of covenant, with Hashem as his guide.
And then there’s folk Judaism—the world of the baba, the ba’al segulot, the midwives, the grandmothers. Red threads, salt under the bed, whispering Psalms into water, hamsas and amulets, warding off the evil eye with spittle and prayer. That’s magic. And it’s ours.
These aren’t fringe traditions. These are the lived Jewish experiences of thousands of years. The difference between forbidden and permitted magic is not about aesthetics. It’s about covenant and care.
What I Actually Do
In my practice, I work with the elements—Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit—not as separate gods or forces, but as aspects of the world Hashem created. I see G-d’s fingerprints in each one.
My Jewitchery practice is subtle, intentional, and deeply personal. It starts simply, with the lighting of candles. The flame isn't a call to spirits; it’s an invocation of light, warmth, and presence. Candles—be they Shabbat candles or ritual prayer candles—become points of focus, small vessels holding whispered prayers and quiet affirmations. The act of lighting is itself sacred; it connects me to generations of Jewish ancestors who've welcomed holiness into their homes with tiny, flickering flames.
And yes, I use sage and Florida Water. I know, I know—cue the collective gasp. But hear me out. Burning sage or sprinkling Florida Water isn’t about banishing imaginary demons; it's about clearing emotional clutter, energetic dust bunnies, and the residue left by stress, anxiety, or plain old bad vibes. It's spiritual housekeeping, pure and simple—a mindful practice as ordinary yet sacred as sweeping the floor before Shabbat.
Then there's the jewelry: evil eye charms, the hamsa, my Star of David—all glittering metaphors hanging around my neck. I also have hamsa and evil eye decor around my house, and have made desktop wallpapers. These symbols aren't magical talismans in the Hollywood sense; they're visual reminders of divine protection and interconnectedness. The evil eye charm, worn by Jewish communities for centuries, is less about fearing malevolent gazes and more about consciously warding off negativity—both internal and external. It's about maintaining spiritual hygiene, an acknowledgment that we absorb and reflect energies, consciously or not.
Energy work rounds out my Jewitchery toolkit. Energy, after all, is nothing more (or less) than the palpable hum of existence—the same life force that Kabbalists call chiyut. I sometimes lay hands on my chest when I’m overwhelmed. I breathe into my sefirot. I visualize the light of Hashem moving through me—not as a fantasy, but as a calming anchor. I’ve used this in moments of pain, grief, and trauma. This is not a substitute for medicine. I take medication. I go to therapy. I believe in science. But I also believe in the healing power of focused presence, of sacred imagery, of energy channeled in prayer. If I lay hands on someone's shoulders or pray for them long-distance and visualize light as I say, Refa’einu Hashem v’nei’rafei—Heal us, Hashem, and we shall be healed—I believe the energy that flows is not mine. It’s a conduit. It’s grace. It's an understanding that we exist in a vibrantly alive, energetically interconnected universe. It's not woo-woo; it's physics meets mysticism, a dance between science and spirituality that Judaism has been choreographing for millennia.
Finally, there's the moon—my eternal muse, my monthly touchstone. New moons, full moons, each cycle bringing a fresh opportunity for reflection, manifestation, and release. This isn't astrology divorced from faith; it’s a rhythm echoed by Judaism’s own lunar calendar. Rosh Chodesh, the Jewish observance of the new moon, has been celebrated for thousands of years. Embracing lunar cycles connects me deeply to Judaism’s inherent lunar wisdom—each phase a gentle reminder that life moves in cycles, offering endless opportunities for renewal and growth.
The Talmud tells us that words spoken with the lips but not with the heart are not prayer. The inverse is also true: energy moved with the heart, with G-d in mind, is prayer.
My Jewitchery practice is subtle, intentional, and deeply personal. It starts simply, with the lighting of candles. The flame isn't a call to spirits; it’s an invocation of light, warmth, and presence. Candles—be they Shabbat candles or ritual prayer candles—become points of focus, small vessels holding whispered prayers and quiet affirmations. The act of lighting is itself sacred; it connects me to generations of Jewish ancestors who've welcomed holiness into their homes with tiny, flickering flames.
And yes, I use sage and Florida Water. I know, I know—cue the collective gasp. But hear me out. Burning sage or sprinkling Florida Water isn’t about banishing imaginary demons; it's about clearing emotional clutter, energetic dust bunnies, and the residue left by stress, anxiety, or plain old bad vibes. It's spiritual housekeeping, pure and simple—a mindful practice as ordinary yet sacred as sweeping the floor before Shabbat.
Then there's the jewelry: evil eye charms, the hamsa, my Star of David—all glittering metaphors hanging around my neck. I also have hamsa and evil eye decor around my house, and have made desktop wallpapers. These symbols aren't magical talismans in the Hollywood sense; they're visual reminders of divine protection and interconnectedness. The evil eye charm, worn by Jewish communities for centuries, is less about fearing malevolent gazes and more about consciously warding off negativity—both internal and external. It's about maintaining spiritual hygiene, an acknowledgment that we absorb and reflect energies, consciously or not.
Energy work rounds out my Jewitchery toolkit. Energy, after all, is nothing more (or less) than the palpable hum of existence—the same life force that Kabbalists call chiyut. I sometimes lay hands on my chest when I’m overwhelmed. I breathe into my sefirot. I visualize the light of Hashem moving through me—not as a fantasy, but as a calming anchor. I’ve used this in moments of pain, grief, and trauma. This is not a substitute for medicine. I take medication. I go to therapy. I believe in science. But I also believe in the healing power of focused presence, of sacred imagery, of energy channeled in prayer. If I lay hands on someone's shoulders or pray for them long-distance and visualize light as I say, Refa’einu Hashem v’nei’rafei—Heal us, Hashem, and we shall be healed—I believe the energy that flows is not mine. It’s a conduit. It’s grace. It's an understanding that we exist in a vibrantly alive, energetically interconnected universe. It's not woo-woo; it's physics meets mysticism, a dance between science and spirituality that Judaism has been choreographing for millennia.
Finally, there's the moon—my eternal muse, my monthly touchstone. New moons, full moons, each cycle bringing a fresh opportunity for reflection, manifestation, and release. This isn't astrology divorced from faith; it’s a rhythm echoed by Judaism’s own lunar calendar. Rosh Chodesh, the Jewish observance of the new moon, has been celebrated for thousands of years. Embracing lunar cycles connects me deeply to Judaism’s inherent lunar wisdom—each phase a gentle reminder that life moves in cycles, offering endless opportunities for renewal and growth.
The Talmud tells us that words spoken with the lips but not with the heart are not prayer. The inverse is also true: energy moved with the heart, with G-d in mind, is prayer.
Final Words
My Jewitchery is not a betrayal of Judaism. It’s a deepening of it. A return to the parts that have always spoken to mystics, to women and gender-expansive people, to queer folks, to the liminal and the longing.
I do not practice Paganism anymore, though I will always respect the path it gave me. I am in covenant with Hashem. I love G-d with every part of me. I don’t need to appeal to other powers, because I believe Hashem is more than enough.
And yet, I still walk under the moon. I still draw sigils with psalms. I still feel fire call me home. I still touch magic—not as rebellion, but as reunion.
I do not practice Paganism anymore, though I will always respect the path it gave me. I am in covenant with Hashem. I love G-d with every part of me. I don’t need to appeal to other powers, because I believe Hashem is more than enough.
And yet, I still walk under the moon. I still draw sigils with psalms. I still feel fire call me home. I still touch magic—not as rebellion, but as reunion.
