The Birth of the Cocktail

For the Love of Apothecaries

  TO THE APOTHECARY ON MAIN.

  The place where I feel most at home
second to none save my own
and like to me a savored treat
is the chymist's down the street.
  As soon as in the door I tread
and storekeep's bell chimes overhead,
man's foolish world away does soar
to vex me in that time no more
  Herb and root and oil and brew
always have I coins too few
to purchase of my list but part
to blend the passions in my heart.
  Phials of myriad secrets wait
in portent my longing sharp to sate
foetid jug and dusty cask
their alchemy yield to the flask
  As the shelves belov'd I deign to browse
and my deepest desires begin to dowse,
no wraith of fear can a means divine
to infect my inspir'd mind
  Only a daemon of faint despair
ever chances enter there
when I contemplate a future bare
of a soulmate with whom my art to share
  Yet if in solitude I must proceed
'tis that I my brilliant calling heed;
a subtle craft mastered by few
where lie aplenty discoveries new
  Forever subject am I, 'tis sure
to the Apothecary's lure
and when down this street I stride
check my glare and step aside!
  Poison foul and philtre fair
extracted gall of species rare,
a special order writ I send
before my caldrons I attend;
  Against my kenning none can stand
as ingredients bend to my command -
potions are summoning one by one
and with glee I cry,
  There is work to be done!

       -- Severa Joan Magus, this day on 2018

  The door swings wide, as though backing away at my approach, and a bell nailed to the beam above tinkles its little warning, not so much merry as furiously tinny. The scent of the apothecary embraces me, the scent of the familiar. Bad eggs, rotted cabbages. Herbs and roots, insect parts, powdered gemstones. How many thousands of things has magekind learned to put into potions, and more than a few of them are found here. This isn't Slugg and Jigger's, not the apothecary on London's strip of glitter where all the students shop, no! This is the big place, with all the back rooms, where the serious brewers go. And from the second I step inside, I own it.
  A lifetime of that scent has conditioned me, and I can't suppress the surge of excitement that fills me, an electric blend of relaxed ease and tension alike. There is a deep sadness now, as well, one that will never fade, because never again will I brew at her side; but the love of this craft will never leave my hands, my veins, my mind.
  If only, if only I did not have to teach potion-making to those who do not appreciate it. Oh, to be left alone to brew in solitude, where I could keep her memory alive and all to myself, tucked against my heart, inside its riveted armour where no one else is allowed.
  "Morning, sir! What can I help you with today?"
  Not my old aquaintance, the head chymist and proprietor, but an assistant. One so fresh, he doesn't even falter when my glare lands on him. I know every shelf and jar in this place, which means there's every chance I know them better than this wet-behind-the-ears whelp. I open my mouth and draw breath over a razored tongue, anticipating the release of its venom. But the old warlock in a corner, arms tentacled greedily around a load of bottles, beats me to the mark, cackling.
  "Oi, you prat! Doan't you know who 'at is?"
  "It doesn't matter who he his, it's my job to help him find what he needs," the assistant retorts, defending himself to his credit.
  "That's Professor Sev'rus Snape, from up there at 'Ogwarts," says the old warlock cheerfully. "Best damned potion-maker this side o' the bloody damn Alps, man! Best thing you kin do t' help 'im is get your arse ourta his way, afore you git plain stamped on n' run over!"
  I narrow my eyes at the old relic. Aleric Smeek. The lout. But he is decidedly Imperturbible; un-F-withable, as some say; I shoot him a trademark sneer and he simply cackles again.
  "Deprived you o' yer fun, din't I, Snape, eh? Mind, I was sore tempted to watch, bu' I couldn't let the pore bloke get gutted, now, could I?"
  My mouth is again stayed by a flap of the swinging door in the back, followed by a greeting.

  "Ah, Severus! Let's see today's list."
  The apothecary's proprietor claps his hands, then rubs them together. I actually enjoy this little dance of ours. Bellarmine Tipple: the man gets a thrill out of sourcing ingredients as much as I relish brewing, enjoys meeting challenges as earnestly as I take pleasure in setting them.
  "Watch and learn, boy," Mr. Tipple adds to the assistant, a quill now ready in his hand.
  I whip a parchment list from a hidden pocket and present it with a flourish. He scans it quickly with a long-practiced eye, his forehead knotting below tightly combed and oiled gray hair; one furry eyebrow cocks behind round, gold-rimmed spectacles.
  "Hmm," he begins, "as I suspected, a special order here. . . . Dragon scales, you'll want the Ridgeback; Trondheim's a better grade than Stockholm. . . ."
  He checks items on the list with crisp strokes, or skips by them.
  "Let's see: Glasgow, Amsterdam, Timbuktu, D'Jakarta. . . . You're looking at three hours, two days, eight days, and . . . eleven-point-five days by Silk Road Carpet Express, provided the weather doesn't go to bollocks; we've got a nasty storm pattern over the Caucasus at the moment, might need to make a detour to Bombay. . . .
  "Merlin's nose, how I wish we they'd let us employ carpets here," Mr. Tipple pauses to grouse. "Backward-thinking Ministry fools! The cargo I could pack on one of those Persian palace models! Ah, well. . . ."
  "Excellent," I say, ignoring the assistant, who hovers, rather moronically agape. "Tortuous though I find it, I can wait." As I can. Many an apothecary wouldn't be able to source some of these ingredients at all.
  "Fortunately, the rest we have in stock here -- GILL!" bellows Mr. Tipple over his shoulder, and I see a dark head poke in the back door almost immediately: his son. "Let's see how quick you can fetch up this list, eh? There's a dab hand, now, good lad!"
  Gill snatches the list and vanishes into the back rooms again.
  "A Hogwarts project?" asks the assistant, hopefully.
  "No!" I sneer. "Not Hogwarts. Unless you presume I'd dare place manticore spit in the hands of jelly-brained students who have less finesse at handling materials than a spasmodic toad?"
  "Class C Nontradeable, boy," Mr. Tipple points out sternly, to relieve the assistant's obvious distress, as I smirk. "Except we specialize in the hard-to-obtain and Classed Nontradeables -- if a fellow has either the cash, or the clout of someone like Professor Snape, here. And a Master of his level can't be expected to only brew Pepperup Potion for first years, can he?" To which I feel the amused twist of my lip deepen.
  Bellarmine Tipple concludes, "Remember our credo here: Nothing asked, nothing told, and no exceptions, understood?"
  Again to his credit, the assistant replies with the only sensible phrase one can in dealing with either Tipple or myself:
  "Yes, sir."

Above and below: The U.S.'s first pharmacy, owned by Louis Joseph Dufilho, Jr., New Orleans

  They are places of fascination even for those uninterested in medicine, or, for that matter, magic. With their hundreds of bottles and jars of labeled yet still-mysterious substances, strange ingredients of all sorts and consistencies, odd textures and smells, apothecaries of the traditional type beguile, horrify and delight by turn. For those who do practice medicine, chemistry, or potistry and do know what to ask for, the kid-in-a-candy-store affliction quickly takes effect.

  Unfortunately, traditional apothecaries are becoming more seldom seen, at least in a working sense. Every pharmacy, a precursor to Walgreens yet far from resembling one, used to stock its lion's share of bulk chemical powders, herbs and liquids. Nowadays, Big Pharma has left us with sleek packages of plastic and far less of a do-it-yourself spirit; the onsite pharmacist him/herself, formerly a compounder of their own medicines, has given way to the mega-billionaire corporation. Vestiges remain, and I love going into a place like Walgreens and finding basic ingredients, like Epsom salts or castor oil, and remedies so trusted they lasted, like Prid and Walton's liniment.
  But for us modern Gen-X, Zennial and Millennial brewers who find ourselves nostalgic for an era we never were forced to endure, the natural or herbal "apothecary" or New Age magick shop is often our best wager. In Stumptown we find herbal centers like Clary Sage and Green Dragon, magick-focused shops like Sacred Well or Moonshadow, and Oriental medicine specialists such as Vital Compass and the wonderfully-named Wing Ming's (which I have yet to visit but anticipate gleefully, since I've heard their selection is large and includes more than just herbs).

  The history of the apothecary goes back a long way, but that of properly licensed pharmacies in this nation is more recent, and its origin less blurry. In the early 1800s, one Louis Joseph Dufilho, Jr. became America's first licensed pharmacist, and opened his apothecary shop in 1823. It's a shop that still stands today, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. But as of 1950, it became a museum: The abandoned building was rescued after a hurricane ravaged the area, and continues to house this legacy to our medical history. The store by no means compares in age to certain apothecaries in Europe, some of which date back many centuries, but I still consider it well worth a visit.

  Today, the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum offers a window into the apothecary of old. Visitors will be greeted by the ever-ubiquitous glass ingredient jars and bottles of all sizes, terrifying medical instruments such as bone saws, pharmacy equipment like pestles and scales, and even a display of live, wriggling leeches of the sort used in bloodletting -- all of which were once an indispensable part of medical technology.
  In addition to these dubious, even chilling aspects of historical medicine, the museum features a soda fountain. Even in my own recent youth, I frequented a soda fountain conjoined to a pharmacy, and as a teenager I found myself earning wages there by making banana splits and sundaes, sucking on traditional lemon drops during break. (I miss you, Triana, great boss lady.)

  Interestingly, Dr. Dufilho also sold formulas from the voodoo or hoodoo tradition, which has a large and eloquent arsenal of magical recipes for potions, oils and powders. This being New Orleans, there was a steady demand, whether by those who considered hoodoo their primary mode of dealing or those who preferred a regular pharmacist but were nonetheless curious. While a step up in legal legitimacy from other, mainly hoodoo African-American merchants in the city, Dufilho still learned to make hoodoo potions from a local voodoo priestess. He then sold them behind the counter discreetly using an order-by-number system, since, depending on the circumstance or family faith, a customer might not want to be overheard or seen buying a voodoo potion.

  The museum also highlights the importance of alcohol, known as Acqua Vitale, and even stronger narcotics like opium, morphine and belladonna in early pharmaceuticals. A patent medicine, such as the little trial bottle I recently purchased of "Dr. King's New Discovery" with contents and label still intact, might contain 25% or more alcohol and even chloroform. Drug addiction clearly wasn't as much a concern then, so long as symptoms were relieved! Absinthe began as a remedy, and even Coca-Cola once contained both alcohol (as did 7-Up) and cocaine; no doubt, there's the source of one country doctor I saw in a movie, prescribing Coca-Cola. Since alcohol was a medicine, it could be obtained from a pharmacy like Dufilho's during Prohibition. ("Have yeh got any brandy?" asked Hagrid. "Yeh know, fer medicinal purposes?")
  After Dufilho, a physician owned the building, on whose second floor he set up his practice. His study has been recreated as an exhibit. Artifacts from his surgery, along with residential objects, discarded bottles of remedy, and a plethora of other items, were discovered by excavating a common place for historical peoples to dump their random trashy bits -- the toilet! (Also called the privy) These, too, are on display.
  Thus, the intertwining of early pharmacy practice, surgery, general medical health care, and 19th century alcohol and drug culture is elucidated in this fascinating museum.

  What does Dr. Dufilho's former haunt have to do with my interest in potions, or a silly vignet on a dour wizard chemistry teacher? For me, it's all connected. Pot, potus, potio, potion -- all come from the Latin potere, meaning "to drink". Here is where the science, art and, yes, magic of drinks and mixtures for all purposes intersects. With the right blend of ingredients, a beer or soda can be taken as a healing brew, a remedy can be enjoyed as a cocktail delicacy, and with the proper added intention, any drink or blend is transformed into a magickal potion: A powder can become a curse, a water or wine imbibed as a sacred communion with fairies or the Higher Powers.
  That's why, if you crack open my own mighty handwritten tome, Potus, you'll find it all. Medicinal potistry and herbalism; beverage potistry, like beer, mead and hard cider; traditional or magickal potistry; theurgical or sacred potistry. As a woman who always loved science, art, and magick, I've found that "potions" as we know them in the real world is one of several wonderful ways to combine these passions.
  Healing, meanwhile, adds to these the magick of the human body and soul, and our connection to plants and the greater Life-source of Earth's energy-body. Science again: As in Physics, we like everything else are simply energy. The crafting of a bottle of potion is like combining notes (in Perfumery, you even call the scents "notes"!), which you add to your body's existing symphony -- hopefully, of a harmonic nature.

  So it is that by researching topics like these, I deepen my understanding of what I refer to as "Potistry", and everything that remotely falls inside its fascinating umbrella. In doing so, I feel I draw ever closer to the subtle, exquisite craft practiced by the character of Severus Snape, who so inspired me during a time of great difficulty and spiritual searching.
  But I also, piece by piece, trick by technique, learn about our collective history as a species, and how we have evolved our relationship to the Universe and each other through the arts of healing and magick -- out of the past, and into this present day, by one of the most direct routes: drink. Outside Dufilho's apothecary museum, garden beds hold wormwood, sage, rue, and other precious herbs . . .  ingredients used from before the time of herbal master and abbess Hildegard von Bingen, yet which have passed through my own fingers and down my throat as healing remedies.

  Snape may be fictional, but the archetypes so powerfully channeled by him are, most definitely, not. And like the Master casting free the student on their own quest, Snape-as-inspiring-Animus has sent me out into the world -- both physical and cyber -- to learn all I can about, not fantasy, but the real and genuine craft of the Potion.
  The thought that one day I could walk into a real apothecary like Dufilho's and know all, not just some, of what I'm looking at is immensely thrilling. There's also a kind of desperate yet ecstatic joy in realizing that I will never, can never, know it all; that there is just too much to know. There's always more to learn, and that possibility lends to me a sort of obsession, not a damaging type of obsession but a rich, joyful kind. As a journey, this craft has lots of interesting turns, challenges and diversions . . . and plenty of sightseeing.

  One question does remain: Whether I will find, as the poem I wrote mentions, "a soulmate with whom my craft to share" -- a person as nutty as me, who doesn't mind my weird mad scientist's lab, or my art, or other odd professions.
  But, really: Would you say no to a partner who can brew beer, cider, wine, sodas, love potions, and a remedy for that darned chest cough you keep getting? Even if, once in a blue moon, she does spontaneously turn into her old master Snape, greasy black hair and all?
  C'monn.
 You know you wanna try this stuff.

  And so, with happiness, I repeat:
 "There is work to be done!"

Two Years and Undimmed

Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman

21 February 1946 ~ 14 January 2016

We miss you, Alan, dear fellow, and we will continue to miss you. What more is there to say?

I am sure that in the coming years, people will ask me (though not necessarily in these exact words), "Are you still into Snape? After all this time?!" Of course, you know what I will say:
"Always."

"Would you like me to do it now? ... Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?"

☆   ♡   ☆

Slytherin Spaces II: Mansions of the Soul

"Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels. . ."

It's Book One and our first real good look into the windows of Severus Snape's soul, and already, we know we are in serious detention.

His are eyes into a mind and soul that reveal nothing of themselves, yet are filled with such pain, loss, loathing and bitterness, a good deal of it can't help but radiate out. Yet above all, there is the mystery of the unseen depths.

I'm fascinated by old buildings, including disused ones: mansions, asylums, labs, castles, caves, warehouses . . . The beauty that once was, the power that potentially still is, all beguiles me.

Surfing the Net last month, I grabbed a series of images that explore mysterious disused places. Hidden places, forgotten spaces, that set the spine to tingling and the mind to pondering. What lived in these rooms, and what befell them, only to remain, haunting them long after?

In a helpful book I found in one of our city's many free-boxes, titled The Dark Side of the Light Chasers, the author likens the human psyche to a castle or mansion with many rooms -- hundreds of rooms, all with different themes and containing different items. Over the course of a person's life and learning, she explains, we explore these rooms.

The trouble begins when we decide we don't like what certain rooms contain. Typically, we don't just walk into a room inside ourselves and go "Eww!!" of our own accord. No; we're taught, by other people, by social conditioning, that what lies inside our rooms is, or is not, something to be ashamed of. What happens when we learn to be ashamed of one aspect of ourselves?

All too often, we take the mental and spiritual equivalent of a key, lock that room, turn our backs . . . and walk away, trying hard to forget about that shameful and embarrassing room.

Sometimes, we outright barricade the damn thing with cinder blocks and plain sprint away! But what then happens?

This author argues that as we continue to lock and hide aspects of ourselves, i.e. rooms, that we come to see as embarrassing due to what someone else told us, our spiritual mansion gets smaller and smaller. Back in the day, as British nobility faced hard, changing times and new inheritance taxes (think Downton Abbey era), many families were forced to reduce the livability of their mansions to just a few rooms on account of heating and other costs; hundreds of homes were abandoned altogether. Likewise, when we close off or suppress parts of ourselves, we cease to live in and from a place of wholeness. Our supressed parts then become our shadow. Pretty soon, we each risk becoming like fusty mansions full of dark, decrepit and abandoned rooms -- rooms that frequently begin to haunt us.

The Shadow is the source of much of our personal and collective suffering. Societies, including America's, tend to have an entire cultural shadow, which we need to address in addition to whatever stinky locked baggage we carry personally. The greater and lesser darknesses tend to be related, however. In any case, merely locking a room doesn't make it magically go away, obviously. If each of us is to regain a state of wholeness, balance, and ultimately happiness in this mansion we inhabit, our forgotten rooms must be discovered, opened and investigated one by one.

And yes, they may be completely forgotten. If we're lucky, the lost and hidden part is small: Maybe we got teased for wearing pink one day, or in my case for having a He-Man lunch box, and we just stuffed that part of ourselves in a manky little broom closet and carried on with life. Perhaps we were able to express a love for pink or a tomboy nature later, by other means, and then healing occurred. But what about a person who got sexually molested by a parent or mentor? Even worse, was told they deserved it? Say, as punishment from God? That person might have pathologically supressed a great deal of trauma in hidden memories. No mere broom closet, now we're looking at an entire fucking Chamber of Secrets, complete with basilisk. Bring a mirror!

Opening our embarrassing rooms takes courage. It's why some people literally never go there. But if we don't, we remain incomplete. Facing the Shadow means braving those aspects of ourselves we try and tell ourselves we could never, ever, ever be, because of course we have the potential to be anything and everything. To deny this is to risk pushing part of ourselves into the shadow, and, like the proverbial serpent, having it bite us in the ass later.

Is there part of me, for example, that could be a drag queen or a harlot? Well, yeah, but I was told those things were embarrassing, unsafe, or gross. How about something very unpleasant, like a Nazi? Do I have, somewhere inside me, a suicide-shooter room, an abuser room, a poisoner room? How about a Death Eater room? Much as I don't like to admit it, the answer of course is yes. There are people I absolutely hate, and where there is hate, there is a shadow that can teach you about yourself. These shadows are what pop out if a person is too injured, too abused, too angry, and fails to address the contents of their darkest rooms in time. Opening a locked room doesn't mean losing yourself in it, becoming it fully -- that could be a disaster! But it does mean acknowledging it and understanding these parts of ourselves, rather than burying or projecting them onto others.

"It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not."

Not long ago I houseshared with a young woman I honestly wanted to like, and tried to like, since we had a few common interests, like baking, crafts, and snowboarding. But I hadn't reckoned on what I now realize was the shame. Something about her subtly bugged the living heck out of me. She was passive-aggressive and snippy, ultra-prissy in her written communication, yet would avoid an earnest face-to-face discussion, and I found myself forced to respond in kind because I was given no other option. I felt exceedingly awkward around her, as though I was being judged every moment as not good enough. Point made simple: I'm an empath who picks up people's vibes, and hers sucked. Worse, her vibes made me feel like I sucked. Which of course is bullshit. I don't suck at all. I'm a beautiful person, even if I don't always feel like it.

The truth I slowly came to grips with, in terms of the above metaphor, was: Damn, this chick has a lot of locked rooms. I do too, of course. But by and large, I'm willing to explore them. I'm more in touch with the tomboy, the bum, the dominatrix, the loser, the flambeau, even the poisoner. I'd like to dye my hair again, since I'm getting bored with its color and also dislike being told I should have blonde hair (shame, here!), plus I'm in a Snapey mood; but besides that, I'm fairly cool with myself, whether dressed in a suit or gown or in a ratty T-shirt and ripped jeans and no makeup. This woman's high-maintenance makeup, hair and outfit, not to mention self-righteous attitude about a 60-hour workweek, made me feel shitty, lazy and useless. What's closer to the truth is that I bore the brunt of much of her continuously projected, subconscious shame. Now I think: Just how big a stink was that glossy exterior covering up?

And a stink it was. I began to think of her as a perfectly decorated apple pie on a windowsill, so intent on preserving that apple-pie image that she'd begun to stew in the sun and rot inside. So intent was she on proving her merit, it seemed, she was too in haste to "put away childish things"; I never saw her use her snowboard once. She outright admitted to me how much she suffered from anxiety. I realized how much I hated her passive aggression, her subtly competitive bullshit, and how much I loathed being the target of her projected shame. You can't overcome the awkwardness with a person like that, because they don't feel sufficient in their own opinion. A person like me, who dares to be casual and real -- and, God forbid, relaxed and sloppy! -- makes them even more uneasy, self-conscious, and nervous. I longed to be able to fix her, so she'd quit projecting that vibe onto others, not to mention begin living anxiety-free. But you can't fix people; that's their journey to make.

Needless to say, I'm very glad to have her stink out of my life, and never want to see her again. And yet! If I fail to explore the room which holds my potential for being like her, anxious or image-obsessed, then my own journey toward wholeness will remain incomplete. (Bitch, do you got that kinda guts? You'd better. Now, open that room and poke around. Eww!! What's this shit?)

Right now, I'm doing a class at Trinity, in which we explore our personal images of God. Depending on our parents and life experience, our image of the Father might be a caring parent, an old wise man, a bolt-hurling angry Zeus, a raging Cerberus. The Son might be a partner, a frightened child, or a seeking hiker; the Spirit, a tree or a glowing candle. Someone like me, already used to branching out with God-forms, might get an ice princess, a sorceress, or another image that results from exploring non-Christian faith, but which is no doubt still influenced by this patriarchal culture I live in.

It's a cool class. Exploring these images we hold of God is related to exploring our hidden rooms . . . likewise for the purpose of healing and growth. Why? Our image of God is directly linked to our image of Self.

In the class, our teacher is using a metaphor of a diamond buried in a literal layer of crap (she uses Pooh-doh). The diamond is our inner Imago Dei, image of God, while the crap is our shame, resulting from beliefs we hold about ourselves due to what other people have told us, which are different than what God itself is telling us about ourselves.
 Yet no amount of shit, or shame, can reduce the diamond's true worth! It only covers it up. Our task is to uncover the diamond, our inner godliness. But to complicate matters, people are embarrassed by their shame -- so, in addition to locking those rooms, they put on a shiny happy candy coating to further hide the icky parts. This is the self we tend to show the world. It's a perfect metaphor for what I sensed in that girl, with her prissy looks and 60-hour workweek: Even I could smell the stink, coming from under the polish. But somewhere inside, we all have a Highest Self that transcends so much base crap and daily worry. Inside that anxious young woman is a gem of a soul, which may long to be free of both the anxiety and shame as well as the effort of presenting. It's a soul I caught only tiny glimpses of, and wish I could have known better.

To discuss all this here is sort of like therapy, but also helps me understand the processes at work in our human nature. The healing process can be sublimely beautiful. Our teacher related a story of her work with one man, who envisioned himself as being face-deep in a tank full of shit, struggling to hold several precious gifts up high in his hands to keep them clean; but the crap was rising, threatening to swamp him, and his arms were tiring. . . .

 "What message does God have for you at this point?" our teacher had asked the man. A vision then came to him: God leapt down into the shit-pit alongside him, pulled him out, and washed him off. He wailed aloud in joy and release.
 "And what does God have to tell you about these gifts you're carrying?" she continued. Another image: God told him, "Your gifts are inside you. They can never be lost, or sullied." Again the man wailed in happiness: His innermost wisdom had revealed the diamond, the Imago Dei no shame could ever destroy, incorruptible no matter how deeply or how long he had wallowed in the pit of muck.

According to our teacher, there is one force greater, more powerful, than shame, and that is grace.
The healing of such a revelation is remarkable! I am reminded, again, of what St. Severus in alchemist form told me: My sacred laboratory of the soul, all its goodies and resources, lies within me already, there to access for the quest ahead.

Many of us know that Slytherin, the designated House (room!) of Ambition, is the one most easily turned to the purposes of Shadow. When Hagrid says there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who isn't in Slytherin, he is of course full of crap himself, and banking on stereotypes; a smart witch could turn evil, just as could a brave wizard. But the house of the snake, nonetheless, has quite a rep. Its founder prided the ability to stand apart and above: two of the very tendencies that have helped alienate humans from nature, and from God.

Among the families of Slytherin, a haven for those who value keeping old magical secrets and traditions, is where you'll typically find the haunted mansions --- the largest, most ancient homes, with the dingiest rooms, full of as many shameful artifacts as heirlooms, and dubious practices.

For me, picking Slytherin means not only being drawn to the Shadow, but daring to explore it. Rather than being lured into evil, it means a willingness to delve into the very cultural darkness that keeps shaming, harming and plaguing us, and which keeps us harming each other.

Hanging out with serpents means a courage to love the parts of myself that society says I should fear and loathe. It means ultimately a rejection of shame in favor of growth, depth and pride. This coming Sunday, I'll have the task of embodying sexual or "slut" shame in a ritual centered on the famously serpent-crowned Medusa, a ritual focused on healing us as women.

Far from being a monster, Medusa was originally a crone aspect of the triple goddess Anatha. As an image of women's independent power and sexuality, she, like so many other female images including the snake itself, came to be demonized, monsterized, rejected and "slain" -- in this case, by her chaste warrior self: the patriarchal game achiever, Athena. Medusa, in this instance, represents one of the biggest locked rooms we women collectively have.

But has she really gone away? Of course not. She lurks, hissing, in the locked room, and until we dare open that room and claim those rejected aspects of ourselves as our own, shame, abuse, rape and, clearly, allowing really stupid, shadow-filled men to govern us will be the result!

Sadly, the Western mythos of the Potter series brands Slytherin as primarily bad, sneaky and mean. It demonizes the snake, in typical Adam-Eve fashion (another twisted tale of cultural fear, domination and shame). If only to fly with outspread, batlike Snapey cloak in the face of centuries of patriarchal garbage, I rise up and claim: Yeah, I'm a fuckin' Snake. The old kind, before we were ever seen as evil.

Still, I'm nervous about the Medusa ritual. I will need courage. Do I have what it takes to embody cultural sexual shame, then to inflict that shadow on another woman in the group for the purpose of healing and moving through the shadow? Even more importantly, will I be able to claim both the intense sexual energy of womanhood and the ancient, noble, powerful crone --- both aspects of women that are shamed, rejected or exploited by patriarchy --- as key aspects of my own being right now? Can I brave a peek in those rooms?

Thus, my reasons as a snake-goddess-worshipping sorceress for picking Slytherin House are clear. However, those who pick straight loyalty or learning as their House of Choice should no more be shamed for their selection than those who want to seek the dark mysteries or be great. Loyal in your work, like a Hufflepuff? No shame (my former housemate's problem was that work was a cover for shame). Like to read, and not interested in boys? Don't be ashamed; claim your rights as a "nerd". As I told our Medusa priestess, I wasn't slut-shamed: I was nerd-shamed, ice-queen-shamed, bitch-shamed, picked on for being smart and skilled and pretty much the opposite of sexual with men. No matter. Shame is shame, the densest of psychic states, and probably the most damaging. Whether in the foot, the ass, or elsewhere, shame bites.

In Severus Snape, we see a man who turned to the dark in his quest to be great, and was nearly consumed by a great shadow, both inside himself and in the world at large . . . nearly, but not quite. Snape's is a mansion with many, many rooms, not only locked but bolted and barricaded. Not without good reason, either. A spy has no choice but to hide anything that could be used against him.

Also, his shame is so great as to be a ball and chain as large as a truck, a cistern full of stink, and not for a silly thing like wanting to dance under the full moon wearing a pink tea cozy. No, Snape's shame stems most brutally from accidentally causing the death of the only person he had ever loved, and who had ever truly accepted him. I can't imagine a pill more bitter.

He never stopped loving the person he'd lost, however, and there lay the key to the rooms: For Severus, love in the end won out over fear, shame, and even death. Not without a price, though. For Snape, to open some of his rooms would lead to certain destruction, thanks to the severely pernicious shadow of Voldemort, with whom he'd become entangled.

More than any other character, Snape's gift was the power to keep some of his rooms locked tightly until the right moment, or rather, the final moment. His prowess at Occlumency ensured that no evil forces could open those rooms in his mind, and use the shadows to destroy him and the world. Psychically, Severus Snape's inner mind-rooms are the most secure lock-up on the planet.

Severus's struggle is all the more noble because the darkness he fought was not only within himself or for the sake of his own soul's growth, but for the salvation of the world: The opening of that final, most haunted room, where love resided, was the key to both his personal redemption as well as killing the bigger, external shadow of hatred and totalitarianism. The phrase "bitter end" takes on a new depth of meaning with Snape, this most indomitable and impenetrable of shadow warriors, held to his course by love.

"'Tis love, not reason, that is stronger than death."

Thankfully, most of us don't have as much bald hatred, regret and shame to overcome as Severus, and the opening of our various locked, smelly little bedrooms full of dirty laundry is less likely to get us killed. If I do a drag show, or discuss honestly with a friend why I'd ever want to poison someone, chances are nobody's going to pin me on live TV or sell me to Voldemort.

And yet, I owe it to my world to start living more fully in the mansion of my soul, no less than Snape owed it to his. It might help, not just me, but others brave their shadows. Let's start with this door . . . here.

In daring to explore the mansion of your soul, you may find rooms that are creepy, scary, or dangerous, where serpents and secrets lurk. There may be mouldy laundry, cobwebs, or deep, stagnant water.

Bear in mind the serpents can all guide you to becoming more whole; and that regardless, no amount of dust or filth can reduce the worth of your highest being. Serpents, their faces close to the earth, will find the treasure that always hides under the mold and stinky laundry.

Do you find rooms that are haunted, or that need a good vacuuming? Is the original beauty of the room apparent despite its imperfection, breakage, neglect or decay? And is renovation still possible?

Take these keys. In your explorations, where do you find yourself? And what does your Divine voice have to say to you about it?

At the end of our journey lies the peace of accepting all parts of ourselves as who we are; also, to admit that we know nothing and yet contain, within the infinitely many rooms in ourselves, the seed of everything that exists in the Universe. Then, we can truly own this mansion of ours and be fully at home.