On the dark of the moon, when the sky keeps nothing, set a single white candle to burn above a bowl of plain water. The flame reaches up; the water waits below.
This working reaches toward the residue that gathers in a room and in a life — the film left by hard words, old company, and days that ended wrong. Fire lifts what is fine and what is heavy at once, and the water gives it a grave. By the new moon, when there is nothing to hold onto, even the stubborn things let go.
The Working
- On the new moon, fill a clear bowl with water and salt it lightly, then set it in the center of the room.
- Anchor a white candle so it stands just above the water’s surface, its flame a hand’s breadth clear.
- Darken the room until the candle is the only light, and let your eyes learn the edges of the shadow.
- Speak, plainly, the name of what has settled here — a grief, a guest long gone, a season that soured.
- Watch the flame lean and gutter as if pulling something up from the corners, and let it work without hurry.
- When the candle has burned a full finger down, snuff it with wet fingers and let the smoke cross the water.
- Carry the bowl outside and pour the grey water away, then wash the empty bowl in clean running water.
The Incantation
White wax, burn what the corners keep.
Grey water, take what the fire lets fall.
Up from the floor and out of the deep,
off of the sill and down from the wall.
Nothing is owed to what settled here.
Nothing is kept that I did not choose.
Burn it to smoke, then drown it clear —
this room is mine, with nothing to lose.
Leave the room dark a while after, and let the newly emptied air settle. What burned is gone; what drowned will not rise.