Welcome to the spring season of the Missing Witches Podcast—our kinship season. A turning toward the more-than-human, not as metaphor but as relation. This is the season where we get familiar with our familiars, where the word “kin” stretches past blood and biography into root systems, air currents, the slow thinking of stone.
In the fall, we’ll return to human stories—our beloved archive of voices, testimonies, lives lived in magic and resistance. Throughout the year, Witches Found will keep threading us into conversation with those who teach, unsettle, and re-enchant.
But spring asks something different. It asks us to loosen the grip of people-logic.
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being held inside human systems—productivity, narrative, identity as something to prove or stabilize. Kinship season leans the other way. It says: we're not singular. We're not self-contained. We are a collaboration.
A holobiont. A chorus.
To learn from plants and animals and waters isn’t about escape. It’s about recalibration. Spider plants don’t strive toward worthiness. Seedlings don’t ask permission to begin. Wind doesn’t have a personal brand. Everything participates. Everything insists on being part of the whole.
These episodes were first imagined as anticapitalist motivational meditations—half-serious, half-spell. Something you could take into the beginning of the week like a small act of refusal. Not a productivity hack but a reorientation. A reminder that life continues in a thousand directions at once, most of them indifferent to deadlines.
A seed bomb, maybe. Thrown not to destroy but to interrupt the monoculture.
Prescription
Listen like you’re remembering something your body already knows.
Start with the first two kinship offerings of the season:
Risa Dickens
Risa Dickens
Take them outside if you can. Or sit by a window. Or just close your eyes and let the language root where it wants to.
Then, try this:
- Choose a familiar that isn’t human. Not symbolically—materially. A plant in your home, a bird you see often, the particular way the wind moves down your street.
- Spend a few minutes each day noticing it without translating it into usefulness or meaning. Let it be itself.
- Ask, quietly: what would it mean to belong the way you belong?
No need to answer. The question is the practice.
And if you want to keep going, let these episodes be small acts of resistance against the idea that your value is measurable, extractable, or singular.
The Kiln Is Open: For Weavers
The Kiln is open again—our shared creative hearth, where the coven gathers to make something larger than any one voice. This spring’s Weaver theme is REPAIR.
Repair can be ritual, resistance, relationship, spell. It can be material—mending cloth, fixing fences—or invisible—restoring trust, tending grief, reimagining what’s possible after rupture. It can be political, devotional, intimate, collective.
Bring us your experiments: writing, visual work, sound, fibre, movement, magic. Bring us the strange and the unfinished. Bring us what you’re learning about how to mend.
Works will become part of a collaborative Missing Witches publication, a living record of what this coven makes together.
If you’ve been waiting for a sign to begin, this is it.
Events: The Week Ahead
The coven calendar is always lighting up with incredible co-learnings—spaces where we study, practice, make friends, and make meaning together. Here’s a glimpse of what’s coming up this week:
- Psychic Witch Workshop — an exploration of intuition as craft, something you can tend and strengthen in community
- Tarot Collage: The Magician — cut, assemble, and conjure with the archetype of will and making
- Staying With the Trouble Reading Group — collective reflection on Donna Haraway's text, and on how to remain present with complexity without turning away
- Plantkin April: Sigil Making! — working with plant kin and symbol to create living, relational magic
Come as you are—curious, tired, inspired, uncertain. There’s a place for you in the circle.
Closing Blessing
May you remember yourself as plural.
May you feel the quiet insistence of roots and wings and tides moving through you.
May your days be interrupted by something green, something patient.
