A Witch’s Broom

Apparently my collection of old-world household equipment isn’t finished yet. I thought we were in pretty good shape. The witch bottle is quietly minding its business, the house bell has taken up residence by the front door, and I really wasn’t looking to add anything else.

Then I found the besom.

You know the broom. That slightly crooked bundle of twigs we’ve all seen being ridden across the moon by a woman in a pointy hat who apparently has much stronger inner thighs than I do. I always assumed it was just an old-fashioned broom that eventually got sucked into witch folklore and Halloween decorations. Turns out, the broom had another job. People used it for the obvious stuff, but somewhere along the way it also became connected with clearing out the stuff you couldn’t exactly scoop into a dustpan: bad luck, stale energy, whatever had overstayed its welcome, and all the general crap that seemed to collect inside a house.

Now that I understand.

Because sometimes a house needs an attitude adjustment.

You know the feeling. Nothing is technically wrong. The dishes are done, the floor is reasonably clean, nobody has set anything on fire, but the whole place somehow feels…off. Maybe everybody has been cranky for three days. Maybe you had company and it was lovely, but there were a LOT of them and now you want your house back. Maybe there was an argument that ended hours ago, yet somehow it’s still sitting at the kitchen table like it ordered dessert. Or maybe you’ve spent the entire week answering calls, solving problems, reading the news and carrying around everybody else’s nonsense until the house itself seems tired of listening to it.

That’s when I want my broom.

Not the actual broom. I’m not suddenly going to rage-clean the baseboards. I want a besom, and naturally I want to make it myself because buying one covered in glitter with a plastic moon glued to it somehow ruins the whole thing. I want a bundle of twigs, some twine, maybe a little rosemary tucked into it because rosemary has apparently become the Swiss Army knife of my old-world adventures. Protection? Rosemary. Clearing? Rosemary. Blessing? Rosemary. Chicken tastes boring? Also rosemary.

And I’m putting a tiny bell on mine.

Is a bell historically required on a besom? I have absolutely no idea, and at this point I don’t care. I already have the house bell, and if I’m going to wander through my house sweeping invisible bullshit toward the front door, I’d like a little jingle while I’m doing it. There has to be room for personal interpretation in these old practices or we’d all still be peeing in witch bottles.

Once I’d made the thing, I’d probably say a simple prayer over it. Nothing elaborate or theatrical. Just asking God to bless our home, clear away whatever has become stale or heavy, and make room for peace, laughter, good luck and whatever good might be trying to find its way in.

Then I’d start at the back of the house and slowly sweep my way toward the front door, except the broom wouldn’t actually touch the floor.

This is approximately when Jack would walk in.

He’d watch me for a minute because thirty-five years of marriage has taught him that sometimes it’s better to gather information before speaking. Eventually he’d ask what I was doing. I’d tell him I was sweeping. He’d point out that the broom was six inches above the floor. I’d tell him I knew that.

There would be another pause.

“So what exactly are you sweeping?”

“The bullshit.”

And really, I don’t know what additional information he could possibly need.

I’d keep going, sweeping my way through the house toward the door. I’m not chasing demons through the dining room or worrying that I accidentally went left around the couch when some medieval broom authority clearly specified right. I’m just deciding that whatever has been hanging around too long can go now. The crappy conversation from Tuesday, the thing I’ve worried about for four days even though worrying has accomplished precisely nothing, everybody else’s problems that somehow became my problems, and that weird household mood where one person wakes up pissy and apparently everyone else decides to participate.

All of it gets swept toward the door.

And that’s the part I really like about this one. It isn’t about fighting anything or protecting myself from some mysterious force lurking outside. We’ve already covered the medieval home-security department quite nicely. The besom feels different. It’s more like opening the windows after winter. You’re not battling the stale air. You’re just letting it out because you’re ready for something fresh.

I’d open the front door, give the besom one final sweep across the threshold, then ring the house bell because obviously these systems should work together. After that, I’d hang the broom near the door and probably make coffee. I firmly believe rituals should end with refreshments whenever possible.

But I wouldn’t save it only for crappy days. I think I’d use it even more when something good was beginning. A new year, a new project, changing a room, finishing something difficult, starting something I’ve been putting off, or one of those moments when life seems to shift slightly and you can feel that something new might be coming.

There’s even old folklore about brooms and moving to a new home, including the idea that sometimes the old broom should stay behind rather than carrying yesterday’s mess into a new place. I kind of love that. Meanwhile, modern humans will carefully move a cardboard box containing three unidentified electrical cords, two mystery keys, an instruction manual for something we threw away twelve years ago and one charger nobody will discard because apparently the Pentagon may call needing it someday. But the old broom? Maybe the ancestors had a point.

And that’s probably why I like the besom. It doesn’t need a giant explanation. Sometimes doing something physical simply makes a decision feel finished in a way thinking about it for six months never does. Open the door. Sweep out what’s done. Ring the bell. Shut the door.

Then see what comes in now that there’s finally some damn room, oh, and don’t forget the refreshments.