In the middle of Whole Foods in Medford, I heard someone call out:

“Baba Yaga!”

Without hesitation, I turned. Whoever was shouting had to mean me.

Sure enough, it was an old classmate from massage school, back when I had a little side hustle making and selling soups and pestos. I called it Baba Yaga’s Kitchen, and soon my classmates stopped asking who this Baba Yaga was who had made their lunch, and just started calling me by her name.

Honestly, when I first heard about Baba Yaga I was equal parts intrigued and terrified.

If you don’t know, Baba Yaga is an Eastern European mythical figure—some would call a witch—who lives, depending on the tale, either in the middle or at the edge of the forest, in a hut built on chicken legs. She flies in a mortar, steering with her pestle, and—again depending on the story—sometimes eats children.

Oh dear.

Can you see why a recovering good Christian girl might have been terrified to claim this figure as hers?

And yet, I did. Because I was also intrigued. And, as I touched on in last week’s The Awarewithall, what we’re drawn to and fantasize about—or even what frightens us in our dreams—can offer enormously helpful clues about parts of ourselves we’ve ignored or denied, parts now raising their hand to be called on. 🙋🏽

When I claimed Baba Yaga, I was freshly broken off from an engagement, trying to picture a life without the man I thought I’d marry. I was also several years out from a complete emotional breakdown, and I no longer believed in a literal interpretation of the Bible—something considered heresy in my church—which also meant losing my sense of belonging in that fundamentalist community.

Even though witches were as close to the devil as you could get in the world I came from…

Even though I was afraid of saying no (especially to people I loved or who were in a position of authority)…

Even though I very much wanted to have children…

...Something about Baba Yaga’s wild, devil-may-care energy called to me—and loudly. Here was a figure feared and revered, just as dangerous as she was wise.

Claiming Baba Yaga felt rebellious. Bad-ass. And maybe even—given where I’d come from—necessary.

After I became a massage therapist, I stopped selling soups and pestos. But soon the itch to concoct and mix things up returned, and I started making potions. I called them “lotions and potions for mixed-up emotions.”

My potions weren’t for drinking but for rubbing onto your skin. I made a base of shea butter and jojoba or meadowfoam oil, then blended in essential oils depending on the intent magic required: mint, jasmine, bergamot, grapefruit, sandalwood, cardamom… Yum. I'm getting a whiff even as I write...

And oh, the names! Ease Please. Night Queen. Cha Cha Chai. Presence. Sassypants, who, come to think, had a lot of Baba Yaga in her—minus the chicken legs and child-eating. haha. And then there was Losing It, which my husband swears should have been called Don’t Jump, which right there should tell you everything the potion was for.

Lately Baba Yaga has been top of mind again.

I’ve been working on a memoir for… thankyouverymuch) ready to send to the first agents on my wish list.

So it makes 100% sense to have Baba Yaga on hand to help me be brave and bad-ass in the face of what I’m afraid “people may think.”

Because somewhere between the good girl of my past and Baba Yaga’s grind-up-whatever’s-in-your-way energy there is me: a woman who is more and more herself, even when she’s scared.

What about you? Is there a quality or character or person who you are equally drawn to and scared of? Hit reply and tell me, even if just the name or the quality. I can't wait to hear.

Until next time,

xoHeidi

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