As I was having my lunch of boiled potatoes, steamed cabbage, tossed salad and whole-wheat bread in the mess-hall of this 1,100-man prison complex the other day, I began to sense that someone was watching me with something more than idle curiosity. After a moment's search I noticed a young man several tables down in the same row as I was seated in. He would lean out from his table and peer in my direction for a few seconds at a time, and then straighten back up and become lost to my view behind the bodies of those seated between us.
It is commonly understood in the prison environment that one does not pay undue attention to anyone else, lest one should suddenly find oneself confronted with a potentially violent "situation." So I wondered at this young man's interest in me on the one hand, and at the chaotic intensity of his mental and emotional chaos permeates the atmosphere, and is considered the norm rather than the exception, one learns to shut it out, or one falls prey to it. Having been incarcerated for the past twenty-one years by now, I generally have no trouble deflecting these negative vibrations. This young man's energy seemed to settle around me like an envelop, however, and I made a mental note to investigate him and his interest in me, as I turned up my psychic shield a couple of notches, in the meantime.
As it turned out, he saved me the time and expense of an investigation, for, after ten minutes or so, I noticed his approach to my table. He was tall and slenderly built. He was not unpleasant to look at, either, with his long, dark, flowing hair, and eyes to match. His face still bore the freshness on youth also, which is one of the first things to go in prison; usually replaced by a certain hardness about the eyes and mouth which reflect the brutal mental and emotional strife of life in prison. He stopped just short of seating himself at my table, and asked if the seat across from me was reserved for anyone. I motioned that it wasn't, and continued eating. As soon as his tray touched the table he began to speak.
"My name is Steve," he said, "and they call you the 'Mad Monk' right, an' you're s'posed to be into some kind of Devil worship, right?" he blurted out, as if having just reached some difficult decision which he had been wrestling with for some time now.
"Yeah, The Mad Monk is one of my handles, but, no Steve, I'm not into any kind of Devil worship." I responded.
"Yeah, okay, whatever you say, but you are into some kind of Witchcraft, right?" he rushed on.
"It depends on how you define the term, 'Witchcraft'," I replied. Then, "What's on your mind, man?" I enquired.
"You've heard about the new sentencing Law, right, well I just got sentenced to life in prison without parole, man, and I just can't see me doing that..." he paused. Then, rushing on, "...I want you to tell me how to make a pact with Satan to get me out of prison in exchange for my soul when I die...you can do that, right?"
"I have studied such matters, Steve, and I know the directions prescribed for contracting with what you call Satan, but if I give you these instructions, you probably would not be able to work the required rituals correctly, and, if you did manage that aspect of it you would not, very likely, get anything now, for your soul after you died. Based upon what I am seeing right now, no devil need bargain with you for your soul Steve, because you have already disowned it. Your soul already resides in the depths of hell, Steve." I told him.
"Wohthafuck are you to tell me that I ain't got no soul, man?" he mouthed through clenched teeth, his eyes seeming to teeter on the brink of the abyss.
"I'm not saying that you have no soul , Steve. I'm saying that your soul is already in hell. I am saying that it is already in the possession of the Devil. Look at yourself, man, you're what, 18, 19, and you're sitting here, in prison, talking to a stranger about cutting a deal for your immortal soul in exchange for a few more years of running around on the streets; living an unproductive life of crime and general self-destruction. I can't help you do that. What I can do is help you attain freedom. Come with me, if you're interested in that." I said, and got up and left the mess-hall. Steve followed.
Once we had reached my cell, I got out my BOOK OF LIGHT (I don't refer to it as a "Book of Shadows".) I brought the tome over to the bed where Steve was seated, opened it to the page I sought and asked Steve to trace with his right index finger the design he saw on the page. It was a "Seal of Release (or Loosing", if you will.) As he began to trace, I focused my mental energy into a single, crystalline thought: "Release your mental and emotional pain through your tears!" And as he neared the completion of his task, I placed my palm upon the crown of his skull and visualized the thought energy flowing down the length of my arm, through my hand, and into his brain.
As his finger came away from the page his body convulsed, and he began to weep uncontrollably. He immediately tried to fight back the tears, and I hastened to explain to him that this was what the symbol he had traced was designed to do. I explained that he should simply go with the flow of it, let out the pain, unrest, and anger. I explained that after he cried himself out, he would then find himself feeling empty, but also at peace with himself. I explained that this was the first step at getting truly Free.
And so Steve wept with abandon. He wept for all those years he had dared not weep. I held him as he wept out his pains and sorrows and remorse. There was much he had to weep about, this much was obvious to me, and he wept for a long time, there, clinging to me as if afraid he might be swept away on this river of misery, without someone to hold on to, some one to keep him from drowning in his own sense of grief.
When at last his tears had subsided, I got him a cool, damp wash-cloth with which to wipe his face, and began to explain to him that Life is where one makes it, not where one finds it. And that freedom is a condition of the Soul and a state of Being, and is not dependent upon geographical location,circumstance or situation.
We talked at length about the meaning of my words, and at last he asked me how I had come to know so much about it all. I responded that I really didn't know a great deal more than he did, but that what I did know I had learned in prison, through self-analysis, and simply watching people go about their daily lives in this environment. I explained how I had gone about getting my education, both academically and psychologically. And I explained to him that the Road to true Freedom is paved with such difficult things as self-discipline, self-control; sensitivity to the needs and desires of others, and a sensitivity to the rhythms of this world upon which we live; and being also sensitive to all our brothers and sisters who go about on all fours, and those who fly, swim, or slither, as well.
I explained that so long as his body drew sacred breath there was hope for his getting out of prison someday, but, that it would be no great thing to do so, if he were not free before he walked through the gates and into the world outside. Because to do so would simply be trading one prison cell for another. Then I gave him my copy of A NEW WICCAN BOOK OF THE LAW, by Lady Galadriel, to check out.
It was nearly Count Time, and he needed to get back to his own housing unit before the Count began. I got him out of the building, and we parted with a promise to talk again.
I did not ask what he had received a life sentence for, it didn't matter. I knew already that when it came down to the bottom line, the reason is always the same, ignorance of the divinity which dwells within each of us. And ignorance of the responsibility we have as divine beings.
From the Spring Equinox issue of Witch's Brew
This article may not be re-printed without permission from Witch's Brew
Copyright © 1995 MMoonstone Publishing