Tiny Spicy Angel: A Spell for When Everything Feels Like a Sign
Today, on my way to my muggle job, I was listening to Noah Kahan’s “Staying Still” and thinking about moving to the seacoast when a yellow jacket flew into my car and landed directly on my leg.
The little guy seemed to be in a sort of post-flight dissociative state, curled up and trying to understand where exactly he had ended up. Meanwhile, I was trying not to flail, panic, or drive my car into oncoming traffic.
So there I sat, attempting the impossible balance of remaining perfectly still while also continuing to operate a moving vehicle through the city. I made only the tiniest micro-movements, terrified I might offend the airborne tyrant. Though I tried to keep my eyes on the road, every few seconds I would glance down to see whether it was still there and, more importantly, where exactly it had migrated to.
At one point, I looked down and saw the little psychopath peeking out from the folds of my jumpsuit directly in my crotch region. I alternated between: “Breathe. What’s the worst that could happen? You get stung? So what?” and: “Fuck fuck fuck, I do not want this asshole stinging my lady bits.”
Amidst the chaos, my mind drifted back to my core memories involving wasps and yellow jackets.
The first was when I was two years old at my dad’s house, barefoot and delighted by the feeling of the wooly carpet beneath my feet. A wasp landed on the floor, and whether I was motivated by curiosity, scientific inquiry, or an early impulse toward destruction, I may never know, but I stepped on it and immediately regretted my decision. Thankfully, my dad scooped me up, held my foot in his hand, and assured me I would survive my first karmic reckoning.
The next memory came in my late twenties while living with my ex-husband—then boyfriend. It was April 1st, he was away on a work trip, and I had just gotten out of the shower. I should also explain that without my contacts, I am effectively a very emotionally vulnerable mole person. I reached for my towel and instantly felt the sharp pain of an extremely angry bug doing what angry bugs do on my pinky finger.
To this day, I cannot explain how a yellow jacket managed to be alive and operational in Massachusetts in early April, let alone how it got into the house, into the bathroom, and onto the exact towel I reached for while alone, naked, wet, and legally blind. It was Mother Nature’s April Fool’s joke. At the time, I was not laughing. Now? Maybe a little.
The final memory flashing before my eyes as I braced myself for an imminent crotch sting was from two years ago at church. I had been feeling disconnected from life and uncertain what I needed in order to feel whole again. My sister-in-law invited me to the Unitarian Universalist church they had been attending, and during my first few visits, I felt genuinely moved by the community. The sanctuary glowed with winter sunlight. I cried through the sermons. I sang with everyone and felt something inside me soften. And then, before one service began, I noticed a suspicious flying object circling near the front of the sanctuary. At first, I thought maybe it was a fly. Then it descended like a tiny spicy angel, landed directly on my arm, and initiated me into some sort of theological experience using its sharp little butt needle. I made it through the rest of the service bravely, but ultimately decided church was perhaps not the place where I was destined to find peace.
Then I came back to the situation at hand. At a stoplight, I carefully surveyed the battlefield. I couldn’t see the yellow jacket. Couldn’t hear the menacing buzz. I looked down, and there, resting quietly on my belly instead of a stinging insect, was a tiny maple seed propeller that had blown into the car without my noticing. I picked it up carefully between my fingers, in awe of how small it was.
Now listen — I do not pretend to understand how the Universe works. But I am absolutely choosing to take this as a sign. Perhaps the moments when I’ve been stung were little nudges about places I didn’t belong or choices I needed to reconsider. Perhaps I shouldn’t have stepped on a wasp as a toddler. Perhaps I was never meant to stay in that house with my former husband. Perhaps church was not the place where I was meant to find peace.
But today, I didn’t get stung. Today, I breathed deeply. I stayed the course. I let the little creature go in peace. And now I will take the gift of this tiny seed and carry it with me toward the place that’s been calling to me: the seacoast.
Maybe there’s peace waiting for me there. Or at the very least, maybe more friendly wasps.
A Spell for When Everything Feels Like a Sign
Intention
To soften the impulse to interpret every moment of fear as catastrophe.
To remain present when uncertainty lands unexpectedly in your life.
To cultivate discernment between danger and projection.
To remember that not every buzzing thing is here to harm you.
Materials
A small bowl of water
A leaf, seed, flower petal, or natural object carried by the wind
A candle
Something yellow
Comfortable clothes you can breathe in
Optional: music that makes you feel reflective and slightly dramatic
Ritual
1. Light the candle.
Sit quietly and reflect on the last time your nervous system convinced you disaster was imminent.
Notice how quickly the body creates stories.
2. Hold the natural object in your hand.
Imagine all the times you mistook fear for prophecy, discomfort for doom, or uncertainty for evidence that something terrible was about to happen.
Smile gently at yourself if you can.
You are a human being.
This is what humans do.
3. Place one hand over your belly and take three slow breaths.
Say:
Not every fear is wisdom.
Not every discomfort is danger.
Not every buzzing thing is here to wound me.
4. Reflect on the places in your life where you are bracing for pain before it has actually arrived.
Notice where anticipation itself has become exhausting.
Ask yourself:
What am I assuming will sting me?
What if I survived even if it did?
What if the thing I fear is not actually what’s in front of me at all?
5. Dip your fingertips into the bowl of water.
Imagine cooling the parts of yourself that stay perpetually on alert.
Let yourself soften.
6. Hold the seed, leaf, or petal again.
Consider the possibility that life may occasionally bring gifts disguised as threats—or that sometimes a leaf is simply a leaf.
Both possibilities are allowed.
Closing
You do not need to interpret every moment perfectly in order to move through your life wisely.
Some things are warnings.
Some things are invitations.
Some things are nervous system theater.
And sometimes, what you thought was a wasp is simply a tiny seed asking to be carried somewhere new.
And so it is.
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