From Solomonic Grimoires To Co‑Magicians: How Sara Mastros Builds A Living Practice

Language shapes power, and few places reveal that truth more sharply than modern witchcraft. Our talk with author and teacher Sara Mastros threads together math, magic, class, and the elusive spark she calls witch fire. She argues that “witch” and “wizard” were never just gendered opposites; historically they reflected class. Picture the peasant in a hut versus the robed scholar in a tower and you feel how status coded those words. That lens reframes the choice to identify as a witch as solidarity with outsiders: women, migrants, the poor, and everyone who lives at the crossroads. It also reframes practice itself—not as aesthetics or holiday décor, but as a lived position against the cultural center. From there, Sara walks us into a tougher distinction: magic versus witchcraft. Magic, in her framing, is technique—names, days, colors, formulas, correspondences. It is precise, teachable, and scalable. Witchcraft is ignition—an inner flame that can brute‑force outcomes at a cost. Teen witches can make a snow storm out of a candle and a wish, she jokes, because raw power can swamp poor design. Yet over time, technical skill offers accuracy and preservation of the body. The goal is not to choose one forever, but to pair both: learn techniques, but keep the fire alive so your work is not hollow. That pairing requires better language. English burned its specialists for centuries, Sara notes, so we lack shared, neutral terms for subtle phenomena. That vacuum splinters communities into niche jargons, and borrowing words like shaman brings baggage we may not intend. A practical fix is translation in two senses: literal translation of sources and conceptual translation between schools, so ideas move without cultural erasure. Building a common vocabulary raises the baseline, reduces posturing, and helps beginners orient toward results rather than labels. Sara’s learning philosophy cuts against grind culture. As a former math teacher, she champions Polya’s problem‑solving method: understand the problem, plan, execute, and review. The fourth step is where growth compounds—write to your past self with what you’d do differently, and you train your mind to hear your future self. That reflective loop applies to spells and life. We talked about her muse practice too: opening writing sessions with an invocation, often Hesiod or the Orphic Hymns, or better yet, fresh words. For makers, swap the medium, not the method. A metalsmith might call on Hephaestus and the Muses, beginning each session with a short, repeatable request for clarity, flow, and safe craft. Rituals that are small, honest, and frequent beat elaborate ceremonies you never do. Community emerged as a keystone. Sara’s top advice for beginners is to find a co‑magician—an honest peer who reduces self‑deception and despair. In person is best: share air, compare notes, test results. Collaboration forces breadth: her plant magic deepened because a best friend studied botanical medicine, entwining ecology, phytochemistry, and praxis. Trance journeying expanded through a godmother who modeled safe technique and real relationships with spirits. These human ties diversify your portfolio of methods, prevent tunnel vision, and expose you to sane boundaries. Finally, we touched on resilience. Expect big weather and bigger systems to shape practice and logistics. The communities that endure keep relationships strong and water clean, a lesson as old as history. In craft terms, resilience means portable rites, clear ethics, and skills that travel: divination you can do with a pen, hymns you can recite without tools, offerings you can adapt. Build vocabulary, skill, and courage—and keep the flame tended, so technique serves spirit instead of smothering it.