Isobel Gowdie, The Devil & Dandelion Poppets; A Monthly Circle of Chaos, Cunning & Compostable Witchcraft

Last month’s circle gathered twenty of us in person—shoulder to shoulder, hips to hips, familiars probably judging from the corners—as we descended into the world of Isobel Gowdie, the Scottish witch whose confessions were so elaborate the Devil himself probably needed a lie-down.

I focused on what most people politely avoid: her relationship with the Devil and the wildly theatrical nature of her testimony. Forget the dainty witch of folklore—Isobel was out here shapeshifting into hares, attending coven meetings in elf mounds, and giving the Devil affectionate nicknames like she was flirting across a tavern table. Her confessions were so extravagant that historians still can’t decide whether she was channelling, storytelling, surviving torture, or just really ahead of her time in performance art. Honestly, if she’d had Instagram, she’d have gone viral.

Enter: Dandelion Poppets

After a good collective cackle about diabolical dating, we got our hands dirty—literally.

I brought along dandelion roots I’d dug up myself from local land, mud still clinging, elementals appeased with offerings (because I’m not about to get hexed by a disgruntled earth sprite). If you’ve ever pulled a dandelion root, you’ll know it’s basically Mugwort’s feral cousin—twisted, potent and looking like it survived three witch trials and a divorce.

I don’t police how people use magic—if you’re here, you’re grown. Healing? Hexing? Binding your ex’s gossiping aunt? That’s between you, your ancestors, and whoever’s listening in the hedge. I simply provided the bodies: roots to carve, dress, bind, adore or threaten lovingly.

I laid out ribbons, threads, charms and trinkets like a Victorian apothecary crossed with Poundland occultism. Everyone was invited to make their poppet however they pleased and for whatever intention called them—love, justice, healing, revenge, protection, release, or just because crafting with roots is cheaper than therapy.

Some made gentle guardians. Some made hex gremlins. One poppet looked like it was ready to file taxes. I don’t judge.

Why Dandelion?

Because this plant is scrappy, stubborn and older than your grandmother’s ghost. It breaks stone, heals livers, grants wishes and survives lawnmowers like a resurrected saint. Its roots look like something dug up from a witch bottle, and that’s exactly the aesthetic I encourage.

Dandelion poppets aren’t just cute—they’re channel vessels. They can hold memory, grief, desire, wrath, blessing, or the energy of someone you're not naming out loud because Sheila from HR might be there.

Isobel Would Approve

Like Isobel Gowdie, these roots hold contradictions—wildness and wisdom, harm and healing, resistance and remembrance. Her words were spells, confessions, stories, or all three—we’ll never know. But what we do know is that witchcraft has always lived in the blurred spaces between fear and laughter, chaos and devotion, mud and magic.

And honestly, if the Devil had offered her a dandelion poppet, she’d probably have named it, dressed it in a ribbon and taken it on a spirit flight.