I was a Buddhist then, and never askedfor anything. I chanted each day, Desiresare inexhaustible, I vow to put an endto them and I wanted to be pregnantwith a fierceness beyond reason.Enough to stop T and let my body go alien,enough to let countless ultrasound wandsinto a hole I had no word for, enoughto let doctors pump radioactive fluidinto my womb while I writhed in pain.My Zen teacher had told me to meditateon the phrase The Great Way is not difficultfor those who have no preferences. My longing made me feel unclean. Shame prickled the back of my neck when I entered a witch shop and said, “I want a fertility candle, but I’m trans, so maybe not a goddess one?”The young man behind the counter worea shirt that said, Don’t be a basic witch.He smiled and offered a choice: a male god, like fire melting the snow, or the great mother of the sea, a blue candle that smelled like a long-forgotten lullaby.He said, “Take the one that calls you.”I was afraid. Maybe candle magic was for fools,like those folk tale peasants who squander their three wishes and end up worse than they started. As a child, I only asked Santa for world peace. But the ocean mother’s scent was likethe imprint of a hug through lifetimes.I reached for her. He said, The great motherholds everyone, no matter who you are,she whispers, what do you want, baby,what do you want?I didn’t know you could say what you wantedor have anyone to hold you and listen.