Toil and Trouble

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poisoned entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty-one
Sweltered venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog.
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Slivered in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-delivered by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

Macbeth, 4.1

Of late, I feel like one of the Weird Sisters. I keep circling around the Idea Cauldron throwing in one thing after another. The idea is there, the pot is cooking, the magic is working. I must be patient and allow the magic to work. Or maybe I just need to add a few more “ingredients”.

Nothing is, But what is not. --Shakespeare