The grimoire the notebook where your practice remembers.

What is a grimoire, really?

Forget the great leather-bound book that opens by itself: a grimoire is a working notebook. You note what you observe (the evening moon, what is growing, the changing light), what you do (a full moon ritual, a seasonal table), and what it produces in you. It is the memory of your practice: without it, everything evaporates; with it, you watch patterns take shape over months.

There is nothing sacred about the object in itself. Its value comes from use: a notebook scrawled in, tea-stained, three-quarters full, is worth infinitely more than a fine blank volume you dare not spoil. If the word "grimoire" intimidates you, call it a book of seasons: that is exactly what it is.

Where does this notebook tradition come from?

The word first: "grimoire" is a corruption of "grammar." In the Middle Ages, a book written in Latin was unreadable for almost everyone; in the popular imagination, the learned book became the mysterious book. The historical grimoires (keys, books of secrets) were learned compilations that circulated under the counter, a long way from domestic practice.

The lineage that interests us is humbler and more beautiful: the books of hours that paced the days of prayer, the herbals where plants were pressed and annotated, the almanacs that married moons, sowings, and sayings, and the recipe books passed from hand to hand within families. To keep a grimoire today is to take up that gesture again: recording what helps you live, in your own way, in order to remember it.

How do you keep yours?

Begin each entry with the date, and if you like, the moon phase and a word on the sky. That small header turns the notebook into an archive: a year from now, you will be able to compare two autumns. Then write freely: what you observed, the gesture you made, a recipe that worked, a quote, a sketch. Chronological disorder is perfectly fine; sections will come later if the need arises.

Rereading does half the work. At each change of season, reread the pages of the season just gone: that is where the patterns appear, what comes back, what has changed, what you believed in October that March gently corrects. A grimoire is not a private diary, but the two feed each other: one looks at the world, the other looks at you.

Paper or digital?

No rule, only different effects. Paper slows the hand, and that slowing is part of the ritual: ten minutes of handwriting by candlelight do not have the same texture as a note typed between two tabs. Digital, for its part, wins on search and on consistency: everything is dated, findable, always in your pocket.

Many people end up combining the two: paper for the ritualized moments, an app for observations on the fly. If you prefer the screen, our journal is designed for exactly this: dated entries, tied to the moons and the seasons, rereadable from one year to the next.

Frequently asked questions

What is the difference between a grimoire and a Book of Shadows?

The Book of Shadows is a Wiccan term, introduced by Gerald Gardner in the 1950s: a liturgical book copied out within a group. The grimoire, in the sense used here, is broader and freer: a personal practice notebook, with no liturgy and no obligatory transmission.

Does a grimoire have to stay secret?

That is for you to decide. Keeping it to yourself protects the freedom to write without self-censoring, which is precious. But nothing forbids sharing pages, a recipe, or a sketch. The family-notebook tradition was, in fact, always passed on: secrecy was never a rule, only an option.

I abandoned my notebook months ago. Do I start over from scratch?

Absolutely not. Pick up on the next page with today’s date: the gap in the notebook also tells you something about your season. A grimoire demands no perfection; it is a tool that waits for you, not a contract you break.