If you ask any returned exchange student what the most important part of their exchange was, you�d get a lot of different answers. Some would say the people that they met, be it other exchange students, or members of their host families. Some would say learning a second language, while others would say learning about another culture and having a chance to share their own. You might hear most often, actually, that the very most important thing was the growing up that went on inside them. This is the response that is the closest to what I would say, out of all the common answers, but its not quite there. I doubt you would hear many people say the answer that I would give to that question. While all of the responses above were very important to me, the very most important part of exchange was spiritually discovering myself. I�ve made so many discoveries about what I believe and how I want to live my life throughout this year, I will always be infinitely grateful for having this experience.

You see, I�m a firm believer in testing your faith. You don�t know spiritually who you are until you get you strings pulled. If not anything else, this year has done a whole lot of that for me.

I remember a moonlight night before I left. I drove down to Lake Superior just to see the moon over its waters. Barefoot, I walked out over the blue sand and looked up at the moon, out past the long shimmering path that it cast down on the reflecting waters. That night I had a conversation with the Goddess and I can�t help but think now about how lucky I was to do that. Back home (home-home as we exchange students call it) I have the most beautiful altar. It�s on a small wooden cupboard. I hand quilted the altar cloth myself, and on it are beautiful objects that represent the elements and spirit. Sometimes I even put tarot cards on it. Looking back now, it doesn�t even seem real. Here, I�m so used to making hidden altars that are disguised and leave my host families guessing that I can�t even imagine a huge gorgeous altar anymore. I can�t wait to get back.

My palms are sweating as I look down at my work. Below me, on my short bedside table, I�ve constructed a makeshift altar. It�s so different from the one back home, I�m thinking. Instead of having a huge rock jar full of gorgeous stones from Lake Superior, one lone rock sits on the northern side of my new altar. Back home, a huge red candle represents fire, but here sits a tiny maroonish candle, the very smallest I could find. Despite all of this, though, I look down at this little altar and am so proud of it. It�s all my handy work. A small feather floating lazily down the street became my representation of Air, and an unexpected gift from my host family became the centerpiece. It�s all horribly mismatched, and yet it works to my eyes. I�m actually already in love with my room�s small spiritual center. But I�m terrified. What if my host family realizes what it is? I know, though, that they won�t. To the untrained eye it would just look like a small collection of pretty things. I just worry anyway, as per usual. I open my door, just to head to the bathroom, and try to hide my guilty expression as my host sister walks by with a smile.

As chance turns out, I don�t think my host family ever really did know what my altar was. That�s not to say that they didn�t always wonder, because I�m sure they did. Host families are snoops. That�s just the way it goes, but even still, they never could have figured out that my altar was Wiccan no matter how much they inspected it. It would have taken a seasoned Wiccan to see it, until Halloween, that is.

The night is getting carried away with itself, it is so dazzlingly full of magick. I have spent all day being Halloweeny. I�ve carved pumpkins with my host sister and turned their gut-like insides into roasted pumpkin seeds. The sun has already willingly sunk into the purple clouds, and a friendly darkness lies over the house.

The computer screen glows pleasantly in front of me, and for the first time in months I am talking to all of my friends at the same time, thanks to AIM. I am boundlessly happy.

The doorbell rings and, bare feet slapping across the tiled floor, I go sprinting down the softly lit hallway, past jack-o-lanterns glowing ghoulishly in the shadows. Quickly snatching a bag of sweets, I open the door to reveal a large group of French children. They exclaim something I don�t quite understand, but take to mean "trick-or-treat," anyway, and I toss a few candies into each of their bags. After shutting the door I smile to myself, happy that at least in some way the glorious tradition of All Hallows Eve has survived through the ages. My jack-o-lantern seems to be thinking the same thing, evidently, because his one toothed grin and triangle eyes are beaming right back at me.

There is a term for Wiccans who keep quiet about their religion, its called being "in the broom closet." I find it so appropriate that that night I came out to my two best friends. It was so perfect to see that they found my Wiccan-ness cool, and were only upset that I hadn�t said anything sooner. For that, I apologized. No more secrets or hiding for this Witch.

Later on that night, after the rest of my host family was in bed, I held a small ritual. For the first time, I lit my small maroon Fire candle which oddly seemed to become more and more special to me each day. I painted that night within my Circle, first a pumpkin, not with a face, but with a quill carved into it, and then a pentacle with the elements all around it. After finding that I had paint left over I decided to paint on myself with the leftover colors, and put stripes all over my arms and hands. Nothing feels quite so cool as cold paint on warm skin.

After the ritual was finished, I placed the pentacle painting on my altar, where it stayed and probably gave my snooping host family a slight clue as to what was really going on. I fell asleep with my arms still painted. Even the palms of my hands were covered in greenish paint.

The next morning I woke up with paint chips everywhere, and I found myself yet again listening at my door to see if the coast was clear. That morning I wore the biggest sweatshirt I had, and I sprinted to the bathroom as fast as I could to scrub myself clean.

That wasn�t the first ritual I had in my first host families house. In early December I held a much more full one in the middle of the house one day that the rest of the family was gone, and as usual it was amazingly serene and beautiful. I was becoming so involved with my religion that I wanted to share it with others, but I had already told everyone that would listen to me. It was then that I had one of the greatest ideas of my exchange.

A streetlight is shinning dully into my room, and I am tossing and turning. My clock is shinning red boxy numbers out into the sleeping shadows, and I am struck with the thought that this is a ridiculously early hour of the morning to still be awake.

Eventually, sleep takes me softly, very much like the lukewarm light my slumbering body is bather in. My dreams, however, soar. I dream of being shot in my lower back, my family charka, and almost, but not quite, dying just before I wake up.

An explosion takes place within me as my eyes open, and I race across the room searching for a pen and paper, dying to get my emotions out in words. All of my pain and sorrow from leaving my home comes pouring out of me in the form of a poem and a few tears.

The next morning I wake up and immediately begin to write an article about what happened to me the night before, and as soon as it is finished I find myself online, beginning to work on my very first issue of Pumpkin.

Spiritual writing is a gorgeous thing, and it�s what Pumpkin is all about. In my very first issue of Pumpkin I not only shared my early morning spiritual breakthrough, but also I included something else very important. I came out as a Wiccan to the world.

I remember sitting down one morning to write the article that would tell the story of my journey from Buddhism to Wicca, and as I did a black cat came and sat outside the window. He just seemed to smile at me with his yellow eyes, and stood as if on guard for the entire time my pen scratched across the paper. Just one more sign from the Universe that what I�m doing is the most perfect thing.

It is night time, though not too late. The early winter sun has already sunk from sight. In my room a golden light seems to be buzzing through the air, and I am wobbling. I stand on one leg, and above me my hands stretch up as far as they can reach, palms together. I�m trying to hold this balance pose and yet I�ve sabotaged myself with music that makes me want to dance. I�m biting my lip, trying to keep from moving or laughing, and yet a wild giggle escapes me anyway, and with arms sailing like windmills, I topple over.

Yoga has become such a large part of my life here in France that I can't imagine what it would have been like to come here without it. When I'm feeling low, in need of a good stretch, or sometimes just a good laugh, I roll out my squishy blue mat and set to work on some poses. It never fails me. In my first host family I did yoga almost every morning regularly, and sometimes again at night. One night I was in the middle of the relaxation part of my routine. My legs were braced up against each other in the butterfly pose, and I breathed deeply as I felt the stretch pulling me. Suddenly I had a vision of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. It was the most strong and beautiful image, it brought tears to my eyes. When it was finished I remember just sitting there with my mouth open. It was the very first time I had realized just how much I would change before I went home again. It was amazing.

Yoga has brought me so much joy and knowledge during this exchange. I remember being at the height of my yoga-ness at about the beginning of December. I was doing it everyday, becoming really flexible, and enlightening myself.