The spiritual afterparty nobody talks about
You’ve just finished a killer ritual. Candle flames are whipping around like cobras, incense has etched strange patterns into your ceiling, and your altar looks like a honey badger had brunch on it. The spirits have been called, the work has been done, and now you’re sitting there with a question that doesn’t get nearly enough airtime:
“So… what do I banish now?”
Just like you wouldn’t end a party without kicking out the last guest... especially that last guest is Pazuzu, you need to have some end game rules. This isn’t just a ceremonial magician’s neurotic obsession with cleanliness, though let’s be honest, some of y’all are scrubbing your temples with Clorox® Astral Bleach. This is about knowing what you’re working with—and how to send it home properly.
- Because not all spirits leave when you want them to.
- Some traditions expect you to dismiss them.
- Others expect you to thank them.
- And in some cases, you don’t do jack shit—you just wait until the divine decides they're done effing with you.
Let’s dive into how various magical systems handle their post-ritual farewells, from militarized banishing to spiritual Irish goodbyes.
Ceremonial Magic: Banishing with extreme prejudice
Ceremonial magicians don’t play. Whether you’re summoning angels, demons, or something from the back of the Ars Goetia marked “FER FUCK’S SAKE, DO NOT OPEN,” you’d better have your banishing ritual ready.
The go to is the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram (LBRP). It’s like power-washing the sidewalk. It cleans the space, kicks out any leftovers, and reasserts your own energetic sovereignty.
You’re not just saying, “Thanks for visiting.” You’re saying, “GTFO, and take your weird-ass vibes with you.”
Why so aggressive? Because ceremonial magic treats spirits like external intelligences—not archetypes, not warm fuzzies. If you invoked something, you damn well better dismiss it. Leaving the temple uncleansed is leaving the Zoom call open and then walking around sans pants in full view of your horrified coworkers. Except instead of work peeps, it’s Duke Astaroth whispering sweet nothings to your Furby and plush Cthulhu.
Ceremonial magicians also recognize a crucial truth: presence leaves residue. Whether it’s a full-on entity or just the afterglow of divine contact, banishing isn’t just about kicking things out—it’s about clearing the psychic static.
Wicca and Neo-Pagan traditions: Midwestern goodbyes
Now let’s swing the athame the other way. In many Wiccan and Neo-Pagan circles, spirits aren’t so much summoned as they are invited. It’s less military chain of command and more elite dinner party. You open the circle, you call in the elements, gods, and ancestors, and when the work is done, you thank them and say goodbye like a gracious host from the Midwest.
No smoke grenades. No flaming pentagrams. Just, “Hail and farewell, blessed be, and thanks for all the fish” and everyone goes their separate ways.
This isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a relationship. In Wicca, the divine isn’t some external force to be commanded—it’s someone you partner with. Deities are treated more like honored guests than summoned contractors. And while you can do a formal banishing, it's usually framed as releasing energy and closing sacred space, not forcibly ejecting some freeloading spirit from your living room like a raccoon that busted in the attic.
Elemental dismissals, often done in reverse order of how you called them, are a big part of this. You’re not just saying, “Thanks for playing — next contestant,” you’re saying “Big thank you, we’re done here, you can go back to the East/West/Fire/Whatever now.”
Still, even in the gentlest systems, closure is sacred. A lot of messy post-ritual energy comes from practitioners who skip this part. The gods may be chill, but your aura isn’t a Motel 6. Always close the circle. Always say goodbye.
African Traditional Religions: Possession Is nine-tenths of the law
Let’s talk ATRs—Santería/Lukumí, Candomblé, Arará, Vodou, the four Palos, and all the beautifully complex lineages where spirit possession isn’t some scary side effect of ritual, it is the ritual.
In these traditions, the divine doesn’t wait politely outside your circle until you ring the bell. No. The Oríṣà walks right in, takes the wheel, and starts driving your meat suit like it’s Saturday night at the spirit races.
So… who do you banish? No one.
You don’t banish Oríṣà. You don’t “dismiss” Egún (the ancestral dead). You let them do what they do until they’re done. You show respect, offer libations, let them ride the horse (i.e., the possessed person), and when they decide it’s time to go—they go.
Trying to prematurely eject an Oríṣà would be like trying to kick Beyoncé off stage in the middle of a set. Not only is it rude, it’s dangerous, spiritually and otherwise. These spirits don’t need your permission to come or go—they have aṣẹ, spiritual authority, and their own timetable.
That said, communities do have practices to ease the transition. Cooling baths, offerings of water, cigar smoke blown in the ear, singing despedida (farewell) songs—all meant to gently usher the spirit back across the veil. But again, it’s not banishment. It’s reverent closure.
Rare but real: extended possessions
Every now and then, you’ll hear stories—usually whispered at the end of long ceremonies—about someone who stayed mounted for days. Not hours. Days. It's rare, it’s dramatic, and usually, it means there’s something deeper going on. A message not yet received. A situation unresolved. Or someone’s Orí being a little extra.
In those moments, the community gathers. Elders step in. Divination happens. And everyone understands: when you invite the divine to inhabit a body, you’d better be prepared to make room.
So no, you don’t banish in ATRs. You respect, you manage, and above all, you listen. Because in these traditions, the spirits don’t just visit. They own you.**
Chaos magic and postmodern practices: Do what thou wilt, but watch yer ass
Now we’re stepping into the weird end of the pool—where belief is a tool, reality is negotiable, and half your spirits might be tulpa, meme, or mood swing. Welcome to Chaos Magic, where the first rule of ritual is: If it works, it works. The second rule? Don’t trust it just because it worked last time.
Banishing here isn’t about casting out a literal spirit (though it can be). It’s often about psychological hygiene. Think of it as closing the browser tabs of your mind so you don’t start accidentally manifesting Clippy as your next servitor.
How the pros get things done:
- The Laughter Banishing: Dispel unwanted energies with a cackle, a joke, or the absurd, because nothing ruins a brooding egregore’s day like being laughed at. They’re touchy. Sometimes a little too much. Like a child star that fell out of the public’s eye.
- Visualization: Exploding constructs in your mind’s eye, draining sigils of power, or picturing a giant vacuum sucking your space clean. I personally prefer to visualize the room being gassed, but instead of tear gas, it only affects the non-corporeal.
- Tech Banishing: Unplug your altar, delete your temporary reality script from Notion, or shut off that egregore you accidentally created from your Tumblr scroll. Yeah, that one.
Chaos magicians often deal with constructed spirits—servitors, thought-forms, egregores—and those require very specific banishing techniques. You made it, so you can unmake it… theoretically. Just make sure you actually finish the deactivation process and don’t leave a rogue emotional algorithm feeding on your nightmares or haunting your house like an invisible meth-head.
And because Chaos Magic is postmodern AF, the real danger isn’t always the spirit—it’s your own subconscious. That’s why banishing doubles as a psychic debrief, a mental reset, a way to reassert your boundaries between magick and meatspace. You’re not just clearing your room—you’re defragging your soul.
Rule of thumb?
If it starts feeling sentient and you didn’t give it permission to be? Banish it. Salt it. Burn it. Laugh at it. Call a friend. Do something.
Because in Chaos Magic, the only thing scarier than summoning something... is not realizing you already did.
What (and who) you’re actually banishing
Let’s get real for a second—because some of you are banishing things you never even invited, while others are out here not banishing things that absolutely overstayed their welcome.
Not everything that shows up in ritual is a demon. Not everything that lingers is evil. And not everything that feels funky is a spirit. Sometimes, it’s just your unresolved trauma wearing a spooky trench coat.
So, what are we actually dealing with?
External entities
These are your spirits, gods, demons, angels, ancestors—the big league players. They either come when called or come when they damn well please. These require protocol, not panic. If you invoked it with ritual structure, you should dismiss it with ritual structure. Yes, even if it’s “just” an angel. Yes, especially if it’s not.
Egregores and servitors
Created thought-forms. These are the IKEA furniture of the spirit world—assembled by you, often unstable, and dangerous if left half-built. These must be banished, grounded, or deconstructed when their job is done. Otherwise, you’ve just given your anxiety a body and a name.
Archetypal or psychological energies
Sometimes you’re not banishing spirits—you’re banishing your own emotional detritus. Grief, rage, fear, horniness—all amplified in ritual space. Banishing here is less about “go away, spirit!” and more “thanks for your service, now please exit through the gift shop.”
Residue and cling-ons
Even if your spirits left politely, they may have tracked energetic mud into your space. Think of it like glitter after a craft project—just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not everywhere. This is where post-ritual cleansing (smoke, sound, floor wash, salt, etc.) comes in. You’re not banishing beings—you’re banishing leftovers.
Yourself (Yes, you)
Some banishing is about getting your damn self out of the way. Ego, obsession, over-identification with the ritual outcome. Clear your own field. Reset your center. Close the door on your magical persona so your mortal self can sleep tonight.
Oh shit! I forgot to banish. 😳
You did the ritual. It was powerful. Moving. Maybe even ecstatic. You were crying. The candles were flickering just right. The room felt alive. You felt changed. Ray Buckland even stirred in his grave to nod and whisper, “Nice one, kid.”
And then you... just kinda went to bed?
Didn’t ground. Didn’t thank the spirits. Didn’t close the circle. Didn’t even put out the incense. You woke up the next day feeling like you’d been emotionally rear-ended by something with wings and a questionable sense of humor.
Welcome to the club. We've all done it.
Bad things happen to kids who don’t banish:
Your dreams get... chewy. You wake up feeling like you spent the night babysitting entities from The Lesser Key of ‘Sir, this is a Wendy’s.’
Appliances act possessed. Your smart speaker starts playing Gregorian chants at 3:33 AM. Your coffee machine hisses at you like a basilisk. The toilet flushes repeatedly. You live alone.
You start getting moods that aren’t yours. A sudden surge of lust, rage, anxiety—or worse, that nagging sense that someone is watching you from the mirror. (Spoiler: it’s probably you... plus whatever the hell you forgot to send home.)
Your houseplants start withering. Even the Pothos. That thing survived your last breakup, eight Mercury Retrogrades, and two eclipses. If it’s dying now, something’s up.
The cat won’t come in the ritual room anymore. And that cat practically lived on your altar. Animals know. Trust them.
What’s a girl to do?
Cleanse: Smoke, sound, Florida Water, salt water, ammonia, floor wash—choose your poison. And really clean that shit.
Re-banishing: Even if the ritual’s over, you can still go back and formally close it. Circle back, thank or dismiss whatever’s still lurking, and give it a firm "See ya!"
Offerings or apologies: If you feel like you’ve offended someone upstairs (or below), a small offering and a heartfelt “my bad” can go a long way.
Divination: Bust out the RWS, the shells, or the bones and ask: “Hey, is anything still hanging around that shouldn’t be?” You might be surprised at who RSVPed “yes.”
Conclusion
Banishing isn’t spiritual pest control (well, not always). It’s etiquette. It’s respect. It’s the magical equivalent of cleaning up after mud wrestling. You wouldn’t leave the dead, the divine, or your own shadow selves wandering your house unsupervised, right? RIGHT? So don’t leave them in your ritual space, either. Send ‘em packing.
Whatever your tradition—whether you’re commanding archangels or getting mounted by an Oríṣà—what matters is how you end the ritual. Because in magic, like in life, it’s not just about a grand entrance. It’s all about the exit strategy.