Imagine not having a home, that is life without your ancestors.
If you haven't yet, build your house.
Temple of the Flea |
|
Your ancestors are like the house around you. Imagine not having a home, that is life without your ancestors. If you haven't yet, build your house.
1 Comment
There is a fair amount of chatter lately among some members of the mainstream heathen community over whether or not Loki should be hailed in group settings. Those who feel He shouldn’t claim it either invokes strife or has deleterious effects to their wyrd. Those who feel he should state He is part of the pantheon, they claim it is their right to honor one of the Ase’s, and their personal toast should have no effect on others. It is a persistent impasse. Two camps that can’t see eye to eye. Naturally, I have to side with toasting Loki. I don’t worry about who anyone toasts, toast Beezelbub for all I care. I have enough faith in my own Gods to know someone else’s toast won’t affect me. I also believe in tolerance, most people I know in any kind of marginalized minority believe in this; people have the right to honor and toast who they wish. Naturally this conversation doesn’t include private gatherings and I don't claim any rights in a person's private home, the conversation centers around an organization’s public gathering. The organization in question welcome’s devotees of Loki’s but won’t allow them to toast him at their own public gathering. Almost by definition this creates a division, a class separation of ingard and utgard. It is a shunning of one of the Gods and a muzzling of those who honor Him. They call it maintaining frith but it is only frithful for those who don't care or don't want Loki toasted. What many don’t realize is the pain this causes those who love Loki. Just once, I would like a detractor to be honest. I would love to hear them not complain of their own issues or fears surrounding Loki but to say out loud, ‘Yes, your God is utgard to me.’ It would be honest and something I would be better able to respect. I would hope though that they would understand the sorrow this brings, the sadness. It isn’t at anyone in general- not even at the most staunch and outspoken of the anti-Loki camp. It is a soft pervasive sorrow that doesn’t recede even when He Himself so gently whispers, “It’s ok. I don’t care.” Reality is, in my gnosis, He doesn’t care. It is the people who care. It doesn’t matter that I can toast any of my other Gods at said public event. I ask, how can I be expected to turn my back on a God who has been so kind to me, a God I so dearly love? How can I be asked this? I was thinking about this one morning during my commute to work and came upon the flower pictured. It was growing right out of the concrete, a thing of beauty persisting and blooming despite having a bed of grit and pain. I realized this flower is me, it is the community of those who love or respect Loki. It is a joy to behold. You see, someone recently wrote on a list that it is the shunning of Loki that gives Him power. No. It doesn’t. What it does do is bring together those who love Him, those who won’t shun Him. It is that bond of shared sorrow, that pain in being named utgard that brings devotees of Loki together. It is that which forces His to make their own ingard, to form their own community and it is community that gives power and strength. To those who are upset, to those who feel pained and hurt, look to the joy that is springing forth. Devotees of Loki are slowly but surely connecting and banding together. Friendships are being formed, alliances and groups made. This would never had happened without the intolerance of those who hold fear, hate, or just uncaring apathy, in their hearts. We also have to look to the bright moments. In the midst of this debate I received an email from a woman falling in love with the Gods. It is Loki who contacted her, she has now an active devotion to Sigyn and Her sons. The beauty of her words and love lend hope, they make me realize that no matter what some may say, Loki is actively working to put love and faith on the table. He brings people into a spiritual practice, a love for the Gods. Doesn’t matter if they call it heathenry, paganism, or whatever else they choose to call it. These people, like this woman, are hearing the call. They are returning love for love, they are learning about the Gods and slowly expanding their practice. This, this is what is important. Not, as Loki calls it, a “petty argument.” Let other’s hold their fear, it isn’t for a devotee of Loki’s to hold. Those who love Loki will honor Him. We will be persistent in our sorrow and with Loki’s help, transmute that pain into joy. The hunter whistled as he walked through the forest. He was in a land far from home and in the morning would be heading back to his own hunting grounds where he had grown up. For now though, he was enjoying this different land with exotic animals, plants, and trees. He had found one wood that was remarkable and had made a new bow and several arrows and was eager to test them for the first time. He was an expert hunter and had an arrow half strung, his fingers itching to let fly at game for the first time. As he walked he was unaware of a man in the shadows. The Trickster watched the hunter as he leaned back against a tree, the ever-present piece of grass in his mouth. He tested the winds, and adjusted his hat. He thought for a moment and knew that the time had come, it was time for a little thing. At that moment, the hunter spotted a rotten but upright tree. He was feeling well and young and strong and strung an arrow, pulling it taut to gauge the feel and aim. The Trickster grinned and with a twinkle in his eyes he blew the smallest puff of air at the hunter. The puff dislodged a drop of sweat into the hunter’s eye and the arrow slipped from his grasp. The hunter stood there in shock a moment. He was an expert. He had never let an arrow loose without meaning. He looked at where it had gone, it was buried into the rotten tree. He sighed a breath of relief that at least it wasn’t lost and went to retrieve the arrow. When he went to pull it loose he saw that it had entered a burrow that had the entrance on the other side. The arrow had killed a strange little animal, a mother squirrel, her nine little kits huddled next to her dead body in fear. The hunter felt shame. He only killed for food and never killed a mother animal with young. He had never loosed an arrow accidentally and this with the death gave him the greatest of sorrow. So he did what he felt he had to do. He had taken a mother’s life without the proper care and in return he would raise her kits. He reached in gently and pulled out the kits and their bedding, putting everything into his bag. He sighed, he’d have to truly test his new bow later. As he turned and left the forest with his bundle of squirrel young the Trickster grinned and let out a soft sigh and a chuckle. Things were now on the path of as they should be. He cared for those squirrels carefully all the long journey home. When he came to his land, the land given him by his father and given from his father’s father’s before them, he stopped at a tree just outside the house. It had a crevice between two branches that fit the nest perfectly. Time went by. He raised up the squirrel kits in this land foreign to them. No squirrels had been there before. They grew to adolescence and became rambunctious. They still weren’t ready to be on their own though and often he would have to chase them down to bring them back to safety for the night. One lovely evening one of the kits ran further than usual. The kit ran to the river down the gully and cheekily hid in a basket. The hunter, while pulling the kit out, was surprised to find a woman coming up the trail. She had been picking berries by the river and was shocked to see a strange man with a strange animal in her basket. However, he was handsome and had a kind smile and she was lovely with sparkling eyes and that little meeting ended up in a wedding full of love and light. Later that year the squirrels had grown and moved on into the greater forest. What the hunter hadn’t noticed were several seeds buried in the nest. After the squirrels left the hunter took the nest and tossed it aside in a field. Years passed and the squirrels multiplied and became ready food for the locals. The seeds grew into trees, trees new to this area of the world. The hunter, now old but with several strong, healthy sons found the trees to have a wonderful wood that were perfect for making boats and other things. He decided to cultivate the trees and when he died his sons continued the tree farm. The sons became wealthy. They had inherited the kindness and compassion of their father and were always kind to their servants and neighbors. They and their own son’s and their son’s son’s spread out through wealth and travel becoming wise leaders everywhere they went. The family became a legacy of wisdom and peace and all the while the Trickster grinned. When you follow the path of ‘should be’ you will find that often it is the little things that are of the greatest import. A woman went to visit family that lived far far off. When she got there, she stopped in at her Opa's. He was sitting on his porch wearing his usual white robes. She looked at him and her heart swelled at the sight of his kindly, life lined face, and brilliant white hair.
He took her hand and they went for a walk down the meandering path into the brush. After walking in silence for a time he said, 'Child, what do you see?' She looked around for a time and thought, Opa likes thoughtful answers, and finally said, 'Life, I see life.' He nodded sagely. 'What else?' She looked closer and noted amidst the burgeoning bustle of life the decaying flowers past their prime, insects eating other insects, a dead bird rotting in the soil under brush. 'Death Opa, I also see death.' He stopped and looked at her, 'What will you do of this?' She thought of the world she came from, her land with its hustle and bustle and shameful rape/ignorance of Mother Earth. 'I don't know, I don't know what I can do.' 'This then,' he said, 'is something to think on.' I am feeling the need to apologize to my four readers. I haven’t been writing as much lately and, at this time, don’t think I will be anytime soon. I understand there are those who enjoy my blog and other similar sites- the writings give them a sense of connection to deity and others, the writings help them evaluate their own experiences so they may judge their own and have a better understanding, the writings let them experience the views and realities of others. But at this moment my work being the spring board for another’s experience just creates an acid taste in my mouth and my reply to this is, ‘Stop reading the damn blogs! Get out there on your own knees and pray to your own Gods, pound the rocks to your own ancestors, pour the cream and whiskey to your own land vaetter and have your own experiences; stop living vicariously through mine!’ But that’s just the grump in me talking here. I’ve been biting my tongue harder and harder lately, I’m told patience is needed, people open at their own rates, yet at the same time I think ‘but sometimes we all just need a kick in the ass’ as I ice my own bruised bum. I do feel kicked though I actually haven’t been. I’m in an odd space right now hence my declaration of closed shop for a time. You see, I was given some boots a few weeks ago and told, ‘You can wear them when you are ready to walk in them.’ Problem here is I’m not sure where I’m to walk, I’m not even sure I know what ‘to walk’ means. So I have the boots tucked away waiting for when I decide, like an infant, to grab onto the couch and rise up and take a few tentative steps. That’s called walking, isn’t it? I don’t really see a couch to grab onto though. Loki and Heimdallr, my usual go tos, are distant right now. They often play bad cop good cop and right now Loki is the harsher. At this point, other than the rare nudge lasting only a second, I can only tap into either in front of the altars. Loki, hackles up standing straight and demanding more ritual so there I am on my knees being firmly told, ‘Why is it that anytime I ask you to do what you don’t want you decide you didn’t hear me right? You’ve heard me. You know what you are to do. No go on.’ I won’t say I don’t do that, I won’t say I don’t deserve the chiding. Then there is Heimdallr, He’s good cop right now but still distant. ‘It will be fine. You just need to focus on these other things for a while. Now go on, you know what you need to do.’ At least His lines are with a smile. So I go on and try to focus on my other things for now feeling out of sorts and off kilter. For now I’m to focus on my ancestors and a new guide. I won’t say I’m not learning nor that there amazing wonders and joys- it’s just all a bit sideways right now. Either everything is swirling into a confused mess in my mind or its all crystal clear and just hard to accept. I’m not sure which and what’s truly pathetic here is I’m not sure which I want the truth to be. So until I decide or know I’ll just go with this seemingly random flow of synchronicity… but isn’t synchronicity just a nice way of saying, ‘You’ve been set up?’ Probably. I was grumping about being set up to Loki last week (hence His chiding) and then found that very line in a book the other night. Synchronicity again. Yeah- right- let’s just call it what it is. During all this I read about Z Budhapest and her latest adventures and am forced to giggle. I find her ideas so infuriating that it becomes funny. I note that one of her students lives near me and is co-holding an open Beltane ritual. I think to myself I could go, may be interesting to hear her views; she proudly announces on her web profile she is a student of Z’s which in this day is a sheer invitation for commentary. We’ll see, it isn’t a priority for me, I don’t define my womanhood on the fact that I take the intermittent ride on the cotton pony* nor do I wish to get into any verbal bouts over the concept. But anyway, so until things are clearer I feel the need to strip some burdens. I touched base last night with Hela, the Northern Death Goddess. Not a bad thing to do when dealing with ancestral lines. She was kind in Her cool way but did grumble a bit about my having too many obligations. “It’s unreasonable to expect you to do all of this,” She commented almost to Herself. So for now I’ll not worry about this blog. I’ll write when the time comes whether it be tomorrow or three months from now. At this moment I don’t care if I ever write again but I’m sure I will. I’ll wake up some morning with that soft, strangling pressure inside my skull knowing there is something that needs pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. At that time I won’t be able to ease that anxiety till the words have been formed and sent into the world. That pressure is like the need to take a piss with no bathroom, or the feeling one gets during those slow, languid, afternoon lovemaking sessions when for some reason you just can’t orgasm but you know you can’t stop till you do. Finally I’ll have my creative rush and write, I have a ton of ideas, but till the time comes they will sit in their little cocoons and just have to wait. So until then I’m slipping into a routine of multiple meditations a day, reading, and looking at Wyrd through various lenses. I’ll honor my Gods, ancestors, and land wights, and think on the passage of life. I’ll dance, laugh with my children, and drum to the dawn. Maybe that’s what we all should be doing. I stood on the plain before the ancient Disir. She’s from so long ago in the past she has nut brown lined skin and stands before me in a coarse weave of blanketed wrap, her head covered as befits her status. She is elevated, near deity herself, other ancient disirs extend her the highest of honors.
As she steadily looks within me, a tendon strong man of worn face approaches wearing but a shaggy loin cloth. His skin is also nut brown and he has peppered hair and beard. He holds a wooden bowl and without looking she reaches out and it is placed in her hand. She holds the bowl before her. It is full of crisp dried, brown leaves. She takes a few and with the slightest of nods from her I extend my arm and she places them on my hand. She then swirls the other leaves in the bowl and all of them, including the ones in my hand, turn to birds. They rise up in swirling flight with a wild grace and beauty that only nature and magic provides. As they disappear into the sky she looks at me and says, ‘It is time for you to fly.’ * See the I'm a Woman! post This isn’t an educational post per se. I’m no expert on ancestor work and have actually had to be pushed at them. I’ve heard people bemoan adoption issues in regards to ancestor work so I wanted to share my experiences, a case study if you will, to encourage people to go ahead and do the best they can even if the circumstances seem insurmountable. I’ll openly admit I’ve not been the most successful at consistent ancestor veneration. I have a hard time remembering to make the time. I have a ton of other life demands so haven’t read any books on ancestor veneration, the whole topic sadly ends up at the bottom of my priority pile again and again. But even so, and I hope my case bears out, ancestor work can still happen. Good things can be accomplished with a little effort. Don’t be disheartened, you just need to be open and try, hence the picture on success. This case study mentions a few techniques that may or may not work for you, what is important is the effort. See, I have an adopted child. There is no hiding his adoption as he is as African as one can look while I and my other son are pasty white between our European ancestry and home in the land of little sun, the Pacific Northwest. I proudly claim him as my son, he as mine as surely as is my biological child. I’ll call him Hope here, that’s what his name means in his native tongue. This brings its own issues when one deals with faith from the angle of heritage and spirit work. I’ve never been one to hold firm that one’s bloodlines or genetics will determine what Gods are interested in them. There are too many people of mixed races; too many people called to Gods from outside of their cultural heritage that just don’t makes sense within that paradigm. Yet, I found a stumbling block to my little Hope. My Nordic Gods don’t really pay him much heed. Some have an interest in my biological son, but sweet Hope doesn’t seem to elicit more interest than a shrug and a passing glance. I felt a vacancy with him, a hole that I desperately wanted to fill. But life moves on. Hope came from somewhere in the Horn of Africa, found in a refugee town called Nazret AKA Adama in Ethiopia. He was threeish and had already had a rough life. So now he is eight and claims no memories of his past life. He is a happy go lucky kiddo with no thoughts or worries as to his next meal, where he will sleep, or if he or his family will be around the next day. Certainly he isn’t worried about spirituality in any form, he’s still enjoying having his basic needs, both material and emotional, met so I’ve had time to just sit back and think on what to do. I had heard of something called bloodwalking. It triggered some thoughts in me and I spontaneously one night tried something. [NOTE- I did NOT bloodwalk here, that is not what is being described, the term just gave me an idea for something else] I spun Jera backwords and then viewed Hope in my mind – he was sleeping. I could see him in bed, watch his breathing. I zoomed in closer, to his skin, inside into his blood vessels. I found his blood, rode with the blood cells through his arteries. Then, when close enough, I spun Jera faster and it was as though I boomerang’d back. I encountered grey, fuzzy, pain of such magnitude I kept going. Further back, I was able to see his great grandmother but felt the need to continue. I suddenly met a woman as though a brick wall. She was blazing anger, righteous disgust. She had every right, you see I’ve had problems in the past bonding with Hope. It happens with adoptive families at times, it is something one needs to work through and I have been and continue to do so. But she focused on this with an intensity that floored me. She spit at me, cursed at me, raged at me. I tried to reason, I accepted her anger and hate to no avail. This woman reviled me. I stuck it out, I was determined. Then another came forward, she seemed to be ancient. She looked much healthier and was ornamented in beautiful jewelry. She was taller, had clearly had a better life materially than the ancestors closer in to Hope’s current life. She waved the other away telling her ‘that’s enough.’ She spoke with me, she was fair but firm. She would support me with Hope but I had things of my own to do. He needs to learn of his own heritage. This confused me a bit as no one really knows Hope’s heritage. Ethiopia has over 80 recognized languages and many more dying out as genocide and starvation continues in parts of the land and that’s only if Hope even came from Ethiopia. He likely could be Eritrean, the whole area is full of refugees. She urged me to start by finding a Goddess who “could be known as The Great Sky Goddess.” She said beginning there “would be a start.” So I left with at least a tip. For me anyway, I’ve found I often don’t get full detailed answers. It’s probably my learning style. To find the answers to my tips I end up casting a broader information net which has always ultimately been useful and provided a broader foundational base of knowledge. I did some searching, asked around, checked archeology, etc. I found something that seemed almost too obvious. I moved on, continuing my search. During this time though I continued to find myself thinking back to the pain I had felt in those first generations of Hope’s. Heathens don’t seem to be as heavy into working with troubled dead or healing ancestral lines, at least not openly, but I strongly felt I needed to go back. If anything I had to let them know Hope was safe, was loved. So I did. I had finished meditating on Perthro one day and spontaneously reached out. Directly from my journal with only my son’s name being changed: Then went back and was able to get in touch with Hope’s mom!! She was initially shocked and outraged that someone else was raising her boy. She had so much grief. I promised he would be cared for, I showed her what he looked like and that he knew love. I told her she would always be his mother but he was my child also. She was worried about him, she imaged me a bowl of rice (the refugee food really made me think she is his mother, not much further back). I said yes, he has all the food he wants. She seemed a bit relieved, still with grief but better. She reached out and we held hands briefly. She was so emaciated- it was hard and I cried. My journal entry doesn’t really detail the emotion in any way. Such pain, such bewilderment. Such fear in her eyes for her son. I knew there was far more work to do in this. After a few weeks I went to an ancestor circle. If you ever have the opportunity to go to one I fully suggest going. The one I’ve gone to is simple really, someone drums and people seek out their ancestors. We take a break, talk about the experiences should we choose to, and do it again. A good group is a safe, conducive environment to this work. So I went knowing I would be focusing on Hope’s ancestors. I initially went to an ancient ancestress of mine to thank her for some help she has given previously. I also asked for her support in working with Hope’s line. She smiled, basically said I was doing fine but then did introduce me to a man who I believe to be four generations back. He showed me a village, told me many there had encountered starvation. He gave me images of Hope’s father and how he died- violently with a bag over his head. The word I got was that he was a wastrel, a good for nothing. But the ancestor then looked at me sadly and said, ‘It was a time when many were lost.’ We then had a break but I’ll remember that line and image for a long time. When the break was over I went back to Hope’s mother. When I got to her there was anger again, she aggressively confronted me, I actually thought she was going to hit me. I had brought a mixed bean assortment as an offering, she took it and calmed a bit. I reinforced to her that Hope was and always would be her child, but he was mine also. I reinforced he had food, clothes, and love. I told her he went to school and that stopped her seething rage. She looked at me, ‘School? He learns?’ I ended up sitting with her on the dirt, squatting in front of a jimmy rigged cooking element with a pan of rice from which she was eating. I shared with her pictures of her son, him laughing, eating at the table, doing homework. I showed her the ancestor altar we have with a picture of an African woman to represent not only his ancestors (her) but mine from ancient times. She saw images of my other son and asked who he was, I told her and showed her how they love each other, how they play and argue as any siblings do. I’ll never forget the wonder on her face, the sense of relief I am slowly gaining from her, the kinship we are beginning to tentatively share in our love for this boy. The group took another break, it was good as I could tell my time with her was done. I was truly not sure I was ready for another session but the rest of the group wanted to so I went. Well, not quite. I actually just decided to meditate, I’d made enormous headway and am often one to count good as good. But I found myself in an odd surrounding facing a large statue of an animal like woman. I was surprised and as I looked up I noticed sitting on one of the statues raised arms a woman staring at me. She was beautiful but almost in an animist way. She wasn’t animal, but wasn’t human either. She looked at me aggressively and jumped down from the statue with movements as feral as a cat. Striding forward rapidly she stared me in the eyes and demanded, ‘What right do you have to the child?’ I stopped a moment, she was imposing and I realized that to her I may have no right but I answered, ‘I feed him, cloth him, and love him. That is my right.’ She stared at me intently, almost scowling. I’m looking at her realizing this was deity, this was a make or break moment. She softened and I realized that though I didn’t see them, I sensed wings or cloak or air or sky. Something about her. She glinted a bit, one could see sparkles or subtle twinkles about her. She then asked if I wanted to know of the Sky and I nodded and she took me to her breast and I felt the sky in a way I’m not yet able to describe. It was grand and broad and swirling and encircling and comforting and awe-invoking and I finally stepped away from this Mother, from Nuit, and She looked at me and said, ‘I will take your son in my nurturing embrace.’ She asked me of how I would teach him of Her, I told Her and She was satisfied. Then She instructed me to teach him a water ritual which I will share with you, reader. Outside is best but inside is fine. You take a bit of water in your hands, only a drop is needed. Raise it high in an arc being thankful to the sky for this bounty. As you drop a bit on your head you recognize the cycle of water, nourishing the earth and its inhabitants and then being taken back up into the Sky’s embrace only to begin this cycle again. I’ve realized that this has enormous symbolism and meaning. There is a beautiful way to this that only takes a moment of thought to embark upon. I feel better about my son Hope. I didn’t even realize how much better till the next day when I was struck in emotion and gratitude for what had happened. His ancestors know he is alive, well, and loved. There is more work to do with them, far more, but they will be there for him, they will understand his life should he ever desire to reach out to them. Hope also now has a Goddess he can turn to should he choose. Nuit will look over him and pour nourishment into his heart and his soul if I do my job and guide him appropriately into knowing Her. I can’t rest on my laurels now, there is still much to do, but I’ll keep trying. What’s important about this story is to realize that in adoptive issues there can be pain. There can be confusion and anger that needs to be addressed with a firm delicacy. It isn’t easy- there will be tears. But it can be done. When one adopts or is adopted, there is a joining of ancestral lines, whether willing or reluctant. This has to be recognized and acknowledged. I want to thank Laura P for answering a few questions for me as I sought out The Great Sky Goddess and her referral to the final person I wish to thank. In gratitude I will briefly mention Laura’s book: Weaving Memory: A Guide to Honoring the Ancestors and it can be found here: Lulu
Most of all I want to thank Queenmother Imakhu Mu Nefer-t. She was willing to spend her valuable time with a perfect stranger and gave me wonderful support, encouragement, and advice. Her sites are here: Queen Mother Imakhu or here: Akeru Nu Afrakan Ministries I read Elizabeth V's post on Fear and was going to just reply there. But then I realized I was going to start sounding pedantic, going off on my own tangent about fear. So I opted to post here instead.
See, fear is a hard item to deal with. Some fears are justified but many others, when we look at them, are irrational. Loki told me long ago to look at innocence. Not the 'I'm not guilty' innocence, but a childlike innocence. I'm supposed to write on the topic, I've put it off for fear of neglecting other duties, for fear of digging too deep within myself and gaining understanding of what blocks me from my own joys, I've put it off for fear of knowing and needing change. Children, raised in good homes, tend to not have the deep fears us adults can grow and cultivate. 'It's an aquired taste' as quoted from the Silence of the Lambs- that's how I feel many of us deal with our fears. We continue to aquire these tastes because darn it, fear is comfortable! We grow into adulthood and begin collecting our 'grown-up' fears like hoarders. They fence us in, make us feel safe and warm in our own little box which we then call our ingard. It's the not being afraid that is so very difficult. It's the setting it aside and getting used to living with an adult's version of childlike abandon that is so hard. The speaking out without malice as we once did; the acceptance of the new as only children can. We grow up, shed our childlike ways and in the doing so incorporate fear into our lives. We've forgotten how to look at the world through meaningful innocence- the sort that whispers to us, 'I can do this. Let's try something new. Let's be open and honest and kind and fun-loving. Let's dance in the sunlight in the park- twirl around and who cares what others think!' E is right. Fear is a mind-killer. Maybe a dose of meaningful innocence is the salve. Her post is here: http://twilightandfire.wordpress.com/2012/03/16/pagan-blog-project-fear/ I wanted to honor Tyr for a friend of mine the other day. During my morning devotion I let Loki know, He nodded but immediately deferred me to Heimdallr and went on with His other issues.
During my devotion to Heimdallr I mentioned I was going to honor Tyr later. He looked at me questioningly. I did meet Tyr quite a few months ago via Heimdallr, we had discussed Fenrir and I was to think on a few things and come back to him. I just hadn’t been ready yet. I told Heimdallr my intent wasn’t the conversation waiting, I wanted to honor Tyr and pray for the strength of a friend in need. He nodded. I started on my adorations but He cut me short. I had an appointment and he told me I needed to ensure I had plenty of time to get ready. He then held out his hand. I took it and went through the swirling grey I’ve grown accustomed to and found myself on a rough, rocky ledge near the ocean. ‘Another beach,’ I mentioned. ‘Yes, ‘ He smiled, ‘it’s a border.’ He led me along the ledge, jumping down rock edges traveling along and edging closer to the water. Usually He just walks in His easy, long legged pace and I have to keep up but this time at every ledge He turned and helped me down. I grinned, teasingly asked Him why He was being such a gentleman, ‘I like having you in my arms.’ I blushed and we continued on. We eventually came near the water . He stopped and made a small hand motion; in front of me a glowing Tiewaz appeared on the rocks. I knew what was happening, our Nordic gatekeeper Heimdallr had opted to facilitate a meet rather than just have me honor Tyr on my own. I walked forward on my own and saw Tyr walking towards me in the distance. Tyr looks very much the warrior to me. He has scabbards and leather and hides, His body is muscular and scarred. He has a sense of firmness tempered with the kind of gentleness that only comes from great strength. We met and said hello. I told Him why I was there, that I hadn’t come to disturb him but to make a petition for a friend for strength and comfort. We talked briefly on this, I thanked Him and turned to go but He stopped me. He said, ‘I can see Fenrir’s marks on you.’ I looked down. I have some mixed feelings on this. Loki and Heimdallr have both directed me to Fenrir at times and I know I will be working with Him more. I know this, at least here on Midgard, to be controversial. He put His hand on my shoulder and said, ‘It’s alright. I spent much time with Fenrir.’ He looked at His stump. ‘I’ve made my own sacrifices to Him, looks as though you have your own cutting to do.’ I began to tear, there are some emotions there. He sat me down on the rocks and we looked at the water. He put an arm around my shoulders and kindly said, ‘Everybody forgets, or hasn’t realized, that in order to bind Him, in order to know what to sacrifice to ensure He caused no harm, I had to know Him. We had to have a rapport.’ He paused a moment to let the words sink in, ‘In order to do what needed to be done, I had to love Him.’ ------------------------- Fenrir’s role is typically just seen as one of the monster, the ravener that needs be bound and forgotten. We must remember that mythology has messages on many levels. Every one of us has a small Fenrir within, we all have our dark spots. To just ignore they exist, to deny those patches within does not do ourselves justice, respect, nor love. We all have internal rages, jealousies, and episodes of lonely despair. They are a part of us just as Fenrir is a part of the Nordic mythology. To manage our own tempests we must accept these troubles. We must develop a rapport with them, we must embrace and love them, in order to know what needs to be sacrificed to manage and control the beast within. Many think spirit-work to be glamorous. It isn’t. It’s work. It’s grief, sweat, and tears. Joys do come but they come at a price. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and write. This one I give to you- raw and unedited from my own failing seethe. They are Ever. I need you to know before you read this that I can love. Don’t think I’m writing that I can’t. I know how to love. My love is like the flutter of dove wings held to breast, like the thunderous roar of a lion, or the softest footsteps of a mouse. I was once told that I am too small for my love. I can love. But, haven’t you ever thought that we humans can only go so far? I mean no matter how much work we do, time we spend, sweat and tears we pour, that we can only go so far? Our human forms fail us, our meat brains just can’t transcribe that which is just beyond. Haven’t you ever stood before Him in all glory and felt that boundary as though a glass wall? We can love and merge and join and open but there comes a point when we have to secede. Then, we are forced to just yearn knowing that there is more, there is always closer and more; it is just right there, so close and ever so far. See, there is a special kind of haunting. It’s the haunting of the almost is. That almost is, that almost reaching the deity just beyond the glass, that glass we are eternally running to. And running from. The almost is haunts. And that’s when our hearts cry out in the night, that’s when we ram our fists into our pillows, that’s when we grieve. For it is then we face our own mortality. They are Ever, we are but the Now. Picture from Lenscratch. |
SalenaI asked a plant how to feel joy, how to receive and give love. She said with such bliss and light, 'Just feel the sun'. Blogs of NoteSome of the more popular blog posts. Archives
November 2013
Categories
All
|