SOTEIRA
Lady of the lambent flame
Lights the way ahead again
Keeper of the gilded keys
Guards the gate inside of me
Lead me down the darkened way
Watch the door so I may stay
Teach me how to hold the light
To guide the others in the night
Take my hand so that I may
Safely step towards the day
Changes happen, this I know
From the time I spent below
So now I rise with head held high
And turn my face to sea and sky
I feel your earth beneath my feet
And every serving step is sweet.
I’ve been reading a lot of Facebook posts recently, as you do, and also been taken to task myself on one occasion for saying the wrong thing in real life and having it misconstrued. Time to explore the sudden explosion of Heathenry, methinks.
I am a member of Asatru UK. Anything written in this blog DOES NOT constitute a universal view of heathenry, nor does it represent the view of AUK. If you want to know what they think, go and ask THEM. This blog represents MY views. OK? Am I covered? 🙂
There’s a TV show out there called Vikings. I noticed around this sort of time last year it became very popular to be into all things Norse, including mead, drinking out of mead horns, hailing everything, re-enacting, dressing up, dressing down… a friend of mine had been selling Norse and Viking style gifts and accessories in this magickal town before this stuff got trendy, mind you.
When I noticed this, I was a priestess of 30 years’ standing at the time dedicated to Hekate, the Lady of the Crossroads. Investigating Vodou and what that faith holds sacred – ancestors and the crossroads. Burning a lot of candles, meditating a whole lot.
Apart from my propensity for breeding with Viking stock (look at my lovely matching kids, blonde dads in a row), I’ve never had much truck with Viking stuff. All I really saw was shouting, axe throwing, historically inaccurate horned helmets, obviously the tales of raping and pillaging (urgh) and generally stayed away from the re-enactors because it generally seemed like LARP but without the giggles. And I only know that because I know some fun people who LARP. I have been raising kids for 27 years, when have I had freedom to develop a LARP habit?
Last year, after a magickal call out to the universe, I met someone and fell in love. Hook, line and sinker. Someone whose brain speaks to me, and who at last had no problem with my strange urges to go off into the woods, sit and speak to spirits in a field, that sort of thing. Who claimed influence by Norse gods in his life. At this I cringed a bit. How trendy, for a not-very-trendy person. Filed it at the back of my head, as you do. Went back to bed (oh, that wonderful first flush of love!)
A Wednesday (Woden’s Day) afternoon, as I struggled to manage social time with a Christian friend of some 25 years who is being a tad born-again, I noticed the street outside become very quiet. Too quiet. No birds. And it FELT odd. I went outside, to find my bins, previously neatly stowed outside the house, had been ripped apart and thrown down the street. An empty, silent street.
Discussing this later, I was told with a laugh, “Oh, I guess Loki has been about then!”
I found this rather trite and annoying. Why would a real god bother with me, actually? What have I missed?
So, instead of going off to watch Ragnar Lothbrok and his wife kill people on TV, I went off and did my research. I read the Prose Edda. I read a great translation of the Poetic Edda by Carolyne Larrington. I read and researched Edred Thorsson, AKA Stephen Flowers, once a respected Rune Master type, now looking a bit bonkers as many spawned by the 60s and 70s New Age explosion often do. But I saw a pattern of Norse spirituality being seen as worthy of study. Some of these books are not cheap, some of these researchers come from ASNaC (Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic) Studies, at Cambridge University where my very clever partner studied science-y type things.
I learned that Snorri Sturlusson was no better a writer than someone on the Daily Fail. I learned that most of the Norse mythology comes from one or two poems. The world view was outlined in Voluspa, a poem which has a witch (or volva) predicting Ragnarok and the end of the gods. I found out that runes seem to have been little more than grafitti back in the day, and that records were mostly destroyed when Christianity moved West. By the time Sturlusson wrote, he was writing for a Christianized king!
So I’ve done a bit of homework. I liked the sound of some of these gods.
I don’t really “do” gods, that’s the problem. I’m a bit of a scientist. I look up and see the sky, and know that it is a bubble of gases around a comparatively insignificant planet that somewhat accidentally has the right combination of properties to have allowed LIFE. I also know most of what they call science is conjecture, based upon obscure mathematical puzzles which presumably look like more than incomprehensible squiggles to the people who read them. 21st century real life is mostly based upon the probabilities of a reality which is encoded in such squiggles. PROBABILITY.
So…. A lot of science which we take for granted is actually educated guesswork. And the gods come from a fragment of a story. Like all the other gods, the whole earth over. With lots of made up bits to fill in the gaps. Like science. Science and magick used to be the same thing, did you know?
Am I the only one who has reached the conclusion that there are no definitive answers to this equation?
Online I have been watching people struggle to decide if what they are doing is “proper” heathenry, “proper” Norse. I’ve watched some people tell them how to do it, how not to do it, and I’ve seen a lot of slating of the Wiccan community, alongside slating of the Far Right. Sometimes in the same sentence.
My take on it is this: whatever you believe, there is NO EXCUSE for using your beliefs to justify the harm of another, even just with words. Not Moslem, not White Supremacist, not Heathen slating Wiccan. This is rubbish. There is not definitive proof of the gods, and there is not useful history to tell us how they were worshipped. Not the Norse gods, anyway. Regardless of how these beliefs may have been used to control people in the past, even the parts we do know about, OUR JOB NOW IS TO SUPPORT EACH OTHER as we individually struggle towards a group concensus of beliefs, whatever they may be, and whether your view is the same as that of your neighbour. We are not living in caves, we are in the 21st century with language, resources, internet, reasonably secure homes. People from the very poor or war-torn nations are not arguing about the best way to raise a horn of mead. They are wondering if they can keep their kids from starving!
In essence, this argument about what is right and wrong heathenism is a privilege we in the West are able to indulge as we live in our comparatively wealthy societies. Some of us are poor, I am one. But life is nothing like as harsh as it would have been with limited resources and at the risk of the elements, in the way the Norse people might have experienced. Or as thousands do in Africa, right now.
So far, the agreement seems to be to honour ancestors, house and land wights, and the gods. That’s the religion bit. We have no detailed instructions on how this was done a thousand years ago. But we are not in the year 1017. We are in 2017. So we should do what we think is an appropriate way of honouring. I tend to cook, or make things. It requires effort and concentration, themselves a gift in these busy times, when it would be much easier to grab something from a supermarket. A thousand years ago, perhaps something made by someone else would have had greater value than the humble home-baked loaf, in which case it would be an offering of greater value – back then.
If we have experience of other, newer faiths, such as Wicca, then why shouldn’t we incorporate elements of ritual practice from those faiths too? By saying they are rubbish, the actions and efforts of others, maybe even some of our ancestors, are actively demeaned. Ritual is whatever speaks to your unconscious and your subconscious, these are the parts of us that are below the surface, hidden in much the same way the gods are. In plain sight, like any mystery.
What is the “right way” is, and always has been, entirely subjective. If someone is looking for a leader, a gothi to follow, then I’m sure there are plenty of people who could fit the bill and enjoy having followers. But, as your practice is prescribed by another, why not just go back to church? The buildings are nice and big, they too dish out wine (and sometimes coffee and cake after a service). And they tell you how to talk to God. If that’s what you want, go for it.
If you want to be individual, different, out of the herd, then why ask what the proper way is? Any gytha worth her salt would support your efforts to find the right way for YOU to talk to YOUR gods, YOUR ancestors, and the wights YOU choose to honour. And help you share that with others if that’s what they want.
It’s no longer about sheep being led, but about being your own shepherd.
Skal!
Issa xx
Be nice… That clip from Roadhouse… you know the one. Watch, listen 🙂
Funny old week this has turned out to be. Let’s see….
Picked up an ear and throat lurgy at weekend event, so felt a bit bleurgh. Ibuprofen and brain fog.
Saw a public shocker of someone I vaguely know organising a music event and losing out to the emergency tune of £50,000… and it being splatted all over the press. Someone started a JustGiving page to help him recoup.
Saw a private Facebook status from a friend apologising for not being superhuman and struggling to manage an event, esoteric rather than musical…. And being inundated with offers of help and hugs, some of which may or may not be helpful.
I’ve been slated for writing reviews with incorrect facts, over which I had little control…. Slated, not informed, I add.
Discovered a fairly close acquaintance/friend had a bit of a meltdown at the weekend, is currently battening down the hatches, and doesn’t want to respond to offers of help. I can truly see why.
I decided to batten down my own hatches, take the pills, drink the cocoa, back out of arrangements, and blog a bit. It takes courage to stand up and acknowledge my wild days had kind of ceased, the rock n roll had rolled off, leaving tumbleweed in its wake. I decided blogging in much the same vein as I did semi professionally in the past might fill my time, help me use different writing styles, and maybe even put me back in touch with people I haven’t seen for a long time.
One or two facts were inaccurate. Two strangers were publicly scathing on Facebook where I shared the post. Excuse me, who are you again? Oh, someone in authority… errrrrmmm…. Nope. Manners are free, mind you. Just saying. I made a couple of comments, then removed the post. Sensible.
Comment was made on the actual blog, by a person about whom the mistake had been made. Well, he looked like someone else, and when my friend approached him by the someone else’s name, he didn’t see fit to correct her. So, I made incorrect reference in the blog. Which has now been obviously edited, and with an apology. This therefore means the original person mentioned may not have had “a lot of work done”, nor may he have “been on something”. It wasn’t him – hence he seemed a bit odd. For himself. Or, the himself we thought he was but he wasn’t. Ouch…
The other mistake involved information about the origin of a band whose website didn’t work, so research to check was impossible. I forgive myself for getting that wrong!
What I’m really looking at in this post today is other folks’ attitudes – to the efforts individuals make. It’s better to be talked about than not, if you are a rock band, so a review is ALWAYS good. Someone thought enough of the performance to post a review FOR FREE, and let the whole world see it. People who have done nothing themselves get angry about inaccuracies. They could, of course, have politely pointed out my mistakes, but no.
Regarding the event which was so financially crippling, the first obvious comment is that the event manager should have delegated tasks effectively so he wasn’t doing everything himself. Yeah sure, but who do you delegate to if people say they want your event but don’t buy tickets? Or say they will provide something, in this case hotels providing rooms, but then pull the rug and fail to provide what they promise? When people and celebrities are booked to an event like this, there is no choice but to go on. That organiser is a superstar.
A friend of mine has been juggling work commitments (which feed his family) with organising a series of events in which he had a partner, but now does not, as the partner had to honour other commitments. His level of apology was incredible, yet he has done nothing wrong. The offers of help are brilliant, but only if people pull through and HELP.
My other colleague has a ton of responsibility for the creation of an event, lots of side projects, plus work. And simply cannot delegate jobs which require his specialist skills. He has made the right choice not to answer messages, tell everyone to go away for a bit while he regroups. So of course I messaged him, but actually didn’t expect an answer….. Good for him.
I get a real sense that autumn is approaching. Old projects are becoming overwhelming, new projects meet with a sense of underwhelm. People say they want to help each other, but very often don’t. It’s the mixed blessing of social media allowing people to offer help in a heartbeat, with a few clicks, rather than looking to their own commitments and deciding whether they are actually able to help or not.
Offers of help are great, but don’t offer unless you are prepared to go the distance and actually do the helpful thing. If you commit, stay committed. Right now people are seeing the fruits of their labours struggle to ripen on the tree, and they need people to either help tend the orchard, or go off to the pub and leave them to do it. Accept these people can’t join you in the pub right now, the orchard needs attention. If you say you can be there in a fortnight to pick the apples, then SHOW UP.
I hope that people who are struggling with their harvest workload find good reliable people to delegate tasks to. I hope the guy who is out of pocket recoups some of his money and has better help, support and ticket sales next time, like people are promising. I hope my colleague can stay away from all the messages but also get help to organise the down time he so obviously needs.
I hope that the people who were so quick to criticise my work value my apologies and edits, and value the time and effort I spent writing the articles at all. You see, I’m just as guilty as anyone of overcommitting myself, pitching too high, putting the pressure on. For me, the sky is really the limit, even if I run into clouds on the way.
Don’t ever let the clouds rain on your parade. And remember to simply be good to each other.
And me. Cos this is my blog.
Lots of love.
Issa xx
I was just sitting here musing, wondering whatever made me want to write in the first place. I remember drawing pictures at my first school, and writing explanations as to who the people were, or what the back story of the image was. (I also remember trying out every colour of crayon in a scribble to find out, just like paint, one ends up with a kind of grim, khaki-brown mess).
For as long as I can remember, every image or experience has a back story, a context, an individual place in time which gives it its relevance. Some people think in terms of lists or pictures…. and I very often think in pictures myself. But almost immediately there is a caption, not often funny, to underline the image in my mind and fix it.
If someone says “bluebells”, I immediately see a picture of a bluebell wood.
Which is a picture I got from my mum.
Which my stepdad liked.
Because they walked in one together not long after they met.
So it means….
Love.
Discovery.
Life changes.
Possibilities.
How do I draw a spider diagram on a blog post???? The page in my head is already full of text bubbles, linked by wiggly lines, each bubble containing a thought or feeling, words which immediately link to their own stories, either about my past or someone else’s story. Words are how we paint the picture.
No, I do not know whose dog that is. But I wish I did. But I can, for no especial reason, assume it’s a “he”, his name is Sheppy, and he lives on a nice middle class estate in a 3 bedroomed, detached house with mum and dad, Brenda and Tom. They are of retirement age. During the week, Brenda tends to meet up with friends, and Tom potters around the shed and garden, so Sheppy tends to hang out with him, chewing bits of wood, pooing behind Brenda’s roses when Tom isn’t looking, and being treated to a digestive when Tom has his cup of tea.
Brenda tends to take Sheppy for lacklustre morning walks round the estate, “emptying the dog”, as she puts it. At the weekend, though, things are a bit different. Although, of course, Sheppy has no concept of “weekend”, rather he knows that some days he has to wait longer before being let out for a wee, and Brenda’s boots are left in the hall as she sits in a floral housecoat, has an extra cup of tea and reads the paper. A little later the boots are put on, and Sheppy knows he will get to go in THE CAR. He has no idea what this is, other than a carpeted box which jerks and rumbles and smells funny and makes his head a bit wobbly, but has openings where he can hang his tongue out and it’s SO WINDY and he makes his smiley face at other people passing by in strange metal boxes and they wave.
Then THE CAR stops and he is let out, WITHOUT A LEAD. And he can run! And there are smells and tastes and more smells and the wind and piles of crunchy leaves or wet grass and mud to roll in and maybe a stream to splash in and layers and layers of sweet fresh outdoors-ness and look, these flowers are like the carpet at home in the 3 bedroomed detached house where Brenda and Tom live, but so much thicker and more beautiful, so he runs up the path in the middle rather than squash all the flowers and make his paws feel sticky and…
“Shep! Sheppy!” Brenda’s voice.
Maybe it’s Brenda taking the picture above. But it’s more likely Tom. He is quite the whizz with his camera. This is the moment.
That’s what my head does with its pictures.
As a teenager, I submitted a descriptive piece for a bit of homework. I can remember none of the details, except it was for English class and I was describing something about a character. I must have been imagining myself as someone else, how I would characterise myself, make myself real with a piece of text. Well, these days I’d wear whatever the hell I wanted, clotheswise. Whichever character I chose to be, clothes wise I would dress accordingly. Clothes-wise, though, I prefer to wear whatever takes my fancy on any given day, regardless of the character I portray.
I only have a picture in my head of one of 38 written sheets of descriptive story. And the only bit I can see is…
“Clotheswise, I…”
And, like on this very blog page as I type, the word was underlined in RED. With adjacent red-pen comment:
“This is not a word!”
The spell checker on this blog offered me, as displayed above, clothes wise, clothes-wise and, interestingly, clotheshorse. So why, if clotheshorse can be a word (?????) can clotheswise NOT be a word? Who makes those choices? Who told my English teacher it was not a word, back in the days of the unwieldy thesaurus and no spellchecker in sight? On reflection, the word as I wrote it feels unwieldy on the tongue, clothes wise is more clipped and makes more sense, if considering “wise” to mean “in the way of”. But in actual fact, the idea of clothes being intrinsic to a character did not sit well with me even then. Who cares what the character wears? Surely the only thing that matters is who they are, how they act and react, what they think, feel, choose to do. I’d spent 36 pages exploring all those things. Clotheswise, I couldn’t have cared less.
I’m approaching a weekend where I will be at a music event which harks right back to that young point in my life. I’ve been trying to select garments to wear which will fit me for my character, for the role I will be fulfilling. But I’m no longer that person, and the things in my wardrobe have changed. And why should I dress as anything other than I bloody well desire? AarGH! Clotheswise, it appears I have NOTHING TO WEAR!
Sheppy found a muddy puddle and needs a bath.
Brenda and Tom will have a nice casserole from the slow cooker after they have washed the dog, and Brenda will spend the evening doing the crossword, which she really enjoys. Tom will try and get his new fangled camera to download pictures of the woods onto his new fangled computer.
Made up words were fine for Thomas Hardy. In fact, unwieldy, made up words were often used to describe his unwieldy emotions, to excellent effect. Case rested.
Issa's Vista 