Odin Versus Woden

Years ago, when I was a fairly new Heathen following a mostly Icelandic/Scandinavian-flavored path, someone I encountered online suggested that my fulltrui Odin and His Anglo-Saxon counterpart Woden might be two entirely separate Gods. I scoffed at this notion at the time, and still don’t think it’s literally true, but as I’ve become more involved with Anglo-Saxon Heathenry (having ultimately switched over to that path myself) I’ve come to appreciate why some people might come to that conclusion. Personally, I think it’s more a matter of how the Gods choose to reveal Themselves to different cultures and at different periods in history. There are limits to this, of course; like most Heathens I am a hard polytheist and I’m not suggesting Woden is Mercury, no matter what the Romans might have thought (and even though the spheres of those two Gods do overlap quite a bit). In my opinion Odin is Wodan is Woden—one and the same individual. The differences many people—including myself—have observed are due to the fact that He chose to emphasize different aspects of His very complex nature over others when dealing with the Anglo-Saxons and the people of the Migration Era than He did in, say, Viking-Age Scandinavia. This is similar to how you or I might emphasize different aspects of our personalities at the office during the workday than we might at home around the dinner table, or at a book club meeting on a Saturday. All of the Heathen Deities exhibit some of these cultural variations; it’s only to be expected that we would see more of them in Woden because He does, after all, have over 200 names. He adores disguises—a point which is attested to again and again in the lore, not least of all by Grimnir, Hooded or Masked One, being one of those many names.

What, then, are some of these cultural differences?

- Viking Warlord versus Wandering Shaman-King

The Viking image of Odin (which is still prevalent throughout much of Heathenry today) as the ruthless and battle-crazed warlord who is willing to sacrifice everyone and everything in His preparations for Ragnarok is entirely absent from Anglo-Saxon lore. One reason for this is that the Viking-age Scandinavians—especially in places such as Norway and Sweden, where Odin was a popular deity—led a much more warlike existence than their Anglo-Saxon cousins had several centuries earlier. In 8^th and 9^th century Scandinavia, men divided their time between farming (which came under the patronage of Thor and Freyr) and sailing off on trading and raiding expeditions (in other words, going “a-Viking”), both of which were in Odin’s domain. Sacrificing to Odin for victory, a practice which is cited among the Germanic tribes as early as Tacitus, reached its height during the Viking Era, by the end of which time the predominant image of Odin is that of the splendidly armed and helmeted king restlessly drilling His troops at Valhalla, and betraying His mortal champions to their premature deaths in order to swell the numbers of His undead armies. During the century or so prior to the year 1,000, millennial hysteria—inspired by the growing influence of Christianity—crept in to give this idea a new twist: Ragnarok, the great battle at the end of time, during which the Gods would fight against the Giants, and most of the Gods—including Odin—would perish.

In Anglo-Saxon lore, by contrast, there is no mention at all of Ragnarok or even of Valhalla. Furthermore, there is no mention of Loki, who in the Icelandic Eddas (both poetic and prose) enjoyed a starring role as the instigator of this apocalyse. Woden was still a popular Deity in Anglo-Saxon England (judging by the numbers of place-names, perhaps even the most popular) and was still regarded as a king—as well as the ancestor of kings, listed in royal genealogies even today—but where in Scandinavia He was seen as Asgard’s militant warlord, in England He was instead regarded as first among equals. (A model which tended to be followed—whether consciously or not—by later English monarchs.) Rather than constant war-mongering, His primary occupation in Anglo-Saxon England was wandering the countryside (as well as the worlds) in pursuit of wisdom and magical power—of which His well-known ordeal to obtain the runes, the mysteries underlying all of creation, is but one of many examples. In my own personal gnosis, however, He still bears the responsibility for preserving Eormensyl (the World Tree, the Anglo-Saxon equivalent to Yggdrasil) and Middle Earth (Midgard). This is a duty He takes very seriously and for which He enlists the aid of those humans He calls to His service. He is still the great strategist, and can be cold and ruthless when needed; yet there is a considerably greater spark of warmth in Him, as well as humor, than is traditionally seen in the Norse Odin, and bloodlust takes a back seat to craftiness. In this, He bears a considerable resemblance to Tolkien’s wizard Gandalf—a character who was, in fact, based on Him. (I’m not saying here that my personal image of Woden is based solely on Gandalf; far from it, I’ve seen Him—in my own Work—in a number of guises as well as at an assortment of different ages, ranging from the defiant young man who slew Ymir to the robust king in His prime to the wise Old Man. But Tolkien definitely drew a great deal of his inspiration for Gandalf from Woden Himself.)

- The Wild Hunt

Balancing out the absence of Ragnarok from Anglo-Saxon lore is the addition of another role for Woden: that of leader of the Wild Hunt. This concept was not entirely unknown in Scandinavia (in Sweden, for example, the Wild Hunt is also known as Odens jagt or “Woden’s Hunt,”) but the Hunt itself is mentioned far more often in German and Old English sources. Branston, in The Lost Gods of England, speculates that Woden—whose name is possibly derived from the same Indo-European root as Latin ventus and Sanskrit vata, both meaning “wind”—may have originated as a deified version of the German storm giant Wode who led a procession of the restless dead through the winter skies. (I don’t necessarily agree that Woden is a deified version of anything; He is a God, in and of Himself. However, it may well be that He was first experienced by people as a storm spirit. Whatever the case, as late as 1127 the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle reported that in February of that year “many people both saw and heard a whole pack of huntsmen in full cry…[with] black horses and black bucks while their hounds were pitch black with staring hideous eyes.” Woden’s role as leader of this unruly band is supported by the fact that the Old English identified Him with the Roman Mercury because both Gods were psychopomps, or leaders of the souls of the dead. A 10^th century homily from Kemble’s Solomon and Saturn speaks of Mercury (whose “name when translated to Danish is Odinn”) as the highest of the Heathen Gods: “at the cross-roads/they offered him booty/and to the high hills/brought him victims to slay.” Variant names given the Wild Hunt in English folklore—such as “Herlathing,” after a mythical King Herla—are often found to relate directly back to Woden as well; it has been suggested, for example, that Herla relates to Herjan, one of Woden’s epithets associated with His role as a leader of dead warriors.

- Woden the Healer

Another possible etymology of Woden’s name connects it with the Latin vates and Irish faith, both of which designate a bard. This explanation fits, considering Woden’s association with words and language in all the cultures that revered Him. In Gaul, however, the meaning of vates is closer to that of “wizard”; Strabo notes that the vates are “offerers of sacrifice and interpreters of nature,” and Saxo Grammaticus—interestingly—refers to Odinn as vates. Towards the beginning of his Ynglinga Saga, Snorri Sturluson gives an impressive list of Odin’s magical abilities, including shape-shifting, astral projection, and the stealing of luck or wit from one person in order to give it to another (a non-oracular manifestation of seidhr). In the surviving Anglo-Saxon lore, however, most of the evidence of Wodan as a wizard connects Him with healing magic. For example, the Nine Herbs Charm, recorded in the 10^th century manuscript Lacnunga, tells us that:

A serpent came crawling (but) it destroyed no one
When Woden took nine twigs of glory (AS wuldortanas),
(and) then struck the adder so that it flew into nine (pieces)

Most scholars consider glory-twigs, or wuldortanas, to be slips of wood with runes cut into them (possibly representing the nine herbs mentioned in the charm); these call to mind Tacitus’ account of the use of runes by the early Germanic tribes and let us know that the Anglo-Saxons did indeed know of Woden’s connection with the runes. (As well as the method by which He won them, alluded to in the reference to His connection with the crossroads—a common site for hangings—in Kemble, cited above.) Where the Anglo-Saxon accounts differ is that they also solidly connect Woden with magical and medicinal herbalism. The Nine Herbs Charm, for example, names chervil and fennel as:

those herbs the wise lord created,
holy in the heavens, when he was hanging;
He confirmed and sent (them) into the seven worlds.

The “wise lord” in this passage is clearly a better match for Woden than for Christ (the accounts of whose crucifixion in Anglo-Saxon sources often sound a great deal more like Woden’s ordeal on the Tree), and the seven worlds refer to the fact that in Anglo-Saxon lore seven worlds are named instead of nine (the elemental worlds of fire and ice being omitted). In any case, though, the meaning of the charm is clear: the magician seeks to align himself with Woden’s considerable powers of herbal healing. This reading is reinforced by the 2^nd Merseburg Charm (from 10^th century Germany) which relates how Phol (presumably Bealdor, or Balder) and Wodan went riding one day, and Balder’s foal wrenched its foot. Several of the Goddesses (Sindgund and Her sister Sunna, and then Frija and Her sister Volla—probably Fulla) attempt a healing, ostensibly with little success, and then “encharmed it Woden, as he the best could” and the injury was healed. Clearly, in Anglo-Saxon England Woden was regarded as having a strong connection with healing and herbal magic, a connection that mostly didn’t carry over to Scandinavia, despite the array of other powers attributed to Odin there.

- The Valkyries

Most Viking-era lore presents Odin’s handmaidens, the Valkyries (or “choosers of the slain”) as armed supernatural warrior women who act as guides, lovers and teachers to Odin’s mortal heroes (and are sometimes even mortal princesses themselves) and serve wine or mead to His undead heroes, the Einherjar, in the warrior’s paradise of Valhalla. There are glimpses here and there, however, that the original conception of the Valkyries was something far darker, wilder, and more primitive. In the Darradarljod, or the Lay of Darts, for example, they are shown weaving a fabric made from entrails weighted with human heads, to determine the outcome of the Battle of Clontarf. In Old English, the equivalent term for Valkyrie is waelcyrge, which is linked with witches and alluded to in the Lacnunga charm Wid Faerstice (for a Sudden Stich), which makes reference to “mighty women” throwing spears. In the 8^th and 10^th centuries, Old English manuscripts substitute the word waelcyrge for “Erinyes,” or the Greek furies. This conjures up quite a different image from the comparatively tame battle maidens of Viking lore. Since the raven itself is referred to as waelcesega (“chooser of the slain”) in the Anglo-Saxon poem Exodus, Branston speculates that the waelcyrge known to the Old English were in reality Woden’s ravens and wolves, the familiar companions of the God of the dead and—going by the comparison to the Furies—tormentors of lost souls.

I would suggest further that the comparison to witches may cast the Anglo-Saxon Valkyries as sorceresses who (like their patron) can take the shape of ravens or wolves. These sorceresses may have also acted as Woden’s sacrificial priestesses, one possible later example of this being the “Angel of Death,” the priestess who sacrifices a young girl in the Arab Ibn Fadlan’s report of a Russ (Viking) chieftain’s funeral. There are also much earlier accounts of priestesses among the Germanic tribes in the service of “Mercury,” such as the mention by Strabo of priestesses among the Cimbri who hanged war prisoners over great bronze bowls, into which their blood was then drained when their throats were slit. And of course, they may be connected with the seeresses who Tacitus and others tells us were so highly regarded by the Germanic tribes. These shape-shifting witch-women may represent the closest thing we can find in recorded lore to an actual priesthood of Woden, and perhaps in later centuries (during the Migration Era) even developed into the kind of organized Valkyrie sisterhood imagined by Diana Paxson in her Wodan’s Children novels. But at any rate, they are a far cry from the rather tame romantic heroines of Norse lore.

These are the most striking differences I can think of right now, although there are others I’m sure. At any rate, it’s clear that under the name of Woden the God of the Slain seems to take on a slightly different character, one that better fits the more animistic and holistic world-view of Anglo-Saxon Heathenry. Yet in my opinion and my experiences, He is still very much Odin—just seen through a different cultural lens.

- Valgrind

The Nine Herbs

And now for something completely different…In honor of Earth Day (albeit a little belatedly at this point) I thought I’d share the beginnings of the Nine Herbs garden I’ve started for Woden in our backyard.

When we lived in Philadelphia, we were never able to do much with the side yard attached to our house, due to the fact that it was overrun with blackberry and rose of Sharon bushes that were impossible to uproot. Here, though, we have a pretty large back yard to work with (along with quite a bit of front yard) which is mostly just covered with lawn—essentially a blank canvas. I am finding gardening to be an incredibly relaxing, enjoyable and (if you’ll pardon the pun) grounding activity as well—another indication that I have quite a bit of Vanic influence on my personality (probably due to Frige, going by my UPG that She is Vanic by birth), despite being a Woden’s woman and primarily Aesir-focused.

There are two already established garden beds, one of which we’ve already overturned and planted with starters of kale, snow peas, speckled romaine, and a lettuce mix. The other bed will be planted with several types of heirloom tomatoes and sweet peppers in May, once all danger of frost is past. We have strawberries and an array of ornamental flowers in the front yard, and blueberry bushes, rosemary, lavender and sweet woodruff (for May wine!) in back, with plans for a mint garden and a culinary herb garden as well.

Best of all though, not only is the back yard enclosed by a wooden wall, making it relatively private and thus perfect for outdoor rituals, but it also contains a well (a small man-made pond) and a (pear) tree. Under the pear tree is where the Nine Herbs garden is being planted; here are before and after pictures of the area. As you can see, I’ve enclosed the garden with stones to mark it off as weoh (sacred), and so far I have five out of the nine herbs planted—from right to left and front to back, mugwort, corn salad, wormwood, German chamomile, and flowering crab-apple. (I just got the crab-apple tree at the Saturday market this weekend, and will be transferring it to a bigger pot tonight.) To the far left of the bed are several poppy plants—technically not one of the Nine Herbs, although according to Christian Ratsch and Claudia Muller-Ebelling (Pagan Christmas), the ancient Germans referred to poppy fields as “Odin’s ground” (Odainsackr) and saw them as sacred sites where Odin (Wotan) performed healing miracles. In folk medicine, poppy juice (opium) is believed to ward off demons, and the seeds are a food of witches and the dead. I may also add some parsley, as an herb widely thought to be sacred to Woden and the Wild Hunt.

To the right of the pear tree I will be erecting an image of Woden carved from a wooden pole, similar to the God-images dating from the Iron Age that have been found in bogs throughout northwestern Europe. Tacitus (in Germania) tells us that the earliest elder Heathens preferred to worship outdoors, believing that the might of the Gods could not be contained by man-made structures such as temples. When completed, my outdoor shrine will be open by appointment to visiting Heathens who might wish to commune with Woden there or leave Him offerings.

To return to the Nine Herbs themselves, for those who may not be familiar with them, they originate with the Anglo-Saxon Nine Herbs Charm (or Nine Worts Galdor), dating from the 10^th century Lacnunga manuscript and describing nine herbs used by Woden in medicinal herbalism and magic, specifically the treatment of poison and infection. (Which I see as including spiritual poison and infection as well as its physical counterparts.) You can read one translation of the charm here. Although there is a Christian veneer to the charm (due to the fact that it was written down post-conversion), it is a very thin one, with most scholars agreeing that its content is predominantly Heathen, preserved verbally for centuries before being recorded in writing. (And in fact, the lines that read “those herbs the wise Lord created,/Holy in the heavens, when he was hanging” seem to refer more to Woden and His ordeal on the Tree than to Christ.) The poem also refers to the herbs being sent through the “seven worlds,” which corresponds to the Anglo-Saxon Heathen cosmology of seven worlds as opposed to the Scandinavian nine. (Since we don’t count the two elemental “worlds” of fire and ice, Muspelheim and Nifelheim.)

The problem—at least for those of us who want to use the Nine Herbs as part of a modern practice, rather than just discussing them as an historical oddity—is that there is no absolute scholarly (or mystical, for that matter) agreement as to exactly which herbs are meant by several of the now-outmoded names used in the charm. There are also some discrepancies between the herb names given in the poem section of the charm and the prose list that follows it. The Anglo-Saxon names of the herbs, and their primary medicinal (and magical, when applicable) uses are as follows:

1. Mugcwyrt (mugwort) –for fevers and stomach disorders, as well as nervousness and insomnia; can be used to promote menses and should not be taken during pregnancy. As a member of the Artemesia family, Mugwort also contains the hallucinogenic chemical thujone, though in a weaker concentration than its cousin wormwood, and can be used to increase psychic vision and invite psychic dreams. The Old English Herbarium recommends mugwort as a journey aid, and in my own Work I’ve found that this applies to trance journeys as well.
2. Wegbrade (“way-broad” or common plaintain) – useful for urinary tract infections, hepatitis, and as a poultice for stings, bites and wounds. Magically, the plant’s durability (it’s infamous for growing wild everywhere back east, though in Eugene I’ve yet to find any) is believed to confer resilience.
3. Lombescyrse (named in the poem section as stune)
4. Attorlathan (literally “venom-loather”)
5. Magethan (German chamomile) – for digestive problems, nervous tension, menstrual pain, and as an aid to sleep.
6. Netelan (nettle, named in the poem as wergulu) – highly cleansing and detoxifying, used as a diuretic, to treat arthritis and allergies, and to stop or slow bleeding.
7. Wudusuraeppel (crab-apple) – native to England, and the ancestor of all modern apples. In mythology and folklore, a fruit of youthfulness, love, and beauty, as evidenced in the tale of Idunna’s apples that keep the Gods eternally young and beautiful. That the value of apples as a health-maintenance food has carried over into modern times is demonstrated by such sayings as “an apple a day keeps the doctor away,” and in fact apples are rich in vitamins, and the malic and tartaric acids they contain are an aid to the digestive system, may help kill harmful bacteria (according to a French physician who found that the bacillum responsible for typhoid fever can’t survive long in apples juice), and are also good for the teeth. In folklore, eating apples or using apple wood for a wand can help open a gateway to the Otherworlds.
8. Fille (chervil) – mostly a culinary herb these days, although its medical value is experiencing a bit of a Renaissance. Used as a diuretic and digestive aid, and to lower blood pressure.
9. Finule (fennel) – relieves bloating and stomach pain, stimulates the appetite, and is diuretic and anti-inflammatory, in addition to being really tasty. In late medieval times it was used as a charm against sorcery and fire.

As you can see, there is some uncertainty about the identity of Attorlathan and Lombescryrse/stune in particular. Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Magic by Bill Griffiths suggests cockspur grass or betony for Attorlathan, while Pagan Christmas substitutes wormwood. I think wormwood is a better fit because in addition to being a fever reducer and pain reliever it drives away internal worms and parasites and is cited by Dioscurides, the early Roman herbalist, as an effective garden pesticide (possibly including use against worms, or wyrms—i.e. serpents, which would make the name “venom-loather” a perfect fit). And then, of course, there is the thujone content of wormwood, made famous (or infamous, as the case may be) by its use in absinthe (which is now once again legal). The hallucinogenic qualities of thujone are useful as an aid to trance journeying for the purpose of finding and removing spiritual poisons.

Finally, I asked Woden for confirmation of wormwood as Attorlathan and received it, so in my own garden at least, wormwood it is. (By which I mean, He confirmed it for my own use; since the identity of this herb is arguable and I believe the same Gods can sometimes give different people different answers to the same questions, depending on their individual needs, your mileage can and should vary.)

The identification of lombescyrse/stune presents even more of a problem; Pagan Christmas suggests stinkweed or pennycress, and there is a stone root that could presumably be stune, going by the name, but being native to North America it’s unlikely to have been included in this charm. According to Pollington, however, the OE lombescyrse (lamb’s cress) is not the modern plant known as lamb’s cress (cardamine hirsuta), but rather what is sometimes called corn salad (Valerianella locusta). Most people—including, until recently, me—have never heard of corn salad, but it is the same plant named as “rampion” in the fairy tale Rapunzel—the lettuce Rapunzel’s mother craves so much that she steals some from a nearby witch and ends up having to forfeit her infant as payment. Also known as lamb’s tongue (since the leaves are approximately this size and shape, and also it is a favorite food of lambs), it’s a rather mild but delicious winter lettuce, often included in expensive salad blends. Formerly used as a spring medicine or “tonic” (a general term which means an herb believed to improve the overall constitution), its roots are now used in a homeopathic remedy. At any rate, this past weekend at the Saturday market I happened to see a six-pack of corn salad for sale at one of the stalls offering starter plants. Woden said, “Buy it,” so that settled the lombescyrse question for me.

Some ideas of things to do with the Nine Herbs (besides re-enacting the actual charm) would include their use as medicinal treatments, obviously, as well as healing charms and shamanic work with the spirits of the plants. Currently, I work with mugwort in the latter context during oracular seidhr; however, anything I might say on the subject of plant shamanism could be said much better by my friend Silence Maestas, one of the foremost practitioners in this field, so I recommend that anyone really interested in this work visit his website. Also, it has been speculated that the “glory twigs” mentioned in the poem may be wooden staves inscribed with runes representing each of the herbs, which could be used in divination for the diagnosis and treatment of illnesses.

Several people have suggested the correlation of the Nine Herbs with the Nine Worlds of Norse cosmology. This idea doesn’t fit quite as well for me since as I’ve mentioned the Anglo-Saxon cosmology includes only seven worlds; however, I can see the benefits of relating seven of them to the worlds and the remaining two to elemental fire and ice, the raw polarities that originally interacted to create the worlds. Another possibility is their correlation with nine of the Aesir, since although I consider all of the herbs to be Woden’s (just as all the runes are) I can see connections between some of the other Aesir and certain of the herbs; chamomile seems especially attuned to Balder, for example, and nettle seems an obvious match for Thunor. I will write more on these ideas in future posts, perhaps, as my work with the Nine Herbs continues.

- Valgrind

Speculations on Frige and Gunnlod

In my previous essay on Frige, I mentioned that the name Frige itself is a nickname, derived from the Indo-European root prija, meaning “beloved,” and that I had a theory of my own about what Her personal name might have originally been. My current belief (although I do reserve the right to change my mind about these things as future experiences and insights may dictate; UPG is not an exact science) is that this name was (and is) Gunnlod. Now, I realize that this contradicts some of my previous writing regarding Frige, Woden and Gunnlod, but that writing was fiction and poetry, and as such meant to reveal certain Truths but not to represent absolute fact. Nor was it intended to reflect my own personal experiences in this life or any other, and people who think this to be the case really need to do some research on poetic and literary conventions, as well as closely examining their ability to tell the difference between fiction and reality.

Returning to the subject of Frige and Gunnlod, before I explain my line of reasoning let me also say at the onset that I am not trying to conflate all the Northern Goddesses into Frige, as has sometimes been attempted (and which is one of my major problems with certain texts such as Brian Branston’s). I am a hard polytheist and experience the Gods as real individuals—as real as you or me—not archetypes or “aspects.” However, Woden Himself has over 200 names, and many of the Others have alternate names as well. Also, we have to face the facts that the lore has not come down to us in one unbroken and complete package; bits and pieces of it have been both lost and intentionally destroyed or obfuscated over the centuries. Where pieces are missing, this is where it falls to us to make conjectures and fill in the gaps as needed—within reason, of course. I believe my UPG, in this case, is a reasonable one that fits the facts of the situation, jives with my own experiences, and also feels (subjectively, I’ll admit) right to me.

First, although the lore refers to Frige as Fjorgyn’s (aka Jord’s) daughter, that is all we really know about Her parentage. It has been proposed that Her father was one of the Aesir not named in the lore, a brother of Borr (aka Mannus). However, this would have made Her Woden’s first cousin, and given the Aesic prohibition of brother-sister marriages, as mentioned in Ynglinga Saga, even this may have been too close a degree of consanguinity for Her to have been accepted as Woden’s queen. I believe instead that She is the daughter of Jord/Nerthus by an unnamed male Etin, who may possibly have been Suttung. This is not ruled out by anything we know about Gunnlod, as Her mother is never named in the lore. I have already written elsewhere about my suspicions that Gunnlod’s name among the Aesir is Saga, but nothing would have prevented Her from having more than one alternative name, especially if She is partly of Vanic blood, since the taking of multiple names seems to be a habit of Vanic women.

If Gunnlod is partly Vanic, this explains the question of why She would have been in possession of the Mead of Poetry, created from the blood of the Vanic God Kvasir. Snorri instead weaves an elaborate tale about dwarves killing Suttung’s parents to explain this fact, but this explanation appears nowhere else in the lore. Also, it has been pointed out, by Lotte Motz and others, that Snorri’s version of the story of Odin’s acquisition of the Mead too neatly fits a common mythic pattern concerning a young hero who is fostered, taken as a lover, or otherwise given magical help by a Giantess or other magical woman living in a cave. This leads me to suspect that it didn’t really happen quite this way, and that the facts were later mythologized to fit this motif.

My own gnosis on the subject, which others are free to think is crap (since UPG is by definition a very personal thing, and I also believe the Gods sometimes give different people conflicting explanations about things), is that the marriage of Woden to Frige/Gunnlod was a peace bond, arranged to cement a truce between the Aesir and the Vanir on one hand, and between the Aesir and the Giants (or those of Gunnlod’s family, at any rate) on the other. Having both Vanic and Etin parentage, Gunnlod would have satisfied both of these requirements. I believe the actual engagement took place at a very early point, shortly after the slaying of Ymir by Woden and His brothers, but the marriage happened years later as Gunnlod was still only a child at the time of the betrothal. But far from being only a political marriage, I believe She and Woden loved each other at first sight and that They maintained a correspondence during their long engagement; I was given a vision of Him sending Her tokens collected on His travels—feathers, shells, flowers and herbs, exotic bird eggs, jewels, all of which She used to decorate Her rooms at Hnitbjorg—along with letters. The letters always addressed Her as Beloved; this was what He called Her and later, as His queen, this was the name that stuck, Her original name falling out of use. She was the Beloved of Woden, and this was the name Her new people, the Aesir, used for Her from the point onward. That She even had a different name originally may have well been forgotten altogether by Snorri’s time, which would explain His naming of Gunnlod as one of the rivals of Frige. We need to keep in mind that even by the Viking Era, some of the original details and deeper mysteries of the cult of the Aesir would already have been lost—and Snorri himself was writing centuries after the Conversion.

Of course, initially Their marriage did not go smoothly—as both Snorri and the Havamal relate—because Woden persuaded Her to gift Him with the Mead of Poetry. Although in my UPG Gunnlod brewed this Herself (brewing being an art that often came under the province of women in the elder Heathen times) and part of its magic came from the sexual charge it was given by the consummation of Her marriage to Woden, it was technically the property of the Vanir. The Havamal version of the Mead story sounds very much like a wedding, with Woden referring to Himself as having taken a “ring oath” and telling how Gunnlod, sitting on Her golden chair, gave Him a drink of the Mead. Following Grigby’s argument in Beowulf and Grendel, that the drinking of the Mead represented the passing of sovereignty, this could have been part of a marriage ceremony in which Woden was ritually “married” to sovereignty (in the person of Gunnlod) and thus became King of the Aesir. However, the Mead was not His to take back to Asgard with Him, which is what He did, leaving His new bride behind (as the Havamal relates) to weep.

Where I have always disagreed with the traditional version of this story is that I don’t think Woden’s abandonment of Gunnlod was permanent. Originally, this was based purely on my own UPG, and that in my own experience of Woden this did not feel like something He would do. (Don’t get me wrong; He can be treacherous and wily in spades when it suits His purpose, and stealing is obviously not beneath Him, but I have never found Him to be either fickle or careless with the feelings of those who truly love Him.) It is no secret that I have felt a deep empathy and kinship with Gunnlod (stemming partly from abandonment issues dating from my childhood); also, my gnosis and trance experiences told me that she was far more important to Woden than either the lore or popular conception made Her out to be. I also felt that, given the fact that the sharing of mead is such a central motif in Heathenry—our foremost sacrament, you might even say, especially in modern times when actual blood sacrifices are rare–She was an undervalued Goddess among Heathens. It was all of the above factors that led me to focus so much of my writing on Her story, as well as even taking Her name for a time—not, as certain people with over-active imaginations have suggested, that I actually believed I was Her.

But to get back to Grigsby’s theory that the Mead not only represented the passing of sovereignty but was also, with its life-giving and intoxicating powers, essentially Vanic, this interpretation falls apart if Gunnlod was merely (as is generally accepted) an early fling of Woden’s and not anyone of any real importance. If, on the contrary, She was His betrothed bride and a peace-bond between the tribes of the Gods, and She later (as Frige) became permanently installed as His queen, then everything comes together and Her role as the incarnation of sovereignty in this tale makes a lot more sense. By marrying Her, Woden not only cemented alliances between His former enemies but also His right to be King of Asgard. He complied—to a point—with the customs of the Vanir in validating His right to the throne by marrying a daughter of Nerthus who thus embodied sovereignty in Her person and ritually imbibing, as part of the wedding, the sacred intoxicating drink of the Vanir. But then He violated this agreement by refusing to become a sacrificial king in the Vanic mode and absconding with the Mead itself, which led to a temporary separation from His new bride and probably necessitated a lot of political maneuvering to make the situation right again.

But knowing Woden as I do, I can’t see how He could have resisted a chance to gain such an obvious advantage as sole ownership of the Mead. He expresses regret in the Havamal that His actions brought Gunnlod grief (at the same time making it clear that He would not have escaped with His life—and the Mead—without Her help), but in my belief He did later make it up to Her by crowning Her Queen of Asgard. And She still sits at His side today, bearing the title of Beloved, wearing the keys to His halls at Her belt, and—as the frith-iest woman among the Aesir as well as the most adored—bearing the mead horn around Herself at gatherings of the Gods. I can imagine a little smile playing around Her lips as She does so, Her role as Lady of Woden’s hall perhaps bringing back memories of earlier times, the long-ago days when She and Her husband first met and fell in love.

- Valgrind

Beowulf and Grendel, by John Grigsby

My friend Svartesol posted about this book a week or so ago, and it sounded intriguing enough that I wanted to check it out myself. Thanks to Eugene’s incredible public library, I was able to get my hands on a copy within a few days.

The book is well written and reads like a gripping detective story, which in itself is saying a lot when so many Heathen-themed tomes are dry as week-old-toast. The premise, in a nutshell, is that the events related in the first part of Beowulf—the defeat of the monstrous Grendel and his lake-dwelling mother—actually represent the conversion of the English people (still living in Denmark at the time) from the sacrificial Vanic cult of Nerthus and Freyr to the Aesic warrior cult of Odin. In Grigsby’s re-interpretation of the legend, Grendel is Freyr, the seasonally dying and reborn God of vegetation, Grendel’s mother is Nerthus, the ancient fertility Deity and Goddess of sovereignty who, Grigsby concludes, demanded a yearly sacrifice of the king’s life in return for plentiful crops, and the Danish bog men are previous “husbands of the mother”—kings who were sacrificed before Beowulf arrived to overthrow the cult. Not wanting to follow in their footsteps, Hrothgar, the current king, is anxious to institute a hereditary monarchy in place of sacral kingship, and calls for help in ridding Denmark of its “monsters.” The man who answers his call, Beowulf the Geat, is none other than Odin Himself, or a representative acting (symbolically, at least) in His name. Grigsby also links the ergotized porridge found in the stomachs of the bog men with the Mead of Poetry, which Odin stole from the Vanir (with Gunnlod, guardian of the Mead, fulfilling the role of the Goddess of sovereignty). Grigsby argues that the intoxicating drink was Vanic property originally as it was derived from the blood of Kvasir, who in some versions of the story is a Vanic Deity. He also compares the taking of Grendel’s head by Beowulf to the preservation of Mimir’s head by Odin, linking both of these to examples from other cultures in which beheading (and/or the opening of the mouth of the previous king’s remains) represents the ceremonial and magical passing on of kingship.

In support of these arguments, Grigby cites archaeology, folklore, English and Danish genealogy, a great deal of cross-cultural material including Celtic, Greek, Egyptian, and Hindu sources, and similar stories found elsewhere in Northern European literature, such as Hrolf’s Saga. While he paints a convincing picture overall and I was surprised to find myself agreeing with his main premise, I would recommend that readers of this book have sufficient grounding in the lore and source materials themselves to be able to sort out Grigsby’s sound arguments from the ones that just don’t work. That said, here’s a quick rundown of my responses to some of the key ideas in the book.

What I agree with:

1. The main premise, that Beowulf could very well be the story of the conversion of the Danish kingdom (which Grigsby identifies as pre-English) from sacral kingship under Vanic cultus to hereditary kingship under the auspices of the Aesir. Grigsby qualifies his theory that Beowulf = Odin by adding that the Beowulf character in the poem more likely represented a priest of Odin or Odinic king who instituted these changes in His name. The “slaying” of the Vanic Deities is only symbolic, of course, representing the shift in religious belief and practice, in which Beowulf/Odin receives all the gifts and benefits due to a sacral king without having to actually sacrifice his life. Grigsby posits that Odin did indeed die during His ordeal on the Tree, but had learned the secret of restoring the dead to life from the Vanir and was able to make use of it Himself.
2. The identification of the Mead of Poetry as the magical essence of kingship, in addition to its uses as a ritual intoxicant and elixir of life, and along the same lines, the identification of Gunnlod as the Goddess of sovereignty who initiates a young Odin into its mysteries. My own UPG has pointed in this direction for years, and I’m encouraged to see others proposing similar ideas. I’m even willing to accept Grigsby’s contention that the Mead was originally the property of the Vanir, though He doesn’t say why, in that case, it’s being guarded by a Giantess, Gunnlod. (I have theories of my own—to be gone into in future posts—that suggest an answer to that question, so I’ll let it slide for now.)

What I disagree with:

1. The idea that the sacral king was sacrificed—and a new king chosen—every winter, as originally proposed by James Frazer in his “King of the Wood” scenario. The idea of sacral kingship itself fits in well with Vanic cultus as well as Celtic ideas about the king being married to sovereignty as a Goddess personifying the land he rules. However, no one has ever been able to prove, or even strongly indicate, that it happened every year; the prospect seems highly wasteful and thus unlikely, especially among such a pragmatic people as the Germans. The sacrifice probably happened, instead, when the king was past his prime, no longer able to protect his kingdom as a warrior king should—as is the case with Hrothgar in Beowulf.
2. Grigsby attempts to meld several pairs of Vanic Deities into one; for example, he argues that Njordh and Freyr are the same, as well as Freyja and Nerthus, and that Gerdhr is most likely the same as Freyja/Nerthus. I don’t agree with any of these conjectures, and neither would most Heathens I know (being generally hard polytheists). Grigsby is relying on only the shakiest evidence here, in an effort to tie up loose ends that interfere with his theory.
3. The identification of the Vanir with the Alfar, who I believe are related but not identical, as well as the identification of the latter with the spirits of the dead.
4. The Valkyries as an aspect of Freyja and/or Nerthus. He is really reaching, here, trying to tie together all Northern examples of death Goddesses as being Vanir and ignoring the fact that the Aesir, and especially Odin, had their own dark associations and death-related aspects. Throughout the Northern lore, the Valkyries are identified with only one Deity: Odin, so much so that many of their names are variations of His. In the earliest lore, they appear as corpse-Goddesses that hover above the battlefield, often in winged or bird form; in later lore, they are sometimes human and frequently the teachers and guides of specific heroes, interfering in the lives of men at Odin’s behest. (And as sidenote, I believe these human Valkyries may represent the closest thing we can find in the lore to an actual Odinic priesthood, as Diana Paxson first proposed in her Wodan’s Children novels years ago.)
5. The identification of Fenris with the Vanir. Again, Grigsby is really reaching here, determined to tie together all the darker and seemingly “rejected” aspects of Northern religion as proof that the Aesir displaced the Vanir and turned their Gods into demons. Which is not the way it happened (see the actual story of the war between the Gods as told by Snorri and in Voluspa, which ended in a stalemate and truce), and just doesn’t fit ANY of the evidence.
6. The claim that Odin learned ALL of His magic from Freyja. This contention—which is dear to many people, not just Grigsby—blithely assumes 1) that the Aesir have no magic of Their own (not true), and Odin no innate abilities specific to Him (again, not true), 2) that Odin’s Jotun mother would not have taught Him certain things (shape-shifting, as one example, being represented in the lore as a specialty of the Jotnar); and in addition, the Havamal states that He learned quite a bit of magic from His uncle, Mimir, 3) that He learned no magic whatsoever from the runes (when, again, the Havamal tells us the exact opposite,) 4) that He learned no magic from Gunnlod, keeper of the Mead (when Grigsby himself suggests otherwise; though it’s likely he identifies Gunnlod as an aspect of Freyja and/or Nerthus), and finally 5) that of the magic He did learn from the Vanir, ALL of it must have come from Freyja. This is not necessarily the case, especially if, as I suggest here, Frige Herself was also Vanic—but it’s also almost besides the point. Like His ravens and wolves (animals which I believe are connected with Him directly, and not by way of the Vanir as Grigsby suggests), Odin is something of a scavenger, collecting shiny bits of power and magic on His travels and making them His own, but He has collected them from a great many sources other than just Freyja, or just the Vanir, and He wouldn’t be able to put them to use without having His own innate abilities—which are considerable.
   

Can you tell the latter is one of my favorite rants? And that, I think, is enough said for now on the subject of Beowulf and Grendel. I recommend the book overall; it’s a good read with lots of food for thought—but don’t forget your salt shaker.

- Valgrind

Frige

(You can see a photo of my Frige shrine here. The following article is a version of what I just submitted for the GFS clergy program, although parts of it were actually written years ago.)

Frige (pronounced Free-ya), wife of Woden, is a much-undervalued Goddess in contemporary Heathenry, often overshadowed by the more flamboyant Gefeon-Freo (Freyja). Yet Brian Branston points out (in The Long Gods of England) that—judging from place-names such as Fryup, Freefolk, Freebury, and Froyle—She must have been an important Goddess in Heathen England, perhaps even more so there than elsewhere. It is also worth noting that it was Her name (and not Freo’s) that was given to the sixth day of the week, Friday or Frigesdaeg, and that it was She whom the Romans equated with their own Goddess Venus as the patroness of love and beauty.

The name Frige itself is a nickname, deriving from the Indo-European root prij, meaning “beloved,” and She is often still referred to as the Beloved by those who honor Her today. If She originally had a more personal name as well, it has not come down to us in any of the surviving literature. (Though I do have a couple of theories on the subject, which I will go into in a future post.)

Old Norse sources refer to Frige as the daughter of Fjorgynn, a name which is cognate to the Gothic fairguni and Old English fyrgen, both of which mean “mountain.” Due to the fact that in Old Norse the double-n ending in names is masculine, it has been assumed by many that this Fjorgynn is probably an otherwise-unknown male Etin. However, Fjorgyn (without the double n) is also a by-name of the Earth Goddess Jord, so it may be that Frige is actually Jord’s daughter (and thus a half-sister to Thunor). That She is said to live in a fenland seems to reinforce this earthy connection, and Her role as a Goddess of Earth would make Her a perfect complement to Woden’s dominion over the skies. In Anglo-Saxon Heathenry, Jord is generally identified with Erce/Nerthus, making Frige possibly of Wanic origin. This would certainly, if true, explain a great deal about Her nature, as well as many people’s tendency to conflate Her with Gefeon-Freo. (I will note here that I personally do not believe these two to be the same Goddess—not least of all because They are invoked together in so many places in the lore, as well as being named as rivals by Snorri–though I don’t think it out of the realm of possibility that They are sisters.) In this scenario, Frige’s marriage to Woden may possibly have been a politically-arranged match designed to cement peaceful relations between the two tribes, the Esan and the Wanes.

Frige is portrayed as the patroness of marriage and childbirth (Her interest in protecting children possibly stemming from the loss of Her own son, Balder), the Goddess of domestic affairs, and the defender of social and cultural norms. In modern times, we are often tempted to dismiss domestic affairs and housework as unworthy and demeaning, but in the days of our spiritual ancestors the household was also a center of industry, where food and clothing were produced not only for the needs of the family but also as a source of extra income, and running a large household—for example, that of a king, such as Woden—was a daunting task. Even in early medieval times, queens were often called upon to do a great deal of the work of actually running the household, its staff, and the various industries that supported the king’s family and retinue. Being the lady of the house, far from a demeaning position, was one of great honor—as well as considerable power, as symbolized by the ring of keys Frige is often portrayed as wearing at Her belt.

As Queen of the Gods, She often plays the role of frith-weaver among Them; She gives wise counsel, bestows blessings and protection, and intercedes in quarrels, helping to maintain the bonds of frith in Her family when some of its more stubborn members (including Her husband) are unwilling to compromise. As Goddess of domestic crafts, She is closely associated with the arts of spinning and weaving, and these activities also connect Her with the Weird sisters or Norns; it is sometimes said that Frige spins the raw material of being—unformed potential reality—into the thread which the Weird sisters use to weave the fabric of Wyrd. Wortcunning (medical herbalism) is another art which would, in my opinion, fall under Her domain, since in Anglo-Saxon times physicians would have been few and far between, so responsibility for the health of the family would have fallen on the lady of the house. She is also connected with the art of spae, and it is said that She is a seeress who knows the fates of all men and Gods, but does not speak of these things. For me, there is a quiet but deep sense of peace and grace (in the sense of sanctification and divine assistance) about Frige.

Yet there is still more to Frige than this. A good deal of evidence points to Her being the same Goddess as the German Holda or Frau Gode (Mrs. Gode, or Mrs. Woden), and my own gnosis also tells me that this is the case.

Holda is a patroness of domestic arts, spinning and motherhood, like Frige—yet she is also said to be, like Woden, a leader of the restless spirits of the Wild Hunt (although in Holda’s case, the spirits are those of children, which would be entirely appropriate for Frige as well). Holda is also a Goddess of witches whose craft relies heavily on spells, knotwork, and potions—a magic more closely aligned with Woden’s galdr, runecraft, and herbcraft, as opposed to the deep trancework and direct manipulation of the mind and soul associated with Freo’s seidhr magic.

If Holda and Frige are indeed one and the same Goddess—and I believe They are–Frige is a far more complex Goddess than many sources make Her out to be, as well as a quite formidable and fitting counterpart to Woden Himself.

Coming soon: my speculations about Frige, Gunnlod, and Saga.

Devotional Jewelry

Besides my Valknut, I wear a variety of other types of devotional jewelry to honor specific Gods, some of it hand-made by me (such as my prayer beads and bracelets), some of it pendants, rings and such that I stumble upon and realize would be the perfect thing to wear for So-and-So. (Eugene is the ideal setting for this kind of happy accident, especially now that the Saturday Market–a bohemian outdoor display of hand-made crafts (as well as farmer’s market goods) that takes place every Saturday from April through November, and greatly resembles the goblin market in Gaiman’s Stardust.

Most of the devotional jewelry I wear wouldn’t necessarily appear to be religiously significant to the average onlooker, but is meaningful to me for a variety of reasons. For example, Silence asked about the mistletoe pendant I picked up at the recent Gem Faire. Here it is.

I photographed this in my hand to give you an idea of the size; it is an actual sprig of mistletoe, preserved in silver. But no one would necessarily know, unless I told them, that I was wearing it for Balder. (Not that I’m trying to make my jewelry inconspicuous; I wear my Valknut openly all the time, as well as other equally obvious symbols such as runes. But if you needed or wanted to find things to wear that wouldn’t be questioned by an employer, for example, it’s very possible to do so.)

Here’s something else I found recently (at the Saturday Market, in fact): a bracelet I wear for Bragi. Turquoise is a stone I associate with Him (being a sky-oriented stone of communication and protection that, for me, also has a rather playful feel to it).

Devotional jewelry–both the making and the wearing of it–is one of those small ways we can honor the Gods we’re closest to in the course of everyday life; it’s a small, non-dramatic gesture that perhaps won’t even be noticed by many, and the significance of it may escape all but a very few. But I know I’m wearing it, and so do the Gods in question, and it’s little details like this that go to make up a devotional life. (Besides, as a Virgo I have to admit to believing what they say about God being in the details.)

Visions of Vanaheim

Just some free advertising for a friend: Svartesol’s new book Visions of Vanaheim is now available! She’s a fabulous writer, a wonderful priest (in-training, she will hasten to add), and deeply devoted to the Vanir. Although as a Woden’s woman I am Aesic-focused myself, some of the Goddesses I number among the Aesir are Vanic by birth, and I don’t necessarily exclude the Vanir from my personal worship (that wouldn’t be very frithful, considering that the Gods Themselves agreed to share the sacrifices), so my copy has already been ordered. Go get yours!

A Channel for Healing

At the first quarter, I honor Bragi and His wife Idunna, both of whom in my UPG are connected with healing, though in different ways. Bragi, the son of Odin and His Etin-wife Gunnlod, is His father’s second-in-command at Valhalla in addition to being the Scop (master poet) of Asgard. Quite obviously, He is a patron of writers and poets. Less obviously, as the son of an As and a Giantess, He has had to bridge two worlds that are frequently at odds with each other, and can thus be called upon to help restore harmony between different segments of the human population—whether it be races, nationalities, rival groups, or any other similarly disparate factions. In the early medieval days when scops or skalds (similar to bards) performed at the courts of kings, their tales and poetry were often accompanied by music; a scop generally had to be an accomplished musician and singer in addition to his poetic abilities. Both poetry and music are healing arts for the soul that can help restore peace of mind and inner equilibrium; thus, Bragi is also a God who can be called on for mental and emotional healing.

Although the lore tells us nothing of Idunna’s origins, I and several of my friends feel Her to be of Vanic or possibly Fey stock; She is a rather playful, whimsical Goddess, yet also eminently practical, with strong ties to cultivated plants, food crops in particular. As She is the one who grows the apples responsible for keeping the Gods of Asgard young and healthy, I feel She is also a Goddess who can be called upon for healing, especially in terms of good nutrition, preventative medicine, and other means of staying healthy (as opposed to Eir, who in my UPG deals more with treating illnesses). I’ve found Her to have a special liking for organic gardening and herbal remedies.

For my first quarter ritual, I like to go to a nearby meadow that used to be an apple orchard and that still has some apple trees, making it an especially appropriate site for honoring Idunna. I bring along some offerings—usually an apple, some hard cider, a pastry, incense, and flowers—and set up an altar at the base of a willow tree there that is one of my favorite trees in Eugene. Willow is a supple, flexible tree, imbued with magic, that grows near water and thus bridges two worlds; its characteristics remind me of Bragi in many ways. This particular willow is immense and obviously very old, and best of all is intertwined with an apple tree—Idunna’s tree. After I’ve hailed both of Them and presented my offerings, I reach out to sense all the ways in which the nearby land and people might need healing or preservation—whether physical, emotional, or spiritual—and allow myself to become a channel for Bragi and Idunna to send that healing as They see fit. I feel being a channel for the healing and blessings of the Gods is an important aspect of my role as a Gate, especially in hard times such as are now being experienced throughout the country, and in Oregon (one of the poorest states in the nation) especially. Eugene is a city overflowing with artists and other creative, “counter-culture” types of people; at the same time, many people here are mentally and physically challenged or plagued by other health problems for which they lack the medical insurance to treat. Many others are struggling in the currently hard economy, as I am myself. The gifts of Bragi and Idunna—rejuvenation, healing, harmony, inspiration, hope—can in this way reach even those who don’t know or believe in Them. I don’t feel this is a violation of anyone’s free will, as those who are not open to Their blessings will simply not receive them; I am only making it easier for Them to reach those who are open to Their aid, yet may be unaware that it is available. And yes, in acting as a channel for these gifts, in the process I receive them myself—one of the many rewards of my Work.

You can see some other views of the willow tree here and here, and here is another interesting tree in the same meadow, a hollow one. The landwights that make their home here are very happy and friendly—another way in which the meadow is the perfect spot for honoring the “best of poets” and His fair bride.

The Work of a Gate

In January of 2009, I adopted Valgrind as my Heathen and spirit-work name, as a gesture of thanks to Odin for all He had done for me over the previous year. (Getting me through the worst year of my life to date and moving me and my family—Jolene, cats, and Corbie J.—to Eugene, including finding us a place to live where the landlords were okay with us keeping nine animals.) Valgrind is a name He had been urging on me for roughly two years before that, and which I had refused because I was frankly terrified by its implications—and this was before I even fully understood them. (Though don’t get me wrong; I’m certain I don’t fully understand them even now.) The name is more than just a name; it describes what is basically my primary function as a witch, seidhrkona, and spirit-worker. Until fairly recently, I had assumed that function was to act as a Door for Odin and whichever Gods or spirits He designated to have greater access to Middle Earth (aka Midgard) through me. I was almost right. What I am is a Gate, as my new name spells out; I have a peculiar talent for opening a Way between the worlds, forging connections that otherwise don’t exist, and that not both Gods and men might take advantage of.

As I said, I am still in the process of discovering all the ramifications of this. It was Hallows (Samhain) 2007 when I first discovered that I had the ability to open a Gate between Asgard and Helheim, which Odin and His lost son Balder could use to spend a few precious moments together. This is no small thing; conventional wisdom—as well as the experience of most mystical practitioners, I am sure—holds that Odin is forever barred from the company of His son, doomed to be separated from Him until Ragnarok. As an aside, I’ll mention here that as an Anglo-Saxon Heathen, I don’t especially believe in Ragnarok; it isn’t part of my personal view of reality or relevant to my practice. I believe it to be heavily influenced by the Book of Revelations as well as the “millennial frenzy” of the Christians who were recording the existent lore around the year 1000. However, I and others I’ve spoken to over the years have still found it to be true that Balder is, for all intents and purposes, lost to His father, that They are unable to be in contact with each other in any way.

Until now.

For whatever reason, however it happens, it seems that I have the ability to open a Gate that lasts just long enough for Them to meet and converse, briefly. Hela allows this because of prior connections I have with Her and favors I have done Her in the past. The Gate does not last long at all—just long enough to take the edge off a father’s never-ending grief, and allow a son a wisp of comfort, a fleeting dream of home.

As I mentioned, the first time I discovered I could do this was a year and a half ago, as of this writing. I love Them both dearly, and was thrilled beyond words to find that I could do this for them. I was also so overcome by Their gratitude that I stopped doing it—until this past week.

Eugene offers opportunities that I would never have dreamt of in Philadelphia. One of them is the Masonic Cemetery, the breathtakingly beautiful botanical garden/forested park on a hill where the city’s founder, Eugene Skinner, was buried. This past Thursday, at the dark of the moon, Jo and I went there together, each on our own spirit-work missions. Once there, we separated. I went to collect flowers; the rest of what I needed was in my portable spirit-work kit. Finding a place that called to me, I set up an altar to Balder and Hela, with flowers, incense, liquor, and a pastry. I called first to Hela, as always asking Her permission to open the Gate to Her realm. She has never yet refused me—not for this—so my next call was to Balder, to come nearer. I extended my welcome to Him and then withdrew, because what followed was deeply personal and had very little to do with me.

Feeling Their gratitude again in the wake of this, I’m ashamed—mortified, even, that I ever stopped doing it. But that won’t happen again. Every month on the dark of the moon, I will be going to the Masonic Cemetery with my spirit-work kit and (Hela willing) opening a Gate for a long-separated father and son. This past weekend at a local Gem Faire, I even acquired the perfect pendant/charm to wear for this Work: a sprig of mistletoe preserved in silver. Mistletoe—the plant that severed Balder’s life, separating Him from the company of His family, but also, paradoxically, a symbol of new life and rebirth.

No, I don’t believe in Ragnaok. But I do believe in love, hope, and healing. This is one small way (though not small at all, from the viewpoint of Those involved) I have found to nurture the first, and to provide the latter two where they were lacking but sorely needed.