Ritual Protocol: Like the Hokey-Pokey, Only Not

Bohemian Grove pictures terrify me and crack me up at the same time.

Turns out I have three posts that I “Saved Draft” last week and never got back to. Sorry if I explode your notifications.

There are a lot of articles and resources for protocol during Wiccan rituals. But what about the various other traditions out there? How does ritual protocol vary from group to group?

Protocol among various polytheistic and/or pantheistic groups can vary as widely as protocols among Christian groups. I am a woman raised by a Native-influenced mother who attended an integrated charismatic Pentecostal church; but I was sent to an orthodox Catholic school until I became a witch and then a mom and then went back to (reformed) Catholicism after earning a degree in Religious Studies from a Jesuit college but before being a postulant in the Episcopal (really Anglo-Catholic) church and then finally running screaming back to pantheistic paganism. In the pagan world, I was “earthy” and then I was scholarly and then I was “really-earthy” and then I was really-scholarly. Then I was heathen—but retained my ideas about scholarship (as heathens do).

So—diversity among traditions? I understand this.

My best advice? When in doubt, ask!

Obviously, rules of common sense and civility apply to all religious rites. But sometimes what seems like common sense or courtesy may end up interpreted as rude and disrespectful. Most folks are willing to overlook minor faux pas, but major missteps or continued infractions often need to be addressed. If ever you are pulled aside by a group member and told, “Hey, you shouldn’t do that,” know that they are teaching you a matter of protocol so that you can be included comfortably in the whole group not calling you out as a matter of exclusion.

As a classroom teacher, I tend to follow the same pedagogy in kindred and initiate heuristics that I follow in the secular classroom. First I make a general announcement. (e.g. “For everyone attending this week’s blot, be sure to bring your own offerings to Frigg.”) Then—if that doesn’t sink in—I make a general statement to the “offender.” (e.g. “You might want to stand *there* during sumbl or refrain from saying *that* during beot.”) Then—if it still doesn’t sink in—I make a prescriptive statement to the member in question. (e.g. “Please don’t touch the ritual mead until it is handed to you by the mead-bearer.”) Hopefully, it never goes farther than that.

And I’m not a real hard-ass when it comes to “rules” of ritual anyhow. I’m a teacher, not just a gyðia or völva. For me ritual space is an extension of my classroom. It is a place of learning.

But I thought I’d touch a few points. Using the about.com article, “Tips for Attending a Pagan Ritual” by our about.com “guide,” Patti Wigington, as a springboard, I will address a few issues that I see crop up from time to time.

Wigington says: “For a non-member to be invited to a coven’s ritual . . . is a privilege and an honor. Part of that is showing up on time. Although you may hear jokes about “Pagan Standard Time”, which is the practice of showing up twenty minutes late for everything, be punctual. Typically, there’s an arrival time when everyone shows up, and then another time designated for when ritual will start. If you arrive too late, you might find the doors locked and no one answering your knock.”

Agreed. I do not ascribe to PST and find it infuriating to plan rituals around those who do. Yes, yes, sometimes things happen and we run behind. Often the universe has a timing to which we are not privy. However, as a seiðkona and Ceremonialist, timing matters. Twenty minutes can place the ritual in a different planetary hour or otherwise throw off weeks of planning. On the other side of the coin, arriving too early is discourteous. It says, “I demand your time”—time in which the leader is likely preparing for ritual or feast or class or whatever–for *you.* Most leaders are busy people and fill their lives to the brim, scheduling events down to the minute. If you arrive early, wait (perhaps reading in your car) until others arrive or until the ascribed time. If you are on *very* friendly terms with the leader—like you know where s/he keeps the spare toilet paper—you can phone or text, “I’m early. Can I help with anything?” If you don’t get an answer, it’s likely the leader has his/her hands full.

Wigington says: “When you do arrive, you may see people who [are dressed] different or downright unusual. . . .You should ask the person who has invited you what the proper attire is for the ceremony beforehand. You may be welcome to show up in sweatpants and a t-shirt, or it may be more formal than that. Ask in advance, and react accordingly. It’s a good idea, also, to ask if there’s something you should bring. You may be invited to make an offering, or contribute food for people to eat after ritual.”

Yes. Yes. And yes.

At our hof, there are different rules for different roles. Partakers are free to wear what they like so long as they don’t breach protocol for “signifiers.” We are a heathen crowd and do not practice “skyclad” ritual. (If you are interested in more about this, read here.) By “signifiers,” I mean that priests/godi and priestesses/gydia (sometimes) wear robes with appropriate “goodies.” The high priest/har-goði sits beside the high priestess/har-gyðia that carries a stav. Participants may wear ritual robes as long as they don’t mimic priestly attire too closely or wear ritual garb on a day where it’s been announced, “We will dress casually.” And no one should have a stav in the ritual circle aside from the völva (the har-gyðia and perhaps some of her priests and priestesses, depending on rank and training). Just like you wouldn’t walk into a Catholic church with a miter hat—even on a high-holy day—you don’t walk into a pagan ceremony donning the signifier of authority unless you have that authority. Likewise you don’t presume to light candles or fires or pass or pour mead unless you have been instructed to do so. These are all “roles” in the ceremony and have specific significance. If you have been initiated, you have learned or will learn these meanings. If you are not initiated. . . well, that’s a whole ‘nother post.

Wigington says: “If you’ve never attended a Wiccan or Pagan ceremony before, try to remember that for many Pagan traditions, joy and laughter is often a part of ceremony. . . . Wiccans and Pagans typically will tell you that the universe has a sense of humor, so if someone drops an athame or sets their robe on fire, it’s all just part of the ritual experience, and it’s okay to find it amusing.”

I agree. I often can’t not giggle when Tyr takes to tickling me.

Wigington says: “. . . don’t touch anything on the altar unless you are invited to. Second, don’t handle anyone else’s tools without permission.”

Aside from things being used during ritual proper, we don’t stand on taboos about touching ritual items around here. They are dedicated items and cannot be profaned by mere touching. I mean–Helfire, I had a sacred item burned to a near-crisp in an silly attempt to profane it—guess what happened? It released more power and ancestral energy than I ever imagined possible. The truly sacred cannot be blasphemed as blasphemy is the ultimate confirmation of the sacred.[1] However, once they are in an active ritual space, sacred items should only be wielded by trained hands. Not for the item’s sake but for the sake of the owner of those hands.

Wigington says: “Once the ritual is over, there are often refreshments and drinks. In many traditions, the High Priestess takes the first bite before anyone else may eat or drink — be sure to watch and see what everyone else is doing before shoveling any food in your mouth.”

We feed the ancestors first (when it’s just family, we feed the cofgoda). That’s a fairly “done” thing from what I’ve seen. Then we feed newcomers, then guests, then kindred. Our kindred have fairly standard recommendations for potluck—bring a full dish (unless you were “assigned” beverages or utilities), bring enough to feed three times your party. If booze is welcome, bring some to share. We might drink one thing at a time (we frown on folks hoarding bottles of wine as “mine only”) but rest assured, the leftovers will not be consumed by the host/ess in a Bacchanalian brouhaha[2] after you leave—it will be saved for the next what’s-it. Around here, I have been known to pop more than a bottle or two of my own mead or wine or absinthe and I do it joyfully. I just get a little crosseyed by folks who expect the hof to be an “open bar.” Plus, maybe limit your libations to mead, wine, cider, and beer–no hard liquor.

And illicit drugs are a no-no in any ritual setting.[3] That’s not to say I will judge what you choose to put in your body and how you plan to address the legality of it all. Hell, I am for the legalization and regulation of what Katt Williams refers to as, “. . . just a plant, [that] just grow like that. And if you should happen to set it on fire . . . .” But when I have professional folk, teachers, nurses, lawyers, military folk, youngon’s, parents, and other folk who are subject to drug-tests, I cannot, in good conscience, allow one or two of my kin to put others in jeopardy. The gods’ law is one thing, man’s law another; we gently tread the boundary between.[4]

“Make your paper, Boo-boo.” 

Yeah, I don’t know what . . . (Look Bob–more Jesus cake!)

I’m glad to say that I am surrounded by very conscientious people. But let me tell you, a few years back, I saw a clan where one or two members stomped all over the place like they were THE ultimate bag of chips. It was hard to tell who was in charge and what was appropriate.[5] And I say that as an egalitarian heathen!! From the inside it looked like, “Oh, that’s just so-and-so’s way.” From the outside it looked like, “Damn.”

Then there’s the other side of the coin—the kindred member who is so stifled by rules that s/he cannot relax for fear of transgression and just have fun. To this one I say, “. . . put your records on, tell me your favorite song / You go ahead, let your hair down.”[6] We love you. We love your company. To us, your presence is worth at least five or six major infractions[7]—more if the flubs are minor. And if you are getting close to your limit—someone will pull you aside. So relax—make mistakes—how else will you learn?

Speaking of ritual protocol, Imma go watch the Uppsala episode of Vikings now with my main-man and see how upset it makes me.

Cheers!
~E

 

---

[1] You can’t desecrate something if it hadn’t been sacred to begin with.

[2] How d’ya like that cultural crossover?

[3] LotR marathons are not ritual events.

[4] Plus, then we are back to the rules about potluck—bring enough for three-times what you will consume. And what you will consume after that.

[5] I never did quite figure that out.

[6] Rae, Corinne Bailey, John Beck, and Steve Chrisanthou. “Put Your Records On.” Corinne Bailey Rae. Perf. Corinne Bailey Rae.  EMI. 2006. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkEeNpWMvgk

[7] I say this tongue-in-cheek as a way to rationalize the fear of offending me—me!!—for some of my more deferential kin.

Third Time’s the, um, Charm

This one is more personal than sex.

And while I’m great at theorizing sexuality and discussing sex in the abstract, I never do very well when the conversation turns real. I don’t want to know the intimate details—the, um, ins-and-outs—of my friends’ romantic lives any more than I like to talk about mine. I’m not prudential, mind you. I’m fairly game for accepting anything[1]—except that I don’t like talking about it.

And if you consider how I feel about talking about actual magical operations, I think you’ll see that this is a full-on personality trait. I will do many things; but when it comes to constraining the importance of those things to the limitations of language, I find that I am uncomfortable. It seems to me that speaking a thing diminishes it, disempowers the act, caps its potency, and imprisons it forever in a Derridian horizon of nominalism. To blog about such things seems to make “words on a page,” a formerly empowering phrase for me as a writer, turn into what Hamlet calls merely, “Words, words words.”

Thus, it goes against my grain to tell you what I am about to tell you.

So be gentle.

I’ve had one of those run-ins—finally with a Norse deity—that is hard to put into words. I’ve told you about the times Hestia and Megaera paid brief visits. But they weren’t claiming me; they were bringing me advice, comfort, instructions, whatever.

I’ve never been “dedicated” to a particular deity. I’ve had affinities to be sure, mostly Celtic and mostly dark aspects like The Morrígan and Ceridwin; though I have been lit up by the fire of Brigid from time to time and the combative spark of Scáthach. No one has ever asked for more than a dance or two, and that was just fine with me since I couldn’t imagine being “godatheow,” a godslave.[2] (Psst, you’ll wanna check out that footnote, it has a g-jillion links.) *I* obviously never chose a deity to which I “belonged,” that felt a little pompous or assumptive or something.

The Norse gods never bothered with me much. I liked the ethics and the lexicon and the culture of the Northfolk, but the pantheon just felt (as it should) like elder-kin. The lore always seemed (as it should) like literature. I am not saying that I never felt their presence, but they were more like onlookers—guests who stopped by to have a beer but not stick around too long. Admittedly, I kept them at an arm’s length. Loki scared the shit out of me and Odin just seemed like a pushy, domineering sort.

Odin on Sleipnir by spanielf on DeviantArt

Over the years, Odin would poke his head in and say, “Hello. Wanna go for a ride?”

I always declined.

Recently quite vehemently.

It was September of 2012 when I finally decided that I would formally align myself with a deity. I’m not sure how the other kids are doing it, but I did it this way. I was alone for the weekend and I had just gotten re-comfortable with my old practice of spirit-journeying. I had gotten to where I could drop back into a trance like I could in my 20s and early 30s. Just like riding a bike. And just as exhausting when one is older and not in great shape.[3] After what felt like an eternity of asking questions and opening doors and walking and walking and walking and talking to odd inhabitants, I was tired enough to throw my astral hands in the air and say the equivalent of, “Come and get me!” It felt almost like an offer to the highest bidder. I regretted it almost immediately: “That was a bad idea.”

Of course, I had a couple of scrubs come by and low-ball me; I expected this. But I don’t go home with deities that live in their mama’s basements.

Yeah, it felt kinda like being picked up in a bar.

I almost took this one offer but there was a weird little hitch that made me look at the fine print a little better before saying, “I’m sure you are very sweet, but no thanks.”

After that, things started happening, changing, improving, amplifying, and doing so pretty rapid-fire. I found myself asking, “Who do I thank for this? And who do I thank for this? And who left this present?” and generally shouting, “Thanks,” to the broader universe hoping my benefactor would hear me.

I knew I had settled on being a Heathen. I knew I was bound to engage with a Celtic/Anglo deity. But I kinda thought there might be a lesser-god/dess that would be a little less insistent than The Alfather. Yeah, yeah, I am a control freak. Who of us isn’t? And anyway, I don’t believe that going to the ultimate deity is the only way to go. I know lots of folks who have great relationships with deities that are not Zeus, Quetzalcoatl, Baal, Lugh, or their female counterparts. I thought a creatrix like Cailleach or Fairy Fand would suit me just fine.

Then, as you likely read, over the winter, Freyja came along and started making it fairly obvious to me that she was taking up housekeeping. I thought this was a little bigger than I expected but it seemed fine and dandy to me. I could handle a shapeshifting Vanic-fio-Asa-Goddess with cats, falcons, boars, and herons who just happens to be Queen of the Psychopomps.

Then Odin came back along—a little more strident than ever—and suggested that he had claim on me simply because I had agreed to Frejya’s terms a few months earlier.

“No.” I said. “And it’s not that I don’t like you. I really think you are groovy, but you see, you’re just not my type. You’re too aggressive. If you want to talk from time to time, that’s cool. But you have to stop leaning on me.” That’s how it felt—like he was always leaning on my like a possessive and dominant dog. “If you don’t stay on your side of my comfort zone, you will turn me off entirely and send me running to some more-passive wine-drinking Apollonian.”

He laughed his tell-tale laugh, made a polite acquiescence that somehow still insinuated, “But, I’ll be back,” and let me be.

For about two-and-a-half months.

In the meantime, I decided that I would go ahead and make a formal dedication to Freyja. Not a “godatheow” relationship but a reciprocal, “I-recognize-what-you-have-been-doing-for-me-so-thanks-let’s-wear-each-other’s-class-rings,” kind of dedication.[4]

It was nice. Just nice enough to be fine. Good. Fine. Nice.

And then yesterday.

I don’t even know how to tell you this without sounding schizophrenic. But I assume that if you are reading this blog, you have a modicum of knowledge about such encounters and will not seek me out to have me committed.

Yesterday.

Odin approached me for the third (serious) time.[5]

This showed up.

Last week when the kindred met to do that stav workshop, my Journey-buddy and I were making comments about “finding spirit animals” or fylgia. He mentioned that one might see “normal animals” three times in remarkable circumstances but that fantastic animals (should that be your animal) tended to appear everywhere all the time—on t-shirts, on TV, in dreams, etc. Last week I started seeing hanged men and gallows everywhere. It unnerved me. I wasn’t sure what to make of it until yesterday.

Yesterday when Odin poked his head in and said, “It’s time.”

This time, he . . . um, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I don’t mean to say he was going to put a horse’s head in my silk sheets or my brains on a band contract, but that he made an offer so tempting that I couldn’t refuse it.[6] Not a carte blanche offer either, of course. This is a Norse deity who plays by the rules of Gebo. But a fair, good, solid, damned-attractive offer. And in the end, I get to keep my soul—such as it is—thank you very much.

We made a bit of a compromise, and I was even given the A-OK to tell y’all about it—most of it.

I have to give an ordeal.[7] No bloodletting, piercings, or body-hanging or anything of that sort, but not totally painless either—only because I am so indulgent. My detox period has been moved up. I normally detox for a week in April or May. I start on a nine-day near-fast on Monday: “No bread did they give me nor drink from a horn.” And there are other physical and non-physical sacrifices to which I am obliged. A little sleep deprivation, a little caffeine withdrawal, a little abstinence—alcohol and sex.

This showed up.

The ordeal of Odin is usually commemorated in August. Guess what? I detox every six months. After striking the deal it occurred to me—Guess what’s six months from now? August. And the fact that it’s Lent and we are talking about self-sacrificing gods making an exchange for Gnosis, hanging on trees, and transfigured resurrection, yeah. All that occurred to me too. After the fact.

I have to journey in each of the nine worlds and collect eighteen “things.” I guess I’ll know what this is when I get there. (This struck me as “random.” Then it occurred to me, duh: 9×2=18. I’m slow.)

Yes, I get something in return—I was given this information from Odin in his Oski aspect. And then as Svipal gave way to Gagnrath, he warned me that I wouldn’t get my return in *my* order, but in his.[8] This could be a Witch’s Duh moment–but I don’t think so. And once it’s all over and our accounts are settled—then I will be asked for my hand in, um, theowdom—we’ll go with theowdom. Obviously, it would be a shame on me forever if I decline.

To be clear–I don’t see this arrangement as “ownership” or “slavery.” Others may (I’ve read that they do.) This is not the tenor in which it was presented to me. To minister is already to serve–“theow” means is related to “thew” or “bodily discipline”–I’ll talk about that later too. After all, in the RCC, the Pope is called The Servant of Servants. (Go ahead, sing the Nirvana song. I’ll wait.) There is a physical discipline to journey work. We must commit to this loyally if we want success, no?

I wanted to talk about Ordeals and trees and Judas Iscariot but that will have to wait, I suppose. I also somehow thought I’d have time and space to cover “horsing” and such but that will have to wait too.

For now, let me just share with you a bit of the conversation I had with Odin. Keep in mind that prior to yesterday, I didn’t know that humans replicated Odin’s ordeal. I had no idea that folks were doing this sort of thing. It wasn’t until after this conversation that I thought to look any of this up. I have a ton of stuff to share this upcoming week. In the last 48 hours, I have had information and revelation dumped in my lap like an aetheric piñata has burst just above me. I may be a little too overwhelmed to make much else of it.

E: “I’ve told you, you’re too pushy. I don’t want to be owned by a man. You know that simply just doesn’t fit my worldview.”

O: “Ah, but you are missing the point. Men are the war-lords—women rule the hearth and hamlet. You are in charge of all else—I am the defender, the warrior.”

I feel like I’m trying to make a photo essay at fill in the language gaps–like John Berger’s Ways of Seeing–but with trees.

E: “But a ‘slave’? Naw.”

O: “Read the Hávamál: ‘I know that I hung on a windy tree, nine long nights, wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself, on that tree which no man knows from where it’s roots run.’ See?”

I was beginning to see. In a weird apocalypses unlike any of those I’ve had with other beings. It transcends words.[9]

E: “So, what’s in it for you?”

That’s the part I don’t have any words for. I had this instantaneous understanding of things I couldn’t have imagined even existed.

O: “See. That’s how it works.”

E: “I can totally live with that.”

O: “See you a week from Wednesday.”

–Oh, I have to share some insights about Wednesdays too.

Until then, waes hael!

~E

---

[1] Doing is another thing altogether. I’m married to a dedicatedly monogamous man + I am loyal to my vows to him = transitive property: I am dedicatedly monogamous.

[2] There is a lot of controversy about this term and practice. It seems the Norse gods are very hip on “collecting” godatheow and Odin has more than his fair share of folks out there discussing the matter. Here’s a good one. This one gives food-for-thought. In a search this morning, I found my friend Aubs (SatSekhem) at this forum.  I haven’t had a chance to catch up with you recently, lady, how goes it with Sekhmet? Here’s a thread with a broad range of ideas.

[3] This was also the around time I decided to call myself “Völva” instead of “Witch” and to use the term “Seiðr” instead of “Ceremonial Magic.” I haven’t gotten around to telling you just how I think I might maybe feel about the word “Shaman,” so let’s just say that this was when I *formally* re-made “spirit-walking,” “journeying,” and “pathworking” a part of my regular practice/life.

[4] My relationship with the gods is best explained in terms of dating, it seems. Married by 20, I have little experience with either.

[5] From what I’m learning, it takes a lot of folks three times.

[6] And I had just finished reading Needful Things, so I was in a wary state of mind. It was *that* good.

[7] One of the biggest controversies is that godatheow are conflated with BDSM. Not all servants are Ordealists. Not all Ordeals involve BDSM. If you are an adult, read this (and all of her ordeal posts, really).

[8] He was shifting aspects like a character from A Scanner Darkly.

[9] If you follow me here—you follow. If you don’t understand this part, it’s not for you to understand.

Sticks and Stones

I have a few favorite words; one of them is “tristesse.” Most of my favorites are favorites not because of their definitional meanings but because of their connotation. Tristesse means “sadness.” But it is typically used to refer to the melancholy which attends the end of “involvement”: the end of a sweet love affair, the end of a travel-adventure, the post-climax denouement of a three act play, the feeling one gets upon selling a piece of art or successfully completing a writing project. Closing night of a musical. The day after the prom or a wedding. Selling a house and retiring. When the party ends and the last beloved friend goes home. Tristesse.

Yesterday was a big day around here. All of my favorite kith and kin gathered and made stav. There was wood, there was leather, there were stones and charms, there was wood burning, there was stain made out of coffee beans and dragons blood bark. Yeah, yeah, there were also sacrilegious jokes about “getting wood” for the “volva” workshop. But it’s bound to happen. I know The Ancestors enjoy a bawdy guffaw as much as we do. There was food-and more food!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Then we learned the most basic of meditative practices in preparation for journeying. We have some members who are old hat at journeying, are on conversational basis with their guides, and can coordinate physical and mental states at will; some that have little to no experience with it at all. So we began with a brief tour of the wells of Yggdrasil. Simple? Well, a necessary first step. This was our “human initiation” phase and Ulfvolk welcomed seven members into the, um, pack. Those of us who have experienced such, shared some stories about our “astral initiations.” I sort of told you about mine a while ago in a post about “Wolf Warrior – The Ulfhethennir.” I can’t wait to hear about the new initiates’ experiences. It’s kinda like waiting for a baby to be born.

Following that (yeah, I know, we had to pack a lot into one night), we had an initiation and elevation ceremony. Three-quarters of OPS “Seekers” were initiated last night and 100% of our Neophytes became Advocates.

And with that, two-weeks of intense “involvement” came to an end and a sweet sense of tristesse set in.

This is not to say that I don’t have anything else to do, but that I have some breathing room, some reflecting room, time to really feel the moment that has just past.

Plus I had an epiphany. I was faced with two choices: push the rest of the book out by March 1 or wait until the next release date in late spring. My typical push-push-push-achieve-achieve-achieve personality took a nap long enough for my rational self to say, “Ten weeks? In exchange for sanity? And maybe a little better writing? We’ll take it.” (Boy-o, “Competitive Me” was piiiiiissed off when she woke up from that nap; but she’s being a lady about it. In exchange, she has negotiated a few episodes of Breaking Bad and new nail polish.)

Today, I am feeling Tristesse. (And eating leftover artichoke dip with my fingers.)

And, like I said: tristesse is one of my favorites.

Waes hael,

Ehsha

Hail Brigid: A Good Jera

Hail Brigid of the triple face
Who’s voice does rise on the lilt of grace
Who’s blossoms beautiful ever bloom
On the wings of poetry’s sweet perfume

–“Hail Brigid” from Songs for the Strengthening Sun by Sharon Knight and T. Thorn Coyle

Keeper of the healing light
Shine your love on us tonight
“Brighid” from Lady Moon by Kellianna

Pimpin’ some great Pagan tunes today. Enjoy!

Yesterday I spent the day affirming life and celebrating the onset of spring with some friends. Sort of new friends but not really. We have many mutual friends in common and have been in the same place at the same time on many occasions but were never meant to come face to face until yesterday.

This may be a lot like my post about visiting Mount Cheaha but with a different punchline. You see, a few months ago–November–I took one student to a gathering in Central Alabama to meet with some folks. This visit ended up really lifted our spirits by letting us know that not all of the Pagan community was out to burn this little set of “bad” witches. Yes, they had heard all of the rumors and lies about us but judged us for who we actually were, face-to-face, on that day. Amen?

Yesterday, come Helheim or high-water, bad brakes or “no-half-foods” (inside joke, sorry), we were getting our behinds to Pinson, Alabama for a lovely rite with an Ár nDraíocht Féin (A Druid Fellowship/ADF) group. T’wern’t just me and one student this time (though that would have been totally fine). There were two carloads of us that pulled up this time. And we had a blast.

Can I brag about it for a minute?

On the way down Hazey and I made one of Hazey’s cohort watch The Godfather for the first time. (“Wait, is this the one with the cocaine?” “Or is it the one with the ‘little friend’?” “Oh, is this the one . . .” “It’s the one with the horse head–now watch and learn.”) We quoted it back and forth so often that we confuzzled the poop out of the poor girl.

We pulled up in a yard where we were immediately welcomed like family, treated to the most amazing stories about Hawaii, Scottish lore (and actual history), and the funniest people we have been with in a long time. One note: while bacon purportedly makes everything better, salmon mousse with wine may be the exception that proves the rule. (Also an ongoing joke, sorry.) I got to meet a woman who’s been following my blog while I have been following hers–and we didn’t even know! (Go follow Journeying to the Goddess and The Journeys of a Nomadic Pagan, go on, I’ll wait.) I love when the universe says: “And *NOW* you will meet!” Seems she moved to my neck of the woods a few months back. (Welcome home, Daughter RavynStar; feels like kin already, don’t it?) And if that don’t beat all, we were given free rein to grab as many potential stav as we could for next week’s workshop. I may have walked away from that experience with some great sticks and a serious case of machete envy. 

Once again, I was treated to the chorus, “Oh, *you* are the Bad…hmmmwhatnow?”[1]

As much as I hate to disappoint, I never live up to the lies one might hear about me.

After a beautiful ritual, expertly executed[2] by my new soul-friend, Pixie (of the Pythons), we had the most luscious feast with Pagans who do eat meat and do not get sloppy drunk.

Tipsy, yes. Ugly, no.

Then we drove home in a reflective spirit, a joyous spirit, an exhausted and snoring within thirty-miles spirit. Fresh air, red wine, fun folks, energy galore, followed by The Godfather Part Two? Yup. I may have even drooled on the leather interior before Vito pinched the rug.

But in all seriousness, I was blessed profoundly during Pixie’s ritual. You see, last Imbolc, I thought I had turned a corner. I thought I had found good community with which to celebrate. I thought I could be a good Pagan among Pagans. I was wrong. My heart ’bout broke. The only thing I got right was a promise I made to pursue the *real* feminine divine. Last year’s rite involved far too much smoke and ashes[3] the blessing of “wish wheels”–we carved our intentions for the year on a green platter and then “cast” to internalize our intent. I carved a water symbol, a pertho, a something, and a something else.[4] All representing the female mysteries.

While I did not find the community I thought I found at Imbolc 2012, I did find the purpose. I struggled for a solid five or six months after that to figure out what I really needed to do to reclaim the female divine. Suggestions of Yoni Punja and of Dianic orders abounded–all which left me scratching my head.

But at Imbolc 2013?

Before heading out the door I pulled a rune for the day, as I sometimes do when the spirit moves me.

Jera.

I assumed that it was because it was a new spring, a new season, a new yadda-yadda. Then during the ritual Pixie offered us an opportunity to reflect on our own “work.” I sat on the ground flanked by brilliant students. I found myself breaking pine needles. One of my girls handed me a particularly “good” one. As they fell from my hands, I looked down: Jera.

There it was.

I nearly wept.

If it had been five degrees warmer, I likely would have allowed myself to wail without fear of tear-cicles.[5]

I looked up and saw that I was surrounded by people who love me—plus some new friends who think I might, in fact, be kinda OK.

Jera.

As we pulled out of the driveway and onto the highway to head back to Auburn, I asked my carload, “Damn, that was fun! Why don’t we have cool Pagans at home?!”

One of the girls perked up and remonstrated me: “Duh. We do. Look around, we are they. And there are, like, a ton of us.”

Jera.

Brigid, bright and fair,

Thank you for slapping me upside the head and getting my feet on the right path.
Brigid, whose hue is like the cotton-grass,
You kicked my ass right where it needed kicking.
Rich-gressed maiden with ringlets of gold,
Your wisdom is in the bounty of letting me “cut m’own switch.”
Oh, Mother Brigid,
Let this be as good a year as is begun.

May every last one of you be blessed!

Waes hael,
Ehsha

---

[1] More than once followed by, “So, tell me more about Völva-craft.” Dude. Squee?

[2] Expertly executed–I don’t care what she says; when problems arise (as they do in this human life), you can’t fly by the seat of your broomstick like that unless you know your business inside and out.

[3] Which I took as a bad omen and then proceeded to push down, down , down.

[4] It didn’t occur to me until a bit later that I needed to form a helix.

[5] Eye-cicles?

A Little More About Stav

Many of you have responded positively to my post about the völva, I thought I’d provide you a little more historical context. I hadn’t intended to turn this blog into an education center, but if a little teaching is called for, it’s what I will do gladly.

First, a little fun about the word völva. Though it is strikingly similar to the word vulva (and what Google always thinks you mean when you search around for more information about my subject—that and Volvo), the two words come from different stems of PIE (proto-Indo-European) languages. If you look at the chart below, you will see that Latin and Romance Languages and then Germanic Languages are on different branches. The word we use for female genitalia, vulva, does come from a word “volva,” but this Latin form of the word is also from where we derive “revolve,” as it means “to turn.” The Germanic version of the word völva means something entirely different. The word which translates more closely to vulva in Germanic languages (walwjan, wealwian, weoloc, and walzan) is more akin to spiral, roll, wheel, and waltz. About a year or so ago, I latched on to the term helix. Völva, on the other hand, with an umlaut[1], translates into “wand carrying woman” (in that it is a female word) or “stav carrying woman.” Therefore, the relationship between völva and stav is not new. As a matter of fact, as you can see, the stav is part and parcel with the term völva.

 

The term “stav” has a bit of a multiple meaning. “Stav” means both “stave,” the physical weapon or “staff,” and the martial art which employs the stav. It also means “rune-stave,” magical symbols carved into items—look them up, they are fairly Goetic-looking. It can also refer to a perpetual calendar (aka Runic Almanac) based on the cycle of the Moon over 19 years. See this for more funtimes. The term also refers to runic characters themselves. Stav meditations, that is to say meditations on the meanings of the runes, date back to circa 500 CE.

Further, meditations using stav are not new (and the relationship between völva, stav, meditation, and Yggdrasil alignments are not new–that is to say, these are techniques that have a deep and meaningful history). Like yoga, Stadhagalr (sometimes misnamed runic “yoga”[2]) is a technique of meditation which uses gestures and postures to reach higher levels of consciousness and enact seiðr (magic).

 

Many of these techniques were written down and codified by various practitioners—Stav by Ivar Hafskjold (who claims it is based on oral tradition preserved in his family since the 6^th Century) in the 1990s, Yggdrassil alignments galore (by the likes of Per Lundberg and a YellowPages search of “Yggdrasil Yogaskole” will yield a list of yoga classes across Norway that use Yggdrasil meditations), and Stadhaglr by F.B Marby, S.A. Krummer, and Karl Spiesberger in the early 20^th Century. However, they are centuries older than that—we just don’t have a formal manuscript to point to their origins. (We have a good deal of Medieval texts—a few earlier.) According to Sarah Lynn Higley in “Dirty Magic: Seiðr, Science, and the Parturating Man in Medieval Norse and Welsh Literature,”[3] The Book of Taliesin “show[s] a preoccupation with the hermetic and pseudo-scientific knowledge popular in medieval wisdom traditions. . . . [As] “Angar Kyfyngdawt” . . . list[s] supernatural attributes spoken in the first person by the Taliesin persona who boasts of his exploits, ordeals, secrets, and incarnations as animals and objects” (137). This is just to say that seiðr and its shapshifting element, in astral projection or “pathworking” or “journeying,” is nothing new—just that it is becoming “re-popular.”

I hope this clarifies a few things about the age of stav practices, the variety of stav practitioners, and the differences between traditional stav-work and contemporary applications of ancient practices. And I hope it gives the interested a few more resources to pursue.

I have magic-class tonight and one of my students is bringing me a behbeh kitteh that she rescued from under a shed. Starting tomorrow my posts may be much less academic and reflect how much “I really love cats”[4] in an eHarmony sort of way. All cats all the time.

Waes hael,

Ehsha

---

[1] To denote a “front” vowel—the ö is the sound in early or burn.

[2] I feel about using “yoga” to define stadhaglr about like I feel when folks use “shamanism” to talk about journeying or spirit walking. Yoga : Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism :: Shamanism : Samoyedic / Tungusic Siberians and Mongals and their various descendants. I plan to write a post in the near future about the words we use to signify “altered states of consciousness in which we interact with the spirit world and the benevolent and malevolent spirits who reside there” or “entering into a trance state to practice divination and healing.”

[3] Essays in Medieval Studies 11.

[4] Of course, “I think about how many don’t have a home.”

What the FAQ?

I’ve written a solid six posts since last time but I had a busy weekend with grove business[1] and Wyrd Sister business and I never got around to editing and publishing them—so e’suse me while I blow up your blog-feed over the next few days?[2] Having submitted finals for two courses and taken care of all m’business, I have some things to share with you. I feel compelled to answer a few questions that should have been asked before assumptions were made and answers were invented. It feels a little like the time The Road Less Traveled asked about the nuances between practices back on m’old blog. I’m glad to have the opportunity to share what I know and I’m pleased to challenge myself to be clear and explicable and to do it in lay terms.

Pull up a chair, this one is long.

What is a Völva?[3] Is a Völva automatically a priestess?

The word Völva translates roughly as staff-carrying-woman. Maria Kvilhaug calls her “The Norse Witch,” to distinguish her from a priestess or gyðia, and explains that Völur (the plural of Völva) “were honored and revered and sought as wise women, healers, prophets, oracles, shamans. . . . The primeval witch was the goddess Freyia, who introduced the art of seiðr [fate-magic, shamanism]. . . . I choose not to refer to the völva as ‘priestess’ because that gives a different association, even if she sometimes leads ritual like a priestess. Priestesses in the old Norse settings were called blótgyðiur [sacrificial priestesses] or hóvgyðiur [temple priestesses].”[4]

So, no. A Völva is not automatically a priestess. This term does not indicate priesthood but rather the practice of seiðr, magic. The Völva is a magician, a sorceress, a healer, an oracle—she is a witch. Plain and simple.

The Völva is a magician who comes from a tradition, unlike Western Esotericism, that venerated her femaleness[5] as well as her skills to the point where she was given high honors—even over royalty. Of course, with great power comes great responsibility. The Völva did not “lord” her power over the community, she served them with it. To be a Völva is not to engage in an ego-trip, but rather to place one’s self in the service of a community.  But please do not confuse service with servitude. The Völva was *NOT* in a position of subservience to *ANYONE.*

What is a stav?

Basically? It’s a stick.

More exactly, it is the Völva’s magical implement. It’s her wand. It’s her staff. It is her most important tool aside from her own body. It serves a variety of purposes when working magic, Seiðr. It can be used to aligns the Völva with the energy of Yggdrasil, The World Tree. It is used to channel energy. Here’s a quick link if you need more than that.

There are martial arts devoted to the use of a stav (or bo-stav) for battle and protection. I can’t imagine that the Völva, living on the outskirts of town (Útgarðar), wouldn’t occasionally need it for defensive purposes as well.

Kari Tauring, a performance artist and academic from Minnesota, has strong ties to her Norwegian roots. In her books, Völva Stav Manual (which I’ve read) and The Runes: A Human Journey (which I plan to read soon), Tauring discusses some deeply meaningful methods of aligning one’s self to the universal energies which surround us while using the human body, a stav, and, “energetic sounds and symbols of her Indo-European tradition through personal and family stories, Norse mythology, and Eastern and Native American philosophy” (Lulu.com). I don’t know anyone else who does this.[6] Tauring seems unique to me in her application of the Völva tradition. Have a look, it’s delightful. (And it looks like it takes far more coordination than I will ever have.) Oh, look here too–she’s too adorably amazing. (Kari told me she would be within driving range this spring. I hope to drag a van-full of folk to Ole Miss. And then be as googlie-eyed as I was when I met Susan Bordo. I’m such a nerd.)

I am über fortunate to have a man in my community who makes stav. (Stavs?) He was trained in Harnerism/Core Shamanism[7] and he has made a number of beautiful stav for himself and his wife to use on their journeys (I’ll get to “journeys” in a minute). He has been gracious enough to offer to hold a workshop for our grove in which he will teach our kindred how to make their own stav. We are going to tag-team guide a journey after everyone has made their stav. I’m tickled.

What does a Völva do?

Well? (Ha, ha—yes, there are wells.) Magic!

Like I said, she is a sorceress. Whatever you imagine a magician doing, that’s what a Völva does. She has different methods, of course—the greatest difference it seems to me is that she uses her body as her magical implement far more than she uses the external tools I associate with “Ceremonial Magic.”

Some of the specific things Völur do include:

Spæ — The term Spæ or Spæcraft is given to the divination part of Seiðr and is where we derive the word, “spy.” Some folks conflate this with runic-divination. I’m not sure if I do yet. I would say that rune casting is a personal act of Spæ, but that Spæ can be performed for “broader” issues as well—perhaps they both fall under the term Spæ.

Pathworking/Journeying (what is commonly referred to as shamanism; I’ll talk about that in another post)—The difference between a journey (otherwise called a pathworking) and a meditation tends to be that a meditation is concentrating on a fixed point or idea, whereas a journey takes traverses through different points and is often taken for a specific purpose: typically involving some kind of “quest.” (It’s more complicated than that, obvs; but I’m not focusing on journeys in this post. I’ve been writing them down for you and you can see them soon.) A journey is a mystical process which involves what might be referred to as “astral travel” and “astral work” for a set purpose, like “Going to the Well of Wyrd” to understand, forsee, and even change the “fate” of a community. There are journeys called “Churning” (yes, like butter) and Sleipnir’s Charge, a journey to Helheim for understanding and “shard” searching (if you understand pathworking, you know what I mean).  It can be a light-hearted technique but pathworking can also serve to lead a practitioner (male or female) to deeply meaningful and intensely rewarding healing and transformation. While on a journey, a practitioner can unite with primal creative energies, with their ancestor spirits, and with deified energies or spirit guides (fylgja).

Seership—Much like the Oracle at Delphi, the Völva is a seer. The Seiðrhjallr Rite, or The High Seat Trance Oracular Rite is likely the most spectacular (therefore, most well-known—however least understood!) of the Völva’s roles. The Seiðrhjallr is a group rite where the Völva enters into a trance-state to serve as oracle for an assembly. It features one Seer who acts as a channel, several priests and priestesses charged with the raising of energy and the psychic protection of the group, and an assembly who take an active part in the rite.

In our community, we are assembling a Seiðrhjallr group. We have some very talented seers and—like I said, a gentleman and myself serve as journey guides (and he’s also a promising “healer”); I rarely serve as seer—there are some far more naturally “open” than I am right now. I remain too guarded for group work. I’ll grow out of it.

We are small now, but expanding. You see, the level of trust required in trance-work (really, any magical group dynamic) is high. One does not grow a Seiðrhjaller group by leaps and bounds but by slow and careful measures.

Pathworking can be done alone—if you know your way around the landscape—but is best done with a guide, in my opinion. This is where we have had best and most immediate results. Therefore, we work as a group to build trust and maximize results as often as we can. We are having a semi-open pathworking (I mentioned it above)—I’m admittedly a little nervous about expanding. Nervous and excited. And terrified. And thrilled. And . . .

Seiðr—As I’ve mentioned, this is a term for the Northern European concept of magic and sorcery. This word is often misused to signify “Witchcraft,” however Hægtesse is a better word. Where Seiðr is a more familiar term, typically the first thing folks think of involves divination and the High Seat. However, given the other, profoundly powerful  (sometimes misunderstood as “darker”) aspects of Seiðr, many modern Heathens are beginning to understand that Seiðr has aspects of Sorcery and Ceremonial Magic. Seiðr is, at its core, about harnessing and shaping energy. *Magic.*

The Völva  uses both Galdr—a chant used during Seið—and Vardlokkur—a “song” used during Seið.

How does one become a Völva?

Tauring’s manual, which I pointed to above, indicates that it is the practice of Völva–craft itself that makes one a Völva. And I agree. What makes a magician a magician? A sorcerer a sorcerer? A witch a witch? The practices they (we) practice, of course. For something more personal, you can read about Samantha Catalina Sinclair’s experiences of discovery in her paper, “Traditions of the Nordic Völva.” 

There is no formal tradition of initiation in America for Völur. We are comparatively few and far between, therefore we have individual practices. There is, however a rapidly growing interest in Völva-craft and Seiðr and a number of prominent organizations that (I suspect, I am not a member so cannot speak for them) have initiations that have begun to be perpetuated in what would, in other traditions, be called “hive” groups. As for the small Seiðr group to which I belong, we do have initiations—but the ritual is about trust and community, not exclusivity and partitionment.

Some folks are initiated in traditions from other than American traditions (more on what that means in a minute). For instance, Yngona Desmond, founder of the Georgia Heathen Society and the Southlands Tribal Alliance, refers to herself as Vinland’s Völva (Vinland being the Viking name for North America), which she says is “an honorary title of respect and recognition, gifted [her] by Sámi Noaide . . . .”; Desmond defines herself as “a spiritual traveler and sacred pilgrim, visiting and honoring sacred sites across continental Europe, Scandinavia, and Russia.” She says that her “overall focus is on the Folksoul of [her] people. Secondly, it is on education.” It is not unusual to find that Völva are highly educated and academically minded. Author of Völuspá- Seiðr as Wyrd Consciousness, one of the first books I ever read on the subject, Desmond has a Masters in Religious Studies and a Doctorate in Philosophy.[8]

Who are some other notable Völva?

Aside from Tauring and Desmond (who are both Völva but do vastly different things in vastly different ways—if you walk away from this post with nothing else, let it be that Völva-craft is a heterogeneous set of praxis), there are a healthy handful of Seiðrkona and Seiðrmänner. I cannot name them all, so I will list the ones from whom I have garnered some knowledge (either from reading, from personal contact, or whatever). If you are or know someone who practices Seiðr and want to share info, I encourage you to leave it in the comments section.

Most notably in America is Diana Paxson, an Elder in the Covenant of the Goddess. Those of us who cut our prepubescent teeth on The Mists of Avalon will recognize Paxson as Marion Zimmer Bradley’s collaborator and the author of the later Avalon books.[9] Paxson is the co-leader (with Lorrie Wood) of Hrafnar, a Seiðrhjallr group in Berkeley, California, and author of Trance-Portation: Learning to Navigate the Inner World (2008). In her mid-40s, Paxson had a “close encounter with Odin” which started her on the path toward the runes and Seiðr; two years later she began her oracular Seiðr group: “In 1992 she joined the Troth, an international heathen organization.”

Also in California is Ember Cooke, founding Gyðia of the Vanic Conspiracy (2004), she has been a member of Paxson’s Hrafnar and “has served the Pagan community as lay clergy and spiritual counselor for almost nine years  .” Like Desmond, Cooke holds a degree in Religious Studies.

Katie Gerrard of London, author of Seiðr: The Gate is Open (parts of which I require my magic students and encourage my Seiðr group to read) and Odin’s Gateways, “has been studying the different forms of Norse magic and working with the Norse Gods since discovering them in the 1990s . . . . She also regularly hosts Seidr and other Seer and Norse Rite within the London area.”

Other helpful folk?

Jenny Blaine, researcher at Sheffield Hallam University, is author of Seiðr and Nine Worlds of Seid-Magic: Ecstasy and Neo-Shamanism in North European Paganism. She may not consider herself a Völva, but I enjoy her work.

Galina Krasskova is another academic Heathen (though she considers herself a Priest of Odin and Loki rather than a Völva). Krasskova’s ideas about working with the Northern gods are controversial—you can see an interview here and decide for yourself.

See the links at the footer for more stuff.

Any male (or transgendered) Seiðr-workers?

Raven Kaldera of Hubbardston, Massachusetts, author of Wyrdwalkers: Techniques of Northern-Tradition Shamanism and many other titles.

Jan Fries, whose book Seidways: Shaking, Swaying, and Serpent Mysteries (which is a favorite-favorite-favorite), is an occultist from Germany and self-acclaimed “freestyle shaman.”

Kveldulf Gundarsson (aka Stephan Grundy), is the author of Our Troth as well as Teutonic Magic and Teutonic Religion.

Oh, and then there’s Runic John!

Why do some people use the term “American Völva”?

Archeological Cultures in Northern and Central Europe at the late pre-Roman Iron Age

Think about Northern Europe. Think about all of the vast and different cultures there were and still are. Norwegians are not Saami are not Bavarian are not any other people from Northern Europe—see? Now imagine each of those cultures transporting their culture to North America and syncretizing it with other religions and other practices and other cultures. American experiences and ancestral öorlog are much different from that of those whose ancestors remained in Europe. This is not a judgment call—it’s just a difference.

For me, being an American Völva indicates how my kindred—specifically my dísr to whom I hold troth—sacrificed and adapted their practices to meet the demands of The New World. I honor my foremothers who are native to North America just as much as I honor my ethnic heritage rooted in Bavaria, Belgium, Scotland, and the Netherlands. I do this as I embrace the Heathen ethic entwined with my wyrd and answer to the voice of my deified ancestor, Freya. Further, I cannot disentangle myself from the religious experiences I have had as an American. My more recent experiences with Hoodoo (which have been profound!) and my older experiences with Western Ceremonial Magic, Evangelical Christianity, Jesuit Catholicism, and Powwow cannot be weeded out from my consciousness. Why would I want to? While I would never deign to speak for another’s experience, I imagine that this rich and wondrous birthright is what causes all Seiðr-workers who claim the title “American Völva” to identify as such: because we are American.

How did you get involved in Völva-craft, did it all come from these books and YouTube?

Don’t be silly.

But even if it did, that would be just fine. I could do worse.

Many of you have been right by my side watching the transformation I have made over the past two+ years. I began as an academic-Witch who couldn’t seem to find her place in her tradition. After a few teen years spent fishing for information, I finally settled into a place with a mentor. But my original training was too theoretical for my practical tendencies—though I still hold to every word Bertie taught me as though it were my lifeline. My secondary experience was too frenetic for my relatively conservative tastes—though I now find that I am re-drawn to the more tempestuous side of magic which I find in Seiðr. My tertiary experience was too solitary. Being in a new place, working on a doctorate, raising kids, I was alone. I go back and forth between wanting to return to my place of hermitdom and knowing I don’t belong there. This is because my quaternary experience left me battered and bruised. For three-and-a-half years I have had to defend my every breath. (Thus, this post.) You can’t blame me for wanting to hold everything in and hide everything away.

I waded into Witchcraft good and deep in my teens. While I studied in my 20s, I learned an array of Western esoteric occult systems.[10] In my 30s, I studied Ceremonialism—a lot—and kinda fell in love with Chaos, John Dee, and then Goetia. But, as you saw in my posts about the Vesica Pieces (“I Call it Like I See It” and “By Jove!” over at TBWF) and the Helix, I have had a real problem with the phallic nature of CM and the spermognostic preferences of GD-based traditions.

I “liked” Heathenry and loved Anglo-Saxon ethics but wasn’t thrilled about Odinism, Ásatrú, or really even Vanatru or Theodism. These too seemed to have phallus smeared all over a perfectly good system. And I couldn’t find any Heathens working “magic.”

Then—ah, I found a “Modern Teutonic Wizard” willing to take me as an apprentice. That was one of the (shortest, strangest) most meaningful moments of my recent religious experience. I found that all of the lessons I was learning were “the same concept with different words.” This is when I really began to struggle with the patristic structure of Western Ceremonialism (and even a great deal of “Goddess Worship” traditions) that reified the male and objectified the female. If the concepts are the same—can we change the words—then change the concepts.

I started studying Seiðr and making connections between what I already knew from twenty-years of study and what this “new” (ancient) tradition had to say about it. To be clear—there are some things that simply do not correspond.

I participated in a Thunarblót  with some lovely Heathens in Atlanta last year. By this time, I had figured out what I wanted but couldn’t find anyone (local) who worked Seiðr—still not completely understanding the depth of and healing possibilities of Völvaspæ.

Right when I thought I might throw my hands in the air and submit to phallus-worship (but not really), Brandy Williams published The Woman Magician: Revisioning Western Metaphysics from a Woman’s Perspective and Experience. It was pretty second wave—but better than no wave at all. Amen?

I realized that every path I had traversed, every doubling-back, every self-revision was leading me to the moment when I would realize the word “helix” had such profound meaning. It changed my life, my spirit, my outlook, my ethic, my practice. And it couldn’t have happened at a more perfect time. My spiritual (well, religious anyway) community was about to disintegrate. When it did, I moved on, stopped calling myself The Bad Witch, picked up my stav, and remembered how to journey;[11] I decided to tend my wyrd and my gefrain and heal some öorlog; and I moved ütgard.

Funny thing is, some folks followed me. Now we are all leaning on each other, nourishing each other, and transforming—like honey into mead, like cream into butter, like bacteria into cheese, like yeast into bread. Like a house into a home. Like an idea into a spiritual conversion. Like folk into kin.

And we aren’t pestering anybody.

The most amazing things have happened since I dedicated myself to a new purpose last summer. Chichen Itza is a transformative place. So is Helheim. I came back from both about the same time. And I found my fylgja waiting for me, right where I’d left her—smothering under my HGA.[12]

So now I have a new blog, a new approach, a new peace, a new ritual group—oh, and a new book.

The subject of the book is Dísrtroth, my concept for working with female energies in a Heathen Ceremonial Magic (Seiðr/Völva) practice. There is a full explanation of helical power (as opposed to phallic power) and a very basic set of galdr, vordlokkur, rituals and pathworkings. Basic—but powerful. This concept is the thus-far-culmination of twenty-six years of occult and Pagan study, two decades of feminist study—as it applies to religion, culture, literature, and film—fourteen years of dedication to a life in ministerial service,[13] nine years of Teutonic-based study, two years of seeking, and ten months of finding.

Support me with frith as I finish my travels?

If you simply cannot encourage me in kinship, at least refrain from hindering me? After all, our community shares wyrd whether we like it or not.

Wæs hæl

---

[1] Our little community grove, Celestial Earth Sanctuary, joined forces with a larger organization in the area, Church of the Spiral Tree.

[2] One is about mental illness in the Pagan community (rather, about ministering to those with mental illnesses, defining mental illness in an already nonconformist culture, and the accompanying legal what-not). One is about Pagan seminary structure; one is about gefrain; one about “shamanism” (rather, about the word itself); and one is about community dynamics. This one is none of those.

[3] Why is Völva capitalized? What about Seiðr? Quite simply—because I turned “auto-correct” on so that my word processor would automatically add the special characters; in auto-correct mode as I have it set, the words are corrected and capitalized. No other reason. I should change it and one day I might. Until then!

[4] Her graduate thesis The Maiden with the Mead: A Goddess of Initiation Rituals in Old Norse Mythology?is available on her blog, Freyia Völundarhúsins LadyoftheLabyrinth´s Old Norse Mythology Website; I recommend, “The Völva – The Norse Witch.”

[5] Can I put off a discussion about male magicians until another day? The term ergi and ragr were applied to men who performed seiðr; these words do not mean what the Christian Church would have you believe they mean. I promise. Go read Katie Gerrard’s Seiðr: The Gate is Open (I don’t remember the chapter) if you need to know before I get to it. Deal?

[6] Doesn’t mean they don’t exist—just that I haven’t run across them, talked to them, etc.

[7] A subject of a future post.

[8] Kinda like yours truly—just saying.

[9] Collaboration with Bradley: The Forest House (1994),  Lady of Avalon (1997), and Priestess of Avalon (2000). Author of Ancestors of Avalon (2004), Ravens of Avalon (2007), and Sword of Avalon (2009). She has many more books to her credit.

[10] Never have I ever been Gardnerian or Alexandrian. Never have I ever claimed to be. As a matter of fact, I’ve always said, “Not Wiccan.”

[11] I do not claim a lineage other than as a well-trained Ceremonialist and oracular-trance worker who (finally) reclaimed her whoo-ha.

[12] And boy-howdy can she write rituals and journey scripts. All I have to do is give her my hands.

[13] Yea, I even tried Episcopal Seminary just before my youngest was born. Thaaaat didn’t work for me either.