Tainted

 

The flame of Odin’s candle flickered, thrown back and forth as if in agony. I took a breath but found no air. I closed my eyes but found no solace. Guide me, I asked. Please, guide me.

The writhing flame only screamed.

Please, I asked. Please.

No.

Every twist of the sacred flame charred my intentions. Please, I cried.

No.

Not when word of self loathing mark your body. Why would I speak to one who is worthless, one who is no one? 

The flame crackled and twisted around its own self as I reached for my blade. My hands were steady even as my heart trembled. Sharp, so very sharp, against skin.

Words of self loathing, I scraped them off. Words of self degradation, removed from my flesh.

When not a trace of shame remained, the flame grew silent.

Such words are not easily erased. The naked eye might not see the hateful lines, but still they are there. 

He did not speak to me. No booming voice nor gentle whisper. Only agony.

Do not approach me so tainted. 

 

knife2 (2)

Int’ ännu vi ber’na – Rán

I wrote a poem for Rán today. It will be read as I offer Her drops of snaps and a little package of Fisherman’s Friend. And I will plead with Her to soften the blow for all those who suffer due to the recent storm related flooding. Because as a voice called out, imploring his fellow Heathens to ask Rán for help, people would say: No. Ask Thor!

 

And yes, ask Thor, the master of storms. But let it not be said I would deny Rán, when honestly asked.

May She keep a calm sea even as storm rages above!

May Her daughters safely carry those lost back to land!

May those unescapably caught in Her nets fare well in Her halls!

 

 

 

Be safe, all!

 

A Nightly Embroidery

Night embroidered1
See, this is what happens when you forget to use your embroidery hoop: You risk the fabric stretching weirdly and getting out of shape. This piece was perfectly symmetrical when I drew it on the fabric, it just… contorted a bit as I was working on it. Let’s pretend we don’t see that, m’kay?

This is something I’ve been working on for quite a while. I would say it’s an image of Nótt, but that would be wrong. It is an image for Her more than it is of Her.

 

Night embroidereddetail4

 

The thread is wool, the fabric it’s embroidered on is linen, and then the whole thing is sewn onto another piece of wool fabric. The technique is mainly split stitch. The wooden stick holding it up I made from a juniper branch, and the detail of the button is an old button originating from gods know where. Oh and the design is all my own.

 

Night embroidered2

 

For all its flaws, I am fond of the result. I just wish my drawing skills were better, and that I had thought to use a hoop to keep the fabric straight. But never mind that now, in this case the meaning within is more important than the execution. For Nótt!

 

 

Late Night Musings

Summer is ending, and once again the evenings grow dark. As I was walking home late last night, on a lamp-less country road, the light was so sparse that I could barely see the surface I was stepping on. I did see the stars though, brilliant stars a plenty high above, and so I couldn’t stop smiling. So, so beautiful She is.

There are many Gods who have my respect and devotion, but none that awes me as much as Her. Nótt, Night Herself.

Part of me wishes I could build Her a temple, to show my love and share it with the world. At the same time I know, there is no greater place of worship than outside, under the stars. Under Her is Her own temple, grander than any ever built by man.

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If only I could tell you all. All I see, all I feel, all I somehow just know. But words are insufficient, almost painfully so, in describing the mystery of Night. Perhaps if you seek Her, you will see as well?

 

Strange verses

When I was a child, I was told that my father wrote poetry. Strange poetry, my mother said, that no one can understand. He’s not very good, she said. It’s all just very strange.

I never really knew my father. I never read his poetry.

Yet here I am, writing strange verses. They aren’t very good, I am sure my mother would say. Because it is all very strange, and no one understands them.

Of a Dream

Hurried off the bus I did, in such a rush to get to the next one that I forgot a bag on the first. Upon the realization that I had lost something I hurried back on, calling out to the driver. “Just gotta get my bag, sorry!”

 

Dreamwork is not static. It is a conversation and the dream itself is poetry. Part entertainment, part art, part message.

 

The door shut behind me as I got on. The driver put the bus into gear and started going. “No wait!” I called out. “I’m getting off! Was just getting my bag!”

 

The first step to learning how to ‘read’ dreams is not terribly different from learning to analyze a poem. Identifying the difference between symbolism and meaningless chatter. Seeing how those symbols work together to shape contents underneath the surface.

 

As I shouted the bus driver turned her face towards me. She wasn’t stopping the bus. “There is a lesson for you in this,” she said. I protested as any upset passenger would. Of course I did, I could not understand. Not while still being in the dream. Almost crying with anger I turned to another passenger and complained of what was happening, telling them how unreasonable the driver was and how badly I needed to get off. The one I was speaking to showed no signs of sympathy, her face blank as that of a doll.

The fellow passenger spoke, repeating words already spoken by another: “There is a lesson in this.”