Finished another 50K .. through the Land of Five Rivers. Last one for the year.
Back to trail running for pleasure and wonder,
versus in a group with a number pinned to my shirt.
Back to my real training partners:
Beaver and Bat, Crow and Racer, Deer and Mouse,
Skunk and Eagle, Rabbit and Spider.
All the Beil Tintean animals of the Allegheny Plateau.
For over three decades I have been a mound-sitter – on three continents;
now I mound sit upon the Allegheny Plateau.
My steps tread the Woodland Mounds, as I trace the Embankments,
and take note of the Trail Marker Trees.
White-tail run at my side, and Eagle soars overhead,
as my dreamvision brings me sight of the
Weeping Eye and ‘Abhaya’ Hand of tribes long ago.
I am no armchair shaman ..
No highchair ‘oracle’.
Born of Thrice-Burnt ..
I am that which dwells within bone ..
Listener of the spectral voice ..
Watcher as Gýgjar whisper at stream and fall.
I sit and Rune and sometimes wonder at those who went away long past.
Their belongings packed, their doors closed, their backs turned,
their path overgrown so now hidden .. nary one finds their return.
Some vaguely recall that lost home, some only dream,
yet all mourn in depression at that which they can no longer name.
This week, I had the dreamvision once more: the Tree cut.
Walking the path of language, tracing its root ..
Weaving the threads of Faith, Folk and Family, Flax, Fodder and Frith ..
As I Galdr for Náttúra and Tribe ..
I weary of shamers and name-callers;
And so too the Tree – which has been truncated by their bitter words.
Sitting quietly, with spear-tipped heddle and shield-born shuttle,
I twine, twist and tease the Old Threads,
to glean from those Amber Ways, droplets of Seiðr.
Alone I sit, when the shamers seek out my door ..
to mock and proclaim that I taint the Lore with Voodoo or Wicca,
with god-wife or possession.
Failing to recognize that I am no Paxson or Kaldera;
such trolls thrive to hate what they do not understand.
Such witless ones know nothing of years spent in research,
of decades dedicated to a singular study.
I am no “bootstrap wannabe”, I have never “faked it till you make it”,
or “filled in the blanks”. At every turn, I have refused the toxic,
and taken talon to those who drink such bile.
My Seiðr is hard-won; not lazily slathered on.
I probe academic texts, and where they only exist in one language,
I learn that language to further my study.
I comb university libraries and archaeological sites,
I ply then selvedge anthropology and philosophy,
botany, and even zoology to better grasp the whole tapestry.
But, haters and shamers can’t be bothered with such truth,
for they are too engrossed in their egos to see the work before them.
Not just from myself, but so many other Heathens and Pagans,
Animists and Polytheists who are revealing the Old European folkways.
And while herds find worth in ignorant notions,
in vilifying and slurring,
there are those who have quietly stepped away
from such immaturity – to Live as Wolves.
Those who truly kindle words to awaken deeds,
know that only fire burns the dross that drowns.
You see, Seiðr’s Zeitgeist is Liminal Space ..
Its Weltanschauung, Staff and Stone ..
Its bloodline von Vormütter geerbt .. and
Its destination, Übermensch.
So yes, my days are sometimes filled with dead language references
and tedious historic citation .. but my Moments!
They overflow with the rhythm of my wildly beating heart!
Seiðr is my Wild and Fierce Dance ..
My Wolf and Hunting Dance ..
My Wyrd and Rune Dance ..
And to That I am forever wed.