Saw a Gog yesterday while trail running. Which is not unusual, except it was young.
I haven’t seen a young one in quite some time; or at least, unaccompanied.
It was repairing the forest floor, and looked to be alone,
so may have been on its own solitary excursion.
I galdr’d the Gog tune I learned, from Them, when I was a child, and it stopped,
‘flickered’ out (startled), then returned simultaneously about thirty feet away,
slightly behind a tree. I smiled softly, still singing. It was sweet,
because I knew exactly what it would do next – its Nature – and it did.
It disappeared and instantly appeared behind me, in my peripheral.
Then again, to my other side. This made me laugh softly and say (in its language),
“Hello Little One. I am known to You and Yours.”
This time it held still, and curious; so when the wind blew, it remained ‘solid’,
unwavering, ‘staring’, but this last is a human word.
I mentioned Them twice, by name, in my book, Völuspá: Seiðr as Wyrd Consciousness.
It’s the first name I was given for Them; and today, when I hear the word that
most people call Them, my mind automatically pictures Them.
“Giants” is how many know them, but only in fairy tales.
There is the brutish giant in ‘Jack and the Bean Stalk’, who is portrayed as dull
and clumsy; and Fionn mac Cumhaill, the Irish giant, a true “hunter and warrior”
whose name means “fair, bright”, is intelligent, and quite the dashing hero.
There is the Slavic tale, ‘The Three Treasures of the Giants’, which,
akin to the Scandinavian and Northern Germanic models, portray Them as
keepers of treasure. And if one wonders at the size of a giant,
and how it is that none are seen or found, it is due to a combination of things:
Their true appearance, and unique ability.
They can take-on any shape, and over the centuries of recorded history, have done so.
They may appear as White Deer with Red Eyes and/or Golden Horns,
or Great Boar with Golden Bristles, as Shimmering Horses that either Fly or Swim,
as Three-Headed Black Dogs, or Bipedal Lindorms that Sing, and even as Gods.
But Their true form is far more mind-shattering to humans;
incomprehensible and so terrifying. Which is best for Them –
in this time of humans – to rarely be seen.
I met Them when I was young; my grandmother said They came around
when I was born. She would lay me in a woven basket, and carry me about
the land her and my grandfather worked. I was told the Gogs would linger over me,
shading me from the sun; humming Their great Runes to me.
As a small child I spent long hours in deep woods, far from the middling way
between field and forest, but deeper and moist, where the scent of life and death brims,
and Gogs lurk still in shadow.
Walking with Them, listening, They were my companions, my playmates.
No imaginary friends, but ancient and threatening, caring and curious,
and wise in ways we will never know. They have saved my life – twice –
and have comforted me when I was engulfed in deep sadness.
They have never hurt me, always warded me, and I am always in awe and
humility in Their presence. They are lifelong friends and Wisdom Teachers,
and I am grateful for Them.
~ ~ ~