Archive for the ‘Skaði’ Tag

The Beach of Consciousness   Leave a comment

The challenge:  to write a coherent and meaningful post in about an hour — before I’m out the door and off to another commitment during a particularly busy couple of weeks — without a topic already in mind.  What will get tossed up on the beach of consciousness?  The trick is to keep writing, trusting that something will come.  Ah, there it is: trust.

I trusted the presence of Skaði sufficiently to create a separate shrine-page for her, as I mentioned a couple of posts ago.  To ask whether I believe in her feels like it misses the point: she appeared in my consciousness, amenable for an exchange.  I made a choice to engage, she honored her part, and I mine.  What’s interesting to me is that we would never ask a similar question about a human-human interaction.  Do I “believe” in the shop-clerk who sold me a sandwich at the cafe where my wife and I had lunch yesterday?  The question never arises.  What do our interactions imply for the future, in the case of either shop clerk or goddess?  That’s something we’ll negotiate as we go.  From what I can tell, none of us would have it any other way.  If I patronize the shop regularly enough, the clerk and I may learn each other’s names, we might make small talk, I might eventually come to have a “usual” that I predictably order, and so on.  With the goddess, the terms might be similar:  future interactions will build a history between us.  With that kind of growing trust, is belief necessary?

Trust is a curious thing.  Like water or mustard or fire, too much or not enough suggests there’s a happy middle ground.  Trust is also earned:  babies may come by it naturally, and the other blessed innocents of the world may not yet have had it betrayed out of them, but usually ya gotta deserve it to get it.  I trust the sanity of the clerk not to poison the food the shop sells, and Skaði and I trust each other enough at this point to fulfill any exchanges we have agreed on.  Liking may enter the relationship down the road, which may broaden outside the immediate context of simple exchange if both parties are willing.  But that’s not a given.  Right now we have a starting point — that’s all.

Other kinds of trust operate at deeper levels.  There’s a kind of trust, after all, every time you open door of your room, your apartment, your house, when you step outdoors on a sunny today like today is shaping into, a trust that the air is breathable, that the universe, at least in the foreseeable future, is not out to kill you — that it might even cooperate with you long enough that you can accomplish something worthwhile.  If you’re fortunate enough, aware enough, lucky enough, or just attentive enough, you might even call it love. I’ll close with Kathleen Raine‘s fine poem “The Marriage of Psyche,” written 60 years ago now, in 1952.  It feels like it fits here — the sense of amazement, of wonder at beauty that lifts you out of yourself.  A gift.  Read it to yourself out loud, to hear its rhythms.

He has married me with a ring, a ring of bright water
Whose ripples travel from the heart of the sea,
He has married me with a ring of light, the glitter
Broadcast on the swift river.
He has married me with the sun’s circle
Too dazzling to see, traced in summer sky.
He has crowned me with the wreath of white cloud
That gathers on the snowy summit of the mountain,
Ringed me round with the world-circling wind,
Bound me to the whirlwind’s centre.
He has married me with the orbit of the moon
And with the boundless circle of stars,
With the orbits that measure years, months, days, and nights,
Set the tides flowing,
Command the winds to travel or be at rest.

At the ring’s centre,
Spirit, or angel troubling the pool,
Causality not in nature,
Finger’s touch that summons at a point, a moment
Stars and planets, life and light
Or gathers cloud about an apex of cold,
Transcendent touch of love summons my world into being.

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Updated 25 May 2014: next to last line of Raine’s poem corrected from “gold” to “cold.”

Gods and Orphans   2 comments

Sometimes you have experiences that just don’t fit.  They’re orphans, and like orphans, too often they’re left to fend for themselves, so they end up on the street.  Or else they’re stuck in a home by some well-meaning authority, where they may subsist uncomfortably for years in places where everyone else looks and acts and talks different.  There may not be enough love to go around, either, and like Oliver in Dickens’ novel Oliver Twist, they’re reduced to pleading, “Please, sir, may I have some more?”

Monday night, before the hard freeze here (19 and windy) that threatened all the burgeoning flowers and trees, I offered up a prayer.  I don’t usually pray in this way, but I found myself praying for all the wordless Rooted Ones busy putting out buds and leaves and new growth in response to the warm spell that caressed so much of the U.S.  “I cry to the Powers,” I found myself saying.  A little more love here, please.  The great willow in our back yard has pale leafy fronds.  The currants are budding.  Crabgrass pushes up from dead mats of last year’s growth.  The stems of bushes and the twigs of trees show reddish with sap. At the same time, I took stock in what I knew in some traditions about plant spirits, the personifications of energies that help individual species thrive.*  Let the devas and plant guardians sort it out.  Serve the larger balance — that sort of thing.  Then the nudge to pray came, so I honored it.  Everyone has a role to play.  Then the goddess Skaði presented herself.

All this took place while I was driving down and then back home with my wife from an out-of-state trip to CT.  Bookends to the day.  We’d tried to be efficient with our driving and gas use, like the good Greenies that on occasion we actually are, and schedule several appointments for the same day.  So we rose early, drove through welcome morning sun and glorious light to have a thermostat and brakes replaced on our car, get eye exams and prescriptions and glasses before a sale ended on April 1, drop off a gift at a friend’s house, and get to an admissions interview for a certificate program I’m interested in.  (More about that as it progresses.)

We’d scheduled ourselves fairly loosely, but still the sequence of appointments mattered for times and distances to travel to the next stop.  So when the car service that we’d been assured would take no more than two hours now promised to consume most of the day, we got a loaner car from the dealership, rescheduled and shuffled some of our meetings.  Ah, modern life.  Maybe it’s no more than imagination, but at such times recall of past lives makes horse-and-buggy days seem idyllic and stress-free by contrast.  Back then we didn’t do so much because we simply couldn’t.  Does being able to do more always mean we should?

So, Skaði.**  Not to belabor you with too much detail: she’s a Scandinavian goddess of winter, hunting, mountains and skiing. A sort of northern Diana of the snows, an Artemis of the cold heights and crags.  I’d run across her a few years ago, when I was doing some reading and meditation in Northern traditions.  She loomed in my consciousness then, briefly.  Frankly I found Bragi, the god of eloquence and poetry and patron of bards, much more to my taste.  But there she was, for a short time.

I flashed on an image of Skaði then, and she seemed — and still seems to me — quite literally cold, implacable, uninterested in humans, remote, austere, elegant in the way ice formations and mountain snows and the Himalayas are elegant — and utterly forbidding.  Not someone even slightly interested in exchange, in human interaction.  Now here she was.  If you’ve been pursued by any of the Shining Folk, whether the Morrigan or Thor, Jesus or Apollo, you know that often enough they choose you rather than the other way around.  So you make do.  You pay no attention.  Or you can’t help it and now you have a patron deity.  Or something in between.  If you’re a bloody fool, you blab about it too much, insisting, and the nice men in white coats fit you for one too.  Or maybe you and Thorazine become best friends.  It’s at times like this that I’m glad of the comparative anonymity of this blog.  I can be that bloody fool, up to a point, and the people who need to will pass me off as just another wacko blogger.  And then this post will recede behind the others, and only one or two people will happen on it in another month or two.  The gods are out there, and they’re in our heads, too.  Both/and.  So we deal with it.  And I can step back to my normal life.  Or not.  I’ll keep you posted.

So Skaði of the daunting demeanor wants something.  I prayed to the Powers, almost in the Tolkien Valar = “Powers” sense — to anyone who was listening.  Open door.  Big mistake?  I’m a Druid, but here’s the Northern Way inserting itself into my life.  My call goes out, and Skaði picks up and we’re having this conversation in my head while I drive north on I-91 with my wife.  I’ve gotten used to these kinds of things over time, as much as you can, which often isn’t so much.  In a way I suppose it’s revenge — I used to laugh out loud at such accounts when I read them and shake my head at what were “obviously people’s mental projections.”  Now I’ve got one saying if you want protection for your shrubbery (God help me, I’m also hearing the scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail at this point.  The Knights of Ni:  “Bring me a shrubbery!”), then do something for me.  What? I said.  A blog post, first, then a website shrine.  So here’s the blog post first.  I’ll provide the shrine link when I’ve set it up.

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*If you’re interested in an excellent account of this, check out The Findhorn Garden, originally published in 1976.  This Scottish community, established on a barren piece of land, “inexplicably” flourished with the help of conscious cooperation with nature spirits.  It’s documented in photographs and interviews.  There are several books with similar titles and later dates, also published by Findhorn Community.

**The ð in her name is the “th” sound in with.  I’m slowly realizing that part of my fussing over words, the urge to get it right, the annoyance at others who seem not to care about linguistic details, can be transformed to a gift.  So for me part of honoring Skaði is getting her name right.

Image:  Skaði.  I can’t draw or paint to save my life, so when I came across this stunning representation, a shiver slalomed down my back.  Skaði’s footsteps, I guess I should say.  This is in the spirit of my experience of the goddess.

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