Tag Archives: Godspousery

Pagan Blog Project – Eir

I have never had my choice of gods and goddesses to pick and choose from, deciding which I would like to work with or under and which I am not that interested in creating a relationship with. If any of them wished me any ill, likely they would’ve been prevented from reaching the stage where they show up in my life and nudge at my mind all of the time. I do have my protectors (gods, themselves).

Not all that long after we were married, I had what felt like a barrage of new people showing up in my peripheries. Because I was so busy with being evicted for being disabled and having a stint of homelessness, then being hit very hard by my CFS/ME and fibro, I didn’t follow up on any of it, much. For the most part, they were content to sit on the sides and occasionally buzz through my mind to ensure I hadn’t forgotten them.

One of them was Eir. Some people seem to say she prefers to only work with or to train women. There’s precious little I can do about that — I am not a woman. But she has been insistent, and along with her, though farther into the peripheries, Menglöð.

This past month, we were able to replenish a little of of the herbs and oils needed to do much useful work. It will take a while to build up, and to perfect blends. I missed the delivery today because I didn’t realize it needed a signature, so I will have to get it on Monday. Pity; it would’ve been nice to try some trancework or meditation with some of the oils.

As such, Eir surged to the forefront. Wanting to know what happened to my books on herbalism, I should fetch them immediately, I should get to work on learning all of the things that went stagnant in my brain and stuffing more information into it. I should bend my finances toward all of this work. Because we are all sick, and we do not need to be this sick. There are a number of herbal things that will help. And I should do this and that, I should make dream sachets to sleep better, I should find the right stones for my issues and keep them close to my skin, I should, in short, get my shit together immediately and get to work.

In addition to this, the land spirits gave me an idea on how I can make something to better connect with the land when I am indoors: they suggested I take some of the gravel beside the house, which is currently buried under a lot of snow, unfortunately, and some of the twigs from the trees, and various other things, and keep it in one of the boxes I have to use as a focus. I should also buy or make bindrune staves for the corners of the property. Protecting and healing this area of land is my responsibility, and it overwhelms me more than a little.

I need to sort through my time carefully, so that I am not neglecting anyone.

I feel like I’m flailing, a little. Wondering what I am and what I am going to be. It doesn’t really surprise me that my marriage is not some sort of All Important thing — not the One Thing I Do. I don’t think that was why he married me. He saw something in me, though I don’t know what, and wanted it. Wanted to hold it in his hands and make it grow.

Advertisements

Aridity

I had been strongly considering participating in the PBP, but the first relevant word that came to mind for me was ‘Adoption’ and that peeled open a festering mess I wasn’t quite expecting.

I don’t have contact with any human family. It has been a painful mess since I was twelve and understood the depth of my father’s disinterest in my existence (I didn’t even know him, really — I saw him a couple of times when I was very, very young and never again after I was about five — but I knew where he lived, and I spent some time sitting on my bike across the road from his house, thinking about what would happen if I knocked on the door) and there were levels of increasing understanding of my mother’s hatred for me, starting with being told that I should have been aborted when I was four or five, to worse things and repeats of that and similar statements, until I was seventeen. I had already left home by then — going halfway across the country and working full time from the moment I was sixteen and living with awful people actually seemed better than living with her, and I’d already dropped out of school due to a nervous breakdown when I was fourteen — but during a phone call in either late 1998 or early 1999, she reminded me that not having had an abortion had “fucked up her life.”

I never stopped being depressed about it, or wounded. The best I could manage was ignoring it.

When Brand’s family found out about me, they were completely horrified by how neglected and hated I had been, and immediately decided that they would adopt me. He’s said before that there is nothing more important to the jotnar than family, but I didn’t realize that extended to adopting unwanted children to ensure they had family, too. That was probably a bit stupid of me, but I’ve internalized the idea that I am loathsome and unwantable by anyone very well (which I have to admit doesn’t do my romantic relationships any good, either).

I feel like a feral cat, haunting the edges of this civilization and scattering whenever someone looks at me or comes to close, and only creeping in when no one’s paying attention, or is busy elsewhere. I’m prone to raiding the trash for scraps because I can’t handle coming in to my place at the table. I don’t know how to come in. I can only tolerate it for a few minutes at most before I have a desperate urge to run away and be extremely alone. Alone is familiar; alone is what I know.

At our wedding, so many of his friends and family — and part of my brain was trying to consider the idea that they would think of me as part of their family also, while the rest of it was skittering away from that thought and relegating all of these people to his, his, his. No our anywhere involved. His house, his bed, his everything. What am I, exactly, inside my own mind? A doll that he felt sorry for. And decided to take home, try to clean it up, sit it around tea parties with other dolls and stuffed animals. But I don’t have a mouth. I do not know how to make sounds.

Tree spirit.

(Written on 11/10/13, while we had no internet access)

One of the times I went to the stream that I like in the forest [in Alfheimr] and sat down on the rocks along the bank, one of the tree spirits came to talk to me. He was thin and rather old, with moss and lichen patterning his bark. He sat down beside me and stretched out his legs, which took root and burrowed down under the edge of the stream.

He asked me who I thought I was.

“No one,” I said, startled.

Coming into their forest all of the time, disturbing the birds, sitting on things.

I continued to look at the water and thought about Freyr bringing me there more than once, and our wedding, where woven willow branches were put on my head and I was given an assortment of jewellery which seems to have only been worn by rather important people. It occurred to me that ‘no one’ was a stupid answer, because I was not no one.

“Freyr put a crown on my head,” I said slowly.

Did he.

“Yes. A lot of people came.”

What do you think that means.

“I’m not entirely sure yet.”

Do you think it means that you can come in here and do whatever you want.

I thought about the various implications of said crown and what people who wear such things usually do, and what I do and have done, and said, rather cautiously, “I can come here whenever I want. He told me that I could and he is the incontrovertible lord of the realm. I have always been very respectful of all of you.”

So you don’t intend to be another pompous little shit.

“No. Whether or not he married me, or whatever rights he has bestowed upon me, I don’t have the right to behave badly. No one does.”

Mm.

He leaned back on his elbows, which similarly rooted into the ground, and over the next several minutes, faded into an oddly-shaped tree that seemed no more animated than the very wide and solid tree to my left.

I felt strange.

The wind, feminine, curled around my ear and brushed through my hair, humming, glid over the back of my neck and spiraled up into the large tree, twining through its branches and sending them shivering. I had the image of a sensuous, well-curved woman, with full, deep red lips. The sky was very blue and there were wispy clouds, being unraveled by the wind in the high atmosphere. It was a cool day, but not too cold.

My clothes have turned into wool, with a lot of dark green shades, and boots showed up one day.

I am far from understanding what I am, and what I am meant to do. But being awkward, or ashamed/embarrassed that he placed me in a powerful position, simply because I have a low opinion of myself, is counterproductive and not a little insulting toward him.

I find myself playing with the antler pendant I purchased from Dver. Wondering if, in some years, I will wear it down smooth or wear it away with my worried rubbing.

Frigga, Eir; What Doesn’t Wear Off

This was written on Sunday in a letter to a friend, before we went to view an apartment, which although perfect in many ways, we did not end up getting.

 

After we were married, though I don’t know when it happened exactly, because I think I was too distracted, I began seeing/sensing/feeling a pair of silver rings on my upper arms and a ciclet made of silvery material that were always on me. The circlet is of a rather feminine style, with something in the center and either a piece of it that drops down or a jewel that does (I can’t see my own face, and Brand’s not terribly useful when it comes to tiny details about things that he hasn’t been looking at for very long periods of time).

I promise I’ve only read Lord of the Rings once, but the material it’s made of reminds me of the mithril alloy ithildin, which glows by moon or starlight, except this glows very softly in any sort of dim light or darkness, and isn’t necessarily hidden by the sun — I’ve felt/seen it all in broad daylight, though it is somehow less obvious, then, and looks like a duller sort of metal.

I saw it today when I couldn’t sleep and went to visit Freyr, who was on his horse, or a horse who was a golden yellow with a dark brown mane and tail. After flailing at the internet, I’ve discovered this sort of horse is described as a buckskin, although it did not have the black socks. And, of course, impossibly beautiful in a way the internet can’t provide. Today was literally the first time I have ever seen Skirnir.

So, I’ve some sort of royal regalia that doesn’t come off, now. And I’m being so much nudged toward Frigga that I’d call it a very polite shove. Am I meant to pick up sacred queen-er-kingship from her?

And I’ve been being thrust at Eir for weeks, now, and that doesn’t surprise anyone, and it’s mainly been waiting for me to have some peace and quiet to continue to explore.

Migraine Delay.

When I woke up and became increasingly incapacitated by a migraine, and wondered aloud, “What do you do about a migraine on your wedding day?” Brand responded with, “It’s like miGRAAAAiiiiAAAANES on your wedding day, it’s a free RIIIIeeeeIIII–” Except not nearly as loud as it sounds.

He and his father are, at times, extremely related.

I may be having my here-wedding tomorrow, instead of today, and my elsewhere-wedding today as planned, because sleep seems to be the most rational plan.

A Month for Freyr: Bread and Honey

By necessity, the extent of what I had planned to do for our wedding has been trimmed back severely; however, we will still bake bread, and we will eat it with raw honey.

It must be the simplest thing, though bread for celiacs is never simple or cheap, that anyone can do as an offering, as a devotion, as a way of connecting. Even if the bread is store-bought. If it’s not pre-sliced, it probably works a little better, but he is ever understanding and rarely picky. The heart is what matters.

The grains of the land, the sun, the work, tending, tilling, hoping, waiting, harvesting, milling. Fields rippling in the wind.

(“Fields of Gold” unintentionally starts playing in my head.)

The bread mix and other things it needs, minus eggs, and the raw honey were ordered from Amazon, because I don’t seem to have half of my insurance anymore and the reason I would’ve gone downtown on Tuesday seems to be moot. Also, not having to carry all of it is a distinct bonus.

It will be good to resume the habit of eating raw honey every day, as he would like me to do.

The honey we’ve had has been called “raw” but it is filtered and looks like any other sort of honey, and I feel distrustful of it in terms of fulfilling his request.

I used to cook with sourwood honey when I lived in the south, and there is no source for sourwood up here (you can order it online, but I don’t know if anyone sells it raw), and when I told the man at the honey stand about my love of sourwood, he and the woman both gushed about it. I left with a large container of buckwheat honey, which has a depth and richness that is reminiscent of sourwood, and is overall very, very good. I will eat wildflower and clover honey if I have no other choice, but my preferences lie in the direction of things that are less overwhelmingly sweet.

I tasted honey made from tea trees, which is very expensive and was purchased for medicinal use for someone (facial application after electrolysis treatments), and thought it was intriguing in flavor, but the price point — goodness. Still, if some money lies around, it would be good to have on hand for medicinal purposes.

Making this bread for him, with him, and eating it together… that will be what binds us.

There will be fancy everything elsewhere, with his family. I think I may port my marriage cord over with me, so that we can use it where we both have a corporeal substance, and let his father have the honor of tying it.

Here, I may wind it about my wrist and hand, and the offering bread, the marriage bread.

I have, in recent days, been feeling softer and quieter. Both heavy and ungrounded. As if I am seeping into something, or vice versa. My chest aches over my heart. There is so little room inside the human body for a heart that is trying to become a mountain, a woodland, a lake.

There is a great deal of receptivity in the softness. Whatever is becoming me, or whatever I am becoming, the assent is total, and I drift slowly into a silent place that is like a grotto at the bottom of the ocean. Tide moves unstoppably. There is no argument in me against any of it; I accept it completely. Shifted by currents, and the vast oceans of the sea sweeping through me.

Boring godspouses

I’m extraordinary lacking in fondness for the the drama = godspouse = drama assumption.

R. will be coming back from a trip (a glorious vacation to get a lot of dental work done a few hours away) on the day of the wedding and may be too tired for it, as CFS is actually something safe to assume about me and my family, and travel is incredibly draining for all of us.

I think I must be supposed to explode with entitled rage because how dare some “foolish mortal” even dare to attempt to affect my plans, and stomp around and scream and start posting about what a hideous person he is, right?

It’s disappointing and saddening, but I’d planned to get married at night (for the moon, and also the lack of landlord and neighbors), and he will probably have time to get in a reasonable amount of sleep, and it will all work out just fine.