A year ago, I had a dream that still lingers in my mind.
A beautiful woman appeared to me radiant and otherworldly. She looked at me with knowing eyes and said, “Line your driveway with amber and lilies.” That was all. No explanation, no context. Just that.
But it struck me—so vivid, so specific, so strange and beautiful. I've never forgotten it. Was she a goddess? A spirit? A fragment of my deeper self trying to speak? I don’t know. But I’ve carried her words with me ever since, a quiet thread of magic waiting to be followed.

Im very blessed to have a park directly outside my apartment, as im sitting on the couch im watching people live their lives. one woman is doing yoga under a tree, a couple is having a picnic, a man reading on a bench, i see toddlers running around in the grass. Its extremely peaceful and its so great for my mental health. I hope you all have a very blessed day today (for respect of strangers ive uploaded a photo with no one seen in it)

Unlike what is shown in the Vikings series, the books do not record Lagherta as Bjorn's mother. She is indeed Ragnar's first wife, but their son is named Fridleif, and they also have two daughters without registered names. Bjorn Irsonside is historically the son of Aslaug. In the Gesta Danorum, Lagertha is a noble and warrior woman whom Ragnar meets and marries after impressing him with her courage, but the relationship is temporary, and he later marries others, such as Thora and Aslaug. In the Icelandic sagas, Lagertha is not always explicitly the wife, and the focus is more on Aslaug as Ragnar's main companion.

Loki, the Changer of Ways, and the Heralds of Ragnarök
Part 2



Hel was born half-dead into the world, her deeply fateful blood turning her into a symbol of the anguish of death, the fleeting perfection of a young woman in her prime of beauty, and the mouldering corpse that lies beneath every tragic fate. Both came together in Hel, and with it came the cold and certain tones of a being who knew exactly what her purpose would be, and embraced it with grim determination. In her realm of Helheim, the dead who perish of disease and old age come to her in her dwelling of Eljuthnir, a large hall with many walls and gates where the dead rest or serve Hel in whatever form she wishes. It is a place where no fires burn, a cheerless place in the region of Niflheim where the darkness of that realm is felt in every moment. Those who make offerings to Hel to understand the wisdom of death must be very intuitive of her wishes, for although the surrendering of personal objects for the dead in Helheim is a common practice, the more dear the possession the more likely it is to sway her to impart something to those who offer it to her.

Her brother Jormungandr, also called the Midgard serpent, started out small just like his brother Fenrir, but grew to enormous size once in the waters of Midgard, growing so large that he encircles the world. He was once caught by Thor on a fishing expedition that almost had very deadly results for both Thor and his unwitting fellow fisherman Hymir, who outdid him at the feast put on by Aegir and Rhan. Thor did not take that very well,for he is always a rival of Jotnar. That day, Thor almost ended Jormundgandr’s life with a blow of his hammer, and would have done so if Hymir had not cut Thor’s line! But this was not the only time that Thor tangled with Jormungandr, for in the house of Utgartha-Loki when he was being tested by the Jotnar, he was asked to lift the household cat, which he did by one paw with extreme effort! What Thor did not know was that the cat was an illusion, just as the other challenges were, and he was actually lifting up Jormungandr himself! The rivalry between these two will end during Ragnarök, when Thor will kill the serpent, but be poisoned by his fangs and die in nine steps. I do not know of many Heathens making offerings to Jormungandr, but I suppose it is possible.
* Of the last of the Heralds of Ragnarök, we have learned much already. We have learned of his binding by Tyr and the sacrifice that was made, we have learned that he will devour the Allfather on the shattered span of Bifrost during Ragnarök, and we know that he will be destroyed in turn by Vithar. We know he is the father of the wolves that will chase the sun and the moon. What we might wonder is what might have been if the gods had not chained him, and persuaded him that indeed he had potent enemies. It was in his blood to be their enemy, or so it seemed from the perspective of the gods who for the most part had the same blood. Jotnar spirits have a strong connection with the same sense of wyrd that is possessed by the Nornir, and it is interesting to think that perhaps many of those we deem villains or ravagers in our stories might simply be playing their part. For a certainty, Fenrir has played his up to this point, and we fear the final days when he plays out the rest.
Loki, Angrboda, and their children are a riddle of the wyrd that we are yet to unravel, for we Heathens are merely mortals grasping at difficult concepts of time that stand outside the bounds of our own…this concept asks us to see it as if flipping the pages back and forth through a book until even the book disappears, and the sound of flipping pages remain. Only in the Well of Urth are these things possible to imagine. For us, understanding the actions of Loki as a slow accumulation of movements towards the future is all we can grasp. In this way, we might see the passage of time as the Allfather, with one thing being responsible for the next, one deed following another because it must. Therefore I ask you to look at Loki in such a way, for although his actions may indicate mischief and malice, it may be that is the only way he may act in the dictate of his wyrd.
After his transgressions against the gods, Loki is bound to a stone in a cave with the intestines of his son Narfi by his other son Vali while a serpent is placed above his face. Sigyn is placed in the cave with Loki to bear away the venom that drops and burns his face in a bowl, the in between moments when she empties it being agony for Loki as the burning drops torment him. But eventually, Loki will free himself when the forests and mountains shake, and Ragnarök comes. He will then be at the forefront of a force of Jotnar, leading a ship made of men’s bones and fingernails towards the burning city of Asgard. There he will fight Father Heimdall, and they will die together. This is a glimpse of the end that the prophecy of the Voluspa foretells…

The Stora Hammars I stone, like Tängelgårda I, is an 8th–9th-century CE artifact from Lärbro, Gotland, Sweden. It features a large ship at the bottom, battle scenes (one possibly linked to Hildr’s legendary endless battle, though unconfirmed), a likely sacrifice scene with a Valknut above an altar (some claim a “Blood Eagle” ritual, despite limited evidence), and a woman between two men at the top.

The three witches, the love that was put in these candles is great, feminine energies, wisdom, beauty, mystery, everything a man can love in a woman :) these witches are special altar companions since they can take energies generated by a work and keep it for long periods of time, working as a magical battery. These ones in particular were given Wunjo programming, so their work will always be harmony and positivity, resulting in joyful atmosphere around them.

From the frothing grip of the falls she crawled,
glistening—no mortal maiden,
but woven of mist and riverfoam.
Her skin bore the moon’s cold gleam,
her hair a veil of raven’s shadow.

She was the will of the water,
born of the endless plunge of drops.
Her eyes—deep as Mímir’s well,
tempted with wisdom, warned with storm.

Runes slept upon her skin,
etched by current and stone.
She wore nothing but raw force,
and rose like a jotun-woman to the shore,
with the world’s ancient hunger in her smile.

#pagan #viking #ancient #norse #norsemythology #woman #folklore #art #darkfolk

The Dakota and Chippewa songs could have been lost forever if not for a pioneer Minnesota woman who decided these American sounds must not be silenced.

Thanks to Frances Densmore, early American Indian music from throughout the country is preserved forever. She became one of America’s most important ethno-musicologists. She was a “song catcher.”

Hávamál
Loddfáfnismál ~ Stanza ~ 118
I saw a warrior wounded fatally
By the words of an evil woman,
Her cunning tongue caused his death,
Though what she alleged was a lie.

A SILVER MOON

There once was an old man who lived deep in the forest. He lived alone, for he had ran his race longer than any who had ever known him, and so there were none left who bore any love or remembrance of him. He lived his days in a tiny cottage with a porch, whittling the shapes of animals from the dead wood that he collected from his daily walks…

The animals of the forest were his subjects, for even though they would never come near him, he would capture their images and place the carvings at his feet, as if he were a king and a father, and he would tell them stories, nodding to imagined questions and gently chiding them for their behaviour. This made him feel less lonely, but only for a time…

On nights when the moon was full, the old man would sit out on his porch under the silver light and sing songs from his heart that he had known when he was a young man…songs of joy, of friendship, of sorrow, and even love. He would sing until his cheeks were wet and his throat hoarse with the effort. Exhausted, he would collapse in his chair and sit with his face in his hands until his agony subsided. No totems rendered by his hand could soothe his pain. He then crept back to his empty bed and let darkness take him…

One night, he fell asleep in his chair under the full moon, and found himself dreaming of the forest…dreaming of his lonely perch where he slumbered and the tall dark trees that stood like watchmen, silently standing over him…he found himself slowly rising in his chair as if the air were water, and drifted to his feet…

He peered through the dark forest, his dreaming eyes searching for something that called to his heart…as he watched in anticipation, a white elk walked towards him, gracefully, like silver spilling through a pool of ink. Its eyes were dark and silent as it took him in and held him there…it dipped its horns down to him as he ran his hands over them and down its face. He caressed its neck, rapt with wonder as the eyes of the elk drew him deeper…in those pools he saw himself, old and alone, and his heart was wrenched with anguish.

He awoke in his chair, tears once again wetting his cheeks. The night had lingered, but the moon sat low among the trees…the old man rubbed his eyes as he tried to raise himself to fall again to his bed—only to feel the touch of a gentle hand on his own. It clasped his, and pulled it gently away from his face so he could see…

A young woman bent towards him, taking his hands in her own. She was dressed in a shift of gossamer silk that moved across her skin like a flowing river, and her hair was white as milk and spilled straight down her shoulders, soft as mist. From either side of her forehead there sprouted two delicate horns like fluted marble chased with the silver of the moon. Her eyes were as black as night, and empty. They did not capture him, but she did so instead with a smile that widened across her cheeks as he bowed low to kiss her delicate fingers…

She then sat down on his knee, light as a summer breeze, slipping her arms around his neck. He raised his head, his eyes searching her face with a longing for answers. She said not a word, but kissed him on the lips, resting the back of one hand on his weathered cheek as she did.

Around them, the old man’s carvings caught the light of the moon like a sheen of silver and began to awaken…the old man cried out with wonder as his creations suddenly flitted and cavorted about him, each to their own spirit, and he laughed in the woman’s arms. Then the animals began to depart, moving in a troupe into the forest…

The old man was gripped by the fear of losing them and moved to rise. The woman rose with him. She stepped away and held out her hand to him. He watched the animals as they twinkled in the fading moonlight and blinked back a single tear as he took the woman’s hand.

She took him then, pirouetting and leading him on into the dark. Around them the animals danced, and the old man moved as with the vigour of youth as he moved to take the woman in stride. Very soon, the moon fell behind the hills, and the sun moved to banish the dark. As night crept away, the dancers became as thin as the morning dew, then vanished.