I became a member of the Galdragildi some 10 months ago, and found myself entering a secret society wherein I did not know anyone in person. We were 21 members, some apprenticing, some going through their journeyman work, and our Gildmaster Gandvaldr, who wrote the curriculum. The lead up to this gild moot has been filled with immense study, and reading, intense rite and ritual, and the ur-forming into the Othal, that characterizes our need for troth and the need to grow. I made the transition into III degree apprentice at this moot, and am gestating a lot of great work, and making big medicine for the coming era.
This gild moot took on the sentiment of a rite of passage for me, shaped by ordeal, pain, kindred, initiation, intoxication, Hagalian purification, and ritual :H:B:I: I traveled for 78 hours on a pilgrimage from Northumberland, England to arrive in Lynchburg in the coldest hours of the night, and met with the Wolves. We went out to Ulfheim for galdor. A frenzy attained in the wildlands that hearkened back to a primal/carnal state of sentience. There amongst comrades, by the fire and stoking the black :ᚲ: within. Some of the deepest, most provoking, and engaging discourse I have had in the past half year were at this moot. We put our hands to the tools, and started constructing the structure that will become the forge at Ulfheim. This served as our sumbel place for the night to follow. Grimnir branded the Algir and merkstave on my forearm, and I took up the bindrune within my hamingja. Pain is sometimes the vessel to metamorphosis. The pain of the brand, causes the foci to be sharpened on tru intent. I hailed the day in the brisk cold, with some bare-chested stadhagaldr at the desolation of old houses, and met with those others whom I have waited months to make connection with in person. Sumbel at night had us out at the land, slowly becoming intoxicated by Mugwort and Wormwood mead. In rounds, we hailed, we howled, we :g:ifted, and raised our Lik and Minni to the high seats. The mead is both an entheogen and a cleansing process. I had accumulated a lot of poison, from disheartened shallow company pre-moot, from lack of stimulation, and empty spiritual expression. After 2 horns of mead, the poison was rended and the ur-purification had its way with me.
I heard the speech of my kin, and the saw collective hamingja of our gild become wyrd-riven. I believe all were in a state of anticipation pre-ritual. The Norns gave rede and runes by Mimir’s well, and wolf skins were donned. At the Ve, the vacuum of silence meshed into wodened chanting and thrashing. An Ulf-serk at the Horgr, and savage men possessed by fetches. Galdoring in unison, the gild formula, then shifting Hamr, back to to my own Wolf. The ordeal. The :R:ise. I entered the den, and came out anew.