Make a Man of You

Hew wood in wind, sail the seas in a breeze,
woo a maid in the dark, — for day’s eyes are many, —
work a ship for its gliding, a shield for its shelter,
a sword for its striking, a maid for her kiss;

Drink ale by the fire, but slide on the ice;
buy a steed when ’tis lanky, a sword when ’tis rusty;
feed thy horse neath a roof, and thy hound in the yard.


A Sense of Rootless-ness: generating Memory the trees remember you when you leave, will the crow of the mountain catch your eye again from that lofty farm on the hill, will the people speak in your name as a wanderer, a death? a legend? Where do your roots go, and where do your branches grow? The footsteps merge with the hoofprints of the other nomads of the land and if we could speak, I would ask them if they know what language the land speaks, when was the last rain, where are the trails that lead to the lake, the paths home. There is now, an innate sense, though very present of rootless-ness that I feel within. Living a gypsy lifestyle, always on the move, though I call my home by many names and places, and find my bed in whatever way I can, the depth of experience is starving, or perhaps fasting until the time it can truly eat with the spirit. By this I mean, the bioregionalism of place has taken priority, and yet it’s prioritization is at it seems a vista beyond what I currently comprehend. When one wanders, there is this sense of also feeling lost. In the truth of this hjarta, a lonely wind spills through me some times as a stranger, when it should feel more as a whisper of message. There are things one misses, for being on the road this long, and occupying spaces where one has no cultural definition or background to place within their spiritual saga. It is said not to trust a tree without roots.

“ravening wolf, or croaking raven,
routing swine, or rootless tree”

So is a man, a mystery, who belongs to no place, yet can finds himself an inhabitant of all places. His is a different kind of tree, albeit, the rootless tree will eventually fall. This journey I make is for strengthening the old roots that are already there, and sowing the new seeds foraged along the way. No one knows then a man without a past, for his ancestral line is dim, his memory weak, his life raw, and his tree barren, to spread one’s roots wide and shallow may not help a man to support himself in the end.

“high on that Tree of which none hath heard
from what roots it rises”

One starves for the familiar after long periods of missing it, the old warmth of the wood fire in your own magically charged space, a grove of trees where the avifauna would congregate each winter, a well worn trail for barefoot walking, or the perfect peak to watch the sunset, and even deeper than this, a memory of the ancestors from before, the years of evolution, the manifestation of sacred spaces, the company who have come and gone, the still heard conversations from 5 years before over coffee, a sense of time, growth. One knows by the air when the thunder will come, one remembers where all the medicines of the woods belong, the efficiency of one’s work, the heathen voice of what is.

I still wander, and still I am a seeker, for this is the way I know how. Country is my landscape for the transformation, the hearth being the altar for skill building, and I take this with me on the weary way, like a snail with a big shell, in the pineal gland of a Raven, and the heart of a Wolf. Life must be lived through experience, but yet there is something of this frailty, where these roots must reach further down into the layers so dark, to strengthen and penetrate, that the grandfathers grandfathers can be proud of the tribe which dances around the fire on the soil, above.

Gangleri, God ov Cargoes

He knows alone who has wandered wide,
and far has fared on the way,
what manner of mind a man doth own
who is wise of head and heart

Hail Gangleri, Wodanaz, Odin.

The day I became a true heathen in spirit was the day I sacrificed for Odin, I left behind a life of comfort, entertaining a bog standard existence, working in a factory, unable to adapt to the society, living broke and lovesick, without the ability to connect to the world in any authentic way. I found a gild, calling themselves the :GALDRAGILDI: and left behind everything I knew and went to live in the northern Canadian wilderness to do something I would love. That is the day I became a wanderer, one of Odin’s sons. It has been nearly two and a half years since that time when I took the first step out of my comfort zone. Now it fills me with pride that I have evolved, and am currently only carrying one pack. This has been a dream, and over the years, as my haul has been sorted out with various garments, taufrs, animal pelts and bones, books, journals, gifts, hammock, tent, electronic tools, and other things beside survivalist needs, I have parted with some of these and am happily carrying one pack containing everything that I currently need. It is a true challenge to fit one’s life into a backpack. Some may see it as a penance and ask, why give everything away, but I would answer I already have everything. Sometimes it has felt similar to penance, as I carry some things the average traveler would never even consider having,  but that is the point, not to be average. and I joke to myself saying that the bear skull I carry is added weight for the bad things I might have done in the past life as an outlaw.I also like my comforts probably as much as others, but am also comfortable roughing it, for my own company and wisdom is often better to have than all the finest luxuries.

A better burden can no man bear
on the way than his mother wit;
’tis the refuge of the poor, and richer it seems
than wealth in a world untried

It has been a hard, long road, and for a long time Odin has fooled me, he has fought me to toughen me and teach the lessons I rarely wanted to learn.Yet besides being brought to my knees, I knew I would reach this point. My spine which is the trunk of Yggdrasil has taken extreme pressure, but it is best that one grows strong to stand in the harshest of conditions. To now live by the watch words of magic, art, and ritual, and take life by the aurochs horns. I saw the Runes time ago, and i’m still learning to understand their mysteries. I have been branded by the Gods to carry a message, to live Viking, a wandering merchant, a skilled farmer, magical warrior, lover, and allly. I feel real pride knowing now that I do not have to carry anything in my hands if need be, whether pavement, mountain, sand, or shore, I continue to see past the new horizon, and carry my own, if the least to honor a man once known as Odin, the Allfather. May I meet with Freya in her hall, and in her arms find the love of the Goddess, May I cross the Bifrost bridge, when the next destinations edges me ahead, May I continue to sit with Saga in her hall of stories, and sing my own myth, the only way I know how.


Her ek em groa!