Sunday, December 25, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Everything Happens For the Dream-Reasons of Wyrd
Urd, the Well of Wyrd's keeper, dreams, and her dream-weaves web upon the tapestry of life. It makes no sense to logic-eyes of wordlock, but in the end, her benevolence cups and holds events, even nightmares, in a stranger logos, one that makes no sense to bodies locked in time's excruciating struggles, but to soul, to soul, a story lurks and hides, awaiting eyes to see. Urd is a grandmotherly poet dreaming sagas in the dark of Night, her daughter, Odin's sister. The wind blows, be it mild, even in Mimir's realm ; from such breeze the slightest droplets from his well are carried on the wind. Out beyond the meadows in a romp within the wondrous woods, an ancestor of yours in open-mouthed awe may taste that droplet, and the veils pull down, and see the saga in the chaos of your wondering-why of tale. And then if you give pray to depths to reach your roots towards forefathers, that he or she who tasted droplets lending sense to senselessness, revealing saga, may give sense to you of what before seemed merest mayhem, and then you may find some peace. Such peace ancestors sipping honeydew from meadowflowers' cups in philosophic strolls bestow if we will hear. And Wyrd dreams on, in odd, fluent benevolence. Look hard in the face of what hard faces you : Wyrd is winking ; secret blessings hide within the hard. O sleep and find the dream-reasons daily-mind is dull to ; only dreams sometimes restore the threads of frayed and weary wyrd. She sips her cup of tea and winks ; a wink is luck within the hint of time, to souls alive to riddling puns of smiling Urd.
O say that Northern spirit still divine within our Western Walls resides! For there is hope within the embers not yet passed that we may light the hearths again! And that is food for toasts! Let lift the wine, in silver-rimmèd horn, to lips, and spill the words of praise that honor Gods of wizards, One-eyed’s scions sleek and oaken-strong! I hear the baritonéd voices of my forebears chant their galdurs! Raise they rhythms, luck-bestrong, from holy hel’s deep doors of dawn, where they may share, from meadows’ blossoms, all their treasures’ broadest heartsong! Tales spun gossamer by fairy’s flight in flit through skull-song, quill-bedreaming, summon all the buried hopes, and let the soul be sung again by men! This lore is spell, may spellbound be the sons of ash and elm, to feel their roots and raise their branches high to sun’s encrystal-shellèd cobblestones! From heavens high to hel below and all between in middle earth, may what is whole and holy live again, and take rule of this world forevermore!