Sunday, February 03, 2013

Weal through Wyrd-Working

It is difficult to have faith in holy powers seeing as we are separated from them as by a veil (for it would seem maya is but another name for wyrd), the veil of what turns out out of the churning of possibility and potential, which is just brimming, but then we, the collective actors (all of us, not just humans, although the animals and plants and rocks tend to have more set routines, while we are more wild cards), select out of those our choices, and from what has been selected churns out as well as restricts the potential range of what may then turn out. In this churning lottery of fortune, things do not always turn out as foreseen or desired, and often terrible things happen. This makes it difficult to trust.

Yet even within this lottery there is a thread or central, helicized grip of strands through which the Gods wield and yield their weal, and Wyrd herself, mysterious and uncanny, also, throughout all the chaos, still weaves a kind of benevolence, if we can show faith towards that inner pulse of our wyrd, and look for the twist even in bad things that may yield another chance at wonder and opportunity -- difficult because we are primates with sensitive, even high-strung nervous systems (without which perception and wonder we would never have become the stars we are), highly subject to trauma and burnout. Yet even there, if we can trust healing and breathe through the traumas and our inevitable reactions and fits, moderating them as much as we may, we may, perhaps in a moment of relaxation sink down into an intuitive moment of clarity where we regain our sense of connection and possibility.

Of course, as long as we are divided against ourselves as a species, limited by nationality and competition and irrational warfare, our collective choices are overall impoverishing, even if some make it wealthy. There is now in modern times a great deal of intelligence released, but it is still attenuated, and has yet to reach the levels of cooperation that will render fortune more friendly. Then there will be a stronger matrix of choices out of which the Gods may infuse the churning and turning out of fortune with much greater weal.

In the meantime, and towards that, and all throughout it even and especially in its fulfillment, we must give what love we have to give, what love wishes to move through us, with as much fidelity as we can possibly muster. For love feeds the Gift. And we must cultivate a depth of faith in love that goes beneath apparent outcomes, failures, and refusals. For love is never wasted. It goes its way into the world when it is given, and does its work, despite us or what has turned out. Some may reject or refuse love, but love does its work regardless, even if it stays subterranean. It opens up tracks, guides ways, unveils unforeseen possibilities for good. Giving out love despite all seemings is one way we cultivate relationship to and trust in the Gift. In this process, we are called on, even as we take care of ourselves in our primate ways, with our bands and tribes and animal feelings, to stretch our sense of love beyond the narrow bandwidths of our past, towards the species as a whole, and even past that, towards the planet, and eventually, the whole cosmic tree itself, in time.

We will then feel the Gods much more directly, perhaps even without the mediation of names, in all their power and glory, having shed what alienation hindered us from the full experience of their benevolence and generosity, imminent in their goading and spurring and stirring of us! Oh yes, fortune will always be a lottery, and we, the darers, but as we evolve, and shed the husks of parochiality towards greater and stronger frith, species-wide and beyond the strife and division of classes borne in empire's wake, we will learn to tame the rough and sharp edges of fortune, rounding it out with our good will towards each other and the holy powers of this beloved cosmos, in the maturity of which our present sense of mutual aid is but a seed! Then we shall reap more the inner fruit of Wyrd, as what we give to be woven makes for better texture and sumptuous resilience on the loom. 

Yes, it is difficult, it is work, to trust what gifts the Gods amply give, through the blizzards the frost-giants blow! At times all we feel are the blizzards! It takes work to find that quiet place in the storm where we may sense something different. And then of course what gifts may come never come as expected -- the Gods do love surprise! Yule is the great sacrament we have been given, whose meditation, in time, sunk deep into our hearts, and yielding fruit in our actions, shall guide us on the paths towards our destiny and fulfillment! That is our Sabbath, our richly ceremonied symbol outfolding from which our great wealth we have yet to fully perceive! Yet that wine we shall sup! Yet that gushing mead we shall quaff!

It is good work to do the work of faith in the world of uncertain fortune, whose wheel is often fickle. We fund the universal treasury with every gift we take to fruition and release. What seems lost is only seeming. Sacrifice -- the sacred giving of the all of our being, purged of stinginess and all-too-easy cowardice -- feeds the world's weal. That does not mean that every moment calls on us to give up our lives in a final way as the final gift of that life we have been given, but rather is a call to make our whole life such rapture as we may manage, giving our full self in all the outpouring we can muster! That is the goal, the sacred telos, in the sacrament. Of course, we are mortals and fall short of goals. There is such a time as the morning, before we have had our coffee (or what have you), when grumbling seems much more certain than gift, and jolly, strong-in-matured-mirth Gods do not begrudge us our curmudgeonliness, given that we will do our work, and do it well. All will not be easy, though we aim for the ease that good honor brings, but the work shall make it worthwhile. Our falterings merely give poignance to our triumphs. O denizens of dark times, dreaming of Ragnarok, see instead coming Springtimes unforeseen! The winter storms are but flakes of frozen water blown about. Do not let inevitable gloom lower your sights. Greater sights await throughout the work.


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