Aesir, Asatru, Heathen, Heathentry, Uncategorized

Godsfolk: Chain of Command

This post will touch upon magical things, darker aspects of the god Odin, and the ways he uses us, (or we him?) to deal with wounds beyond the power of others to deal.  If you are disturbed by magic, have triggers related to trauma or sex, then this is as far as you should go.  The waters beyond are deep, murky, and navigated more by faith than reason.  Sanity must be understood to be the end state goal, not in any way a waypoint or guide upon the path to that state.


Odin found me in basic training in the army, and on some level, I have always reacted to him inside that paradigm; he was our commanding officer, that distant god-like being whose inscrutable purposes we served, whose strategy we trusted to win the goals we had all sworn ourselves to, but who was ruthless enough to expend our individual asses without a seconds thought or backwards glance, should that advance to goals to which we had sworn ourselves, or served the community we had pledged ourselves to protect.

Two important things about the chain of command, it defines your responsibilities to those underneath you, and places you under the guidance of those who may best direct your efforts and development.  Your ultimate CO remains a distant figure whose approval and guidance is usually safely filtered through channels, and whose direct presence and orders are both rare and somewhat terrifying.


You learn a lot about others in your broader community, serving the same gods, but not in your direct chain of command.  Many of them you come to know and respect deeply, gaining the sense of how much they give to those under them, and how hard they work for the collective community, helping the broader vision of their seniors be brought to practical life.  It is one of these that this concerns.


Seiðkona are the seeresses of the community, a task whose risks if you understood would make you seriously wonder why any would take it up for knowledge bought so dearly to give to another, but that is the place, and indeed the calling of seiðkona.  I have the honour to call this particular seiðkona a friend, but as what this deals with is rather more intimate than any mere physical nudity, I will not be using any names, for I will not allow what she risked in her courage to be turned by the unworthy into weapons against her or any other.



The seiðkona had come to the community in search of a place in which she could grow and feel welcome.  As the worthy do, she sought to pay back with service the community that had given her a place that allowed her to grow both as a heathen and as a person, and this brought her to the tutelage of an elder practitioner of seidr as student.  I remember seeing the first time our seiðkona sitting in the high seat, and answering questions for the folk, journeying for those who had the need but not the skill, to gain for them that which was needful.  She was impressive, and rather unusual.  She had a hard rooted pragmatism and solid grounding at odds with the usual otherworldly (and some might criticize lightly-flaky) personality of one who spends so much time between worlds they seem to be slightly loose in this one at the best of times.


She had gone far, grown much, and was coming apart at the seems.  Her own power was threatening her health, her professional success was bringing the cost of destruction of her personal life.  The gap between the masks we wear to play each of our roles in society, and the truth of who we are, is where the stress of your life arises.  The amount of energy you spend on carrying this stress acts like the debt load on your income; the more you spend servicing the debt, the less you have to spend on accomplishing things.  When servicing that debt consumes the bulk of your resources, you become almost helpless to act, even when on paper you should have vast resources.


Odin’s service is brutal in a lot of ways, the costs of it can be harrowing, but the rewards are worth it.  As the community grows, and the number of those available to serve grows, the costs to those who serve the community will drop, but even as we can be thankful we pay less than the founders did, those who follow after have no idea how much better off they will be when there are finally enough hands for the work. One of Odin’s greatest gifts is wode, the transformative ecstasy, the madness that tears away all of our masks and lets us embrace our primal core, to fill with the pure energy of his madness and burn clean all the dross of our stresses, fears, depression, and pain.  She had progressed far enough to open many far and fell gates, but this one that would serve her, heal her, and restore the strength she was spending on others was closed against her.


She had been wounded in the past by others in crippling ways that she had spent much of her own strength to work around, but at this point the cost of her coping mechanisms was locking away the tool given for healing.  She could not open it.


She opened to me and shared much, and what I have been given by the Gallows Burden  is the ability to see wounds.  In my work with those with PTSD, I have been many times given the sight to see upon what parts of a persons core the wounds have written themselves, for there is no one place that damage falls, nor one way the survivors will work around the damage to win back function.  The Feeder of Ravens shows me the cost that others have paid, but leaves to me to work out or not how to aid them; there is no thing free in his service.


This was different, I was given the powerful sense that this was mine to fix, that the Gordion knot that had been tied in this seiðkona’s mind would fall to his spear, in my hands.

Freyr's Spear

Chain of command; we may be more comfortable with limited tasking from our existing chain, but we can be detached “upon the needs of service” for special taskings, and that is exactly what was being done.  She was His, as I was His, and if she was nearly broken, he wanted her fixed; now.


From the gods to the earth to us, from us to the earth to the gods


This is how we frame our offerings to the gods in the gifting cycle, we are completing the circle by paying back the gods for the bounty of their gifts by offering back to the earth from whom the bounty was derived.  A corollary of this is from the gods to the community to us, from us to the community to the gods.  We have each of us been healed, strengthened and supported by our community in times of need, we turn to the gods for help when our own strength fails, and it is through the many hands of the community that the gods work their will to preserve us.  Now it is time to be those hands, to give that aid, and reward one who has served the community so well by doing the gods work to make right what had been done to her over so long by others.


Slight problem; Odin showed me what needed to be done.  The Fetter Loosener and Father of All Magical Songs showed me what was required, and it was a fair spear cast beyond my skillset, beyond any work I had ever done.  Mine to do, not in my power to do.


Ah, Chain of Command is a glorious thing, is it not?  I am tasked by the High One to do a thing beyond me, but are there not others beyond me?  Funny thing about chains, is they run in both directions equally binding, and up that chain I scampered like Ratatoskr up the world tree to the greatest living seiðkona, who for reasons that no doubt made sense to her had undertaken my instruction in arts more delicate than fit well in my hands.


I called upon her, and her own former apprentice, now risen into a mastery I don’t claim, and probably won’t to help me fulfill the oath I had been called by the Victory Father to give to our wounded seiðkona; that I would see her sent forth beyond the worlds to the place she might find her healing, that I would keep her safe from all that dwell beyond, and I would bring her back hale and, at last, whole.


Only one of those was in my skill set.  I could ward her from all harm, that was given me, but sending her forth when her own, superior skills in this matter, could not, was beyond me.  They were not beyond my teacher, as simple for her as for any craft master, it seemed almost without effort, even as for the rest of us it would have been equally beyond possible.


Our wounded seiðkona had done her own work well, the map of her needs, the shape of every foe we need to overcome upon the way had been mapped for us; if she could not accomplish the work herself, every single bit of it that could be done by her strength alone would be complete before we turned our own hands to it, that our blows fall full and unfettered only upon that her own strength could not touch.  Nothing is free in the Father of Victory’s service, and she was not shirking her costs.


I cast the wards, but not simply upon our working space, but followed down where they journeyed, that my spear be over her in protection, as our other siedwoman saw for her when her own sight failed, kept open the path where she was driven to stray from its safety.


The wins of her long service were waiting for her upon the ways.  The blood she had bled from the wounds she could not touch was fallen upon the snows, and in her anger that even this had been stolen from her, she cast off humanity’s cloak and as a wolf fell upon her blood and bolted it down snarling; taking back what was stolen.


The tears that had not been shed, the tears never permitted to be shed, the range of pain, sorrow and joy that died aborning lay in scattered piles of dark and bright salts, like gems scattered about a mad dwarf’s cave.  Throwing off the wolf skin of her anger she pulled on a tattered humanity and took into her hands the salt of all the unshed tears.  She could not yet shed them, but these too were hers, and she chose to take them up, for they were purchased at the cost of her own pain, and were not for another to spend.


Her guides had told her she required Muspel’s own fire, but she knew not what for. The road to Muspelheim was not easy, but Loki had been called, as had been suggested, that he who was welcome at even the most fell hall should win her entrance, and it pleased him to do so.  As she gained it, I felt a rising within me.  I feared I knew what it was for, a gift that for most is not a gift, but one I had from His hands and one that was mine to share.  To the fire she offered the salts of her unshed tears, joy, pain, loss, sorrow, and laughter all she fed to the fire, and it danced as it consumed them; bright colours burned where the smith’s glow alone had burned.


To Hvergelmir our seiðkona came, yet the Mother of Waters would not wash her clean, for the filth inside her, the corruption and suppuration from the wounds long locked away would not wash clean; her own last and desperate strength yet bound those wounds closed.  I felt the spear grow light in my hand, and felt me steps draw near.


Skollvaldr I name him, father of treachery, Geirvaldr, spear god, and Sviðurr also, the burner.  She stood before the wall she built against her self, each brick half a wound from another’s hand, half a scar built to ward what remained.  She stood before the wall she could not overthrow and I struck.


Was it his insight that in truth would allow this fell blow to bring healing?  Is the the blade that cuts the Gordion knot that binds her, or is it my foolishness not his wisdom that guides a spear I can drive home but not remove?


I drive the fire she has paid so dear for deep into the corruption of her wound and I call. Sviðurr, the burner and Gapþrosnir, the one in gaping frenzy; I called two dark faces of Odin that I might teach her the last and worst of all.  I whispered fell as Loki to teach her to feed the filth of her corrupted wounds to Muspell’s flame, and burned she did like spear thrust Gullveig. Screamed she did as she burned, and was born in her Ygg, the destroyer.


All the rage of wounds denied and unborn as the tears she was never permitted were un-shed met the corruption of the malice of those that wounded her, and she burned.  My spear though her, she screamed one, twice, and thrice, thrashing as in frenzy as she rose ever burning and struck.




The face of Ygg the destroyer gave way to Wode the terrible and transcendent frenzy as the wall that blocked her wounds from every healing, and walled away and tainted every passion with fear and shame fell to storm and fire, to the brutal hammer blows of her will, and the purifying flame of her rage.


She burned bright, she burned clean, and raged far and deep into those parts of her that she had never been permitted.  She was not however alone, and whispers of her seid sisters stilled her rage and called for her Óski, the god of wishes and Sanngetall the truth finder, for what lay behind the wall was hers; the truth of who she was, what she desired, what she may yet become.  Stolen from her by ancient wrong, won from the might and pain of her own struggle, now hers to take back, hers to own, and hers to at last become.


Back I had vowed to bring her, hale and whole, but to be whole and hale meant not only to bring back those parts of her that had been long stolen, but to set aside those parts of her that were no longer needed.


The seiðkona left at the well those fetters that had bound her, the bandages tied in weakness that turned into fetters binding her from taking her strength, as she left her hatred.  Burning as Gullveig burned, all the corruption of others malice clawing its way in agony from her burning pores she was given the choice to give those who harmed her to Odin’s rage, or Tyr’s justice.  Ygg she had embraced, but Bolverk she denied; she would be destroyer, but not evil worker.  While the power and choice were hers, she gave them up to Tyr, the most holy, and offered to his justice those who had done her wrong, giving up her vengeance as he gave up his sword arm, for as Tyr taught, honour is worth more to us than power.


Hale and whole I swore, and hale and whole she stood.  Her face shone as I had never seen it, womanish curves where hard planes of man-like mask had hung, a power that she wore like a cloak, not a mask.  Storms raged in her eyes, but in the center of which stood a peace that would be hers when the storm winds stilled, a peace I do not think I had ever seen in her before.


I knew her, and yet she who stood before me I did not, yet know.  This was a woman who contained she whom I knew, but extended deeper, and broader, and whose nature was only now beginning to unfold.  I do not know her yet, but I think I may call myself lucky enough to be a part of her life going forward to come to know her as she will soon be.


The next night we came together as a community, and called the many named one to us, for Odin wears so many masks and names, it takes a community to contain him when it pleases him to walk among us.


Odin filled her as ever-flowing mead does a horn, full and overflowing, and as she grew god drunk on him, I saw her look and love, look and lust, laugh long and loud without reservation, saw her eyes flash in bright hot anger, burn with the dread knowledge of the wise, and the soft gentle love of a healer and knew he was teaching her the parts of herself long bound and tainted were hers now, clean and whole and loved by him.


He filled all who had served him in this, his greatest priestess, her seid sister, and the now healed seiðkona as he filled me.  I had to pay my price that night as well, for as I had asked for a healing beyond my skills so I was asked to see for others that night, to stand as seer, for this I had not done, this task I had never undertaken in his name, for I had always let that burden fall upon the seiðkona among us.  Nothing is free in his service, but nothing in his service is without reward.  A gift for a gift is his way.


We call upon the gods for help for ourselves and for each other.  The gods in turn give us to each other, to build a community in which we may come together and celebrate, to join our strength together that our joined might be equal to any task set before us.  When our own strength is not enough, we call upon our holy gods to aid us, and even here, they let us be their hands, that as they use us to do what is needful, they leave behind their teaching that each generation can do more for each other, and turn to the holy tribe for only that which still lay beyond us.


I do not have faith in my gods existence, I have knowledge which precludes faith.  I have faith rather when the gods ask us to step beyond what we can do in service of those of our folk who have needs.  Chain of command; I don’t have to understand the orders I am given, I have trust in the one who gives the orders, that he asks what is needful, and those who have received so much from the community accept the cost of doing such work, even in the sure and certain knowledge that the price of it may sometimes be beyond what we can survive.  We who have been his hands know he will not relent or shirk from protecting those we would give our all to protect, so we will take on faith (not happily, for we are not fools) that should we fall in the doing, he will see ours protected better by those hands that survive.


That is why we do the work.


That, and the feasting. Even should Ragnarok come, the day of battle will see a pot luck with tables groaning with the weight of fine meat and drink, goodly food of all kinds, the sounds of song, flirtation,  and laughter sounding loud as the tramp of feet and rattling of war gear, as his service is not one taken up in anything but joyful celebration, even at the end.  Sure, he may be the end of us, but you will never say the ride was anything less than worth it.

Odin Picture


Current events, Uncategorized

Car is space, hope in sight

Space Telsa

There is a car in space, a Tesla Roadster, blasting Space Oddity on his car stereo, headed for the sun.  A billionaires commercial, a total waste of money, or should you actually care?

I care

This is Falcon Heavy, the launch system Space X used to launch a car into space.

Falcon Heavy

A purpose built heavy space launch system with an eye to economics.  This is a system for sustainable space exploitation.  A system so amazing that it actually recycles its booster rockets.  I mean they launch the heavy lift module into position for its escape burn, and then detach, and fly themselves home to refuel for next time.

Booster Landing

We gave up on Space a long time ago.  Saturn and Mercury were children of the Cold War, born from nuke carrying ICBM technology we got away from when we strategically shifted from one big warhead to precision targeted wide dispersal sub-munitions for a greater megadeath yield.  Really killing a city works better with scattered smaller explosions than one big one, and we got so much better at targeting that our ICBM became useless for he space race.

We had the Shuttle

Space Shuttle a commitment to visit near earth orbit and play with satellites, but without the heavy lift to ever dream of leaving the earth orbit, or the solar system.  Space was to be exploited using the idiot children of the Cold War, a Russian delivery system which accepted crude as a substitute for craftsmanship and whose strategic employment relied less on precision targeting than the unquestionable truth that close only counts in horse shoes, hand grenades, and really, really big nuclear weapons.

So space building and large scale support required relying on Russian cold war technology, leftovers of a nearly forgotten nightmare of humanity attempting to make itself extinct.


It worked, most of the time.  A good overengineered Russian system that can be made pretty amazing with western quality control applied.  Expensive, not exactly reusable, but doable for the work we needed.

Falcon Heavy is different.  Not a one shot military ICBM repurposed, it is literally the DC-3 of space.  It is not the new space F-35 amazeballs if it ever works superfighter, it is the C-130 Hercules general purpose, fly every damned day, workhorse cargo craft that makes large scale exploitation of space possible

F35B MCAS Beaufort

The Voluspa is a wonderful poem, an origin myth of the Norse people and promises us two things, the gods are doing everything in their power, even committing to die for us, to buy time.  The second thing it tells us is that our wonderful life bearing world has balanced between ice and fire since its beginning, and it will fall to one last searing burst of fire in the suns dying days, before spinning lifeless and cold in the eternal dark.

The gods promised to buy time, its for us to use it and get off this rock.  If this is where humanity exists, here and only here, we are a dead race awaiting the end date.  Extinction events are not uncommon here, and if we linger long enough the sun too has a best before date, don’t be here when it happens.

Space is not just a future away from earth, it is a promise of new frontiers, of resources found by reaching outward together, rather than killing each other over slices of an ever diminishing pie here on earth.

Space is hope for the species, and hope is not something you can get your people to in a Ferrari, it is something you can reach in a bus.  The Falcon Heavy is a bus, a space minivan, a general purpose utility lift vehicle that makes large scale construction in space possible, makes expansion outward again a dream that can fire us to do something other than this.

Nuclear Explosion

Falcon Heavy put a Tesla in space, a future based on technology for sustainable living on earth, rather than delivery of nuclear, chemical or biologic agents of city killing, as has been the history of our heavy lift rockets to this day.

A billionaire put a car in space, and yes, dammit, I care.

Asatru, Current events, Heathen, Heathentry, Uncategorized

Swastika and Runes; Heritage or Hate

There has been a lot of noise lately about the use of runes in the Norwegian Olympic team sweater.  The objection is that two runes are displayed on the sweater, Tiwaz and Elhaz, the runes for Tyr/victory and elk/protection, had been used by the Nazi’s for certain specific groups and programs (leadership school for Tiwaz, and birth/death announcements for Elhaz).

Olympic Sweater

The Norwegian Olympic team is drawing upon its cultural heritage to call for a “Attacking Viking” on the podium, calling upon their team to be motivated in a similar way to Canada’s own “Own the Podium” program.  This is drawing on what is to them, their own heritage as a positive motivational force.  Some wish to point to the fact that the Nazi’s used runes for bad things, and some Neo Nazi groups have latched on to various runes for their own mis-use, but in no way have any of the runes ever been known commonly and only as symbols of hate groups.  There is a legitimate use of these for the Scandinavians as cultural symbols.  Yes, some racists will continue to try to steal the glory and worth of the symbol for their own perverted uses, but it is clear they are trying to pervert something they don’t own.  The runes are a part of our heritage.
The Swastika is different.  We lost that one.


The Swastika was used by Neolithic Indo-Europeans, Vedic Hindu and their offshoot Buddhist cultures in antiquity as a symbol of sun/luck/good fortune.  It was not a major cultic symbol during the timespan our surviving lore was collected and had very limited use in the rediscovery of the faith itself in the last century.


The Persians, Hindu, Buddhists continue to use some form of the swastika even today, but then again, they did not experience the horrors that this symbol came to represent in WWII, so in their cultures, it maintains a small, clean, almost forgotten niche; whereas it has burned into the hindbrains of the sons and daughters of Europe and North America.  It had been forgotten by Europe, by the turn of the last century, and it was exhumed in a most terrible way, and for a most terrible purpose.

It was however identified by the forefathers of racial identity politics in Germany.  The groups that began the movement that would culminate in the rise of the Nazi party associated the Swastika from their very beginning as a symbol of their political/racial identity, a symbol of the pure German Folk-soul.  This was a symbol to them of the very doctrine of racial purity that would be the drive behind the greatest crimes of the Nazi party.


Adolf Hitler adopted the Swastika for himself and the Nazi party from its inception.  He made it the symbol of his vision, and for the first time, it became synonymous with a single political ideology, a single philosophy.  This was not the worship of Sunna, the life giving sun.  This was not as a symbol of life and luck, prosperity and fortune; no this was a very clear and defined thing.  The Swastika was the symbol for the vision of a pure German Race, united under fascist rule, with a racial destiny of conquest and rulership of all lesser races.


In Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler wrote:


“I myself, meanwhile, after innumerable attempts, had laid down a final form; a flag with a red background, a white disk, and a black swastika in the middle. After long trials I also found a definite proportion between the size of the flag and the size of the white disk, as well as the shape and thickness of the swastika.”


The Swastika went from being something a handful of obscure scholars could argue about, to being a household name, a symbol whose ownership, provenance, and purpose was known by all, both those who supported it, and those who opposed it.  Never has any symbol been more clearly defined for eternity by the deeds of a single generation.

Those deeds would be soaked in the blood of tens of millions of innocents, by the blood of innocent Germans first and foremost, but the blood letting would spill across all of Europe, Afrika and half the seas of the world.


In the generations since the Nazi’s were defeated, the swastika has been taken up again and again, not only in Europe, but on our own shores.  This has not been done by Heathen groups quietly practicing their faith, and the honouring of the sun goddess, but loudly in the streets by White Supremacist groups espousing the racial hatred and violence that marked the rise of the SA/SS Nazi street thugs in 1930’s Germany.

It is clear that the Swastika is most commonly invoked not by those who wish to worship the light and life giving sun, but those who wish to worship hatred and the blood soaked racial purity visions of histories most blood soaked madman.


There are groups out there who like to talk about “reclaiming” the swastika, about “taking back” their cultural heritage.  These groups often have cute little version similar to the Swastika enough to evoke its spirit, but far enough away to allow plausible deniability.  These groups also generally use the same folk-soul language and racial destiny language that you can read about in Hitler’s Mein Kampf, the stirring speeches written by Goebbels, and the propaganda films of Leni Riefenstahl.

Those who are taking up the Swastika now are very much carrying on the vision of the Nazi party, and those working to “reclaim it” are either innocent dupes, or far more commonly, very cold calculating propaganda masters, with an overarching vision of transforming the identity of European descendant peoples through the conscious reshaping of national/cultural symbols and faith.  This is the vision that gave us the success and the crimes of the Nazi rise in Germany, and we saw in the breakup of Yugoslavia that its modern adherents look to the same methods to achieve the same results.

We cannot, must not, and by all the gods shall not, remain silent and see such things happen on our shores.  The Swastika is tainted for all time.  It will never be clean again, it has been successfully coopted by the dogma’s of hatred, by the blackest desires of humanity for power-through-fear, and will forever serve as a loadstone for evil.

I will support the continued battle to take back the runes from those who would miss-use them, for they are ours and I will not permit their loss to racist scum.  In the same breath, I will sadly say that the Swastika is lost to us forever.  It is now and for all times a symbol of evil.  The first and only time it rose to burn into the consciousness of whole nations, and the whole world it was as a symbol of knowing and deliberate evil.  This has changed its meaning for all succeeding generations.  The Swastika is about hate.

Stop serving the ends of racist scum by attempting to cover their pathetic attempts to dress up their evil as anything related to our culture, or our faith, by letting them spur you on towards “rehabilitating” the swastika.  The only purpose this would serve in this, or any foreseeable generation, is empowering the rise of this known evil another time.

Tearing Swastika.gif




Asatru, Current events, Heathen, Heathentry, Uncategorized

Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister and Traitor

There are few greater charges in Heathenry than Oathbreaker.  Few greater crimes to any soldier or citizen than Traitor.  Yet, we who have served as soldiers in the Canadian Armed Forces, have offered our bodies and our time, our blood, sweat, tears, and entrusted our honour to the direction of Canada’s Prime Minister and Parliament, have found that we have given that service not to the Right Honourable Prime Minister, who stands in service to the Canadian people for the honour of Her Majesty the Queen, but we have instead been expendable resources in the service of a liar to whom oaths, duty, loyalty, honour and law are only things that make pretty speeches, and earn poll points, not actual pledges that must be obeyed, or binding agreements.


At the 100 year remembrance of Vimy Ridge, our Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau stood on the field in which thousands of Canadians bled and died for their nation


Trudeau’s speech at Vimy Ridge


“Think of it, for a moment.  The enormity of the price they paid”


They paid in full.  In WWI, on Vimy Ridge, the four divisions of the Canadian Corps fought for the first time under their own leadership and direction, and did what no other nation on earth could do.  We broke the Germans at Vimy Ridge, and won our place in the sun as a great nation, no longer a British Dominion, but a nation with its own seat at the international table.  For this Canadians have paid in blood in every generation.  68,000 dead in WWI, 47,000 dead in WWII, over five hundred in Korea, and over 1800 dead in various peacekeeping operations world wide since 1947 (excluding Korea).  The wounded tend to outnumber the dead about three to one, counting only physical wound based trauma.


Lord Borden, Prime Minister of Canada during the First World War, the campaign that would see our finest fighting and too frequently falling, in the mud if Vimy Ridge, Passchendaele, Ypres, the Somme, gave us two famous speeches.  In the first, to Parliament on the eve of the Vimy campaign he vowed Canadian soldiers


“need have no fear that the government and the country [would] fail to show just appreciation of [their] service.” The Prime Minister considered it Canada’s “first duty” to support the troops and he promised them that none would have “just cause to reproach the government for having broken faith” with its men.


To be completely clear, as the dead and broken of the conflict mounted into a cost more terrible than any in the history of our nation, or our Empire at the time, the question of Canada’s commitment to its wounded was specifically addressed to Parliament, to the House of Commons, the representatives of the Canadian people, from the mouth of our Right Honourable Prime Minister


The “maimed,” “broken,” “the widow and the orphan” would each be protected because, the government re-assured its soldiers, “Duty and decency demand[ed] that those … saving democracy [should] not find democracy a house of privilege, or a school of poverty and hardship.”


Not just our wounded, but the families of the fallen would be cared for, reguardless of cost, as they have paid the ultimate price for this democracy, for this nation, and as we love both, so must we match that cost paid in the blood of our finest with the lesser coins of honour, respect, and material resources of one of the greatest and most prosperous societies on earth.

Back then, we had Prime Ministers who deserved the title of Right Honourable.  Now fast forward to Stephen Harper, the Conservative who pioneered the expendable Canadian Solider, who stopped the collection of statistics he didn’t want to answer for (want to know the Canadian Veteran suicide rate? so do we, but unlike the US, no Canadian leader will have to answer for statistics we stopped collecting).

Justin Trudeau during his campaign promised a real change.  In his own words:

“A Liberal government will live up to our obligation to Canada’s veterans and their families. We will demonstrate the respect and appreciation for our veterans that Canadians rightly expect, and ensure that no veteran has to fight the government for the support and compensation they have earned.”

Justin Trudeau Promise

I name him liar, traitor, oathbreaker.  Those were his words, that was his oath.  These are his deeds.  He took over as Prime Minister, and directed Crown lawyers to battle against Veterans Rights advocates who were demanding the promises about care for our veterans actually be followed through.

A recent PPCLI veteran asked our “Right Honourless” Prime Minister a why his government, rather than honouring the promise of his office, the Prime Minister of Canada, or of his own person when running for office in the last election to see that promise kept, is fighting to break the promise, and not spend what is needed and owed to care for those Canadian veterans and their families broken in service to our great nation.

Trudeau’s answer to why his government opposes Canadian Veterans in court asking for Canada to honour their commitment to care for their own veterans who had been wounded in service to Her Majesty’s Canadian government, acting under the direction and orders of her Prime Minister.  This is Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s answer.

Trudeau Oathbreaker

“Because they are asking for more than we can give right now”


Those are the words of our Right Honourless Prime Minister

Right Honourless Justin Trudeau

Do not fall prey to the distractions of waving the false flags of the Kadhr payment, or this or that pet project, aid package, or social program that one political faction or another wants to link to this issue.  Consider simply this.


In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly


Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders Fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.”

John McCrae


We have broken faith.  Our dead may not rest.  The torch is not fallen from our hands, the men and women who even now put their lives, their skills, dedication and honour as an offering to the great Canadian people have not failed their watch, nor their test.  It is we, we the people of Canada who have failed our defenders.  We failed those who served in their pride and power and came back broken, we failed those who served in life, and fell down into death in the sure and certain knowledge that their sacrifice was not in vain.  We failed those who gave their sons and daughters, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers into our service, and received them back either broken, or in flag draped coffins.

The Right Honourless Prime Ministers, in succession from both sides of the political divide pose over the graves of our dead whose sacrifice they defecate on, pose in front of the serried ranks of our proud men and women whose bodies they will expend to buy poll points, and whose wreckage they reguard as safe in the current political climate to ignore, as their polls indicate that outside the month of November, Canadians can be counted on not remembering our politicians had oathed in their name to care for.

They shall not sleep , though poppies grow, in Flanders fields.  In Kandahar,  Korea, Cyprus, Syria, Congo, Kosovo, our dead stir.  Spirits who rested sure and certain that though they fell, they could trust that we who remained would see their brothers and sisters cared for, their dependants cared for, the oath we gave in exchange for their life blood, kept; these spirits stir now for our leaders oathbreaking denies them even their rest.
Shame on our leaders for making it so, but greater shame on each and every one of us, FOR WE LET THEM.  One after the other we teach these leaches that they may break faith with our living defenders, our dead, and those who gave their health and power to our service, and we will reward them for it.
Damn you Justin Trudeau, Stephen Harper, and in fact every Prime Minister since Lester Pearson first whored us out for his political prestige.  Damn us for letting you.

Aesir, Asatru, Current events, Faith, Heathen, Uncategorized

Courage and the draft


The world came to Toronto in 2017 to see the Invictus Games.  This is the single most Heathen sporting event in existence, and one of the most important to me.  The Invictus Games celebrate the athleticism, drive, and determination of our wounded warriors, our soldiers who marched away to war in our service and came back less than whole.

More than the Olympics, the Invictus Games celebrates those who have had the courage to overcome, who have dared to meet the harshest blows of this world and to rise again, unconquered, and claim their greatness.

70. It is better to live | than to lie a corpse,
The live man catches the cow;
I saw flames rise | for the rich man’s pyre,
And before his door he lay dead.

71. The lame rides a horse, | the handless is herdsman,
The deaf in battle is bold;
The blind man is better | than one that is burned,
No good can come of a corpse.

Our gods teach us that wyrd weaves as it will, there is no judgement in it.  Wounds do not steal your worth, nor do they steal from you the chance to continue to build it.  Wounds are not shameful, but rather the markers of the challenges you have faced in your life.  If you faced your challenge well, then the scars are marks of hard won pride, not shame.

The Celt believed only the whole and perfect man could be King, that somehow a scarred King would wound the land.  The Norse believed almost the opposite; for the accepting of the cost of your service marked you as a man or woman who was worthy of the power in their care.  Odin gave his eye for wisdom, Tyr his hand to show the worth of his word was more than his sword arm, and Thor bears still the millstone in his skull that battle chanced to put there.  There is no shame in bearing wounds, or loss; our highest gods bear their scars and wounds openly, and dare us to do the same.

This is the reality of the warrior culture so many Brosatru miss while swilling cheap beer and boasting of their guaranteed place in Valhalla, based on little more than mead hall boasts and heavy metal lyrics, rather than any deeds of service to the folk.  The reality of a “warrior culture” is the acceptance of loss as a cost of life.

Our whole people lived with this.  Women bore their children in the sure and certain knowledge that many of them would die, and that each birth, they too might die.  Farmers, fishermen, and craftspeople understood that when they took up their tools, a single mistake or mischance could cost them limb or life as surely as any warrior of the line of battle.

We lost that.  Our medicine has been a boon to us, for which I thank the gods and ancestors every day, but it came with a lie.  The lie that we are immortal, that death and injury are banished, and if they should confront us in our lives with their presence, then we have been betrayed!

We have been betrayed only in the teaching of that lie, and this treason we commit to each generation, making them less able to cope with the hard things wyrd weaves for all of us in our turn.  Loss of a loved one, loss of health to chronic illness, loss of limb or ability to serious injury; some or all of these our children will face, prepared or not.  Our only choice is that last one; do we prepare them, or not?

My middle daughter was the one who was most likely to follow me into the service, as she inherited the temperament I had from my father, and he from his.  This will not be anymore as she suffered a permanently disabling spinal injury when rear ended by a truck.  Just eighteen, and permanently disabled; to what extent, we will not know for a while.

Back Pain

I first encountered life changing injury during my time in the Armed Forces.  I volunteered to make of my body an offering to the folk, hoping to offer only my time, dedication and skills, but aware that I could also be offering my health, or even my life.  We don’t really think or talk to much about the various ugly places between hale and whole, and valiant dead, as the middle ground is far scarier than either of the extremes.

You don’t think so?  Well, perhaps when you have seen enough death, and enough crippling injury, you will realize that the dead do not have anything to fear, but the living often do.

The athletes of the Invictus Games are important to us because they bring back pride, power, and most of all, VICTORY to those whom wyrd has woven permanent loss of limb or ability due to injury.

Most important of all Odin’s bynames is Sigfather; Victory-father.  It is not death we fear, for death waits for us all, and can no more be run from than can the coming night.  It is defeat, loss, and the humiliation that attends each that we fear, it is powerlessness, despair, and the shame attendant on weakness.

We are our deeds.  These words ring through modern Heathen practice as the root, the central tenant we all share.  Some understand the whole culture of building worth, and have the full lexicon of terms by which we know how what we do shapes how both we think of ourselves, and how our community thinks of us.  Judgement is a truth we accept;  like gravity, denying it does not make it go away, or make for wise decisions through pretending its not there.

The disabled are left with the corollary of this.  We who have always measured ourselves and found ourselves worthy based on the number and power of our deeds must find ourselves worthless in our own eyes when the chance to do those deeds is stripped from us by fate.

Suicide rates do not come from no where, they come from a despair that looks upon a life and sees no worth in it, nor potential for worth in it.  This is where the disabled are most vulnerable, in the sense of worth that should be the greatest source of their strength.

Our ancestors understood this.  They did not expect the wounded to battle for the same things, or the same standards as the whole.  They expected them to contribute, to give their all and to build worth in the doing; they literally could not understand the mindset that rejected the reality of a lost limb and judged the wounded person by the standards they met when fully able and whole of body.

The lame rides a horse, hand-less is herdsman.  You cannot build your worth through the deeds of before, but there are other deeds you are well suited to meet, other needs of the folk that you can meet.  No one accounts Tyr or Odin as less worthy due to their loss, rather they look upon their deeds in spite of that as inspiration to drive them to find their own greatness with the body and ability they have now.

The soldiers of the Invictus games were volunteers to the field of battle, but they were drafted, as it were, into the ranks of the disabled.  Those of our children, siblings, spouses and friends who find themselves struck down by disease or accident are likewise drafted into this challenge.

The soldiers of the Invictus Games are assumed to be courageous, as they volunteered to risk their lives and health in the nations service.  The truth is, they are among the most vulnerable.  No one who has not served can know how much it shapes you, how the awareness of giving one hundred percent of your ability and strength, to achieve a mission at all costs, and know that you are operating at a level most will never achieve even fleetingly, changes you forever.  Once that is stripped from you, you are not returned to the civilian you were, you are simply a soldier who can no longer live up to the image of ability that had become the pillar of your self identity.

We lose a lot of wounded warriors, which is why the Invictus Games came to be.  The Sig-Father, our father Odin, is not just the Battle Glad, he does not simply love us for the clash of arms, and the feast for his ravens that are the fallen.  Odin is the Victory Bringer, the Wise Counselor, the bringer of inspiration, poetry, and the wisdom of coping in all its wondrous, and wondrously flawed forms.

It is time to heed his counsel, to bring back Victory for our wounded, for our disabled.  Time for them to not hide their scars, empty sleeves, or wheel chairs, but to wear them as proudly as any medal, for they are the spoils of the victor, the survivor, of the strong.

Wyrd weaves as it will, there is no judgement in it.  One of my favourite words when it comes to living with the bad things that happen in life is FISH.  Short for “Fuck It, Shit Happens”.  The gods have never judged us by our success or failure, they have judged us by how we face our challenges, and how we meet our responsibilities.  Victory in the battle is Odin’s to give, but victory in your challenge is YOURS to take.  Who wins or loses may be beyond your strength to decide, but how you meet that challenge is beyond the power of any god, Queen or President, beyond any Parliament or law, it is literally only your own decision that will or can determine how you meet that challenge every single day.

Stop letting the memory of what you were steal from you the chance to find out what you can be today.  Stop mistaking the wound that wyrd wove into your life as being the results of your battle; it is not your loss, but it has changed the nature of the victory that is yours to win today.  Heed the Victory Father, if you are still breathing, you have not lost.  Find your victory conditions, and fight for them as hard as you did when full strength and speed were yours, and you will build your worth not only to yourself, but to the world.

My daughter will never be as she was before the accident.  She is not now weak, nor should you pity her.  She has much less strength and flexibility than before, and will pay a price for each breath and each step that would make a strong man tremble, but she will pay it, because she is not done yet.  She is not beaten, has not accepted defeat as written in her wounds.  I hope I can help her find the ways to define her victory conditions so the will and drive that made her so strong and capable again become a positive, rather than a weapon to use to hurt herself.  The strongest and most able among us are the harshest in punishing themselves when wyrd takes from them the ability to meet their own standards.  My daughter is strong and proud as ever I was, and I hope less foolish.

Odin, Victory Father, I ask your blessing that you teach our wounded ones how to define and fight for their victories every day of their lives, that when they chance to fall, their lives will shine with worth, and their deeds will be many days in the telling.  Tyr the most holy, as you understood the choice between your honour and your power could have only one answer, help those who have had much of their power stripped from them to understand that honour is still theirs to win.  Thor, defender of mankind; laughing god of the common man and woman, please teach those who have been laid low by fate to rise again, to laugh again, and to strive again.

No one volunteered to be wounded, to be broken.  Those who are disabled to a man were drafted into this state, and yet this does not mean that they do not possess courage!  Those who rise each day to a struggle greater than the whole may know, and frequently for stakes far less rich than the whole compete for, require more courage and more strength to rise each day and do battle.  To those who rise to this every day, may the Victory Father be with you always.

Heed the lesson of the Invictus Games,

Invictus Motto


Asatru, Heathen, Heathentry, Pagan, Uncategorized

Elders failing

John Remembrance1

My community tells me I am an elder now.  I guess the grey in the beard argues they have a point.  That being said, I am looking at the elders in our community and noticing we really aren’t living up to the reverence we get given.

How many of us have shared the memes about the kids of today being useless, or lacking coping skills, or in ten thousand ways being utterly without capability or worth compared to every generation that has gone before?

Um, no.

Like the myth about how great our music was, we had great music, and we remember the great music.  We try really hard to forget about the bad stuff, and the majority of it was terrible. Kind of like today actually.

We had a lot of really spectacularly useless people, a lot of people struggling to get by, a bunch more who didn’t seem to have a clue, but stumbled along anyway, and a minority of really spectacular people who either smiled and got things done, or bitched and got things done, but the constant was, they got things done.

The good old days never were that good.  When we sit around and shoot the breeze, we can either rhapsodize about how good they were (better than today) or how terrible they were (worse than today), and be totally sincere.  Its called cherry picking, you look back and select for what you want to remember and you really can call it either the best of times or the worst of times and back it up with evidence.  They were just times we struggled to get through, got right as much as we could, got wrong more often than we like to recall, and not everyone made it through.  Lest we forget, not everyone managed then, nor do they manage now.

As elders in the Veteran community are busy crapping on the generation that is finishing school and taking their places in the ranks, they compare their fellow veterans to the most objectionable portions of the opposite end of the political spectrum, and announce that the current generation are all weak snowflakes.

Really?  Newsflash, we had the same spectrum back in our generation, and a astonishingly small fraction went into the service from our generation, and of those far from all of them would reguard that choice now as being good, wise, or healthy for them.  Lets at least not lie to ourselves about this.

We had a problem with bullying and sexual harassment, but you know what, we were better at denying it.  The abuses were bad then, just as they are bad now, but you could play pretend and ignore it better.  That does not make our generation more worthy boys and girls, that makes us part of the problem this generation is burdened with.

We inherited a culture of bullshit, and we perpetuated much of it, dealt with tiny corners of it, and learned to just accept what we were not ready to face.  Hardly the shining legacy we should be praised for.

We could get away from our problems.  Work, family, school, you could run to the other part of your life and escape whatever was going on in the other parts that you couldn’t deal with.  We took that away from our kids.  We gave them a connected world where you are never not connected to everyone.  Yay, ten thousand wonderful possibilities, every dream that you dream can come true, even the nightmares.  Oh yes, you can’t get away from your problems any more, they have never been able to follow you as effortlessly as now, and no misdeed will ever be beyond recall.

We never had to face that, we never had to cope with that.  Tell me again how weak these kids are?  Could I have made it through all the bad patches that way?  I sometimes wonder.

Our Heathen and Pagan elders I was raised to revere.  The did so much for the community, they fought so hard for what we have the chance to enjoy now, and did so in a time they very much were not free as we are now to do so without serious penalty to their personal, professional, and even family lives.  I do honour them for this, they paid a price higher than I had to, as we strove in our turn to make it easier for those who followed.

Now we in our turn are being honoured as elders and I am seeing a really depressing trend of not being worthy of that reguard right about the stage we start receiving it.

Somewhere along the line, after working so long to establish our little corners of the community, and doing so in an age where there was not an internet filled with scholarship and resources to network and pool our resources, we got used to being right, and accepted as being right.  Then a whole lot of us stopped listening, stopped learning, stopped accepting that others were having the same experiences that we did, and learning their own lessons.  Others were drawing upon newer, and frequently better scholarship to come to sometimes different understandings than our own.

I love my communities, the Heathen community, broader pagan community, the veteran community, but as I pass into the elder status, I look at my fellow elders and see a stunning lack of support for those who are stepping up into the leadership positions we are retiring out of.  I see a lack of respect for those people doing the hard work we frankly lack the strength or time to put in anymore.

I see most of all that instead of heaping praise, support and advice when asked, we are heaping scorn on those who are this generations boots on the ground.  I will be the first to admit there are not as many boots on the ground as their should be.  There is more work than hands.  This should mean that we elders who know what that translates into, in terms of personal sacrifice, should be the ones doing our part to step in, and save these amazing young people from burning themselves out in service to folk who need to do their own share before being worthy of such a sacrifice, instead of pontificating about how the younger generation is weak.

I will continue to do my part for the community, as I slowly transition in the next decades from one of the guys who get things done, into one of the elders who got things done in the time of legends, when dinosaurs ruled the earth.

We do have a lot to teach, but those who have a lot to teach are mostly still working hard to learn every day, because the community is teaching us.  You are teaching us.  We have simply been around for more lessons, and perhaps caught some lessons that we can spot that you could use right now.

Don’t put us on pedestal, or the unworthy will just use them as height to piss on you from, and the useful will then be out of reach to contribute something you may need to know, or a tool you might not have, when you actually need it.

Back in the day, we mostly muddled through.  We did our best, not all of us were all that well intentioned, and not of the well intentioned saw things work out positively anyway.  Today you are all taking up the work, building your communities with a right good will.  Some of them will explode, implode, or combust; trust me, most of ours did too.  Keep the faith, keep working, humanity is untidy and learns by trial and error, so keep swinging.

If you survive long enough, do try to resist letting yourself forget that what we know now is the seventieth version, the first sixty nine we now know were dead wrong, and that hardly puts us in a position to look down on anyone else for being wrong once.  We were wrong more than once, and may be days away from finding out we have got it wrong yet again.  Until we are dead, we are supposed to be learning.  If we forget that, then we don’t really deserve to be honoured for a knowledge we stopped actually listening to ourselves.

Asatru, Heathen, Heathentry, Uncategorized




If you want to begin your not all men rant now, I suggest you either read this all the way through, or don’t bother commenting.

1. Within the gates | ere a man shall go,

(Full warily let him watch,)

Full long let him look about him;

For little he knows | where a foe may lurk,

And sit in the seats within.


First line in the Havamal tells people to be careful, because you need to be aware that enemies abound, there are people out there who mean you ill.  This is very first thing we were ever taught by the ancestors and gods, there are bad people out there.


For some reason, there is a huge backlash whenever this advice is rephrased for women.  Somehow it is just right and holy for men to be wary, but if women are wary of men in the same way, that is somehow an attack on all men.  Here is where the same group of men that is quickest to shout “snowflake!” at anyone else for being bothered by another’s opinion is screaming at the top of their lungs about how offended they are at the thought that women might share among themselves that they don’t feel safe around a particular person.

I am not talking about publicly pointing out someone who has never been convicted of anything and accusing them of something, I am talking about women privately sharing with each other that they don’t feel safe around a particular person.


One in four women will experience sexual assault in their lives.  A woman over the age of 15 has a 3.5% chance of being raped this year, a male 0.5%.  The average assailant is a male below the age of 35 in both cases (2014 Statistics Canada figures ).

Sex Assault Stats


Vulnerable populations have the risk higher, native women are sitting about 57% for being assaulted in their lives and disabled women have 83% chance of being sexually assaulted during their lives ( ).

Sex Assault overall


These are the facts.  This is the world that we live in, and this is something that affects everyone.  I am not a feminist, and will admit cheerfully that I fully enjoy being a practicing heterosexual who finds the sight, sound, and company of women to be an absolute delight, and who is married to a woman I still desire sexually after twenty one years and three daughters as much as when we were fooling around in high school.  I enjoy sex, I enjoy women. I have raped exactly as many women as I desire to; zero.  I find the idea of rape to be repugnant, but that does not mean I don’t acknowledge a whole lot of people really do feel otherwise.  Those rape statistics do not point to the number of men out there who are sexual predators as being small, or a statistically insignificant number.  They point to it being a significant and persistent problem that women really should consider when looking at the world.

It is not just women who are the victims, and not just men who are the assailants; true, but the numbers make it clear it is primarily women who are the victims, and even more predominantly men who are the assailants of both genders.  For those men who want to defend our gender from the slander of being called rapists, for it to be slander, the charge would have to lack basis, and on that point, we fail.


  1. I rede thee, Loddfafnir! | and hear thou my rede,–

Profit thou hast if thou hearest,

Great thy gain if thou learnest:

If evil thou knowest, | as evil proclaim it,

And make no friendship with foes.


  1. I rede thee, Loddfafnir! | and hear thou my rede,–

Profit thou hast if thou hearest,

Great thy gain if thou learnest:

In evil never | joy shalt thou know,

But glad the good shall make thee.


If you know someone is a risk, you speak up.  You don’t remain silent, you don’t quietly disapprove and take your chances that someone will pay the price when what you fear may happen does happen, you speak up.

There is also this, you don’t play games with consent, you don’t joke about it, you do not provide the social camouflage that makes it acceptable for those who really do not believe consent is necessary to hide in, nor give the impression that women who have been assaulted should stay silent because really, no one means it when they say consent matters.


It is not all men, has never been all men, but it sure as hell is some of them, and if we can stop one more woman from being raped by a warning, then we should absolutely do so.  I am not advocating witch hunts, but if you don’t feel safe around someone, and you are aware that a friend is putting themselves in a vulnerable position with them, share your concern privately with that person.

I am a big man, and not the gentlest looking on the planet.  My manner is likewise somewhat aggressive, and I get that some people are triggered by it.  I am responsible for my words and deeds, but not for the reactions of others.  That being said, I would rather a hundred women whispered to each other that they didn’t feel safe around me, than one kept silent feeling I represented a credible threat to another woman.

I would rather a hundred women whispered they didn’t feel safe, knowing that I would never touch a woman without her full consent, even before I was married, than women worried about offending someone and kept a justified fear silent.  No man’s ego is worth another woman being raped.


More times than I like to think about, as a priest in the community I have had women feeling safe enough in ritual and community setting to open up about their sexual assault.  The wounds are terrible, taking multiple decades to fully heal, and if you consider the difference between the extent of the damage compared to the average sentence of a rapist you begin to understand that in the rare cases where conviction is actually given, the sentence of the victim is still far more extensive than that of the assailant.

We can’t fix the damage done. We can’t say the risk of it isn’t there, and pretending that the world is safer than it is not only is foolish, but violates the wisdom the gods went to the trouble to leave us.  We are advised to be wary of the dangers, to take note of them, and take reasonable precautions against them.  We are advised to call out evil when we see it, and to stand against it.

Rape is evil, and it is a risk in our society.  Call it out, stop apologizing for it, stop objecting to women pointing out that some men are dangers; do not make yourself part of the problem but part of the solution.  Some men, and a very much smaller number of women, are the problem.  Rapists are evil, and have no place in our society.

Do not allow yourself to become their shield, their camouflage.  Do not allow yourself to become the cover a predator can use to avoid scrutiny.  Rapists are vile.  Those women and men who have been so assaulted understand the depths of the harm they represent, and the numbers who share that understanding are far too high.

We need to do better.  Heed Havamal 127.  If you know or suspect someone is a danger, don’t remain silent.  Heed Havamal 1, be aware, always.  The bulk of the assailants are known to their victims, which means that those unshared suspicions or unshared experiences of close calls are indeed missed opportunities to prevent another person being attacked.  I would rather someone falsely mistook me for a wolf in the fold, than out of fear of reprisal women stopped sharing their experiences of possible wolves among us now.  No more victims.

Havamal, Stanza 1, 127-128