When we alter our appearance, when we can no longer hide behind our shields of “normal” or “one of them”, we stop putting effort into “passing” and start putting our energy towards our jobs. If that is spiritual or magical, this entire process frees us up for wild, primal self-discovery. It doesn’t matter what the transformation looks like, or what the external result is. It is the internal changes, the changes of the soul, that help us create a new identity and a new way of thinking of ourselves and our role in this life.

Who we become, then, is, in the end, entirely our choice. It is the alchemy of the act of changing itself that hold the magic, the fire. There is more power in our stating “I am…” then there is in Their conferring a of the same title, “You are…”.

This act of rebirth is a dirty, painful, messy, tragic, unforgettable rite of passage. And it is one in which we are asked to be active and wildly, unapologetically present. This is our rebirth, our lives that we are carving out of the mud and sweat. This is our link all the way back to our ancestors, our genetic heritage made active in this century. We can be as civilized and posh as we want to pretend to be. But the act of rebirth reminds us quite quickly that we are animals, searching for the spiritual.

When your Gods point to the act of rebirth and tell you that this is the next step, do you squirm and whine? I do. No one really relishes their pain and anguish. And if they do…. well, they probably aren’t doing it right, and they are probably being asked to repeat the same initiatory rebirth over and over.

And yet… sometimes I do look forward to it. I get tired of playing the games and kissing the asses. I get tired of pretending I’m not weird and disconnected and wanting very little to do with this side of reality. I look forward to the fire because it never lies. It may rearrange my soul and realign the fire and the ice that makes up my very being, but it allows me a pure truth that I can often find nowhere else. So I may whine and beg but somewhere in the prodding I become aware again of who I am. I begin to feel the mud and the fire and the ice and the wolf and the singing of the entire Universe in my head. And I begin to hit the “sweet spot” again, begin to feel this side and that side, the minute and the enormous simultaneously exist within my DNA.

And it is that sensation, that pure power pumping through our veins, that leads us to our true power. Whether your magic lies in your emotions, your knowledge, your reality, it all starts with a pure understanding of who you are at your core and where you stand within this world. People who cannot find their magic often do not know themselves. Ergo the need for rebirth.

Our power also lies in our connection to our “Others”, whomever they might be. Its very human to pretend that all we are is human and that all we have is human connections. We have “pets” and “backyards”, but we are just one part of a huge community, one that includes this side of reality and the other side of reality. My connections lay in the Jotuns of the Ironwoods of Jotunheim. While I look human and sound human, there is much power in being able to embody my role as a Shaman of the Ironwoods. And there is a specific purpose in reminding others that we are surrounded by those who are not human. Even the bacteria in the soil has something to teach us, when we remember to stop and take in the lessons.

I am not sure the point of this rambling, beyond that I was asked by Angrboda to write it out.

(For a friend of a friend, whom I have never met, but whose pain I can feel)

Let him not suffer.

This is my prayer offered on silent lips,
to Death herself.

Let not the weight of their tears
keep him tied to his mortal frame,
failing under the lashes of pain
and machines that beep out his life
in seconds.

Let him not lie there longer
than he needs to,
let him not waste away,
Death trapped in life,
let their tears not block the path we all walk
when our time is called.

Let him not suffer.

Mama Wolf,
Howling in my dreams,
pulling the blood from my limbs
and demanding I speak in fire and ashes.

My heartbeat
holds the coals
of your death,
blanketed down for the winter,
when the storms will rage yet again,
and the need for fire will outweigh
the fear of the rebirth.

Three times we die
and three times we are reborn.
and this
and this again
remakes us in your image.
The smoke and the flame and the ashes,
the dreams and the passions and the tears.

Speak to me in my mother tongue
and I will howl into the night.

Coming to terms with identity is difficult, even as a full-grown adult. Choosing to align yourself with a group that is fairly universally reviled is…. difficult. Its a long story but mysticism has lead to me semi-syncrenicity has led me to study the Jotun pantheon in more detail. And what I have found is amazing. When viewed as a complete entity, the story the Giants tell is awe-inspiring.

This does not mean that I am comfortable saying I am a Rokkratru or that I am “Satanic Norse” as I’ve been accused of before. But I have decided to work only with the Jotuns, forsaking the Aesir and Vanir. I make this choice based on a few different things.

The Gods who call me (and that I choose to work with) are all Jotuns. I’ve turned down quite a few others, including Celtic Gods and one Yoruba orisha (and an Egyptian Goddess with claws), I return again and again to the Giants. They feel like family to me, no matter how far abroad I travel.

Even the controversial UPG lines up. Their blood is my blood, their magic feels right and real to me, as natural as breathing. The things I can do without thinking, the things that make others blink and look at me oddly, are all attested to in shared gnosis and in spirit lore.

And I am very very tired of fighting my own inclinations.

So here I stand, a shaman with the fire and ice of generations of giants running in her veins.

Anyone else embracing their otherness?


Oh, what a busy little shaman I have been.

I am working very hard to start a shamanic services business. I’ll link it here if I ever get it off the ground. (Edit: You can find anc contact me here for shamanic services: https://www.facebook.com/IronwoodShamanicServices )
My heathen group, Nebraska Heathens United, is going strong, with open sumbles and a public class. We can be found on facebook if anyone is interested.
I am very close to initiation with the Wiccan coven I study with.
And at the behest of Hel, I have joined ADF and am about to start the dedicant path. I will eventually have (and link) a new blog as a dedicant’s journal. (http://fireandisa.wordpress.com)
All of that coupled with a 40 hr a week job and starting a nonprofit organization with my best friend, to benefit pregnant women experiencing domestic violence, means I’ve kinda let this blog die. (hehehe, die)

And as always, I’m on facebook and available via email if anyone needs me.

So yeah… not dead, just busy.

Moving towards mysticism

All religions are correct if we move towards the Divine from love.

Love is the Great Divine and the Great Divine is love. I can bow just as easily to the Heart of Divinity in a meadow and a grove as I can in a church or a mosque or a temple.

And so all realities are sacred because they are your reality. And the place of sacred holiness is being beside you with an open heart and a flow of love and empathy, giving creedence to your reality that you exist inside of. That foundation and flow of love is what creates reality. Alone is a reality because you experience it as such and in the experience it becomes Holy, a part of the Divine song.

I am not alone. I have you. We have the heart of the Divine. We create a closed circuit loop of feedback and it is love.

A song from the Fae

The hunter ran away
He ran away so fast,
He ran o’er hill and dale
He ran to catch the fox.

the hunter ran away
he ran through fog and mist
he ran through night and day
he ran to catch the kit.

O’er and o’er he runs and run
tries to catch the moon
tries to catch the sun.
o’er and o’er he chases the tracks
mud at his feet
and wind at his back.

the hunter ran away
he ran to catch the flame
he ran though shadows wove
their way up hills and down again.

the hunter ran away
he tried to catch the dawn,
he turned wrong way ’round
and ended up at his door ‘fore long.

O’er and o’er he runs and run
tries to catch the moon
tries to catch the sun.
o’er and o’er he chases the tracks
mud at his feet
and wind at his back.

tho men try night and day
to catch the silent fox
they ne’er can do and soon they find
’tis dreams upon their backs.

O’er and o’er he runs and run
tries to catch the moon
tries to catch the sun.
o’er and o’er he chases the tracks
mud at his feet
and wind at his back.