(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.
This
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?