tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20421531615190256152024-03-08T06:57:00.185-08:00Blood for the DivineA forum to write about what we do, the blood we shed, and the pain that we give with tears in our eyes and love in our hearts.Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-21471254498533607982011-02-27T13:10:00.000-08:002011-02-27T16:15:12.537-08:00Rabbit Fur BlanketBy Ruth Addams<br /><br />Gather ‘round children and I will tell you a story, a true story. I have a problem with rabbits. It stems from a childhood issue I won't go into here, but trust me; it's a deeply rooted issue. It is important to realize that I work for a Deity who doesn't hold well with issues, deeply rooted or otherwise. He likes to change things, mutate them inside you until they become strengths instead of weaknesses. “Solve et coagula”, that's Him all the way. He takes what has been broken and badly set, and breaks it again to let it heal cleanly.<br /><br />Let's get back to the rabbits, shall we? He informed me that i was to make a blanket of rabbit pelts. I was to sew them together as if they were a pile of furs, not cut and arrange into a pretty patterns. It was important that they not lose their rabbit nature and merely become fashion. After my usual struggling to assert my right to not listen, I started buying rabbit pelts. Touching them made my heart race with fear, and the gorge rise in my throat as I fought to keep from vomiting. Little by little I sewed the first of them together. Pelt by pelt, never really getting easier to handle, they became a blanket. I suppose I should take a moment to mention here how He told me once that there was no comfort for me, it’s kind of important to the story.<br /><br />Sometime after the blanket was large enough to mostly cover me, I was told I needed to find someone to beat me for Him. I was not to be allowed to enjoy this beating. After consideration of numerous people, and discussion with someone I trust on these things, He accepted the suggestion of one of my friends. I went to that friend to ask him if he would be willing to not only to beat me, but to do so for my Deity. He is a wonderful friend, and agreed to help me. It’s hard on me mentally when I am not allowed to enjoy a beating. If I am told I may not enjoy it, I can’t slip inside the beating, can’t feel the soaring joy of the sensation, only the dull thuds and sharp stings of it. My mind works that way, something that can be used against me, and has been. If I am told that the sweetest, gentlest brush of the lips against my flesh is not to be enjoyed, it will burn like fire.<br /><br />The beating was done with skill, and I was greatly saddened to not be allowed to ride it. The beating had me shaking and partially unhinged on the ground. I am not sure what I said, but I still recall some of the things He was saying to me, as well as the things my friend was saying. My friend, you see, doesn’t just strike away wildly at the body before him, he talks. He is quite skilled at what he does, and while part of his skill is in the physical aspect, a good deal of it lies in his mind. As I was shivering on the ground, he spoke of how cold it was, and how I must long for warmth. He spoke of comfort, and asked if I wanted comfort. His words jumbled together into sound, and the only thing I heard and understood at that point was “Comfort”. I did exactly what I know I am not supposed to do, I grabbed for that shiny brass ring. “Yes” I told him, “yes, please.” Comfort, not a very large word, not a very difficult one, but one I will never learn to say no to. I admit to being a fool in this respect, as well as a few others. He moved away from me, quiet in the darkness of the night. “Here is your comfort”, he said as he draped the rabbit blanket over my quivering body. I thought my mind would snap at the touch of that fur, but the feelings inside me twisted and spun until they all fell on that same idea: comfort.<br /><br />Today, the rabbit blanket not only no longer makes me twitchy, it is a source of comfort that I am allowed. Perhaps I am allowed this comfort because it was earned, I do not know, and it is not mine to speculate about such things too much. It warms me in the freezing air after a ball dance in the snow. It dries my tears at night when I cry alone in my bed. It provides warmth and the luxury of softness in the pile of hides I sleep in. It is my rabbit blanket, and I have earned it. And that, oh my children, is how my Deity works.Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-29779022589276068002009-09-06T16:25:00.000-07:002009-09-06T19:02:36.543-07:00Breaking: Part IIby Anya Kless<br /><br />The first installment in this series examined the reasoning behind being broken, what exactly being broken might mean, and some of the spiritual goals one might expect. In this installment, I will move from the theoretical to the practical. I’ll start with a bit on how I came to ordeal work then move on to what I think are some helpful guidelines I try to follow myself when someone needs to be broken.<br /><br />NOTE: I want to stress that not all ordeal work involves breaking AND that not all breaking takes place within an ordeal. However, the two seem to overlap on a regular basis in a Venn diagram kind of way. Please do not misconstrue my intent here. I don’t believe in absolutes that involve words like ALWAYS, NEVER, and ONLY. I find the gods are not nearly as interested in putting things in neat boxes as we humans are.<br /><br /><br />I. Becoming an Agent<br /><br />To begin, I’m going to call upon a crappy, pop culture reference. Bear with me.<br /><br />In the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">xXx</span> (2002), master thespian Vin Diesel plays Xander Cage, an extreme sports athlete who is content to simply enjoy the adrenaline rush and personal gain of his various stunts. Because of his unique skill set, however, Xander is soon snatched up by the government to be trained as an undercover agent. He’s given only a crash course in special ops before being thrown into serious situations where his life and the lives of others are on the line. One might ask, “How could the government have so much faith in this maverick asshole?” First, they’re desperately short on agents. Second, this guy’s actually been doing the work for years – he’s just always seen it as play.<br /><br />This is roughly how I see my entrance into ordeal work. It’s not something I sought out or even wanted. In fact, I was pretty sure my spiritual path would focus on divination and meditation.<br /><br />Wrong.<br /><br />I was snatched up by Them because I already had the disposition and the training – and They’re desperately short on agents.<br /><br />Being told by multiple diviners (and the gods Themselves) that I was not only on the ordeal path but would be doing ordeal work for others caused me to re-evaluate my involvement in BDSM. Despite my own mistakes and the imperfections of my human partners, I already knew BDSM to be more than just getting your rocks off. As a submissive, I had used it to open parts of myself to love, to grieving, to owning what it is I really desired. When my first great mentor slowly died from cancer, it was my Dom who gave me the space to release that pain and loss. I had locked my emotions so tightly that no one else could have pried me open and let that out. As I stripped down layers of myself, I paradoxically came to understand myself as a multifaceted, complex human rather than the masks I wore for the world.<br /><br />When I later began training as a Domme, I helped others explore their own dark places. It took months for my longtime submissive partner, a successful businessman, to trust me enough to share what he really needed from me. He had been badly bullied as a teenager and needed to face those ingrained feelings of humiliation. He needed to confront what had happened to him and not only survive it but have someone see him in that position…and love him regardless. BDSM, because of the nature of the encounter, relies on a firm foundation of trust and exposes where that trust is lacking. One of my friends had fantasies of being tied up, but was scared that once she was, her partner would just walk out the door. She couldn’t trust that a person would want to stay with her, given a chance to leave.<br /><br />Even though I did not view this as spiritual work at the time, regardless of the role I played, I became familiar with the therapeutic nature of kink (this does not necessarily mean that it should take the place of professional therapy. It is not, however, mutually exclusive from it. There is a growing list of Kink Aware Professionals, including a variety of mental health practitioners). I knew not only how to wield a toy but also how to craft a scene. I learned the intimate ways of negotiating a body as well as the emotional, mental, and psychological terrain of the recipient. Moreover, I knew what it felt like to be that recipient: where I fought, where I found insight, where I flew. I just wasn’t doing it for the gods. Yet.<br /><br />Looking back, I understand (as many of us do) that those earlier experiences were training for the work to come. I also understand the huge difference between work and play, but I am proud of where I learned many of my skills.<br /><br /><br />II. When You Can’t Get There Alone<br /><br />Now that we’re done with the All About Me, you might wonder why breaking sometimes requires another person to be involved at all. If the gods want me broken, surely They can just do it Themselves? This is a valid question.<br /><br />In my view, the ordeal worker can fill at least four different roles in a scene. This is by no means an exhaustive list, nor are these things exclusive of each other:<br /><br />1. An extra pair of hands. This is the simplest – you simply can’t do to yourself what the gods require because of human mechanics.<br /><br />2. A technician. The worker has a certain skill that you don’t, similar to a tattoo artist. Would it be amazingly personal if you did your own tattoo? Sure. Would it come out better if someone who had been trained in this art did it for you? You know it. Does that make the end product less meaningful? Hardly. Even tattoo artists go to other artists for work, just like I go to other ordeal workers.<br /><br />3. A shaman/priest. The worker has a spiritual skill, can consecrate the work, or use their own relationship to certain deities to assist in the work.<br /><br />4. A power cord. The worker helps to channel certain energies into the scene, whether it’s the energy of a certain deity, elemental energy, or healing energy.<br /><br />The purpose of the ritual can vary: it could be cathartic, an offering, a rite of initiation, or a moment of intimacy between you and your gods (in the last case, it doesn’t matter if anyone else happens to be present. Trust me). During the breaking, the ordeal worker is no curing you, fixing you, or doing anything for you: they are opening you up and pulling things to the surface. You must tackle those things yourself.<br /><br />For more on types of ordeals and where to start if you think you need one, see Kaldera’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Dark Moon Rising</span>, Ellwood and Lupa’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Kink Magic</span>, and my own page “So You Want an Ordeal,” tabbed on the right column of my website, fruitofpain.wordpress.com.<br /><br /><br />III. Cruelty and Abuse<br /><br />In a recent conversation with a Norse practitioner, she admitted her difficulty with ordeal work. “It looks too much like cruelty,” she told me. I can understand this reaction, and the word “breaking” in particular can sound like abuse. It was interesting for me to consider this objection, especially since being wired for BDSM as long as I can remember had given me a much different perspective. However, I think there are a few different misconceptions at play here.<br /><br />The first point to be raised is that breaking someone can look like cruelty because it may use the same props or tools. The best explanation I have found on this is, again, from <span style="font-style: italic;">Kink Magic</span>:<br /><br /><blockquote>“Any tool can be used for constructive or destructive purposes. Humans have long misused pain and punishment to further their own bad conditioning by turning them on other humans for purposes of destruction. Rather than being used to rehabilitate people and teach them the effects of their destructive actions, punishment and pain have been used in the abuse of power with rehabilitation as an excuse. Our purpose here is to explore the constructive rather than destructive uses.” (116)</blockquote><br /><br />An individual tool cannot be called cruel or abusive – the intent of the person wielding it can be. Ellwood and Lupa also raise another point in this paragraph, something very difficult for modern people to grasp: pain itself is neutral. It has no inherent negative or positive charge. Yes, it hurts, but it is also a tool to be used. For the authors of Kink Magic, they differentiate between the two types of pain by the words hurting vs. harming (107). While a process of breaking someone may be hurting them, it is not doing harm to them. To the contrary – it is helping them accomplish something. Some might see this as semantics, but it recognizes the constructive value of a painful experience, physical or emotional.<br /><br />Finally, there is the issue of consent. All parties give their consent to ritual to be performed, and nothing proceeds without the sanction of the gods. Furthermore, I’ve found that, rather than pain or power hungry fiends, all the ordeal workers I know need to be actively persuaded to take up a job. We invest a lot in each working to make it as effective as possible. No one takes the responsibility of “breaking” someone lightly, which brings me to the health and safety aspects of this essay.<br /><br /><br />IV. Educate Yourself<br /><br />If you’ve read my site already, you’ll know that in addition to years of training in the BDSM community, I am also Red Cross certified in Emergency First Aid and CPR/AED use. I believe educating yourself is one of the best ways to be more useful to the gods. By getting as good as I can at my job, I honor my deities and make my work more effective. This means seeking out teachers, having experiences, and practicing.<br /><br />Seeking out:<br /><br />Let’s face it - unless you’re in a mainstream religious community, there aren’t a lot of other people like you around. If you’re lucky enough to know some who have the skill you want, they are probably beyond busy just carrying their own caseload. This is another point where the BDSM community comes in handy. Most major cities have a BDSM group, and most of those groups teach classes. Take advantage of them. If you can, go to play spaces. If someone is using a skill you’d like to learn, wait until they’re free and respectfully engage them in conversation about it. They might just offer to teach you, or know someone who will. Just because you’re not learning it in a spiritual context doesn’t mean you can’t use it that way. We need to be just as opportunistic as our gods. Even if you’re good at being self-taught, there is no replacement for a human teacher, especially for the more dangerous tools like single tails, needles, or fire play. For everyone’s sake – seek out a master. Your gods would have wanted it that way (and did it themselves).<br /><br />Having experiences:<br /><br />In my personal opinion, I think you should never do to someone else what you haven’t had done to yourself. If you’ve never been caned, you have no idea what that feels like. Ditto for having anything penetrate your ass. Most skills take finesse, and you’ll have a lot more appreciation for that if you’ve been there. If you don’t have a skilled human partner or friend, many in the BDSM community are willing to do scenes on an NSA basis (no strings attached).<br /><br />Practicing:<br /><br />A skilled shaman once told me that one could not be considered needle proficient until doing over 100 needles. I didn’t consider myself a strap-on master until I’d used one regularly for at least six months (luckily I had a very willing, submissive guinea pig). You cannot pick up a toy, read something online, and expect to use it well. Practice glove safety on yourself. Practice on willing kinksters: the fact that they might be getting off on it does not “dirty” the fact that you’re using it for spiritual training – they should be getting something out of this too, right? I don’t think a lack of opportunity is any excuse. Maybe it’s just my friend set, but I’ve had more offers for guinea pigs than I’ve been able to take advance of! Likewise, if we’re friendly and you need to practice something, let me know. I’ll have to run it past the Old Man, but it’s worth asking.<br /><br /><br />V: Gathering Info<br /><br />I’ll admit – I’m anal retentive. I like things organized, I like going into situations with my eyes open. The gods like to throw curveballs – we’ve all been there. There always seems to be some little (or big) surprise before a ritual happens. This is inevitable; however, there are some things you can do to minimize these moments. One of them is gathering as much relevant information as possible on the person to be broken.<br /><br />Before I did my first ordeal, I put together a 14-page questionnaire called the Kink Ordeal Checklist. It is separated into the following sections, and all questions have the caveat of “as much as you’re comfortable sharing”:<br /><br /><blockquote>• Basic Info (preferred name and pronoun, height, weight)<br /><br />• Medical Conditions and History (current ailments, medications, allergies, phobias, and past injuries)<br /><br />• Partner Status (does your partner know about this? can they provide your aftercare?)<br /><br />• Spiritual Status (who’s human are you? what limits have they given you?)<br /><br />• Kink / Sexual Status (can you orgasm? have you ever had a traumatic sexual experience?)<br /><br />• Physical Mobility Checklist (which of these positions can you handle, and for how long?)<br /><br />• Kink Checklist (which of these acts can you handle, where, and how do you feel about them?)<br /></blockquote><br />For some, this might seem like overkill. You might think that if there’s anything you need to know, the person will tell you. You might also think that if something comes up, the presence of the gods will protect you both.<br /><br />In my opinion, both of these are false assumptions.<br /><br />People forget to mention things, even major things like the fact that they have a heart condition (I’ve seen it happen). Sometimes they don’t think it’s relevant, other times they are too focused on aspects of the ritual to think clearly. They might not know what you’ll be doing or all the tools you’ll be using. If you are the one facilitating the ordeal, particularly one in which some kind of breaking is happening, it is your job to procure this information. To fail to do so is negligent and dangerous. If you show up to a ritual and realize the person you’re meant to penetrate in some way has a chemical intolerance to all commercial lube, you’re the one who’s fucked. If the gods can’t get what they want because you didn’t do your homework, that’s on your head. Being prepared means more than just showing up with the right tools.<br /><br />I will admit that at times I cut and paste from the questionnaire, rather than distributing the whole thing. The document is adjustable depending on the act and how much information you already know about the person. If you do this sort of work and would like to take a look at my KOC (hehe), let me know and I’d be happy to send you a PDF (and take suggestions on improvements).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-26345317117352651322009-08-22T19:03:00.000-07:002009-08-22T19:06:55.836-07:00Breaking: Part Iby Anya Kless<br /><br />[A request: If you choose to cut and paste from the following essay (or any of my essays), I would ask a simple courtesy. Please provide a link so that your readers may read the piece in its entirety, as it was intended. <br /><br />Also, feel free to comment on this blog, even if you disagree with me. While comments are filtered for spam, I will never neglect to post a comment just because I don't like what the author says. Where are we as a community without open dialogue?]<br /><br /><br />------------------------------------<br /><br />This essay will have two installments. The first will be largely theoretical, explaining what exactly <em>I mean </em>by breaking and what <em>I believe </em>is being broken. My definitions stem both from personal experience (spiritual and non-spiritual) and research in philosophy, psychoanalysis, and kinky spirituality. The second half of this essay, which will follow shortly, will speak more concretely on my experiences breaking and being broken, as well as considerations of ethics and safety.<br /><br />So, without further preamble, I want to begin with a definition of “breaking” found in <em>Kink Magic </em>(2007) by Taylor Ellwood and Lupa. Although this book pulls from the authors’ combination of BDSM and magical practices over a number of years, it tends to rely on the structure and language of a traditional BDSM scene: a working between two human partners in which a top does something to a bottom. Nonetheless, I believe the definition they give can be adapted more widely to speak to the relationship between <strong><em>some</em></strong> humans and their Gods. (Note: Ellwood and Lupa use “hir” as a nongendered pronoun):<br /><blockquote><em>Breaking is a form of psychological edgeplay (a.k.a. “mindfuck”) in which the bottom is swiftly and violently reduced to a point of extreme vulnerability. Breaking may involve physical bondage and discipline, mental triggers, and even energy work to shatter the bottom’s shields and completely bend hir will to the top. Obviously, this is not a practice to be taken lightly, but it can be a highly effective way of reprogramming unwanted, deeply-ingrained behavior patterns and conditioning.</em> (81-2)</blockquote><br />From this definition, I can pull several key aspects that apply to the “god bothered,” kinky or not. First, the human is brought in line with the will of the God. As our relationship with Them develops, we desire to do what They will. When that process is not moving quickly enough, a ritual can sometimes yank us into line (or even tell us more clearly what They want in the first place). As I will explore below, however, this hardly means that we are reduced to mindless robots. Second, breaking tends to be psychological in nature, even for those on the ordeal path. From personal experience, I can say that when something painful or scary is happening to you, it isn’t the pain or the fear that breaks you—it’s your own emotions and dark places brought to the surface. This brings me to the third point of this passage: being broken allows us to shed or purge negative behaviors or patterns that have infiltrated our lives. This can include everything from excess pride to worrying about what others think to feelings of worthlessness. Anything that controls us or cripples us must be exposed and released. There is a strong element of catharsis, a letting go that allows us to emerge from our breaking process a stronger, better person. Nothing can rule us—not pride, not fear, not addiction—but our Gods.<br /><br />But what about all that stuff in the passage about bondage, triggers, and energy work? These are <strong><em>tools,</em></strong> like pain, like humiliation, like tests of endurance. <strong><em>They are not goals</em></strong>. When I underwent my corset piercing ordeal, it wasn’t the needles that were important: it was that they opened me up emotionally, allowing me to feel how much I needed and loved my God. Through that ritual I overcame a large obstacle I’d always had in my life: never quite feeling sure that I loved someone. The way my heart throbbed for Him that day made it pretty undeniable. Why these tools and not others? In a recent conversation with another Northern Tradition practitioner who did not practice ordeal work, I tried to explain it in this way: <strong><em>Each of us has a lock that must be opened in order to serve the Gods. Ordeal happens to be the key that fits my lock. I do not claim that it opens all locks or that it is a superior key. However, I cannot control the shape of my lock. Nor will I be made to feel dirty or ashamed of it. To feel such a thing would be an insult to my divine locksmith. </em></strong><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br />In my experience, there seem to be two main metaphors for breaking. Like all language, these metaphors are approximations, a grasping after indescribable experience with imperfect language. I don’t think these are necessarily exclusive, but they can help us conceptualize the work that breaking does. In each scenario, what exactly is being broken is somewhat different.<br /><ul><br /> <li>Training</li><br /></ul><br />In this scenario, breaking really means “breaking in”, or domesticating. Over centuries, a range of methods have been used by our ancestors to train animals and make them compatible with human beings. Obviously, there are humane and not so humane ways of breaking— the ethics of which I will explore in my next post. When our Gods are the breakers in, They will tailor our experience to Their knowledge of our psychology and the work we’re being trained to do. Some may find themselves broken in through grueling service to others, intense visions, or ecstatic dance. For others, it may be isolation, losing a job, losing family, or losing health. For those who find themselves on the ordeal path, it may also include needles, rope, or tests of endurance. They will use <em>whatever gets us there, </em>docile and wide open to them<em>.</em> <strong><em>However, as anyone who has effectively trained an animal can tell you, breaking it in does not involve breaking its spirit.</em></strong> Quite to the contrary, a good trainer will allow the animal to maintain its personality and shape it into the best it can be. The Gods are not interested in empty, mindless shells of human form.<br /><ul><br /> <li>City walls</li><br /></ul><br />Just as the training metaphor preserves the spirit, so does the image of the city wall. In this scenario, it is our boundaries and blocks They dismantle, crash through, or wear down over time. For my piercing ordeal, the needles physically and energetically penetrated the boundaries I had cultivated around myself, keeping others out. For my relationship with Odin to grow, these walls were a hindrance to Him. I simply could not love and serve my God at arms length.<br /><br />Why do we have these walls in the first place? For most of us, it’s our last line of self defense. If we’ve been abused in the past, those walls may be covered in brambles, thick vines, and big signs that scream “STAY OUT!” It may be difficult for us to trust anyone, human or divine, with the scarred or hurting self hidden behind our tough veneer. If the walls were to disappear, we’d face the possibility of being hurt again, being rejected, or being ultimately disappointing and not worth the effort.<br /><br />As a wise woman once told me, a necessary part of love is trust. We cannot love the Gods without placing ourselves in Their hands. Just as in human relationships, the price of intimacy is vulnerability. This does not mean, however, that the self is annihilated. Instead, it’s dug out of the muck of our emotional garbage, carefully polished, and made to shine. On a utilitarian level, this makes us more useful spirit workers, more effective partners and tools of the divine. While I’m wary of those who <em>solely</em> use spirituality as a form of self-help, I do see strong possibilities for self-betterment and healing in building a relationship with the Gods. Ironically, one of the most difficult things myself and others have been asked to is, <em>“Take care of yourself. Stop self-destructing behaviors. Nurture your mind and your body.”</em> It is fascinating to me that, above all else, <strong><em>this</em></strong> is the demand that we tend to fight. I have seen people walk away from their path rather than care for themselves.<br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br />While <strong><em>certainly not the ONLY paths to this end (I cannot stress this enough), </em></strong>the breaking accomplished in ordeal rituals can create a space to accomplish the work needed in either of these models: breaking us in or tearing down walls. In <em>Kink Magic, </em>Ellwood and Lupa<em> </em>discuss the profound healing and self-knowledge found in these encounters:<br /><blockquote><em>One of the beauties of kink magic is that it can open you up to parts of yourself you never even knew were there, and give you a context in which to explore them in a controlled environment. The things we push away hold pieces of ourselves that terrify us, but which control us in silent ways nonetheless. Embracing that which is Other can allow us to pull the veils from our fear, look it in the eye, and realized that we no longer need to give it power. And that is true liberation. (221)</em></blockquote><br />Writing as a literary theorist, Marianne Noble compares this sense of psychological liberation to the Romantic idea of the Sublime. The sense of being acted on by the Other (in our case, our Gods) and being in communion with Them causes “the dismantling of the self, opening the self up to a euphoric though frightening experience of oneness with totality” (36). This sensation of oneness associated with divine encounters is certainly not new. In <em>Civilization and its Discontents, </em>even Freud (the ultimate secularist) ponders the roots and implications of an “oceanic feeling” felt by a friend during a religious experience. According to Freud, the feeling is what “he would like to call a sensation of ‘eternity’, a feeling as of something limitless, unbounded—as it were, ‘oceanic’” (11).<br /><br />In my own academic studies, I’ve come to realize how many philosophers, psychoanalysts, and social theorists raise this concept of “oneness” as a foundation for any interpersonal relationship. The concept of intersubjectivity originates in the social theory of Jurgen Habermas, who explored “the intersubjectivity of mutual understanding” in contrast to the individualist theories of Hegel. While Hegel proposed that the self uses others only as a vehicle for his own self-definition, Habermas imagined a more inquisitive relationship between the self and his social domain (Benjamin 22). In the realm of spirituality, I think this inquisitiveness becomes conversation, the give and take between the human and the divine. For those working with the Norse gods, it is the embodiment of the Gebo rune: sacred exchange, a Self speaking with a Self.<br /><br />In all cases, in order to form an intersubjective relationship, we must make the barriers around the Self permeable. Postcolonial critic Amit Rai has remarked that “some sort of dissolution of boundaries, a blurring of self and Other, is necessary in order not simply to achieve knowledge and understanding of another, but actually, somehow, to experience the Other” (20). To experience the Gods, we must open our own boundaries. In <em>Bonds of Love, </em>feminist psychoanalyst<em> </em>Jessica Benjamin notes that this blurring serves as the foundation for mature erotic unions. In these relationships, two selves undergo “the fundamental experience of attunement—that separate individuals can share the same feeling” (74). Even Freud must admit that this early experience lays the foundation for arguably the most important adult relationship: romantic love. “Against all the evidence of his senses,” Freud marvels, “a man who is in love declares that ‘I’ and ‘you’ are one, and is prepared to behave as if it were a fact” (12-3). While humorously characterized by Freud as “admittedly an unusual state,” love causes the boundaries of the ego to once again become permeable.<br /><br />We have the Victorians to thank for our resistance to the idea of our personal boundaries becoming fluid. Their core values—which we largely inherited—included the primacy of individuality, rationality, and rigid social and personal boundaries. Allowing the Gods in, however, and our own boundaries to become permeable, does not spell our own self-dissolution. As Benjamin notes, sameness and difference must exist simultaneously in moments of mutual recognition between two selves. “Experiences of ‘being with’ are predicated on a continually evolving awareness of difference,” she writes, “on a sense of intimacy felt as occurring between ‘the <em>two </em>of us’” (47). Again, this is not a loss of identity; it is entering into an intimate conversation.<br /><br />Stay tuned for Part 2....<br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Works Cited</span><br /><br />Benjamin, Jessica. <em>Bonds of Love: Psychoanalysis, Feminism, and the Problem of Domination. </em>New York: Pantheon Books, 1988.<br /><br />Ellwood, Taylor and Lupa. <em>Kink</em> <em>Magic: Sex Magic Beyond Vanilla.</em> Megalithica Books, 2007.<br /><br />Freud, Sigmund. <em>Civilization and Its Discontents. </em>Trans. and ed. James Strachey. New York and London:<em> </em>W.W. Norton & Company, 1961.<br /><br />Noble, Marianne. <em>The Masochistic Pleasures of Sentimental Literature.</em> Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001.<br /><br />Rai, Amit. <em>Rule of Sympathy: Sentiment, Race, and Power, 1750-1850.</em> New York: Palgrave, 2002.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-5180313349937436862009-06-28T08:47:00.000-07:002009-06-28T08:54:34.569-07:00BindingBy Raven Kaldera<br /><br />I am an Ordeal Master.<br /><br />I’ve been trained in many different forms of ordeal, and I am learning new forms all the time. Some are simple, some require many hours of work and training. I have always been careful, and no one who has ever come before me and asked for an ordeal has had complaints about my skill or my dedication. They have all come away satisfied.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ve been lucky, and I’ve been careful. The second was drummed into me by those who taught me. The first may largely be the protection of my patron deity. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When people want an ordeal, generally they go by word of mouth. They ask around, and eventually someone refers them to someone. In a way, that’s good – it means that people can get an opinion from someone who actually worked on them, or their loved ones. I’m not just a professional in a book. I do also encourage would-be clients to talk to other people who I’ve worked with, to encourage trust and openness.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">However, it occurred to me that there could be something more – something that could be entered into that would show clearly the honest intention and good faith of an Ordeal Master. I prayed about this, and was given the words below.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The words below are not an oath. They are a very specific binding spell. They are Pagan, but nondenominational. The spell will bind the Ordeal Master who submits freely and willingly. They will utilize a string with a drop of their blood on it, and this will be bound loosely around their hands and knotted in such a way that it can be removed without untying the knots, similar to a handfasting cord. The words should be spoken in the presence of a representative of a deity of justice or honor or boundaries, such as Tyr or Forseti or Dike or Saturn or Ma’at. That person will be given the cord to keep safe forever. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This way, if someone comes to you and asks, “Have you taken the binding? Who holds your bond?” you can answer with their name and contact information, and they will swear that you were bound in their presence.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Should the Ordeal Master attempt to do something with a good chance of harm to the person for whom they are doing the ordeal, something will suddenly go wrong – something small and annoying, not large and life-threatening. Perhaps several small and annoying things. The car will break down on the way, everyone will come down with a bad cold, mice will have chewed the ropes and dogs gnawed on the implements, a pipe will burst, it will rain, the only needle will slip and land in the dirt, whatever … and it will quietly prevent havoc from happening. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am not saying that this should be a requirement, or the certification of some theoretical group. This should only be entered into because the Ordeal Master in question believes it to be the right thing to do. There should be no pressure to enspell one’s self. However, to willingly bind yourself to keep others safe is an honorable thing. The spell is specifically written not to interfere with the lawful command of any deity; its primary prevention is our own mistakes. We are all human, and we all err, and we should want to do our best and be prevented from doing harm if possible.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I will be taking this binding publicly at Dark Moon Rising, a Pagan BDSM campout, this September. I welcome any other Ordeal Masters to take it alongside me, but only if they can do it with a whole heart.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">*************************************************************************************</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">O Gods and spirits, hear my words.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I submit myself freely and willingly</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">To be bound by the powers of the Universe</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And this bond to be held unbreakable</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Though ego and pride rage against it,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">All the days of my work on this razor’s edge.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">If I should misunderstand the words</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of the Gods and spirits</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Who guide my hands in this work,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Such that there is a good chance </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of harming the one who is in my care,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">May I be thwarted by some small thing</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And be prevented from doing harm.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">If I should undertake some practice</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In which I am not yet skilled enough</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Alone, and with no elder hands to aid,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Such that there is a good chance </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of harming the one who is in my care,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">May I be thwarted by some small thing</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And be prevented from doing harm.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And should the Gods and spirits </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Who guide my hands in this work</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Wish to humble and disgrace me </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">For my foolishness or pride,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">If it is such that they have </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The lawful right to do so,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">May it be done in such a way</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">That no one is harmed </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Who should not have been harmed,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And may no blame or stain cling to the name</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of any save myself,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And may the nature of the lesson</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Be made clear to my opened eyes.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">O Gods and spirits, hear my words.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I submit myself freely and willingly</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">To be bound by the powers of the Universe</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And this bond to be held unbreakable</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Though desire and fear rage against it,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">All the days of my work on this razor’s edge.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p>Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-7731989448982246932009-06-26T13:44:00.000-07:002009-06-26T13:50:33.129-07:00Some Thoughts on Ordeal: Part 2<p class="western"><b>by Mordant Carnival<br /></b></p> <p class="western"><u>Lies, damn lies, and bad mystics</u></p> <p class="western">It's often implied that by talking about our own ordeal practices, ordeal workers are in some way insisting that everybody ought to be engaging in them and also doing-down other forms of service and devotion. The comments range from the mildly snippy—"it's all very well for you, but I've got XYZ responsibilities; I can't put my health at risk like that!"—to the shockingly hostile and defamatory.</p> <p class="western"><i>You're lying—you never did those things.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>You're just an exhibitionist.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>You're only doing this because it gets you off.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>You've obviously had it too easy in your life—that's why you have to counterfeit suffering this way.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>You're misleading vulnerable people.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>Putting people through physical ordeals is abuse. You're a predator. You're no better than a rapist.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>You're bringing infamy to our faith.</i></p> <p class="western"><i>Liar! Pervert! Abuser!</i></p> <p class="western">Even when you know that this kind of talk must be coming from a place of deep pain and personal insecurity, it is very, very hard to hear these things said about oneself and one's fellow voyagers on the ordeal path. The friendships I've forged with those who've participated in ordeal work with me are of great value and it really hurts to see mud hurled at those good friends and allies, especially knowing that at least some of it is bound to stick. I've seen all kinds of things invented about ordeal masters I know and respect. Some of this is just exaggeration or garbled versions of real events, but there's a lot of whole-cloth fabrication too—pure fantasy involving accusations of outright criminal activity. </p> <p class="western">This last is a major act of wrongdoing. Such fabrications don't merely dent feelings and ding egos—they could get people into severe trouble if they were taken seriously, either by the authorities or by hotheaded and violent individuals who might take matters into their own hands. I'm going to go through and try to pick the bones out of some of the more common accusations.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>You're just an exhibitionist.</i> </p> <p class="western">In truth, I find having people witness the ordeal is one of the hardest parts of the work. If a solitary ordeal or some non-ordeal group working can be arranged, I jump at it. I don't like being seen that state. I want people to see me as strong, level-headed, competent and in control. Who doesn't? Who truly relishes the idea of being brought before respected friends and colleagues, people whose good opinion you are strongly motivated to cultivate, and reduced to a blubbering, screaming, shivering puddle of sobs and snot? Who wants to have their composure stripped from them? Who wants to walk around randomly bursting into tears for days afterwards? Would you want people to see you like that? Of course not, and I don't either. No amount of reassurance and comfort from my allies in the working ever makes that part not suck. Being witnessed in the throes of ordeal is a major stressor in itself. In fact much of the ordeal work I've accomplished has been undertaken in private and in secret. I don't write about that side of my practice as much because it's very personal. Not bad, not shameful, not stupid, just mine.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>You're only doing this because it gets you off.</i></p> <p class="western">Ah, that old chestnut! Okay, let's get something out of the way before we begin: yep, I'm a horrible little pervert. I'm not a heavy player by any means, and I can't claim any great degree of skill or experience, but I am into pain—mine or other people's (well, mostly other people's). I know other ordeal workers who are also kinksters. There seems to be a fair degree of overlap between the groups.</p> <p class="western">But this routine dismissal of physical ordeal work as "just a kink" or "just a sex thing" could not be further from reality. A BDSM scene could conceivably tip over into ordeal; an ordeal working might possibly contain some sort of sexual component. However in most cases sex is going to be absolutely the last thing on your mind. If it's not pushing you well past your comfort zone and out into the farther reaches of your tolerance, where there is a real risk of lasting trauma, it isn't an ordeal. If you're standing there thinking "hey, this is kind of hot," it's not an ordeal. It's really unlikely that there'll be any part of you left over that could be titillated; everything is eaten up by the wrenching experience you're undergoing. You might as well talk about a broken limb being a turn-on, or a bereavement, or a divorce. </p> <p class="western">Curiously enough I've found that repeated physical ordeal has kind of "unplugged" my masochistic streak to a great degree. Pain just isn't the turn-on it might once have been; it connects with those experiences now and not with playtime. Might not be a lasting effect, I don't know yet. This is rather sad but I'm okay with it. If I have permanently sacrificed an enjoyable kink on the altar of spiritual development, so be it. As a bystander or as ground-crew, I can honestly say that I've never found witnessing another's ordeal in any way erotic. I would not argue that experiencing a sexual response to another's ordeal was "wrong" in any way, so long as one owned the response and conducted oneself appropriately. For myself I get too caught up in the ordeal worker's suffering to objectify them. </p> <p class="western">Far from being a liability or rendering the ordeal space unsafe, BDSM players can make excellent ordeal masters. They already have a different relationship to pain and suffering than most people; they know that pain is not necessarily a negative thing to be avoided. A good, responsible kinkster will also come equipped with invaluable knowledge and skills, like advanced BDSM techniques as well as first aid and proper after-care. Every home should have one.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>You're bringing infamy to our faith</i>.</p> <p class="western">I know of no ordeal worker who claims that heathen faith requires ordeal at all; in fact, most are at great pains to emphasise and celebrate variedness in the expression of spirituality. In any case I hardly see that endurance and dedication to one's path in the face of suffering and danger could bring ill-fame to anything. </p> <p class="western">One common accusation is: "by saying that such-and-such a Power requested that you undertake ordeal, you are putting words into that being's mouth." This is rather a foolish comment. Anyone reading a claim that "God X said Y" knows that this is a spirit-worker reporting their subjective experience, and not a graven-in-stone hard fact. Indeed there is a certain lack of critical reading skills among modern pagans and heathens, but the appropriate response to this is to help foster such skills—not to try and silence anyone you don't agree with. In general, people who incorporate ordeal work into their spiritual practice tend to be much more conscientious about including disclaimers and encouraging a critical reading of their own work. We tend by and large not to be the ones who are running around claiming infallible connections to the Divine or to be living Gods and Goddesses, or whatever wild claim is in vogue this season. </p> <p class="western">A related complain is "Such-and-such would never be so cruel as to ask a votary to undergo ordeal!" There's a lot of misconceptions at work here, not least that ordeal work is cruel. No, abuse is cruel. Ordeal work is sacred, transformative, and can be very healing. It reveals to you parts of yourself that were hidden. Being put to ordeal isn't a matter of simple chastisement; it is one way in which the Powers can draw closer to us. Another misconception is that Gods are too nice to ask you to do anything scary or difficult. They are glorious, loving, wise, powerful and sometimes unspeakably tender, but They're not nice! Even the Gods and Goddesses seen as "lighter" in nature aren't fluffy bundles of gooey, harmless love. A more ambivalent God like Loki might reveal Himself as a cheerful, irreverent playmate but He's also the Father of Monsters and the Breaker of Worlds, and utilises ordeal with certain of His votaries to confront people with those aspects of His nature. Odin, of course, is heavily associated with ordeal and will certainly ask it of His people, sooner or later, in one form or another. </p> <p class="western">If people are genuinely worried about ordeal workers somehow bringing the Northern tradition into disrepute, perhaps they could stop lying about the people and practices involved. Every time you make up a nice juicy story about torture, abuse, or medical neglect, or disseminate such without checking its veracity, the faith takes a hit right along with your intended target.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>Putting people through physical ordeals is abuse.</i></p> <p class="western">I deeply, deeply resent this one. As I said I'm not an ordeal master, I've only ever given support or been the one going through the ordeal. I guess that according to the anti-ordeal brigade, that would make me a pathetic victim.</p> <p class="western">Well, I'm not a victim. The people involved in my ordeals are not my abusers. They're my allies. In some cases, they're my great friends. They've travelled with me through some of the most extreme experiences I've ever endured. There has been no coercion. Nobody has ever lied to me or misled me. No-one ever said to me "you have to do this or you're not part of our clique." No-one's ever said "we'll think less of you if you don't go through with this." No-one's ever said "you have to do what we say because the Gods will be angry if you don't." Nobody has ever forced me to undergo ordeal. I've walked voluntarily into the ritual circle; I've bared my own back to the whip; I've thrust my own hand into the fire. And I've been supported, cared for, loved. There was proper care, damage limitation, compassionate support, and whatever lessons needed to be learned were duly learned. Where risk has been involved I was properly appraised of it ahead of time, repeatedly and by separate individuals. </p> <p class="western">Note that an act of abuse by another person can, through the grace of the Gods and spirits, be transformed into Ordeal proper and used for the furtherance of the survivor's personal and spiritual development. However this does not make the abuser an ordeal master, or absolve them of guilt for their actions.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>You've obviously had it too easy in your life—that's why you have to counterfeit suffering this way.</i></p> <p class="western">Anti-ordeal work people are fond of talking about how they've undergone painful and difficult life events, and contrasting these with the supposed lightweight kinky fun that physical ordeal workers are fictioned as engaging in. They've experienced, to quote one writer, "real trials and tests," whereas we've merely been "poked with sharp objects" in (of course!) "a sexually charged and exhibitionist [sic] setting." Well, I have a few questions for those who offer such cheap, thoughtless little snipes. </p> <p class="western">What do you think—do you think I've never suffered? Do you think I've never bled? Do you think my whole life was laid out for me like a turf lawn outside a mansion, rolled smooth and free of hazard? Do you think I've never faced hardship, violence, ill-health? Yeah, I know that other people have horror stories worse than mine, but I'll tell you this—<i>it was bloody well bad enough.</i> Although I've made a lot of progress I've been left with areas of permanent and incurable psychological damage by the things that have happened to me. Sometimes it's a struggle just to survive. I am in pain every day of my life because of my past. </p> <p class="western">Abuse. Bullying. Harassment. Violence. Long term chronic physical and mental illness. Medical neglect. Untreated seizures. An attempt on my life by someone I loved. Many of these things occurred not just once or twice or for brief periods, but all the time I was growing up and well into adulthood. I've had people—not naïve sheltered folks, but people who have seen the worst that humanity can dish out—professionals who work with battered spouses or homeless teens, people who are themselves survivors of childhood abuse—express surprise, on learning the details of my history, that I'm even still alive, let alone functioning as an adult. (I say nothing of the personal histories of certain other ordeal workers I know, whose life experiences make mine look like a weekend at Butlin's.)</p> <p class="western">Try and imagine how it feels, then, not only to be told that the suffering involved in the ordeal work I've undertaken is counterfeit, but to have everything I went through as a kid and a young adult written out of the script to suit the self-serving agenda of people who don't even know me. Imagine what it feels like to undergo something like the ritual described earlier, and have that dismissed as just kinky shenanigans, not real, not meaningful. I can't speak for anyone else but for me it's gut-wrenching to hear this. It's like being abused all over again. It's like having all the hard work of undergoing ordeal—the preparation before, the ordeal itself, the recovery afterward—smashed in front of you. Think of having a piece of your art or craft-work vandalized while you watch, and you'll have some idea of how crushingly painful it can be to read this kind of thing. One tries to rise above it, but oh, it is hard. </p> <p class="western">This kind of ill-informed criticism is not just offensive but dangerous. Like it or not, ordeal work is here to stay, and that means we have to have meaningful, reality-based dialogue around it. Making up scare stories, or credulously spreading them around without checking your facts, does not achieve that. All it does is create an atmosphere where the only discussion that can be had is about how awful physical ordeal work is and what terrible nasty people ordeal workers are. If people are so used to having to fight to hold space for their practices that they may be more apt not to register more reasonable notes of caution, this does nothing to improve safety or quality of care. </p> <p class="western"><b>Risk in ordeal</b></p> <p class="western">Although it can be a profoundly healing thing to undergo ordeal—life-affirming, transforming, a source of power and a connection to the Divine—by its very nature ordeal work does involve risk. Without the possibility of failure, there is no ordeal. However we need to be constantly vigilant regarding those risks so as not to allow unnecessary or unacceptable hazards. There are the obvious medical dangers posed by practices such as cutting or branding: transmission of blood-borne pathogens, wounds cut or burned too deep, going septic, etc.—too many to list here. It's every practitioner's responsibility to ensure that they are up to date with the latest information on health and safety relating to the work they do, and that they have regular first-aid training.</p> <p class="western">Moreover there are more subtle dangers that we need to be aware of. Risks like becoming too reliant on ordeal at the expense of other important techniques; pushing oneself too far, too quickly; becoming emotionally hooked on the process; feeling that one can only ask for help or support in the wake of ordeal proper, and not at other times; delayed adverse emotional reactions. We need to be talking about these things and in an atmosphere of finger-pointing, scaremongering, lies and half-truths it is much harder to do that.</p> <p class="western">This is an attempt to lay out some of the risks as I see them. It should not be considered exhaustive; I'm sure more experienced folk could add plenty to the list.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>If all you have is a hammer...</i></p> <p class="western">Ordeal work is tremendously potent and effective. It can succeed where everything else has failed. It can bring you into power that you never knew existed. Thus, if you're not careful you can become a victim of your own success. Serious ordeal should not be your go-to technique every time you feel stuck or hit a plateau in your development. It's especially important for new spirit-workers to be careful here, as those of us who start out young may not have had the opportunity to build up a good varied toolkit, while those of us claimed later in life may find our existing skill-sets stripped away to prepare us for the new knowledge that we must integrate. </p> <p class="western">Always be ready to adopt new techniques as well as building on existing ones. Experiment with different ways of altering your consciousness. Do not always reach for the most strenuous, difficult practices. Accept that there will be times in your life where things do not appear to be moving forward as you would like. Downtime is not a bug, it is a feature—you need those periods of slow or halted development to integrate and consolidate your development so far. It will pass.</p> <p class="western">If you do all this, you will not be a worse ordeal worker but a better one: one who uses this set of techniques with the respect it deserves.</p><p class="western"></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>Emotional addiction</i></p> <p class="western">It is possible to get hooked on ordeal for other reasons. Human beings need emotional support and care in their lives. They need to receive things like compassion, affection, approval, sympathy. However, some people actually have a lot of trouble receiving these things. Self-reliance is a good thing but it can be taken too far; it is often the more responsible course to seek help than to try and struggle on alone. Yet some individuals resist seeking or accepting help until they are all but broken. This often isn't about being too proud, but an inability to see oneself as deserving. The suffering of an ordeal can give temporary respite from this, "buying" permission from the inner monsters to experience what it is to be cared for and supported. But it is only temporary. The effect wears off, and the person is thrown back into feelings of worthlessness. Such a person may end up turning to ordeal over other, more appropriate techniques in a subconscious attempt to placate those woeful wights of self-loathing; only in the wake of extreme suffering can they receive support from their fellows. </p> <p class="western">It's good to feel proud of successfully accomplishing an ordeal working, just as it's good to be proud of successfully completing anything important. But it shouldn't be the only way you can feel good about yourself.</p> <p class="western">This is one of the risks I myself faced. It was handled well, however, and instead of becoming mired in a toxic hurt-comfort cycle the experience of undergoing ordeal and receiving care afterwards became a powerful mechanism for healing in my life. By being broken in that way—being placed in a condition where I had no option but to accept care and support, because I was so utterly destroyed—I was made able to give and receive the same kind of care more freely in other, less extreme circumstances.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>Ordeal vs self-harm</i></p> <p class="western">This can be a tough one, certainly. There's a degree of overlap between the set of people who self-harm at some point in their lives, and the set who end up on the ordeal path. But there's also a difference between self-harm as a symptom of some severe underlying problem, and the kind of work we're talking about.</p> <p class="western">First of all, self-harm seldom manages to make the jump to ordeal. People who self-harm are generally engaging in it as a survival mechanism rather than hoping that it will lead to some major breakthrough. Secondly, the nature of the suffering is different. It's very risky to suggest that self-harm is "not severe" enough to constitute ordeal, since some self-harmers are already pushing themselves to the brink of death, but it must be stated that the nature of the suffering is usually different from what is required for ordeal. One is not self-harming to introduce extra stressors into the body-mind system, but to swap out one form of suffering for another. Indeed, since it is more challenging for the self-harming individual to suffer through the impulse without acting on it, resisting self-harm might be more likely to result in an ordeal-type state.</p> <p class="western">The principle difference of course is that ordeal work is about inducing positive change, whilst self-harm at best represents a stop-gap measure against a downward slide, and at worst is actively damaging.</p> <p class="western">It should be made clear that a former self-harmer can certainly use the application of painful stimuli for more positive purposes later on. However, such a person must be extra-vigilant so as to make sure that they continue making positive progress rather than letting self-harm sneak back in by the side-door. </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>The dangers of fasting</i> </p> <p class="western"> Spiritually and psychologically, fasting can have amazing benefits. Physically though, current medical opinion holds that it's not so great. It's become a common belief that fasting "rests the body" or "detoxifies the system." It does neither. The wonderful rush of energy you get round around day two is not a response to being free of toxins, it's your body trying to get you to go out and find food. The human digestive system evolved to have food going through it regularly, and doesn't benefit from being put out of action any more than your muscles benefit from not being exercised. The exception might be when there is an infection present, and the body needs to clear out the waste in the gut to get rid of the bacteria. If you're worried about toxins then eat a healthy diet high in natural unprocessed foodstuffs and leave off things like alcohol, refined sugars, and so on. Oh, and stop smoking.</p> <p class="western">Fasting presents a number of very significant risks. While fasting for a moderate period won't harm a healthy person, it presents health risks to people with medical conditions such as diabetes or blood-sugar disorders. Fasting rapidly alters your state of consciousness, such that your ability to function in the world may become impaired. You should not fast during times where you're going to need your concentration.</p> <p class="western">Another high-risk category would be those recovering from eating disorders. A recovering anoretic might find his or her condition triggered by a period of fasting; a person who eats compulsively might find themselves tipped the other way, into anorexia. Conversely a period of self-starvation might cause the opposite problem, as the body goes into overdrive trying to re-feed itself. Such a person should approach fasting with the greatest caution, and consider alternative ways to achieve their goals.</p> <p class="western">Instead of a full fast, you could try fasting from specific foods, fasting from dawn till dusk instead of all day, or "fasting" from activities. None of these are likely to constitute ordeal, but they can be used to shift the consciousness in other very productive ways.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>Emotional fallout</i></p> <p class="western">Ordeal is really a kind of controlled, voluntary trauma, and thus carries the risk of post-traumatic effects. It can have very profound emotional effects that may not appear immediately after the working. Sometimes there is a period of euphoria directly afterwards which may create the false impression that everything is okay when it isn't. </p> <p class="western">The initial glow of success may give way to an emotional crash. The person may struggle to find the motivation to go about their normal lives. Everything can seem strangely distant and unreal, and everyday situations can become more difficult than usual. I myself believe that a period of low mood and relative inactivity is not necessarily a bad thing; it seems to be nature's way of assuring some downtime which will be invaluable if the person is to properly integrate the experience and learn from it. However, this is likely to be a difficult time and the ordeal survivor will need moral support and reassurance.</p> <p class="western">Ordeal teaches us about ourselves, and that new knowledge, though valuable, can be painful. Finding that you are capable of acting in ways that you'd previously thought alien to your nature can really shake you up. The only cure for this is time and working towards integration. A friendly ear can help with that; talk to the person, let them know that their new self is loved and valued.</p> <p class="western">Ordeal can also open a person up psychically. Someone who was used to managing a particular level of input in the past may find themselves overwhelmed by the flood of information, by the intensity of such direct contact. Again, time and patience with oneself are the best remedies. The new level of openness will eventually become normalised.</p> <p class="western">Note that the ordeal master may also be vulnerable to this one. Someone who goes through that kind of very intense journey with another person needs aftercare too.</p> <p class="western"></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="western"><i>Other medical risks</i></p> <p class="western">This is a vitally important topic and I fear I would do it an injustice if I attempted to enumerate all the possible risks here. This isn't something you can learn about properly from a written essay in any case. Take a first-aid class, and find reputable trainers for more advanced techniques. I will confine my comments here to a couple of reminders. One, that just because you're in a ritual context, the usual risks presented by sharp objects, broken skin, etc. do not take a holiday. The ordeal workers I've practised with all observed the same precautions that they would in a more mundane setting; I'd like to encourage the reader to do the same. Secondly—there is a lot of misinformation flying around regarding medical risks, with some people dismissing quite proper caution with an airy "but crossing the road is risky!" and others inventing all kinds of horrors based on their own very shaky understanding. Reasonable minds can differ but this stuff isn't a matter of opinion. It's flesh and blood, life and death. Get properly informed. </p> <p class="western"></p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="western"><b>In Closing</b></p> <p class="western">These risks can be reduced, but they can never be got rid of entirely. Why, then, in the face of all of this potential danger, engage in ordeal work? Why would you worship Gods if They would ask such things of you?</p> <p class="western">Ordeal is a healing modality. This is quite counter-intuitive, but it's one of the most powerful and effective healing resources I've ever experienced. The joy—yes, joy!—of ordeal is twofold for me: I get to offer up this significant gift to the Gods and spirits I serve, something They seem to truly value from me, and at the same time I receive a gift of healing. I get to leave behind a portion of my suffering, and move forward with my life. I am stronger for this work. I am happier. I am more fulfilled. I am closer to my Gods. Is it worth the hazards? Yes, a thousand times yes</p> <p class="western"></p>Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-46149964035763464562009-06-26T13:24:00.000-07:002009-06-26T13:26:56.848-07:00Apologies for the hiatusSo, life can get in the way of creativity, and certainly of spirituality. Here at Blood for the Divine, we have been experiencing a distinct intrusion of life into our happy world. We will be posting some great articles in the next few weeks, but thank you for bearing with us for now.<br /><br />-the editorFire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-55404374191036547412009-05-24T08:00:00.000-07:002009-05-24T08:19:16.137-07:00Some thoughts on ordeal work (and its place in the Northern tradition): Part One<p>By Mordant Carnival</p> <p></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Editor's Note: The following account is a beautiful telling of two ordeals from the perspective of the ordealee rather than the ordeal master. They are at times graphic and if this is something that you might find unduly upsetting, please pass on this post. </span><br /></p><p>Ordeal work, particularly physical ordeal work, is one of the most contentious issues in modern spirituality. Regrettably much of the discussion around this important and sacred group of practices is founded on mistaken ideas and tinged with panic and fear. This post aims to dispel the anxiety somewhat by clearing up some of the confusion and misapprehension.</p> <p>Firstly, what is ordeal? Ordeal can be many things. Work involving pain or other physical stressors is not necessarily ordeal, and ordeal work does not necessarily involve physical stressors. My personal working definition would look something like this: </p> <p style="margin-left: 0.75in; margin-right: 1in;"> "an intense transformative experience involving heavy stressors, physical, emotional, or psychological, such as to take the subject out of their normal consciousness for the purposes of spiritual or personal development." </p> <p>Another important—nay vital—component of ordeal proper would be the possibility of failure: the chance that one might not be able to complete the working as planned, or might suffer some form of lasting harm in attempting to complete it. </p> <p>Physical ordeal rituals are NOT an integral part of heathen worship. This should be made very clear. Although ordeal work as a valid part of Northern tradition practice can be supported from lore, it is a fringe activity and not a part of mainstream heathen practice.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;">Some misconceptions</p> <p>The first misconception I'd like to address is the idea that all ordeal workers ever do is undergo ordeal, or that this is the most important part of their religious lives. They don't, and it isn't. The most important parts of devotional work, in my opinion, are the quiet parts—the daily prayer on rising, the moments of reflection, the practice of looking for the Gods and wights in all things around you as you go about your day. They are the small sacrifices of time and attention; the larger sacrifices of making good choices about your life even when they are hard choices too. That is devotion. It is not flashy, it is not what is considered notable, and it is terribly, terribly precious. Without a solid devotional practice underpinning it, an ordeal working would be meaningless; think of a deadbeat parent disappearing for years on end then turning up with an X-box and expecting to make everything okay again. In a given year I might undertake serious physical ordeal maybe twice, three times. It would be a very thin practice that only involved devotion a couple of times a year!</p> <p>The second misconception is that ordeal work is being recommended for everyone. I do not believe that ordeal work is necessary, or even appropriate, for everybody—maybe not even for the majority of people. My understanding is that you have to be wired just right for it all to work properly. Certainly if a person had any appreciable health problems going on I would recommend some other form of work. </p> <p>The third misconception is that all ordeal work is centered about physical pain or suffering. It is not. A common charge laid against ordeal workers is that they are prioritizing the body, the flesh, over mind and spirit. This is not the case. Ordeals can be wholly emotional in nature. Sensory deprivation, fasting, isolation, being forced to endure verbal insults—these and many other things can represent an ordeal. Where physical stressors are involved they are a means to an end, not an end in itself: they are the scaffolding on which the working is constructed.</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;">Two examples from my own practice </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;">1: a devotional ordeal</p> <p>In 2007 I underwent what was for me a very extreme ordeal as an offering to my God. To an outside observer it might not have looked so very severe, but it was so wrenchingly hard that I am still dealing with the fallout to this day. It involved a physical-pain component, but it's not that which stays with me. </p> <p>After turning my back on Loki for a decade, I felt a powerful need to offer up some kind of expiation for that. It was very, very important to me to express my sincere regret over rejecting His call when I was younger, and to affirm my commitment and devotion. I believed and still believed that this was also something that my Friend wanted from me. Of course mortal assertions on the part of the Gods should always be taken with a very hefty quantity of salt—especially when they come from someone with my metric shed-load of emotional and psychiatric problems. I am not quite in my right mind, and sometimes I have believed things about myself that were not true. Fortunately I had connections with a group of spirit-workers and ordeal workers who were prepared to help me arrange a suitable ritual. </p> <p>The physical pain component consisted of a long and decidedly not-fun flogging—but there was also a psychological component. The pain worked to put me into a particular mental and emotional state; but at the heart of the ritual was the psychological ordeal. The working involved a group of volunteers from the spirit-worker gathering I was attending at the time. (Understand that I met these folk in person for the first time only a couple of days before, though we had talked over email and on the phone, that I held the group in high regard, and was heavily invested in making a good impression.) Those who had agreed to be present were instructed to mock, jeer and sing while the beating was going on. </p> <p>And. It. Sucked. It sucked it sucked it sucked it sucked.</p> <p>I really cannot convey to you in words the epic, weapons-grade, end-of-level degree of misery. I have a long history of serious emotional abuse, bullying and harassment, and being subjected to that kind of treatment is well outside my hard limits. It kicks me directly back to the experience of being victimized.</p> <p>The plan was that when I felt that I'd taken enough, I was to call a halt. For most people this would be a perfectly reasonable set-up, but the nature of my psychological damage is such that there never is "enough" when it comes to suffering. No matter how bad things get I always feel like I deserve more, should be able to take more. And under those conditions that deep, dark hole rapidly broke open inside of me; it seemed to inhale all the suffering like smoke or mist. Every time I felt like I needed to stop what was happening, like I just couldn't take any more, that sucking pit of worthlessness and insufficiency would breathe Not enough. Never enough. I was lost, incapable even of reflecting on the negative effect the whole scene might be having on the participants, or the possible consequences of too severe a beating. All I knew was that I was exactly where I belonged: cold and hurting and despicable, while real people gathered in the firelight and laughed, and my God turned His back on me. I don't know how long it went on. People have estimated from two to four hours.</p> <p>Eventually somebody else clocked that I had gone too far out to come back by myself, and intervened. I am terribly grateful to this person. Left to myself I couldn't have called a halt if my life had depended on it. I would have stood there all night, under the lash. I would have stood there forever. I was later told by the ordeal master that this intervention was a vital part of the ordeal, exactly what needed to happen, though I had not known it at the time. She was preparing to end the flogging when the audience member stepped forward. That someone else had the courage to step in and speak for me, and acknowledge to everyone else there that I had taken enough, was a big part of the healing process.</p> <p>The next day, on rising, I discovered that I was in absolutely no physical pain. I'd expected to wake stiff and sore; so did my ordeal master, who brought round a tube of arnica cream and was flabbergasted when told that I didn't need it. The lack of physical pain, though, made the emotional fall-out so much worse. Others told me it was a sign from my God that my sacrifice had been accepted and my debt was paid; but I kept asking myself, again and again, was it enough? Was it sufficient?</p> <p>Gods, it nearly broke me. Nearly?—No, it did break me. I was destroyed. For months after the event I prayed to die. It took me the best part of half a year to put myself together and get up from what had happened. I was in constant contact, at first every day and then later weekly with my ordeal master and other spiritworkers, who were providing continued care and counseling for me. In a sense, I never really have and probably never will: the joy and reconciliation at the end of the ritual can be drawn to mind only with an effort, whereas the misery and shame have stuck with me, as well as that terrible sense of insufficiency. It's not the physical pain that I recall. It's the emotional element that comes back to haunt me in the small hours of the night; it's the shame that rises up to throw its shadow over every accomplishment I've made since then. The humiliation, the despair, those things linger long after temporary physical pain has faded from memory. </p> <p>Note that none of the above should be taken to indicate that the working was anything other than necessary or successful. It enabled me to start putting my bad choices behind me, and taught me a great deal about myself. Others who were present learned from it too. And that black hole in my heart—it could have cracked open at any time. Better to have this happen in a relatively sheltered space full of allies. Most significantly from my perspective, the relationship between myself and my fulltrui* was put on a much-improved footing. I had paid my shild,** and thereafter things moved forward in a more positive direction. Whether you parse that as Loki being pleased with the offering or as me resolving some emotional issue on a purely internal level, the net result was a success.</p> <p style="margin-left: 0.25in;">* a Norse word for heart-friend, used primarily with a God or Goddess to whom one is especially close. </p> <p style="margin-left: 0.25in;">** Debt</p> <p style="font-weight: bold;">2: an ordeal for personal development</p> <p>The following year I underwent different kind of ordeal with the support of another group: my somafera initiation. Somafera is a modern neologism used to refer to a loose group of practices involving the induction of temporary and/or permanent changes in one's body-mind, to enhance its functioning in various different ways. These altered states are often induced through ecstatic dance, meditation, prayer, or the application of physical stressors—pain, exhaustion, heat, cold, the adoption of stress positions, etc. Increases in strength, speed, concentration, and endurance are common, as are heightened senses. The work frequently has a spiritual component, although this is not the case for everybody. For me, it is an act of spiritual devotion during which I grow closer to the gods and spirits.</p> <p>Most of us who practice under the umbrella of somafera feel that this is an expression of some innate nature—that we were "born this way." However, gaining conscious control over how or when we will enter the elevated state is important. For this reason, initiatory rituals have been devised. A very intense degree of elevation is induced in the practitioner, perhaps for the first time, with the intent of making the state both more accessible thereafter and easier to control. The somafera group I'm involved with utilizes initiation involving two main forms of ordeal: ordeal by combat (where you go out into an open space and two other fighters set upon you, attacking so as to avoid injury whilst promoting an elevated state) and ordeal by fire, where the initiate must place their hand in a living fire until elevation occurs. I have no fighting skills so I elected to take this second form of initiation. </p> <p>I prepared ritually with chanting, pacing, the application of painful stimuli such as biting the lips and tongue, and above all with prayer. When I felt that I was ready, I began to recite a verse utilized to great effect by other initiates—an old charm from Russia once thought to transform the speaker into an "oberot," a were-wolf. When this ritual preparation was finished, I knelt by the fire and put in my hand. At first I just felt pain—I had to dip my hand in the flame repeatedly. I believed I was failing my initiation. The last thing I remember is a terrible sense of frustration and self-hate because I could not force myself through the pain barrier. </p> <p>I do not recall much of what followed. According to witnesses, a sufficient degree of elevation was reached that I was able to place my hand in the fire for upwards of eight seconds, and later to reach in and take up a burning stick from the heart of the bonfire. Apparently I exhibited greater-than-usual strength and aggressiveness, as well as other personality changes and altered abilities. When I came to myself afterwards I had no memory of the fire resistance, and was utterly convinced that I had failed. I was inconsolable and had to be physically restrained from returning to the fire-pit and making another attempt—which, since I was now "down" from the elevated state, could have resulted in serious injury. It took four strong men to remove me from the danger zone without harming me, which says something about the power of somafera. </p> <p>Again, I faced a period of recovery. The initial few days after the rite were the worst. Elevation and gangr are usually things of joy for me, but in the days to follow the experience was less like the glorious, natural ecstasis I'd previously enjoyed, and more like something from a tacky horror film. Elevation would overtake me spontaneously, in response to pretty much any kind of stimulus (hunger, satiation of hunger, the temperature drop at dawn), and in my state of sleep debt and spent energy it was just horrible. Instead of experiencing a spell of being faster, stronger, and more vital than usual, I would find myself doubled over and shaking as my strained muscles spasmed and cramped. During this time I was provided with a lot of care—fed, watched over, comforted when the pain came. Without the support and compassion I received from my somafera group and later from others, I don't know how I would have made it. Learning that my siblings in the practice were there for me even when I felt both weakest and most monstrous was an incredibly healing experience. <span style="font-style: normal;">The</span> worst passed, and by the time I got home some days later I was able to go back to work and carry on more or less as normal. Although I struggled with integrating the new abilities for some time, I continued to receive support via email and telephone and the net result was overwhelmingly positive and empowering. I was reborn that night. I was made into a new thing.</p> <p>Somafera is not for everyone, and initiation is not even for every somaferan. You don't have to take it; it's not an end-point on the path or a test that that everyone must go through to prove themselves. Clearly, the ritual itself is dangerous, carrying an obvious risk of disfigurement, amputation, even death. More, initiation is a death of the self, and you'd better hope your new self is ready to come online when you blow up the old one. Even if all goes well, the recovery and integration process presents a serious struggle; some people find the experience of such a deep gangr presents them with a side to themselves they simply can't handle. You do it only because you must, because it is necessary. In my case I had a pressing need to draw that side of my nature to the surface and engage with it. I'd suppressed it for a great many years and was very much impaired thereby. Also, somafera states offer a unique range of tools and skills for addressing various problems, such as managing and overcoming my psychiatric symptoms. Here was a valuable opportunity to become a more functional, more productive, more useful member of society. It was worth the risks a dozen times over.</p> <p>I've had my somafera practice and this ritual work attacked repeatedly by various individuals since I undertook it. Generally this takes the form of editorializing the whole shebang as something on the lines of a adolescent hi-jinx—a macho stunt undertaken to have fun or show off. All I can say to these people is that my initiation was a matter of dire necessity for me, undertaken only after two years of devotion, meditation, planning and preparation. The group supporting me included trained, multi-skilled individuals who would have been distinctly unimpressed at being used as bit players in someone's ego-trip. </p> <p></p><p style="font-weight: bold;">Diversity in devotion</p> <p>Another major misconception is that ordeal workers look down on practices other than physical ordeal as somehow lesser, not as "hardcore" I really want to lay that one to rest, as it's not merely wrong-headed but actively toxic and dangerous.</p> <p>It's hard to keep in mind, but negative comments about this kind of devotional work are often coming from a place of great pain in a person's heart. When you see an act of devotion being offered and it so happens that you cannot offer something similar, it hurts! It really does. It's like seeing someone make a generous gift to a lover, one which you can't afford—that sort of feeling. If you're a hard polytheist, then the Tivar and the vaettir really are like your friends and extended family; you receive these amazing blessings from Them, and it is very natural to want to respond with your own love-gifts. A temptation exists to editorialize on the other person's devotional practice, to run it down so the discomfort is eased.</p> <p>I would like to lay this discomfort to rest and affirm that ordeal work is just one of a multitude of wonderful ways in which you can serve your Gods. People often say things like "I wish I could do so-and-so, but I can't because I have such-and-such a commitment," with the implication that they are falling short in some way. As a faith, we really need to get away from this. People need to be focusing on what they can do, rather than despair over what they can't. So you couldn't engage in military service as a spiritual discipline because of your health? Then look into other paths—scholarship for instance. So you couldn't learn Old Norse because you were working overtime to buy your kid new gear for school—don't you realize that this itself was an act of devotion? When you fulfill such commitments with your heart and mind open to the Gods and wights, you are performing a living prayer. When you have to miss a heathen gathering to take care of your sick child, you are giving care to the Gods who watch over family and hearth. When you go out of your way to help a friend, you are at the same time gifting those other Friends. When you work your backside off to put food on your family's table, you also feed that other Family. </p> <p>So, you can't fast because you're diabetic or you can't get a tattoo because you are anemic, or you can't risk an act of fire resistance because you're the main provider in your family right now. So what? There are a thousand—a thousand, thousand—ways to offer up devotion. Paint a picture. Learn a poem. Teach a kid to read. Spring-clean your dwelling. Plant a garden. Go about your everyday life in mindfulness of the Gods, the ancestors and the land-wights, keeping Them in your heart and seeking Their mysteries in everything you do. This kind of devotion, it's not some shoddy booby-prize you've switched out for the real deal. It is the real deal! This is where it's at! </p> <p>The image of the snooty ordeal worker sneering at everyone else, spitefully criticizing other forms of devotion whilst secretly getting a filthy kick out of their own doings might be comforting to some, but back here in reality all the ordeal workers I know take care to emphasize the validity of other forms of worship, and to encourage and support diversity. We are generally not the ones attacking other people's work.</p>Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-77258488401733865942009-05-17T21:51:00.000-07:002009-05-17T21:59:10.785-07:00Serving Odin – the Ninth and Final Ordeal: AsgardG. Krasskova<br /><br />(This ordeal took place October 2008).<br /><br />Since my first exposure to them, I’ve always been deeply frightened by hook ordeals. There is something about the physical reality of a metal hook being inserted into the skin that I find deeply, viscerally terrifying. It speaks to a level of pain (real or imagined) that I had never, ever wanted to personally experience. I was hoping against hope as I began my ordeal cycle that I wouldn’t have to ever go up on hooks, but as I slowly worked my way through my nine world cycle, I knew, pretty much by the third ordeal, that this cycle would culminate with my hanging from hooks in <em>imitatio</em> of the Old Man at my Asgard ordeal. This scared the hell out of me. For most of my ordeal cycle, which took about two and a half years, I didn’t bother thinking about it. After all, I had enough on my plate just getting through whatever ordeal was right in front of me (not to mention integrating the lessons learned when each one was finished). Each ordeal prepared me for the next, but Asgard seemed so very far away. By Vanaheim though, I knew it was time to start scheduling things.<br /><br />I arranged with R. to hold my ordeal during the last Keepers Crossing. This was a yearly retreat for shamans and spiritworkers that ran for about four years. There were always classes and workshops and it was a time to network and reap the benefits of our respective, combined skills. I also arranged, after some difficulty, to have H. come out from Belgium to serve as technician and ordeal master. W. agreed to horse Odin and on the day of the ordeal itself, I had another blessing: M. was pushed to horse Loki for me. Thank the Gods too, because had They not been there in the flesh, I don’t think I could have gotten through the ordeal itself.<br /><br />The day dawned grey and cold. I slept late and missed the first class, which I’d wanted to attend. I decided, however, that it was more important for me to be rested for what was to come. I brought H. her gift: a gorgeous Paul Chen spear head and she was surprised…she asked me if she’d mentioned she needed one for a Working. She hadn’t, but as I told her, Odin had dictated what I was to bring her. Midway through the day, R. got to work some of the acupressure that Mengloth is teaching him on me…I’d volunteered to be the stunt dummy. That was interesting and very helpful to me physically. Then it was just a matter of getting into ordeal headspace.<br /><br />The night before, W. had informed me that Odin wanted to do things to me during the ordeal and that caused me to have a complete breakdown in the car. It was just about all I could do to show up. I didn’t realize how tightly wired, how frightened I was of this particular ordeal until that moment. Several people had asked to attend but at the last minute, before we went to get started, Odin made them leave. Only Odin’s and Loki’s folk could be there, save for H. who belongs to Hela. It seems all things eventually flow through Her hands and as I was to die, it was right and proper that She be present. Surprisingly, despite years of working together, even R. was not permitted to be present. It was a Wodinic mystery. My adopted mother couldn’t stand to watch…her ordeal was knowing that I was going through mine. She stayed up at the house with B. (At the last minute, B. had asked if she could be present but I told her that I needed her to watch out for my adopted mom, that she was the only one I would trust with that and she took to the task with gallantry). I was left with H. who was serving as technician, W. who was horsing Odin, M. who was horsing Loki, and E., who was there to witness. Odin had wanted a Loki’s person to witness and E. had volunteered. (S. was also there as ground crew – to take care of the Horses after their respective possessions). H. laid out the tools, W. and M. opened to the Gods and the process began.<br /><br />The pain of the hooks going into my back was like nothing I have ever experienced. It was agonizing. There were six hooks to go into my back but I soon lost count. (Two more hooks went into my breasts...those didn’t hurt much, and Odin put two needles in each arm, in a gebo formation for a total of 24 holes). Odin and Loki held onto me while H., half horsing Hela worked. I was given a gift: Hela asked Odin if He wanted this to hurt more or less and He left it up to Loki, who told her to make it as easy as possible. I am so grateful to Them all for being present.<br /><br />Parts of it seemed like a dream. There were times throughout the process where I could hardly believe that I was actually there, undergoing this final ordeal. There was something surreal about the whole thing and with my consciousness eventually flickering in and out of this world, I lost all track of time and place and space.<br /><br />I have to say that as badly as the hooks hurt, being roped up wasn’t bad at all. There are two ways to be suspended: slowly or all at once. Needless to say, I went up all at once. It was strange, sickening being dangled by my flesh several feet off the ground, but not exactly painful (though not pleasant either). Odin stayed with me, told me of His sacrifice on the tree, reminded me that at the end, my hooks would come out whereas part of Him was ALWAYS on the Tree suffering. Very gently but firmly, He told me that when He hung, He screamed, cried, passed out….that there was no shame in any of it, to just let myself have the experience. I did pass out apparently for a long time (20 mins? A half hour? ). I was told later that while I was out, Odin kept his hand on me even as I swung…W. said later that He was told that Odin kept His hand on me because He didn’t want me to come back to Midgard consciousness and think that He’d left. While I was out, I was at the Tree, on the Tree, staring into Ginungagap. I died. And Odin in that place that is no place and everyplace, sang me back to life. (I was told later by witnesses that the Horse did not sing so all of this took place not in Midgard on R.’s land, but Away. I was with Odin at the place and point of His greatest sacrifice).<br /><br />It’s odd but even writing about this now, months after the ordeal, makes me nauseous. The first time, quite recently, that I walked back on R.’s land, back to the tree upon which I’d hung, I was taken right back to those moments, to the hooks going into my flesh, to my dying on the Tree. I’m told this is not at all uncommon after such ordeals. Sometimes there is an element of mild PTSD attached. I know of one ordeal master and shaman who had to go up on hooks for His final death ordeal. As he hung, a special song was sung by another shaman. Now, he told me recently, when he hears that song, he has two choices: he can sing along or he can start screaming. Such is the way it sometimes goes. We’re never allowed to forget where we’ve been and what we’ve gone through. We’re never allowed to forget the price we’ve paid for our skills. We’re never allowed to separate ourselves from the process and the moment lest we forget the humility, surrender, and trust involved.<br /><br />All went as Odin planned. For those who might be appalled reading this, I want to state clearly: I knew what I was getting into. Throughout it all, Odin gave me the choice and I chose to undergo this knowing full well where it might lead. I trusted Odin that He in His caring and love would bring me to where I needed to go. Furthermore, I had one of the finest teams available. All were highly skilled, trained not only in the physical techniques of ordeal work, but also in first aid, cpr, and preventing the spread of blood born pathogens. H. also has advanced EMT training and is a certified medical qi-gung practitioner. I was in perfectly competent hands.<br /><br />Eventually, I was allowed down. The moment my feet touched the ground, my lower back spasmed terribly and I screamed, going down to my knees. (I had known that with my back injuries, this was a strong possibility and indeed my back spasmed fully for three days. I did not mind the reminder of my ordeal. In some strange way, I rejoiced in it. Pain tells you that you’re alive, that you’ve survived, that you have overcome fear and a thousand other things. It shows you where you’ve been). Odin stayed with me until I could walk, and then walked with me: a blessing. The whole process of hanging for Him opened and cleaned me out. Afterwards, I was as clean and centered and wide open to HIM as I would ever be. As bloody, painful, and terrifying as this whole thing was, I would go up again (though from the chest, not the back) for Him in offering should I have the chance.<br /><br /><div align="left"><br />As night was falling (another blessing, I’d been allowed to have it done at twilight/dusk rather than in the cold of full darkness. The skin is much more sensitive to pain in the cold), we made our way back up to the house, where my mother, in tears and worried, hugged me and gifted me with an ansuz pendant. Then we went out to dinner. The next day I taught two classes at a local Pagan Pride event, limping proudly all the while! I must have made a sad and sorry, though joyful sight to all concerned. I had tasted ecstasy in the moments of my rebirth, in the aftermath of the ordeal itself. I had become wise in the ways of my own power. It showed, even sore and contrary as my body was on that Sunday. I could not help but glow with joy, relief, and pride. </div><div align="left"><br />I died on the Tree, I died as I hung on those hooks and so many things changed when I came back. As much as it hurt (and it did hurt terribly), I’d do it all again. It brought me closer to Odin than I ever thought possible. It cleansed me utterly and opened me to Him, His passion, His love, His caring, His will in ways I had never expected and at a far deeper level than I ever knew possible. It was the culmination of a cycle that had taken nearly three years and that had changed me in many unexpected ways. I was in no way the woman to faced Hela during that first ordeal. I had become more fully His. I had become more fully myself; and I would do it all again if He asked.<br /><br /><em>“Go ahead, light your candles and burn your incense and ring your bells and call out to God, but watch out, because God will come and He will put you on His anvil and fire up His forge and beat you and beat you until He turns brass into pure gold.”<br />----Sant Keshavadas.</em></div>Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-38585153614688740442009-05-15T11:09:00.000-07:002009-05-15T11:10:27.823-07:00What We Do Is Dangerous, In Case You Didn't KnowBy Del Schlosser<br /><br />Recently, a friend reached out to me; someone in the larger pagan community became aware of my friend's practices in the Path of Ordeal and was speaking out publicly against this sort of spirituality. As someone who has been active in both the BDSM and pagan communities for quite some time, it was something I didn't find very surprising. It's something that gets overlooked when we get wrapped up in the excitement of the mystery and edginess of it all; what we do is dangerous in so many ways.<br /><br />Once a magician or spirit worker begins the journey of the Path of Ordeal, a lot becomes normalized in our lives that is still foreign to most mainstream pagans. Remember, the real popularity of what we now know as "paganism" is as much borne out of the Hippie movement of the 1960's as it is the underground occult communities of the 20s and 30s. Early writings that encourage modern Goddess worship make this abundantly clear, with concepts like the Wiccan Rede, ("Do what thou wilt, an it harm none"), which is mostly a bastardization of Aleister Crowley's "Do what thou wilt be the whole of the law." It was such a concern, that people would abuse the power of magic to cause harm to others, that later authors would add the phrase "...an it harm none."<br /><br />I belong to a pan-pagan organization that once suffered a fairly large organizational schism over the sacredness of sexuality and BDSM. This separation happened before I became a member, but the wounds from the split are still prevalent in the local pagan community. Those of us who grew up in North America are stewed in Protestant ethic, even if our families didn't ascribe to that particular spirituality. This movement has worked diligently for centuries to remove sex, blood, pain, risk, and the concept of life and death from our sense of the spiritual. Those who were closest to God were ones who could overcome these base human desires, to focus that energy towards the spiritual through their unfulfilled desire.<br /><br />Yes, even modern-day pagans who are still breaking out of that mindset, not all of them will reach a place in their own journey where they understand and accept that ritual bloodletting, flogging, hook suspension, or whatever your flavor of sensation ordeal might be, is the same or equal to transcendental meditation, Reiki attunements, and crystal magic. The idea of challenge in general is usually beyond the scope of most American's concept of spirituality. They may even accept ritual sexuality, as long as it reflects a loving, supportive, energetically-connected relationship between the partners involved.<br /><br />In specific, most pagans are drawn to the religion because anyone can experience imminent divinity (supposedly), anyone can declare themselves a religious leader, thinker, theologian, and in general, you can self-define where you fit in the imaginary spiritual hierarchy that we still carry over from our experiences of organized religion. Therefore, if someone else defines within the same religious spectrum, and yet is not ready to accept the role of challenge in their own religious exploration, those who practice Ordeal Path spirituality will be the antithesis of what drew them to the faith to begin with. In Ordeal, not everyone succeeds. There are very dangerous skill sets that we have to master, in both the physical and energetic realms, in order to do this work. It's not something you can learn by reading a book, communing with your Gods, or even attending a festival or three. You can literally kill someone if you declare yourself an Ordeal Master without a sufficient amount of training.<br /><br />Take a note from the book of Tricksters; bucking the prevalent paradigm may seem "cool" from the outside because it takes obvious courage and chutzpah to practice (at any volume) what their heart says to, regardless of what their surrounding community says. However, it's not all awesome punk rock rebellion and celebrations of bravery. Working against the grain means that you put yourself up for public scrutiny, because you're easy to find and watch. You stand out from all the other practitioners who have maintained the status quo in terms of practice.<br /><br />Ordeal Path is specifically about challenge, in which failure is an option. Maybe you can't take the pain , maybe you will die. We play with edges that most people are terrified of. What excites people drawn to this path is that they can overcome obstacles that most people never try. We fly, we survive incredible sensations, we take on purposeful injury and wear the scars like merit badges. Within a faith that focuses a lot of energy on healing, immortality, and right-living, we are constant reminders that as of now pain, suffering, and death are still part of the human experience.<br /><br />This rubs a lot of pagans the very wrong way. By interacting with those who walk the path of Ordeal, they see ultimate failure. People don't want to face failure, especially in their lives of faith, where they're supposed to be able to escape the mundane experience and reach for the liminality of blessings. They work within a paradigm where the realm of Gods is benevolent, loving, warm, and safe. By doing this work, and sometimes by working with the Deities that accept this sort of work, we are painting a very different picture of what the realm of Gods might be. There are Gods that enjoy human suffering, feed on pain, and yet are not automatically malevolent to the human race.<br /><br />When people who see themselves as religious leaders are challenged in their own faith, their positions of leadership can also be brought into scrutiny. We expect most of our ministers, reverends, and priests to be rock-solid in what they believe. They must serve as touchstones of the seeker's path, buoys in the storm of those who don't know what they believe. Even outside of paganism, in any religion when there are leaders who believe in opposition to another leader, there will always be conflict. It's in the leader's perceived best interest to speak out against false prophets, in order to maintain their steady connection to their own faith. In paths that do not accept challenge as a part of spiritual experience, their leaders absolutely must be stalwart in what they believe; otherwise, maybe they aren't the leaders they claim to be.<br /><br />One of the reasons you don't find many Ordealists who create this sort of opposition is because we accept the condition of challenge as a part of our spiritual expression. We enjoy when someone disagrees with us, or points out a weakness in our belief. Since pushing boundaries, testing faith, and playing with new and different concepts are foundations in how we practice, we are only enthused when someone agrees to enter into considered debate with the validity of ordeal.<br /><br />However, in order to be heard, people who disagree tend to turn up the volume. People rarely feel ambivalent about the role of BDSM in paganism; they're usually adamantly for or vehemently against it. So unlike disagreements over which pantheon could beat up which other pantheon in a dark alley, or whether water elementals really reside in the West regardless of where you live, sex and pain in modern spirituality is always loud.<br /><br />A typical tactic of those who disagree with an entire movement, is to single out an individual and speak out against that particular person's practice, rather than addressing the movement as a whole. They choose their target mostly at random, unless the target is trying to work with the same demographic as the opposition (then the choice is easier). They phrase their arguments so as to make it about the person and their own ethics, rather than the entire movement. It makes it more difficult to debate concepts when the discussion is dissected down to the individual. I can't speak for every Ordeal Master in the Universe, even for all of the ones that I've personally worked with. But I'll sure as heck defend the validity of my chosen spirituality, if we're willing to talk about it in the larger strokes.<br /><br />So in some ways, being publicly recognized as an Ordeal Master sets yourself up to be separated from the flock by those who don't understand or agree with What It Is That We Do. It's a danger we accept as part of the challenge of our path. It wouldn't be the Ordeal path if we ourselves weren't challenged in a variety of ways. We can lose face, lose followers, lose trust, lose our families and stability if we're not careful. In some states, we could face imprisonment. It's dangerous out there for people like us.<br /><br />As much as being the local pagan in the leather jacket, oozing sex and mystery as part of your persona, might seem attractive and hip, it is almost never easy. Think long and hard about this before deciding how "out" you want to be.<br /><br />Now, on the other side of the coin, there are benefits to announcing to the worlds of humans and Gods that you have decided to pursue the Ordeal Path. But that's an entry for another day.Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-40271964120238922892009-05-15T09:08:00.000-07:002009-05-15T09:30:47.787-07:00Serving Odin – The Eighth Ordeal: AlfheimBy G. Krasskova<br /><br /><br />I’m not sure what I’m permitted to say in retrospect about this ordeal. Much of what I learned I am tabooed, by specific Deities, from committing to print. I expect this will be a very brief and skeletal account. Still, I shall try my best to convey what I experienced. Like Midgard, this was not a physically painful ordeal at all, though it was grueling in its own way. It seems that for me, the alfar light and dark, preferred psychological ordeal to physical suffering. I suppose physical suffering seemed too … lacking in subtlety for their tastes in this case. Also, one of their oft-used techniques is glamour and psychological mesmerism. It makes sense that their ordeals would incorporate not physical pain, but a stretching and widening of my psychological and mental boundaries. All in all, they were very gentle and fairly hands off with me…as these things go.<br /><br />This ordeal took place in June, in the middle of my six week sojourn in Germany. I went to Belgium for the weekend, to visit a local ordeal master there H. She and I had previously arranged for her to facilitate this ordeal for me at that time. I had been told beforehand that this ordeal might involve taking <strong>legal</strong>, psychoactive substances that would drive me temporarily mad. My greatest fear is losing control and going crazy. I needed to learn that I could lose control and come back from that place. As it was, it turned out to be quite a different ordeal than I had expected, as much of that particular lesson had already been learned somewhere between Jotunheim and Vanaheim. Instead, I was pulled into their world, the outer lands of Alfheim, by means that I found terrifying.<br /><br />The day after I arrived, H. and I rose early to prepare for the ordeal. We set up a lavoo tent in her backyard. We got a fire going inside the tent and she went to prepare the herbal preparation I would have to take. I felt the Alfar come, honor guard for the Goddess I was to meet. They ringed the space as we transitioned between worlds, watching over all that occurred. H. came back with a bottle of tincture and a pipe. We were going to use salvia divinorum to enter fully into their world. This herb is completely legal and yet it has the ability to take a person into the salvia world, or in this case, into the alfar realms. The spirit of salvia is a … handmaiden of the Green Goddess. (I don’t know Her by any other name. She is one of the primary Alfar Deities, Queen of the Green Fire). Sometimes Salvia will allow herself to be used as a vessel by this Goddess.<br /><br />I rarely work with plant spirits and never with psychoactive substances. I find this particular path to be utterly terrifying. It is deadly dangerous, more so than any ordeal practice I have ever engaged in. I have immense respect for those shamans and spirit-workers who use psychoactive substances as a primary part of their work. I never want to join their ranks! Certainly part of why I was required to do this lay in the path of Odin that I walk. He is, in part, a plant shaman and healer. It followed that I too must experience a tiny bit of what that is like, even if only in the briefest, most controlled microcosm, to truly understand (in whatever capacity my human brain allows) the greater macrocosm of His experiences there.<br /><br />Over the course of the next few hours, I took several preparations of salvia both via smoke and via tincture. The Midgard world dissolved around me and I heard the voice of the fire. All the fires. I became part of that pushing, inexorable, primal rhythm. Beyond that, I cannot speak. These are the things I have promised never to put into print. I met the Alfar Goddess. I experienced the state in which the Alfar exist. I came to understand much of their culture: why it is the way it is, why certain protocols exist, what it means to be almost fully of the green fire. I established a tie to that world and apparently conducted myself with appropriate decorum. This was an important part of all my ordeals: Odin was sending me to the various worlds for me to make myself known, and establish contacts and links. To do that, I had to understand and accept the specific protocols of each place.<br /><br />One aftereffect of this ordeal was that it opened me much more fully to plant spirits. It’s also made me much more cognizant of the living fire that flows through every single thing: human, mineral, plant, animal. It’s changed my way and understanding of being in the world. I also gained much more respect for the Alfar in general. I wish that I could write more about my experiences during this ordeal. It felt very much like a transition point. This was it, this was the last stop on the journey before meeting my Lord in Asgard.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-27605790249339747582009-05-14T11:13:00.000-07:002009-05-14T11:22:51.289-07:00Serving Odin - the Seventh Ordeal: VanaheimBy G. Krasskova<br /><br /><br />I do not belong to the Vanir. I am owned instead by Odin as anyone who has read my work can easily ascertain. I also have a strong affinity for Loki. With the exception of Gerda, I had not until recently had much interaction with any of the Vanir or Those other Deities commonly associated with Them. It was, however at Odin’s behest that I first sought out Vanaheim, as part of my series of nine ritual ordeals. Each ordeal has given me access to one of the Nine Worlds and each has been governed by one of the Deities who rule in that particular world. With each ordeal, I gain knowledge, skill and make necessary sacrifices of the self. Many of the ordeals have been wrenching. Nearly all have been physically painful in some way. Sandwiched as it was between my Jotunheim ordeal (which had proved emotionally quite devastating) and Alfheim (which, being a completely unknown quantity filled me with trepidation in the days preceding it), I had not expected Vanaheim to prove much of a challenge. It seemed pretty clear cut to me: land, dirt, cycles of land, more dirt, etc. In retrospect, my hubris amazes even me.<br /><br />Of course, like many Heathens, I honored the Vanir when the occasion arose as Gods of fertility, abundance, wealth, and bounty of land and sea but beyond that I gave Them little thought. I, warrior trained, warrior called, valkyrie of the grimmest of Gods had little love or respect for the secrets and mysteries these bright Gods hold. Even within my ancestral venerations, I often disparaged ancestors who were farmers, preferring instead to honor those who had served in the military, who did not make their living from the land. Furthermore as a city dweller (a very happy city dweller) I’d had little interaction with the rhythms and cycles of the natural world for all that I might have had abstract understanding of them. Much of this was to change with this particular ordeal.<br /><br />The first part of my Vanaheim ordeal occurred late in May. A friend, colleague, shaman, and farmer agreed to facilitate for me. Nerthus was to hold the secrets for me in this particular ordeal. She was the Goddess I had to face and by whom I was to be humbled. I have heard many people describe Nerthus as a comforting, loving, gentle Mother Goddess. Mother Goddess She may indeed be but She is also terrifying, harsh, implacable and fierce. This is the Goddess referenced in Tacitus who commonly received human sacrifice as Her due after all.<br /><br />She commanded that I be buried alive. She is about life yes, but also death and the cycles in between that connect the two. She is about the wisdom of the earth, the vicious clarity of the land that devours and from that ruthless devouring spews forth new life. A trench was dug and covered with thick netting (thankfully I was not required to actually lay covered completely with dirt. I am a kinesthetic learner and needed some minor mobility to best process the lessons that were to be forthcoming). Naked, with only prayer beads, a journal and water to sustain me, I was committed to the pit. It was agreed upon that once every four hours someone would come to check on me, bringing me water and a minimal amount of food (organic greens, grain, nuts) but otherwise I was permitted no human contact during this time. I was to stay until Nerthus gave me permission to depart.<br /><br />Isolation is a powerful tool particularly when it is filled with the presence of a Goddess so terrifying that ancient acolytes were not permitted to gaze even upon Her unveiled images. She showed me directly the cycle of life-into-death-into-life contained in the land itself. I saw insects and spiders creeping about the leaves and dirt that filled the trench with me, creeping between roots of bushes and trees. I saw that dirt itself was not some inactive substance devoid of life but that it was the raw substance from which life is born, a living, shifting, very active biosphere. I later learned that there are more living organisms in a handful of dirt than there are human beings on the planet and so much life and death going on there that it’s not surprising Nerthus is Herself terrifying.<br /><br />For six hours She kept me in the pit. Her lessons weren’t only about the sacredness of dirt but also of the primal bond that one has with one’s mother (even if not one’s biological mother…in my case, She honored the woman who has served as my adopted mother, bringing home just how sacred and important that bond was on a wyrd level). She forced me to examine my own misogyny and distaste for the typical cultural markers of “womanhood.”<br /><br />Moreover, Nerthus challenged me to honor my body as I had never once honored it before. I spent years as a professional ballet dancer, a career in which neglect and harsh treatment of one’s body is de rigueur. For more than half my lifetime I had looked upon my body as ‘the enemy.’ Nerthus spoke about the importance of embodiment and drove home the point that we are not separate from our bodies, but that our bodies are an integral part of how we are meant to interact with not only each other but with the Gods Themselves. This is all the more important for shamans and spiritworkers: our bodies are one of the primary interfaces through which we communicate that which comes from the Gods. Our bodies are the primary tools with which we work, the means by which we function, acquire and disseminate knowledge. Our bodies are an immense gift.<br /><br />After six hours I was allowed to leave the pit and forced to walk around and around a sacred labyrinth (the ordeal took place on land that has had a stone labyrinth for years) then it was back to the pit for another six hours. Eventually, I was allowed to emerge into the darkness (it was after midnight) and I made the journey, naked, barefoot, exhausted from the pit through the woods back to my friend’s house. She let me go with the understanding that I had gleaned about half of the lessons I was meant to. I knew, walking through the woods in the pitch black darkness that there would be at least one more part to my Vanaheim ordeal. I was being given leeway to process the lessons She had given me first.<br /><br />The second part of my ordeal took place under the guidance of Frey. He spoke to my adopted mother, and outlined a three day ordeal, also to take place at my friend’s farm. This was designed, I believe, to break me of my arrogance and disregard of my farmer ancestors. During the first day of the ordeal, I was required to work the land. I stayed with a friend who is a farmer and during this day, I worked for several hours in his vegetable garden, working the soil by hand. My adopted mother and I were permitted to eat one handful of food for each hour worked. The food had to be comprised of grains, fruits, or vegetables only and had to be organic.<br /><br />On the second day of the ordeal, both I and my adopted mother were required to completely fast, consuming only water. During that time, I worked several hours in my friend’s vegetable garden. On the third day, there were no words given. Instead, I walked down to the field, the same field in which I had been buried for Nerthus. In the North end of this field stands a carved God-pole dedicated to Frey. There I made offerings to this God and listened to His words and His admonition: Remember. Remember what you have learned. Remember.<br /><br />Frey’s Lesson:<br /><br />Day One<br /><br />“Peace is a terrible thing. It demands as many sacrifices and as much discipline as war. I, Ingvi Freyr, know this, who will die in battle, who can fight as fiercely as the best warriors, yet chose to become a hostage in the name of peace and for the sake of peace. No coward I, no pacifist, but yet I am a Peace-Keeper.<br /><br />That is what you must learn, my child. That to be a warrior you have to honor peace and peace-keepers with the same immediacy you feel toward war and warriors. You who know to give equal respect to Odin and Loki without falling into the trap of either/or should give equal respect to war and peace.<br /><br />To be a farmer is like being a priest and as sacred: Farmers are the hallowers and priests of my blood. Every year, I submit to my throat being scythed, to my blood being spilled to hallow and fructify the earth so it may nourish the people. Farmers are the link between my blood and people being fed. Without the farmer, my blood is spilled for nothing, for working the soil is the only rite that will give power to my sacrifice.<br /><br />This is what you must learn, my child: that to be a priest you have to honor the farmer as your equal. Honor your farmer ancestors. If you miss a part, you miss the whole. I am Ingvi Freyr, Peace-Keeper and Fighter, and Farmer. Come to me on the third day.<br /><br />During the first day remember, a whole season will be contained in this one day, and in that time you are the link between My blood, the earth and the sustaining of your foster mother. In that time, she is your old mother, your pregnant wife, your small daughter—all that which you love and which depends upon your holy skill and strength at farming. If you fail, My blood is disregarded, desecrated by neglect. Earth lies fallow and your loved ones starve.”<br /><br /><br /><br />Day Two<br /><br />“Today contains all of the next season and it will be hard because warriors rode through your land. They needed food so they took all they could, all you had worked for. They rode through the grain; they took your goat and most of your hens. They filled a sack with the contents of your storeroom. You have nothing. That is what war does to peace. That is partly why I became hostage. So work the soil, on an empty stomach, to salvage what you may of My blood and your effort so that you may not starve tomorrow. Today you will not be able to feed either yourself or your foster mother whom you love. That is what war does to peace.” (It is important to note that this was not an accusation. It was said without judgment. It was merely a statement of fact).<br /><br /><br />Day Three<br /><br />On the third day, no words were given. I was expected to open myself to Freyr directly and to receive His wisdom. One of the things that I learned, I who am so proud of my warrior’s calling, was that war and peace, warriors and farmers are intertwined. Yes, the farmer is at the mercy of the warrior but so too is the warrior at the mercy of the farmer. One must always eat after all. I was reminded of the Napoleonic Wars when French forces tried to take Russia and the Russian farmers starved the invading soldiers by burning their own fields as they retreated giving the invading army no sustenance. That is the power of the farmer.<br /><br />I know that there is still the final third of my Vanaheim ordeal to go: I must work with Freya. I’m not sure what form this work will take, but it seems for me, Vanaheim has become the central spiritual axis around which all the other ordeals revolve. Perhaps this is because finding the holy in the process of living, in embodiment, in the faulty nature of my own humanity has been an incredibly difficult process for me, perhaps because my warrior’s arrogance is so great, perhaps because the places and ways in which I am broken and scarred require this often terrifying balm. I don’t know. I only know that the Vanir have been immensely kind to me even as they have challenged and at times goaded me into knowledge. And I am grateful.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-5790433358235587592009-04-28T22:06:00.000-07:002009-04-28T22:07:44.658-07:00Slaves, Service, and Words of Power<p class="western">by Raven Kaldera</p> <p class="western">A friend recently directed me to the writing of a mutual acquaintance, a Vanir-focused Heathen (I believe; feel free to correct me if I’m wrong) who was musing over the issue of god-slavery- and, more interestingly, over the issue of spirit-workers who do not identify as god-slaves feeling threatened by those who do. While he thoughtfully acknowledged the reality of god-slavery in some people’s lives, he pointed out that it was the only named model of human/divine relationship (besides “god-spouse”) for the fledgling Pagan spirit-worker dynamic. In the Northern Tradition, which he practices, there is the word “godatheow”, coined by Galina Krasskova and indicating a god-slave, someone who is owned by a deity and has little or no agency in their lives because of this. He decided that there needed to be an intermediate term denoting a servant of the Gods, one with more agency and liberty than a slave. He came up with the word “godathegn”, referencing the term “thegn”, or “thain”, the noble servant of a lord or lady of a higher status than them. It would reference someone who had a strong (perhaps oathbound) bond with their deity, but had full agency except in some limited areas, and could leave if worst came to worst. </p> <p class="western">I fully approve of this. It gets the Raven Kaldera Stamp of Approval (something which may be the opposite of good publicity, but hey). I especially approve of people eschewing the all-too-common reaction of “Hey, this label doesn’t fit me, and that makes me feel bad! Quick, try to discredit it!” and instead reaching for, “This label doesn’t fit me. There needs to be another word in the lexicon, for comparison, which does. Here, I’ll find one!” As far as I’m concerned, the more language we have for how our Gods treat us, and how we form those bonds, and what we can expect, the better. </p> <p class="western">I was the first person to write about god-slavery in a book, and I did that because of all the positions on that continuum, “godatheow” is the scariest, the most difficult, the one that people in that position are least likely to be able to find resources to understand. A godatheow who fights out of lack of understanding is more likely to end up dead, unlike a godathegn (who will probably only have their maegen trashed). Now that I’ve paved a way for the most at-risk group, I welcome folks who will discuss less risky points on that continuum.</p> <p class="western">The irony in the current argument over whether god-slavery exists (or should exist, something that brings a wry laugh to those of us who are in that position) is that there is a similar argument raging in the BDSM demographic as we speak, over the word “slave” and its attendant meanings. That’s why this article is in Blood For The Divine and not God’s Mouths. Not all ordeal workers – and certainly not all or even most spirit-workers – come out of or have any connection with any BDSM community. But I do, and that gives me the right to observe and make interesting sociological comparisons.</p> <p class="western">For those who are not aware of the background: The majority of people in the BDSM demographic do not practice any kind of full-time consenting dominance and submission (the D and S in the acronym). They like to have kinky sex, and do SM. Of the percentage that do practice D/s (that’s what the acronym looks like when it stands on its own), most consider it “play”. Of the percentage of that group who take it seriously, most are part-time. Of the percentage of *that* group who do it 24/7, most of the “s-types” are voluntary submissives who have strong negotiated limits and could (and would) leave if those limits were violated. A much smaller percentage have voluntarily given up their limits to the care of their dominant, and trust them to make all the decisions and set all the limits for them – but could rescind those limits and leave if they chose. This is acronymed by some as TPE – Total Power Exchange. An even smaller percentage practice what is referred to (by them) as IE, or Internal Enslavement. This is a practice where the submissive voluntarily agrees to enter into specific conditioning that changes them radically, and renders them unable to disobey or leave. This practice is, to say the least, extremely controversial even among D/s practitioners, much less the entire BDSM demographic. </p> <p class="western">Now none of these is the same as nonconsensual slavery, of the type still practiced in many parts of the world, primarily economic in scope. Everyone on every part of the above continuum willingly signed up for their deal, and it came with a great deal of thought and negotiation (or should have, anyway). That’s a different experience from someone born into slavery in Yemen. Even the IE slave agreed to their situation and actively aided it. This is why some people object to using the word “slave” at all in BDSM practice, saying that using this term makes light of those oppressed individuals. However, that’s a small minority and mostly ignored. So who does claim the word “slave” over there?</p> <p class="western">There’s certainly a segment of the D/s population who claim that their relationship dynamic has moved from D/s to M/s – Master/Mistress and slave. Generally, many of the last three points mentioned on my continuum have a lot of folk who claim that D/s means “people who aren’t as extreme as us”, but there is no quorum and a great deal of infighting among them. The most controversial are the IE practitioners, some of whom claim that their s-types are the “real” slaves, because they can’t leave or disobey, and everyone south of that “only” has a D/s relationship. At least one forum (run by the individual who invented the IE term) asked that people on that forum respect these definitional lines, which of course enraged many newcomers. Some people want the right to use the word “slave” for a one-hour play session where no one is really submitting to anyone in any meaningful way. Others don’t like the idea that their deeply-valued voluntary submission isn’t worthy of the word “slave”.</p> <p class="western">This has culminated in a variety of very familiar attitudes towards IE practitioners. Some claim that it doesn’t exist and those people are just deluding themselves. Others claim that if it does exist, it is abusive and wrong and no one ought to do it. Some claim that they have the right to call themselves slaves no matter what their dynamic is, because they ought to be allowed to self-identify and not be challenged about it. Some accuse the IE people of constantly telling other people that their dynamic isn’t real enough or good enough, or that it’s the One True Way to do M/s, when there is little to no evidence of this (but people are hearing it even if it isn’t being said, somehow). There are even those who argue for the right to the title when they aren’t actually submissive to anyone (but would be, theoretically, if they could just find the right person). The same arguments are leveled at all full-time submissives by SM people who can’t imagine such a thing working, and so on up the line.</p> <p class="western">Many of these problems will sound heartbreakingly familiar to people in the Pagan spirit-work demographic, and I suppose that they prove that humans will be humans. Humans will also feel insecure in comparison to people who are doing something they might like to do but cannot for some reason, and they will read attitudes into those people that might not be there, and nothing that the target humans can say will be heard through the fear. One full-time “slave” pleaded that they weren’t saying that their way was the best any more than being a monk or nun was the only real way to be Catholic. Another IE slave wrote this (posted with permission):</p> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0.5in;"> "I have a fairly strict definition of what an owned slave is, and I find it useful to have space with people who share that definition to discuss practical and psychological aspects of ownership. People in non-ownership based D/s relationships have different struggles and issues. There is an area of overlap, and I can usefully discuss life in service with someone whether they are owned or not, but there are things that just don't translate.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0.5in;"> See, I always considered voluntary honor-bound service to be more prestigious that "slavery", and I resisted the label of slave for quite some time. I felt the implication that I might have to be held by another’s will to be an insult to my loyalty and commitment. Then I became a slave, and here I am. How I got here is a long story, but suffice it to say that I know it’s the right place for me.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0.5in;"> I'm not sure if I still consider voluntary ongoing submission to be more prestigious. It is what it is. I think one can achieve a higher ideal of pure service through active submission, because few masters really give as much of a damn about pure service in and of itself. They are generally more practical than that. Being a slave is easier, in a way. A submissive needs to be a stronger, more dedicated person to achieve excellence in their role. A slave need only be malleable.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0.5in;"> I don't know if this will make any sense, but I'll try. To me it is like the difference between being a soldier and a monk, perhaps. A soldier will be pushed through his reluctance and wavering, by force if needed. A lesser man can become a fine soldier. It is easier to be a bad monk, so you have to be a better man to be a good monk. Some monastic orders are stricter than others and some will push you harder than others, but no one is going to force you to do anything at gunpoint. You need to maintain your own dedication.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0.5in;"> Is one of them better than the other? No. They are just different. But if the soldier and the monk talk about their struggles with dedication and loyalty, they are going to come to some misunderstandings and confusion if one of them insists he is just the same as the other."</p> <p class="western">How does all this compare with Gods? Obviously, the continuum of human/divine relationship is as varied as the continuum of human/human power exchange relationships, and not entirely similar. Gods can get away with things that mortals can’t practically do. The godatheow area of the continuum does include nonconsensual grabbing up of people, as many shamans will tell you, and Gods cannot be held to human rules in many ways. And submitting to a mortal is just not even remotely on the scale of submitting to a deity in terms of their ability to know you inside and out. A mortal dominant can work towards transparency with their submissive and try their best to learn the inside of their head, but it just isn’t going to be as direct and total as communion with one’s god. </p> <p class="western">But there are still similarities. A good human master (of either gender) with more than one submissive will gear each relationship to the person involved. They won’t try for cookie-cutter dynamics for each one, and they will understand that what motivates one won’t work for another. If they are polyamorous, they might have subs in various areas of the continuum. I’ve personally got an IE-style slave, a part-time voluntary submissive who actually belongs to someone else, and some distant, heavily boundaried, nonsexual service relationships. Similarly, what a deity asks of one worshiper will be different from what they want of another. Part of that is what they have the cosmic right to take (which will vary person to person), part is what they know is the best way to get someone to respond (ditto), and part will be about the aspect of Deity that the human wishes to serve. (See my last piece about that issue. Gods can also pull the kind of “Jedi Mind Tricks” on people that skilled IE dominants sometimes manage to pull off, smoothly and subtly easing the submissive into a different opinion or different way of being. The difference is that gods are so much better at it. </p> <p class="western">It’s been ironic to watch these arguments in two separate and widely disparate demographics both happening simultaneously. (There’s got to be something astrological going on here!) In both cases, there have been misunderstandings, and eventual clarity, a process that is ongoing as knowledge spreads. The BDSM demographic is a little ahead in the information-and-understanding dance, but then again they are many times larger (and have more organized events). Now the challenge ahead of us is to come up with appropriate language and labels to describe that continuum that isn’t Northern Tradition, for the sake of all the folks in service to gods of other pantheons, or gods who have no useful cultural context. I have faith in us all. We can find words to create understanding, words that slice clean and clear through people’s insecurities, or at least grow on them after a few years until they find themselves using those terms first grudgingly, then naturally. We’ll do it … because we have to. </p> <p class="western">Words of power help people to feel that their own personal experience is a shared one, at least by a few other people, rather than dismissed. There’s no reason to dismiss anyone else’s experience except out of fear. Instead, they should be encouraged to talk about theirs, because those who feel that they have adequate space to describe their experience and have it met with interest and respect usually don’t feel a need to talk about that of others. They should be encouraged to talk about it, and name it. It’s not possible for me to speak from the experience of a godathegn, and therefore I shouldn’t try to do it. Let others describe that dynamic lovingly and with a pure show of their devotion, just as I’d encourage a part-time voluntary submissive in the BDSM community to do the same. If it’s what you have, whatever it is, try to find pride in it. That pride can block out the unspoken words that people remember, later, as having been spoken aloud. It can also remind us that the Gods don’t do things for no reason, and that service cleanly and lovingly done is always sacred, no matter who it’s done for, or under what conditions.</p>Fire Tashlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05277762340348719003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-60123683647854026162009-04-28T21:08:00.000-07:002009-04-28T21:12:05.463-07:00Sacred Pain - A Book Reviewby Galina Krasskova<br /><br />First published in 2001, Ariel Glucklich’s book Sacred Pain seeks to explore the elusive and universal nature of pain and its use, across cultures, as a religious tool. Specifically, Glucklich focuses on one theme: “the effect of ritual pain on consciousness and identity” (Glucklich: 8). By delving into the twin fields of psychology and neurology, Glucklich examines the idea that pain, utilized effectively, has the potential to transform suffering into a positive religious experience. Drawing heavily on the work of William James, Michel Foucault, Sigmund Freud, and a broad platform of other theorists, he challenges the medical concept of pain as pathology and instead proposes a multi-faceted model that includes juridical, medical, magical, and psycho-tropic filters through which pain can be effectively and productively processed.<br /><br />The author is clearly intrigued by the problem of pain and this creates a book that is, paradoxically, at once both insightful and limited in its approach. His emphasis is primarily on pain as an embodied experience, one uniting physical and emotional, cultural and social modes of affect. Glucklich consistently returns to the inherently physical nature of pain, continually redefining his questions to ferret out the effect of consciously applied pain on the self, personal identity, and religious life.<br /><br />He begins his analysis by breaking the current theories of pain into four broad categories: theological (or normative), critical, descriptive and reductive. (Glucklich: 31), which he then chooses to dissect, pointing out the strengths and faults of each. By focusing on pain’s effects, its neurology and psychology, he attempts to avoid reductive criticism that he believes while the most thorough of the four categories, is ultimately ineffective in unpacking the “wealth of pain types being reduced” (Glucklich: 32).<br /><br /> It is here that Glucklich offers a refreshing criticism of Elaine Scarry’s earlier work, The Body in Pain, in which she states that pain is beyond the articulation of language, that it is only the very instruments that cause pain, which give pain its shape and embodied meaning. He points out that her work focused almost exclusively on victims of torture, which is a utilization of pain that is far removed from the work of, as Glucklich notes, the ascetic or mystic. While Glucklich does discuss the Inquisition and its use of torture, he does so (excessively to this author’s mind) specifically to illustrate the relationship between pain and political power. In fact, Glucklich takes the opposite position from Scarry, arguing that pain can have immense psychological, emotional and above all, spiritual meaning for those who consciously inflict it upon themselves as a spiritual discipline.<br /><br />The primary disciplinary criticism that shapes this book is that of psychoanalytic theory. Freud figures prominently in his analysis, though he does not agree with what he describes as Freud’s view of pain as “monolithic and intrinsically aversive or punitive” (Glucklich: 87). Instead, he often uses Freudian theory as a theoretical springboard into his own examination of pain through the lens of biochemistry. In fact, Glucklich’s primary window into the nature of pain is through the field of psychoanalysis, behavioral studies, and pure biological science.<br /><br />His is a phenomenological study of pain and the symbols, metaphors and ritual surrounding its application. He painstakingly examines the contributions of Melanie Klein, Jacques Lacan, Heinz Kohut, to name but a few of the psychological theorists whose work forms the crux of his arguments. His evaluative discourse spans the gamut of cases, from the medieval mystic engaging in body-punishing ascetic techniques to the teen age girl, a product of modernity, who cuts herself with razors to process her inner turmoil. Glucklich utilizes modern neurology and biochemistry to understand how pain changes the body, and what effect these changes might have on the mind, emotions, and personality – the psychological matrix—of the person suffering. <br /><br />Essentially, he posits that when a person is being physically hurt in a sustained way, the first thing that happens is raw pain, and usually a good deal of it. It takes some time for that to change. Which chemicals eventually engage, and how much of these chemicals the body produces, varies depending on each individual’s biochemistry and, surprisingly, the attention they focus on their hurt as well as the purpose they ascribe to it.<br /><br />Ongoing, noticeable pain can affect one’s concentration and one’s attention to such a degree that it causes the body to release painkillers that will work to mitigate the pain. The major factor in this physiological process is the release of opiate-like endorphins, but this is by no means the only factor. Lesser chemicals calm, soothe, and create a certain amount of mild hallucinations. At this point, the subject might still technically be in pain, but they simply may not care nearly as much. Glucklich also painstakingly discusses the various spiritual meanings that those in pain often ascribe to their condition, even or perhaps most especially, when the pain is beyond their control (for instance, he points to Therese of Lisieux finding meaning her physical frailness and illness by sacrificing that pain in imitatio of her deity).<br /><br />Unfortunately, while the author acknowledges that pain can be an important spiritual tool, his extensive focus on the neurological effects of pain to the exclusion of the particularities of its actual practice in the end, leaves the reader with a theory of pain that is, in its own way, as equally reductive as the theories Glucklich wishes to challenge. He never really moves beyond the physicality of pain and its biochemistry to delve into the viscera of its modern day usage as a sacred tool. While he does quote extensive accounts of pain in its conscious application, many of these accounts are second hand, or drawn from saints’ hagiographies, a point that I shall return to below. The one exception to this is the Native American Sun Dance, which is explored at some length with at least one modern practitioner’s experience as a Sun-dancer being quoted, but Glucklich doesn’t really move beyond the minutiae of the embodiment of pain, i. e. the practices that evoke it and the gestures it evokes, into its spiritual meaning. <br /><br />He spends an excessive amount of time wrestling with the idea that pain can be “good” when the overall thesis of his book would be better served by a concerted study of the positive results of its use. While he does delve briefly into the ‘good’ pain that an athlete might experience or the way in which a soldier might process pain on the battlefield, his preoccupation with the biochemistry of pain leaves the reader lacking a personal voice and insight into its use (Glucklich: 88). While he does consciously recognize that pain can be used as a valuable spiritual tool, he dances around the psychological reality of pain as a transformative tool, remaining caught up in the inherent difficult that, essentially, pain hurts while at the same time, trying to convince his readers that despite this, it can be useful (Glucklich: 43).<br /><br />Additionally, despite Glucklich’s criticism of Freudian theory, his overall argument is somewhat weakened by his subtle yet consistent conflating of the use of pain as a spiritual tool with psychological masochism. While he doesn’t pathologize masochism, this categorization colors his approach to the utilization of pain in a sacred context, perhaps contributing to some of the issues noted above.<br /><br />I believe that the arguments rendered in Sacred Pain could have been immeasurably strengthened by the addition of interviews and first person accounts gleaned from modern practitioners of pain based spirituality. There is a growing sub-culture in both the occult community and, more importantly for the purpose of this review, various Neo-Paganisms in which pain has regained its position as a tool of the sacred. Termed ‘ordeal work’ by those who utilize pain and its ritual application in this manner, certain (albeit fringe) groups within Neo-Pagan and, to some extent, Reconstructionist Pagan religions are consciously adapting techniques as divergent as fasting, flogging, ritual cutting, branding, scarification, hook suspensions, and painful and often violent ordeals as part of their spiritual practices with the often stated goal of making themselves more receptive to their Gods. Published through Asphodel Press, the year 2005 even saw the first publication of a book of collected essays on Paganism and ordeal work titled Dark Moon Rising: Pagan BDSM and the Ordeal Path.<br /><br />While still not commonly accepted by the majority of Pagans, this sub-culture is growing and in doing so, impacting the evolution of this body of religions as a whole. Similar practices exist in other living traditions too, such as Hinduism where we have pain based offering rituals like Kavadi. Glucklich mentions this ritual, but doesn’t seek out actual practitioners; in fact, Sacred Pain focuses almost exclusively on Western religious traditions. Furthermore, the use of pain in mainstream religions like Christianity, particularly Catholicism has never ceased. In places like Spain and Latin America, one might even say it is flourishing as evidenced by practices such as crawling to religious shrines over long distances on one’s knees, or re-enacting Christ’s crucifixion complete with nails, or the processions of flagellants that can be seen at certain sacred feast days in Spain. Glucklich need not have turned to the Neo-Pagan community. His work remains solely in the realm of the theoretical when it could have been strengthened by incorporating material that would have added an equally extensive grounding in the practical. This, to my mind, is the primary weakness of Sacred Pain: it reads as though the use of pain in the context of spirituality is a thing of the past, when in reality, it has in no way been lost, even if the overall context has been altered by modernity.<br /><br />Where Glucklich truly shines is in his evaluation of the effect the rise of the medical profession and the discovery of anesthetics had on Western culture’s approach to pain. He specifically notes that the pain is strictly a problem of modernity:<br /><br />"With the invention of anesthetics pain became strictly a medical problem and a matter that pertains to the body rather than the entire person. The individual in pain evolved into a patient…this replaced the pre-modern person in pain, who was first and foremost a member of a true community, and whose pain meant something far more significant than tissue damage (Glucklich: 177)."<br /><br />While acknowledging the achievements of nineteenth century medicine in putting an end to what he terms the ‘gruesome and frightful aspects of pre-modern healing,’ Glucklich at the same time credits the rise of both the medical profession as a whole and its use of anesthetics in general with reducing pain from a spiritual discipline to pathology, thus placing the conscious embodiment of pain firmly within its historical context (ibid).<br /><br /> This chapter offers a fascinating study of the medical, ethical, and at times theological arguments that followed the introduction of anesthetics into general use. This wide distribution of anesthetics allowed the average person a conscious choice in whether or not to suffer pain during medical procedures and illness. A psychology of pain quickly followed that categorized anyone choosing to remain in pain rather than avail themselves of the new ‘miracle’ drugs, as abnormal. It was a small leap from abnormal to mentally ill (Glucklich: 195).<br /><br /> By mid-century, as Glucklich notes, there was a deep divide between illness and religion in which “pain had lost its religious connotations” (Glucklich: 196). This coincided with the rise of the medical hysteric and scientific positivism. Essentially as the Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment social changes altered the status of religion, it also altered the status of pain. The result has been that Western society as a whole, according to Glucklich, has lost its “capacity to understand why and how pain would be valuable for mystics, members of religious communities, and perhaps humanity as a whole” (Glucklich: 201).<br /><br />Glucklich offers a theoretical validation of pain that seeks to explain, if not restore, pain to its place as a useful psychological, emotional and above all spiritual tool. His analysis of pain through the tools of psychoanalytic theory, history, and biochemistry is relatively thorough and very thought provoking. While his book fails to take into account the use of pain in contemporary living religious traditions, it does provide a fascinating look at the ways in which pain renders a person vulnerable, has the potential to affect them on a long-term scale emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually as well as the ways in which it has been used throughout the history of religious practice as a tool of transformation.<br /><br /><br />Sources:<br /><br />Glucklich, Ariel, (2001). Sacred Pain: Hurting the Body for the Sake of the Soul. NY: Oxford University Press, Inc.<br /><br />Kaldera, Raven, (2005). Dark Moon Rising: Pagan BDSM and Ordeal Work. MA: Asphodel Press.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-74384479607929145472009-04-28T17:38:00.000-07:002009-04-28T17:41:32.692-07:00Serving Odin-the Sixth Ordeal: Jotunheimby G. Krasskova<br /><br />This account is going to be short and sweet, partly to protect a colleague’s privacy and partly because of all the ordeals I underwent as part of this cycle, it was Jotunheim that came the closest to breaking me. And you know what? No one laid a finger on me. I met the Mother of Monsters and She was kind. Her kindness is a terrible thing. I didn’t write about this ordeal at the time. I couldn’t. I was too raw.<br /><br />This ordeal was all about pride and humility and owning my own heart. It was about giri, that terrible moment when the needs of duty and the desires of the heart conflict. Duty wins every time for people like us, but oh, it hurts. It was about knowing oneself; it was about personal integrity. Angurboda told me I had too much pride, then She set about breaking it down. I am grateful to Her. She was fair to me, this warrior who had been thrown before Her feet. I am grateful to have been given the blessing of humility and to have been given a glimpse into my own heart. She helped me more than I realized at the time.<br /><br />Jotunheim was a terrible ordeal for all that Angurboda was kind. It threw me into a deep depression for many weeks afterwards. (I actually went on a taboo-breaking bender for a solid ten days after this ordeal, and it’s the only time in my life I sat down and decided, quite clear-headedly, to get drunk, which I then did.) Essentially, to die, I had to face my greatest fear: love and attraction and the vulnerability these things bring. To die, I had to understand the sacrifice of the heart; there had to be the breaking of my brittle pride. My heart had to be opened to let the Gods in.<br /><br />Where to even begin…In August Odin made me fall in love with a man, made me hunger for him with a force I could neither ignore nor deny. This man and I were not only colleagues but very good friends, so I did what it was in my warrior nature to do: I concealed and said nothing, hoping only against hope that these things would fade. My colleague W. saw my need in a reading and told me, after the initial shock wore off, that I needed to speak to the man, whom I’ll call X. I had my Jotunheim ordeal coming up in November, and I could not walk cleanly into an ordeal with something like that sitting unresolved between me and X, who was to help with the ordeal. I am a very private person, most especially about my heart. My heart is fragile, more so than I care to admit. It took me another month to sit down with X, and I was physically sick when I had to speak.<br /><br />I told X and he was horrified: not at my feelings as I’d expected. No, my feelings flattered him. He was horrified because, as he told me later, the moment I started speaking he knew to the bottom of his own heart that Angurboda was going to use it against me in the upcoming ordeal. Because of that, He indicated that we had to wait until after my ordeal to discuss this further, and after he’d been able to do divination before taking any action. (God-owned people can’t just get together. It’s always better to check with our Owners first. The whole idea that “it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission” really doesn’t work with us). I learned later that he immediately went to his Owner asking if we could get together. She told him gently that “he couldn’t afford my bride-price.” He also asked Angurboda, my next divine ordeal master, and She flat out said “No.” No negotiation. No argument. Just: no. She and Odin are often at odds. I belonged to Odin. I was Odin’s valkyrie. Odin has a powerful line into me and can always look through my eyes if He wishes. What better time to strike at one dear to Angurboda than in the intimacy of sex? We both knew that if Odin asked it of me, I’d do that without hesitation. It is the way of a valkyrie. So, She flat out forbade it. Still, I wasn’t permitted to know that until the day of my ordeal.<br /><br />In November my ordeal came and I met Angurboda, who possessed a human horse in order to speak to me. She came into her vessel with the sound of breaking glass – the large vase of thistles we had placed on her altar was abruptly swept away and smashed to pieces by a sudden wind. It echoed up the path upon which I was walking, my stomach lurched, and I knew, I knew She was there. I walked down to meet Her, offerings of whiskey and weapons in my hands. She had ordered X to buy a sword for me, a replica of Eowyn’s sword from that Tolkien book. She said the symbolism of that particular weapon was fitting. I, not being a Tolkien fan, didn’t realize how fitting until well after the ordeal (when a friend who is obsessed with Tolkien explained Eowyn’s tale).<br /><br />She had me kneel before Her (actually, that’s what my body did. It’s not like I had much of a choice with Her presence being what it is). She took the alcohol that was offered (Jack Daniels) and drank that. (This always amazes me with possession. The horse being possessed always had a bad reaction to alcohol, yet the Goddess could drink with impunity. I have seen such things multiple times and it never ceases to amaze me.)<br />She said that we were going to speak about the three deepest pains of my heart.<br /><br />First, She began speaking about my adopted mother’s poor health and impending death, forcing me to cry, forcing me to acknowledge how that was tearing me up inside. I’d been compartmentalizing it like my warrior training had taught, pushing away the pain, focusing on necessary action. She made me acknowledge the bond I have with my adopted mom and how her death would affect me. She said that I needed to be prepared because were I to lose myself to grief, I would be desecrating all the gifts my adopted mom had given me.<br /><br />Then she talked about my desire for a community, a tribe. She said I had a tribe in the love my adopted mother had for me; and that I had a tribe with those colleagues and friends who had accepted me in this work. I would never have a tribe such as I sought to replicate through Theodism. I walk the Wanderer’s path. I will not ever fully belong anywhere. Strangely, shortly before this ordeal, this one issue, which had long eaten away at me, ceased to be an issue. I’m not sure why but something changed in me and I realized that I am not meant to have such a tribal binding in this lifetime. So that was well on its way to being resolved when She brought it up, but it took Her talking to me about it for me to realize that I’d found a measure of peace with the whole thing. Then, She talked about X.<br /><br /><br />She told me to give Her the sword, which I did. She did not demand physical ordeal…in that, I was later told, She honored me as a warrior. She laid the sword down between us and told me to choose. I had two paths open to me: I could be X’s friend, servant, colleague, etc. but never, ever, lover; or I could leave this place and never return, never having any contact with him again whatsoever. Now, Odin had me working with X for a reason. We had mutual work to accomplish, so by doing that I would be turning my back on my duty. Also, he was a very good friend to me and didn’t deserve to be tossed to the side like that. Angurboda also subtly implied that to do so would be cowardice, even though only She and I would ever know. I could pick up the sword and do my duty or turn my back on it, leaving the blade where it lay.<br /><br />I walk the warrior’s path. Such symbolism is deeply embedded in my very core. There was nothing more potent that She could have done to drive home the point of this ordeal. She said, before starting, that I had too much pride. That pride, which protected my heart, was getting in the way of my opening to Odin. It was getting in the way of the Work He needed me to do. It had to go.<br /><br />When I’d made my choice, obviously taking up the sword, She had me smash the large broken vase further by Odin’s god-post, to “show Him what the Hag of the Ironwood has done to His Valkyrie’s dreams.” Then She had me wrap the sword in a huge bundle of thistles, tying it with hand-spun red thread. She said that as a valkyrie, my love would always be like that. My job was to pick the thread free of all the thistles and re-spin it into something whole. I must clean it and remake what is broken. She’s right too: it didn’t hit me until months later, but that visual image of the sword wrapped in thistles and blood-red thread is the perfect metaphor for my heart. I’m a fairly simple person: sometimes I need the stark visual metaphors.<br /><br />She then suggested that it would benefit me greatly to enter into a non-sexual service contract for a year and a day with X. I did this (it expired this past February) and I learned something that all my years in Theodism hadn’t taught: I am not meant to be in service to anyone but Odin. What I thought was necessary to my make-up, what I thought I desired above all others, was not something I found myself wanting or needing in this life. I had been a bound warrior lifetime after lifetime. This time, I was working on the other side of that: I was ronin, bound only to Odin. There was something immensely freeing, immensely cleansing and healing in that epiphany. I worked out my time in service and chose not to renew the contract. I learned that in this life, I am not meant to be owned by any man. It purified my heart (by breaking and remaking it). Now there is nothing in that heart that does not belong to Odin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>(I received permission from all relevant parties before posting this. No one’s privacy was compromised).</em>Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-63811435542911630592009-04-25T12:21:00.001-07:002009-04-25T12:22:11.513-07:00Drawing Down the Spirits - A Book ReviewBy G. Krasskova<br /><br />A new book has just been released that I believe will prove to be of great importance to spiritworkers and shamans. It’s called “Drawing Down the Spirits: The Traditions and Techniques of Spirit Possession” and it explores techniques of spirit and Divine possession across the Neo-Pagan, Heathen, and Afro-Caribbean spectrum. The authors, Kenaz Filan and Raven Kaldera, both have extensive experience dealing with Deity possession and they have collected a wealth of information, drawing on other experienced practitioners both within their respective communities and from other branches of modern Paganisms as well.<br /><br />This book offers an extensive examination of the role of possessory work within modern Paganisms, beginning with a history of possession across the world and throughout history. Particular attention is paid to the 20th century and the rise of spiritualism, Edgar Cayce, and theosophy. While not the focus of the book, it does provide interesting historical and social context, particularly relevant since these latter movements formed the soil from which many modern Paganisms sprang. The real meat of the work begins in part II. The authors, in conjunction with the many shamans and spiritworkers interviewed, all of whom are ‘horses,’ (people wired to allow Deity possession) explore the dynamic of possession from the inside out. Many of the columnists of “Godsmouths” are quoted throughout the book, including our esteemed editor.<br /><br />The reader is introduced to the way possession works: what exactly happens to the ‘horse’ when the God or Goddess comes in? What are the levels of possession? What are the possible negative side effects on the body of the practitioner and on the community of these practices? What are the benefits? What is the appropriate protocol to follow when a Deity is present? What are the obligations of community, horse, and handlers? All of these questions and more are explored extensively. The authors talk about how this is happening, what people can expect, and how to integrate these powerful practices into the community as a whole. Concrete information is interspersed with personal accounts throughout the book creating a powerful, diverse, richly faceted narrative.<br /><br />In my opinion, this is one of the most important books to come out in the last few years with the Pagan and Heathen communities. Deity possession is happening and it is extraordinarily controversial across denominational divides. While there have been numerous academic texts concerning possession (ranging from tepid to infuriating), to date, this is the first book written by practitioners for both practitioners and the communities in which they work. It’s beautifully written and very accessible. If you’ll pardon the terrible pun, which I just can’t seem to resist right now, you actually get to read about how it’s done, why it’s done, and what it’s like….straight from the ‘horses’ mouths.” (Yes, I know.)<br /><br />While I don’t agree with everything written (I don’t, for instance, see what the issue is with cross gender possessions. It happens. It’s not that rare though the authors spend what to me seems an inordinate amount of time examining the dynamics of cross gender possession), for the most part, I think this is an invaluable book for anyone actively involved in Paganisms or Heathenry. Even if you do not horse, have no desire to horse, have never seen a possession, and don’t want to see one, “Drawing Down the Spirits” (originally titled “Wild Horses” but changed by the publisher, unfortunately to something more ‘academic’) is still a fascinating examination of a growing devotional phenomenon within a broad, diverse, and complex spectrum of polytheistic religions. I cannot recommend it highly enough.<br /><br />The book is currently available from amazon.com as well as major retailers:<br /><br />Drawing Down the Spirits<br />By Kenaz Filan and Raven Kaldera<br />Published by Destiny Books<br />ISBN: 978-159477269-6<br /><br /><br />(cross-posted at The Gods' Mouths).Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-84855426703336303652009-04-22T23:05:00.000-07:002009-04-22T23:13:29.518-07:00Serving Odin - the Fifth Ordeal: Midgardby G. Krasskova<div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">This was the strangest ordeal. Most people, I suspect, wouldn’t even consider it an ordeal but for me, it forced me to embrace, accept and begin to heal all of my body issues. My Midgard ordeal was all about embodiment. It was about learning to accept my physicality, my body, the form and shape of my body, it’s blessings and its limitations. It was about learning to stop seeing my body as ‘the enemy’ and instead accepting that I am as Odin made me, exactly as He made me, exactly as He wanted me. It was about learning to love those connections that bound me to life, to see beauty, and maybe even joy in Midgard.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had never loved life. For as long as I can remember, it had been a grim, painful struggle for me, something to be endured for the sake of duty. The more my Work pulled me away from Midgard existence, separated me from those things that the average person holds dear, the more resentful of that existence I became, and always, there was a soul-crushing weariness, and for a very long time, poverty. Add to that the fact that I detested my body…I had been a professional ballet dancer and my body broke very early on. I hated it for that, for not having the wherewithal to hold out, to mold itself to the look required. I hated it for having so many injuries, for not being beautiful or (so I thought) even pretty, for being awkward and ugly. I hated it for being in severe pain almost all the time. Mostly, I just hated it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This had been a huge struggle for me since I was a young woman. It remains a struggle, I’ll admit, but thanks to my Midgard ordeal huge headway was made, some of the worst of the bitter pain chipped away. I began to love and appreciate life with this ordeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Through my Midgard ordeal, I learned not only that there could be joy in embodiment, pleasure, but also that there was nothing wrong with that. This was also the time when Odin started teaching me about navigating Midgard more efficiently, using the tools of Midgard: dress, presentation, appearance, protocol to make myself “fit in.” This was something that up to this point I’d never learned to do. It’s one thing to be an outsider by virtue of one’s job/vocation as shaman; it’s another to feel alienated from the very humanity of which you are (more or less) part by virtue of your own clumsiness with social markers. I’d had such distaste for the trappings of femininity. To me they bespoke weakness, vanity and I’ll admit there was something deep seated in me that said “why bother? Putting make-up and pretty clothing on you is about as useful as putting ribbons on a jackass.” My Midgard ordeal slowly but surely began to undo all of these knots. It “civilized” me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It transformed my relationship to me and it allowed me to fall in love with living, with life, and the wonderful ups and downs that it brings. I love life now. I never, ever thought I would say that! I’m having a wonderful time, I enjoy who I am. This was my greatest and most unexpected gift from Midgard.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As ordeals go, this one wasn’t bad. In fact, for most women I suppose it wouldn’t have been an ordeal at all. A colleague, G. facilitated this ordeal. She is, in addition to being a spirit-worker, a gifted massage therapist with a keen sense of aesthetics. For her, these things combined in sacred work: restoring to women a sense of their own innate beauty. She had been pushed to offer to facilitate and on the urging of my fire-teacher, I accepted. About a week after my Muspelheim ordeal, I journeyed to MA to meet with her. The ordeal was expected to take three days and would involve remarkable amount of pampering. (As I said earlier, not all ordeals involve physical pain). The purpose of this, and why it was, for me, an ordeal: I would have to confront each and every one of my body issues, my distaste for the flesh, and my issues with femininity directly. The form of the ordeal might be gentle, but the issues it was sure to raise would be anything but.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The first day G. stood me before her full length mirror. She made me look at myself in the eyes, she would not allow me to turn away. I have only the smallest of mirrors in my home (a mirror over my sink). I avoid mirrors as a matter of course. I avoid looking at myself in them. I don’t much like them. They make me hurt. G. stood me before that mirror, one that was her primary magical ally, an ensorcelled tool. She talked to me about mirror magic: how one must guard what one says in front of a mirror, lest we create that spoken reality for ourselves. That mirrors, more than doorways, are realms of manifestation. That one can stand before a mirror, create a glamour and step into it before walking out to meet the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What I had long dismissed as nothing more than a symbol of excessive female vanity suddenly became very interesting as a magical tool. Then, she allowed the words of my Husband, of Odin to come through her and spoke about how He saw me, and my beauty, and my femininity. She spoke about how He valued my strength and how that strength shown forth in my body. She spoke about how He was most pleased with the shape and form of that body. He was pleased with this woman who was a blade, a weapon, a warrior. He would have me no different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This went on for maybe twenty minutes and it reduced me to tears. I still struggle with this but it was at this ordeal that the hard bands of pain around my heart began to ease. Odin had her draw runes in oils and red ochre on me, marking me yet again as His valkyrie, and His bride.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Since Odin wanted to give me the tools to function at a better, more efficient level in the mundane world, to carve a place for myself in that world, G. was tapped to teach me about dress and presentation, including make-up. I’d always had a tremendous distaste for what I defined as feminine frippery, for a number of reasons which anyone knowing my birth family well would understand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It also really highlighted the depth of my ingrained misogyny! Anyway, we spent a couple of hours with her teaching me how to apply professional make up, with her teaching me why this was important, how this could be used to hold and cast a glamour. He wanted me to look at these tools: dress, make up, courtesies, as war paint, as weapons and tools that would enable me to move cleanly amongst a greater variety of people working His will. G. helped me give up the great bitterness and sense of awkward clumsiness that I had with even the idea of engaging in this process. It was at my Midgard ordeal that I gained some semblance of Midgard “drag,” the ability to pass in the professional world of Midgard. I gained those skills and at the same time sacrificed the distaste that I’d had for them. This ordeal helped me hide my monster. Most surprisingly of all, in the months since this ordeal, I've even come to find the entire process (dress, make up, etc.) fun. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day began with a sauna, complete with birch leaf bundles for cleansing. Then she wrapped me in healing herbs and oils, and then, I had a long massage while she used her gift of energy healing to start opening up my heart. We had to be careful with my left leg as the brand I’d gotten at Muspelheim was very new, however, it didn’t get in the way that much. With my back and neck injuries, this was an amazing experience and with G.’s healing talents, it left me feeling more comfortable in my body than I ever remember being before. I’d had massages but I rarely permit energy work to be done—it can really mess up shamans and spiritworkers if done by someone who doesn’t understand how we’ve been modified energetically by our Gods. I’d never had one done by a gifted spirit-worker, working under the auspices of my Gods, specifically to open the barred cavern of my heart.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The following day began with a pedicure, more massage, and a lovely lunch at a local Japanese Restaurant. Then we drove to Salem, where a local scent shop created a personal scent for me, one that focused on my role as Odin’s bride. It was sensual…where I am not. It was lush, where I am not. It was delightful. It was all the things that I wish I knew how to show. That, I suspect, was the point. After spending some time in Salem shopping for various herbs,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>we went clothes shopping as well. G. has great skill as a personal shopper and was able to help me find clothing that flattered my body and made me feel comfortable and professional without being too egregiously feminine, which by nature, I am not. For so long I’d hated anything that had to do with presentation. I avoided clothes shopping partly out of poverty and partly out of body-hatred (I’d been grievously poor for years and only recently was able to even really consider shopping for nice clothes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It affected the way I carried myself. It affected the way I was perceived professionally. It crippled me. Through this ordeal, Odin was giving me a chance not just to undo some of the wounds and hurts, but to learn necessary skills that would enable me to have a professional career in the future. G. helped me to see that I could be in the world, that I wasn’t a freak as a woman. I also learned that making people feel beautiful, and feel comfortable in their skin is sacred work. It’s holy work, the work of a very special type of priestess. I am very respectful of those who engage in such work: massage therapists, those who provide manicures, pedicures, facials, those who work in the beauty industry. In Northern tradition the body is part of the soul matrix and I think that people doing this type of work are essentially helping us to restore part of ourselves, the part that is inevitably the most damaged from the world in which we live. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, that was it really. It was a weekend of immense pampering but also of learning. I realized that our bodies are our tools, yes, but that it is our duty to keep them in as good a working order as possible. That this is the conduct by which we not only touch the world, but also by which we experience the Divine. This is the conduit through which our Gods can experience the world. Most of all, I experienced for a few brief moments how Odin sees me. One of the most difficult parts of my journey was a period of two years where Odin cut me off from the feel of His presence. I’m an empath. For me, part of my relationship with Him was the constant sense of His feelings for me. When that was suddenly blocked and cut off, it threw me into a deep depression. It was a very close thing to my not being able to climb out and only my sense of duty and the Work (thank the Gods for my military background) kept me going. But it was a miserable, hurtful time. It was necessary, absolutely necessary for reasons I won’t go into here, but it left deep wounds in my heart and soul. (Lest I be accused of saying that Odin is cruel, I will reiterate: this was necessary for me to grow and heal. It was hurtful at the time, but in retrospect, I came to understand His reasons and it forced me to address a lot of old, unresolved pain in ways I never otherwise would have. He gave me an immense gift during that very dark time). My relationship with Odin has only recently been completely restored, those wounds healed, literally recently as of this past month, and the blocking occurred for only a two year period several years ago. This ordeal was the first time that I’d felt Odin’s fingers playing over those terrible scars, soothing them. It began a heart-healing that found its fulfillment first in my Asgard ordeal and then again, quite recently with Him directly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So that was my Midgard ordeal and it is a good thing that it was kind and pleasant because the next ordeal was anything but. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-5101920557244837602009-04-22T09:26:00.000-07:002009-04-22T09:28:08.784-07:00Serving Odin - The Fourth Ordeal: MuspelheimBy G. Krasskova<div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">This ordeal was painful, exhausting, grueling and absolutely joyous. It gave me back a sense of confidence in my ability to move (something I’d lost when I retired from ballet years ago). It gave me back a rightful pride in the skills that I had worked hard to accomplish (not all pride is bad). It earned me a measure of ‘face’ and a right to seek out further training in fire magic from Surt, Lord of Muspelheim. It taught me then and there that Odin was paying a price in arranging these ordeals for His valkyrie. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It gave me back a sense of freedom and joy, things that had long been difficult for me to find in Midgard – especially joy in the work. That was my biggest gift in this ordeal: I was given joy. This ordeal also restored me to my magic. In very concrete ways, as the saying goes: “I got my mojo back!” Of course, I had to burn for it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Muspelheim is the Norse world of fire, one of the primal worlds from which all creation sprang. Fire then, is one of our eldest of ancestors and amongst the many lessons that working for/with Surt taught me, is that it deserves to be honored as such. More than life, all existence, creativity and driving momentum came from that cosmic clash, that big bang when Muspelheim and Niflheim collided. As Master of Muspelheim, the God Surt is one of, if not the eldest of beings in the Northern Tradition. He is bestower of fire (and our tradition is one in which mankind never had to steal fire). A few months before this ordeal, Odin had told me to go to Surt and learn the basics of fire magic. Surt had provided a human teacher and I had begun my apprenticeship. My actual Muspelheim ordeal was originally going to take place in May, before I left for six weeks of study in Germany. At the last minute, however, Surt decreed that it had to be in July, at the hottest part of the summer. He also gave very explicit instructions to my team of ordeal masters regarding my ordeal attire. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We decided to hold the ritual the Tuesday before Etinmoot 2007. W. and R. were to be my ordeal masters and I was told to give the entire day – at least—for the ordeal itself. I was told to hydrate myself and eat well the couple days preceding and to make sure to get a good night’s sleep, that this ordeal was going to be extraordinarily grueling on the body. I arrived at the farm fairly early and a little before noon headed down to the field and firepit. First, I was told to strip. I was allowed only to keep my shoes. This was important for me, a mini-ordeal in and of itself. I have a great deal of body-modesty. (It’s almost a running joke with my colleagues because it’s not something that we’re much allowed and in the course of the Work, it’s slowly been chipped away). In fact, I think it’s safe to say that I have more body modesty than any four or five other shamans or spiritworkers combined. It’s just the way I was raised, my own body issues, extreme shyness in certain areas, and an old fashioned sense of propriety. Surt was having none of it. There’s a reason for this: it gets in the way of the Work. Our bodies are our tools. They need to be cared for but not privileged excessively, especially in a way that interferes with what the Gods need to be done. If I need to strip for an ordeal that my Gods have requested, it shouldn’t be a problem. Here is an example of why this might be necessary: the first time I met R. he performed a blood-walking for me. This means, that he performed a rite that allowed him to read my ancestral threads. To do this, at the time, we drove to a cold lake in the middle of October (R., his attendant, me and a friend), R. stripped down and waded into the lake while I stood on the shore and the ritual commenced. Neither one of us thought anything of it. We were in the moment of the Work. It only occurred to us later how odd that might have looked to non shamans or spiritworkers. There can be no hesitation. When the Work demands it, modesty must go. That was a really hard lesson for me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So once I’d stripped, the two ordeal masters smeared sun tan lotion on my back (necessary pain is one thing, stupidity another) and I was told to make a fire. The first thing one must learn for fire mastery (be it in magic or shamanism) is how to make a fire either with flint and steel, or with hand-bow. I had chosen the former. I set up the logs and quickly got a flame going. W., also a fire-master, looked at me and said “Good. That was faster than I expected. Now blow that out and do it again with more mindfulness.” I did so without argument. It took a bit of time to actually get the bonfire going, but I managed it and that fire was mine to tend and keep going throughout the ordeal. As Surt had requested, I sprinkled cedar, tobacco, and alder on the fire…this combination is blessed by fire. It raises a warrior’s energy, and fire energy. It is beloved of Surt. Then, the clothing that I was to wear during the ordeal was given to me: a crown with multiple rows of barbs running down its back, and what Surt called a ‘cloak of fire,” a neck piece with shoulder pads and then row after row of fire colored beads interspersed with barbs…the kind of barbs used in barbed wire. I was to dance until the fire burned down or Surt gave me leave to stop (I had to go through the three large piles of wood prepared in advance to keep the fire going). Every time I moved, the barbs swung and bit into my flesh. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I began to dance and my body was lacerated as each movement caused auto-flagellation. I swung and swayed and moved as fire bade me. I slipped into a deep trance very early on. Fire has its own rhythms, and like ice, its own voice, what W. once called “the most magical sound in the world.” Every so often, I’d feel gentle hands on me, pouring water over my back, forcing me to drink as W. or R. cared for me, making sure I didn’t dehydrate or burn. It was dizzying and I was too dazed to register most of it. I just kept moving. Within the first hour, the kinetic energy was so strong that it caused several strands of beads and barbs to shatter. By ¾ of the way through, all the strands had broken save for a few, which I held in my hands, whirling like a dervish as I began to flog myself. When those shattered, I was given belly dancing scarves with sharp edged coins on them, and an array of floggers. I continued the dance, alternating amongst these tools. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At one point, I was no longer by the firepit. I was in the hall of the Lord of Muspelheim, He watching with His court. I, a valkyrie of Odin danced and flagellated myself, performed before the Master of Fire. This added prestige to Surt, that Odin would send wife and valkyrie to perform the dance of fire and pain. He ordered me to use specific tools, and to whip myself more thoroughly. I was given no quarter. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, I was allowed to put the flogging instruments down and galdr the runes of fire. During the earlier part of the ordeal, Surt had showed me specific dance steps, saying “earth and fire are the weapons of war” and teaching me how to utilize this energy magically. It was difficult to ground by the end. My trance was deep; I’d journeyed to Muspelheim; I was physically exhausted. Close to seven hours from the time I lit the fire, I was permitted to stop. As the fire burned to embers, W. and my fire-teacher, who had arrived mid-way through my ordeal, held me down. R. took a cautery pen and branded Surt’s rune: cweorth, the rune of fire-mastery, the rune of the funeral pyre, the rune of creative destruction into my left thigh. Once the embers burned out, the ordeal was complete. I asked my fire-teacher to go up to let my mother know I was ok (I had massive cuts and bruises on my body and was bleeding and dirty so I wanted to get cleaned up before she saw me). W. and R. helped me carefully back up to the house where I was shepherded into the shower. They and J. scrubbed me down (I could barely stand on my own) and poured salt water over the brand and all the cuts. Then I was left alone to dress (once it was verified I wouldn’t pass out or fall over). Eventually, we went out for a nice dinner (though I looked like a battered wife sitting between R. and W!). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Despite how exhausting and painful this ordeal was, it was a truly ecstatic experience. I came out of it with so very many gifts, completely unexpected. Best of all, I had earned the right to work with fire. I had done something that I never thought I’d be able to do. I, who had long lamented that I had been forced to give up my dancing career, had been gifted anew with a type of dancing – fire dancing—as a magical and shaman’s tool. Surt, through the challenge and blessings of fire, had given me my body back. That would prove crucial for the next ordeal. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-36286971113096666052009-04-21T20:02:00.000-07:002009-04-21T20:04:40.195-07:00Kink and Ordeal<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">By S. Reicher<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been wondering why so many ordeal workers and spirit workers lately seem to be coming out of the kink and BDSM communities. Granted, there is a certain similarity in applied techniques but it seems that very recently, more and more spirit-workers also seem to have extensive experience with kink. For a long time I found this puzzling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, ordeal work is about power dynamics. Yes, ordeal work often includes careful techniques of applied pain. There is often (though by no means always) an element of psychodrama. Yet ordeal work doesn’t have to include any elements of kink, and kink need not include any elements of ordeal. So what might be the reason for all the kinky folk involved in both spirit-work and ordeal work?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Recently, a colleague of mine told me she had read in Time magazine (a long time ago) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>about a 12 year old girl who had just lost her grandfather, to whom she had been very close. She was going through a very normal grieving process. Her parents took her to a psychiatrist because she “wasn’t happy,” and the doctor’s response was to put her on Paxil, an antidepressant., rather than allow her to understand and process her grief naturally. Many of my professional colleagues are therapists, and all of them agree that the numbers of young people (mostly girls) who self-mutilate are astronomical and rising. Eating disorders, sexual abuse, violence in schools and suicide are all on the rise among teenagers. Is there a connection between the way we as a culture approach suffering and the apparent general level of unhappiness among young people?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In a recent post on “Blood for the Divine,” fellow ordeal worker Anya Kless spoke from the perspective of an educator on the desperate need for rites of transition amongst today’s youth. I would take that a step further. I would say that we may be raising people who are completely lacking in emotional resiliency, who then grow up to become adults incapable of functioning in a healthy way when dealing with the “shadow side” of things. I am not suggesting that we subject young people to ordeal work, but that our culture’s deep-seated fear of certain things might color some of the current negative views of ordeal work.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What are the things that frighten people the most, even if they are also secretly attracted to them? Sex, for one. Messiness (be it physical or emotional). Death and pain. This is where ordeal workers and sex path workers may be of service to others. We are the ones who often deal with darkness, sexual repression, fear, pain, and death. We’re the ones for whom these things hold no terror, who can shepherd others through those dark corridors of experience. It’s a very unique type of priest-craft, one that has a great potential to heal despite its “scary” nature.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">All things considered, it’s no surprise to me that there should be so many spirit-workers being drawn from the kink community. The only surprise to me is that there aren’t more. If there's one thing that the BDSM community seems to understand well, it's the cathartic nature of certain types of “play” -- particularly play involving dominance and submission, humiliation, and pain. These things cut through the walls and boundaries that we’ve built around our true selves like nothing else can. Perhaps those kink-aware ordeal masters are at an advantage because our understanding of these things is hard-wired. It helps us to see the value of ordeal work more clearly and, to again quote Kless, we understand that both parties (ordeal master and the one undergoing the ordeal) are bringing something to the table, just as we can understand the dynamic between a dominant and submissive in a less spiritually charged context.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Essentially it’s not solely about inflicting or receiving pain. It’s not solely about sex either, should that come into play, if you’ll pardon the pun. It’s about where these things can lead. In ordeal work, we must learn to share space with pain, to embrace it, move toward it and enter into its dance, rather than pretend it isn’t there. Pain becomes one’s partner in the dance that is the ordeal, the horse by which one travels, and the door through which one walks. In the center of pain, you know what’s true and real. But let’s not make it more than it is. It is a tool and technique, not an end in itself. If having a cup of tea in front of one’s fireplace or cuddling with one’s lover gets the job done, huzzah. Sometimes that is exactly what is needed, the best treatment in the world. If other spiritually transformative or even therapeutic methods work, all the better. If they don’t, well, ordeal work may be better medicine than Prozac.<br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->S. Reicherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00268957949834027169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-46857609639794450632009-04-20T17:38:00.000-07:002009-04-20T17:42:42.312-07:00I walk with painby G. Krasskova<br /><br /><a href="http://tamyris.livejournal.com/175330.html"></a>I walk with pain<br />because he is the companion You have given me on this path.<br />He is not the angel I would have chosen for myself<br />had I been permitted to choose.<br />I walk with pain and he leads the dance, whirling<br />always to the rhythm You have set.<br />Sooner or later I seem to manage to pick up the steps.<br />I guess I’ve been well trained:<br />I know to embrace him as much as I can;<br />and he in turn knows exactly where to touch me.<br />You see, because I am hard, my heart is thorny, my soul is scarred,<br />and sometimes I need a tenacious ally,<br />who will not yield to my protestation,<br />or pleas for mercy.<br />Sometimes I need help<br />opening myself to You.<br />You knew that, having once held my heart so lovingly in Your hand.<br />You knew I needed a companion I could not escape.<br />You knew that only for You and You alone,<br />would I throw myself into this partner’s arms willingly.<br />So I walk hand in hand with pain<br />and I have found that while he is not cruel<br />neither is he kind.<br />He’s wheedled his way in, gone places in my heart<br />locked and barred even to You.<br />He’s guiding me there, helping me,<br />so that one day I can hand You their key.<br />So that one day, there will be no walls between us.<br />Oh my Sustenance, my Adoration, My Lord,<br />You have chosen well for me, a companion on this journey;<br />for while he is neither cruel nor kind, I have found, Beloved,<br />that he is compassionate.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-69081142520313033242009-04-17T18:56:00.000-07:002009-04-17T19:16:26.696-07:00Why What I Do is Sacredby Anya Kless<br /><br />There are many paths to the divine, many roads of divine service. I believe that each of us have been wired with certain gifts and talents, trained whether we knew it or not as we came into adulthood. I also believe that we have little say in choosing our gifts or our paths—only whether or not we choose to own the work that has been asked of us. In my case, this work involves sacred sex and sacred pain.<br /><br />It is fair to say that these are two of the most reviled and misunderstood paths in contemporary spirit work, even within spiritual communities. And yet, I know to the core of my being that in each of these paths, I hold the power to transform and heal others and myself. This power to heal is what makes my work sacred.<br /><br />There is no escaping the role of sex and pain in Odin’s own lore. He slept with a myriad of female figures in many worlds to gain knowledge, tools, and power. He hung on a tree for nine days to gain the runes, which, to say the least, was no picnic. In the “Havamal” of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Poetic Edda,</span> initiation into the runes is written thus:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /> I know, that I hung<br /> On the windy tree<br /> All of the nights nine<br /> Wounded by spear<br /> And given to Odhinn;<br /> Myself to myself,<br /> On that tree,<br />Which no man knows,<br />From what roots it rises.<br />They dealt me no bread<br />Nor drinking horn,<br />I looked down,<br />I took up the runes<br />I took them screaming,<br />I fell back from there.</span><br /><br />In <span style="font-style: italic;">The Runemaster’s Handbook, </span>Edred Thorsson notes that Odin’s own sacred story is something that was traditionally emulated. Particularly, he notes how the initiate would “receive the entire body of rune wisdom etched into his being” (5). This is in fact the first ordeal I underwent—having Odin’s runes skillfully etched into my own skin. This was not a crude act of harming or the whims of a sadist or masochist. It was a sacred act of emulation, initiation, and devotion.<br /><br />Does this mean that everyone called to the Norse gods should go through ordeals involving sex and/or pain? Of course not. Not everyone should be a diviner, an oracle, or an herbalist. If someone asked me to drum and dance for the gods, I’d fail miserably. Those aren’t my gifts, that isn’t my path. Sometimes we experience our gods through writing, through prayer, or through divination. All paths are equal, yet all paths also have their purpose.<br /><br />We live in a culture that is crying out for rites of passage and initiation. As someone who teaches teenagers and young adults, I see this vacuum firsthand. It is this lack of guidance and of opportunities for profound meaning-making that causes self-destructive behavior, not ordeals themselves. What needs to be understood about ordeal and often cannot be seen from the outside is its ability to heal, to teach, and to make us grow.<br /><br />There are some moments when healing requires us to walk into our own dark places. To love and serve our gods, we must face our own fears and failings honestly, the parts of ourselves we want to bury and hide. It is these places that are opened and released in sacred ordeal work. This is what makes those spirit workers called to do ordeal work invaluable. Their path is no better or more sacred than any other, but it is just as necessary.<br /><br />Recognizing Odin as the God of Ordeal does not mean that I see Him as a vicious, demented sadist or a villain. Far from it. He pushes hard to make us our best possible selves, and this is not always pleasant or easy. But neither is love itself. True love challenges us and fashions us. I have seen Odin at His most gentle and generous in the midst of an ordeal. Odin is not all sunshine and puppies, but He is love before all else. Anyone who facilitates or has undergone an ordeal will tell you the same thing about their presiding deity—be it Odin, Loki, or even Hela, Lady of Death. They heal us because they love us. I love my husband with a strength that astonishes me, and I first felt the depth of that love in an ordeal.<br /><br />This may not be your path, but it is mine and it is needed. One day I may be taking your hand and leading you into the darkness, to meet yourself.<br /><br /><br />Works Cited:<br /><br />Edred Thorsson, <span style="font-style: italic;">Futhark: A Handbook of Rune Magic.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Poetic Edda,</span> reproduced in Thorsson.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-24751972641331805252009-04-17T11:25:00.000-07:002009-04-17T11:36:36.578-07:00Serving Odin – the Third Ordeal: Svartalfheimby G. Krasskova<br /><br />This ordeal turned out to have many lessons about memory and obligation, about accountability and the responsibilities incurred by emotional impulsiveness. It taught me much about the blocks and masks I wear for good or ill. Odin said recently that I need not always be so hard, but…I do not always know any other way to be. The Svartalfar taught me the danger of such bravado. This ordeal was about humility and old offenses coming home to roost. It changed the way I relate to the Gods and spirits because it showed me that not only do They all have very long memories that don’t just take into account this life, but all our lives, but that reparation must be made. Period. There are no free rides, most especially in this work and we are called to restore what we have sundered. It’s easy for advanced magicians (or warriors) to fall into great arrogance, even hubris…this ordeal taught me more than any other, the folly of such a thing...Even if lifetimes have passed. Wyrd works. It unfolds and carries us to where we must be, even when the journey is difficult.<br /><br /><em>The account below is taken from my journal, written at various points over the weekend of March -6, 2007. It’s more stream of consciousness than the other accounts largely because I was writing it while I was in transit, in shorts bursts. Also, more than any other, this ordeal involved large periods of path-walking directly into Svartalfheim.</em><br /><br />March 1: JFK Airport:<br />So the ordeal has started already and I’m not even in Brussels yet. The plane we were supposed to depart on at 6:15pm went out of service. Now, we’re scheduled to leave at 10:30pm. (We actually didn’t get off the ground till close to midnight). I considered cancelling, rebooking tentatively for next week but runes were bad: Berkana and Tiewaz reversed. Eihwaz was my counsel and I feel Svartalfheim in this. I spoke with H. (the ordeal master/shaman overseeing this ordeal) prior to leaving the house today and she said that this ordeal will entail specific things (with my luck, in the friggin’ woods) over the next three days. She said they’ve been telling her that they want my remorse (and according to her, they know how to get it): they want me to give up my remorse, the remorse I carry…ah, how she phrased it has slipped my mind. It ties in nicely though with Hela’s lessons. I know –and told the Svartalfar—that such things as this delay—inconveniences which so easily trigger my temper—are good: to test, teach and build character, but I can’t say I want more of them!<br /><br />Friday, March 2:<br />(Had an epiphany: Midgard is the most powerful of worlds because here the core energies of all worlds and all Gods can co-exist and mingle. Humans are fucked up because we’ve moved too far from source. We need blood transfusions: Aesir, Vanir, Jotun, Duergar, etc.. Also, there is too much unhealthy crust that must be chipped away).<br /><br />Setting foot on Belgium soil also prompted this huge epiphany about the American Heathen community. No wonder we’re so lore bound. They’re compensating for lack of ancestral land connection. Here in rural Belgium, the land is dense, layered, rich in memory and experience. It’s palpable. One can taste the blood of the Napoleonic wars, the Templar thread and all the way down to Neanderthals. People still have an instinctive tie to it. They still honor the ancient compact with the land, especially in the rural areas. The vaettir are strong and fed and very, very vibrant. Here the land holds and provides what we use the stabilizing power of lore for. I realized that you can’t really connect to your ancestors until you’ve walked upon your ancestral land, wherever that may be. To know where you’re going, as the cliché goes, you really must know where you’re from. You must acknowledge the forces that shaped you.<br /><br />Saturday, March 3:<br />I went to Belgium for my Svartalfheim ordeal, which was facilitated by H. it was a two day affair and initially may have been longer. After breakfast (9am), H. took me on a many mile hike, through fields, swamps and forests. We walked and path-walked. We entered an outer forest of Svartalfheim and I was tagged by them. This etheric tag showed the reason for my being there and would dissolve in a couple of days. It gave me lawful access to parts of their realm and ensured that unless I was particularly, egregiously stupid, I would not be unlawfully attacked. While walking, we went past a swamp and I saw weapons in the water. It was the first hint I had that for the entire weekend every time I was in Svartalf territory, my energy Sight was wide open when normally I must rely only on my Empathy. After our hike, we had lunch at a local pub and then went to a medieval Cistercian abbey. It’s amazing and amazingly magical. Rather than desecrate the earth, the buildings are actually an extension of its energy. It’s one hell of a power spot and I have to say, someone knew what they were doing when they built that. I lay on my back in one area where, during mass, only the priest would be permitted to tread. I watched droplets of water falling from this huge vaulted ceiling. It was immensely cleansing. I showered in it, drank some of it and had hands and face anointed. The stream of water moved toward me when I stood beneath it.<br /><br />There were dozens of underground passages, catacombs, tombs, cells in the abbey and because they like such places, several of these functioned as doorways to Svartalfheim. I was led to crawl through a low tunnel and eventually went into an underground prison cell (though why this was in an abbey, I don’t’ know). The place just oozed with Svartalf energy and at one point, I was told to put my hand in a dank hole to capture some of the energy…another tag to ease my passage. I didn’t want to but H. told me I might be sorry if I didn’t, so I overcame my aversion. Above was a walled nook that would have made a wonderful outdoor shrine. Below, in the cavern was one hell of a Svartalf doorway. H. had me come in and go a little way through the doorway and that was my first encounter with their primary Goddess. Her energy is deep blue, smooth like glass, very dark, though H. said it could also be jagged like splinters of glass. When I actually SAW Her, H. told me later that my face went visibly the shade of old milk. I respectfully backed out [quickly].<br /><br />Before I left the house that morning, I put on a hand woven protection charm that R. had made for me. I have a trick left ankle and was worried about spraining it, so I put it on the left ankle (and made it through the ordeal without injury). I’m leaving it there until it dissolves. Anyway, Svartalfs seem to like spiders, insects, snakes which makes sense as they live in caves and caverns (did I mention I’m incredibly arachnophobic?) and I left some pretty glass as an offering and a huge tektite. I’d been told before leaving NY to bring a pouch of odd assortment of things so I did and ended up using some of it as offerings to pave my way. Anyway, H. had to guard the doorway this time because a group of Svartalfs in spider form wanted to come through and tear me apart. We couldn’t figure out why. She’d asked me if I had any idea what I’d done but I didn’t. I’d never had any Svartalf encounters in this life so we figured later that maybe it was my bloodline, or Odin, or Loki’s influence. But this was the first warning we had that in some way, shape or form, I was being held responsible for having done them a great wrong. It was good to be warned in advance.<br /><br />Prior to lunch, we stopped at a shallow cave grotto where I made a small offering and was tagged again on the right side. Right after I was tagged the first time, while still in the forest, I picked up a jagged black rock from Svartalfheim for my altar (with permission). I also took another from the abbey. These will form the center pieces to the altar I will set up to the Svartalf Goddess when I return home.<br /><br />We came home after that for snacks and in early evening went out (or tried to as you’ll see) to a Neanderthal cave Rocher de Trou Margritte. Apparently, the Neanderthals left loads of high quality offerings here to be allowed to stay but were so terrified of what lived there that they left in one hell of a hurry. That is how shamans and spiritworkers may attribute the findings at any rate and after going there, I certainly believe this to be the case! Archaeologists speculate that they were set upon by Cro Magnon, though there’s no evidence of that, but we know what it was: the Svartalf Goddess. That cave is a major doorway. Where the abbey was a “civilized” doorway, the cave is a primal one. We didn’t get to it that night though. We drove to Ansemme and Dinant but the Svartalfar weren’t making it easy for us. It was a lunar eclipse –blood moon—a time of celebration and great power for the Svartalfar. Hela had told H. that we had to go out that night even though H. was concerned about my safety and had petitioned to do it at the house. We took a wrong turn and came up behind and above the cave with a wild party going on in the hotel nearby. We drove down this muddy dirt road between a field and a forest and H. went to scout. She encountered really nasty things in the forest and I saw them lurking behind the car. Driving out, our car was physically pulled off the road and into a ditch. We tried for an hour or so to get it out with jack and pulley and finally decided (and Hela agreed) to not lose the blood moon but to go into the woods to at least talk with the Svartalfar. I found the place to call them and H. sat guarding my back. I galdred hagalaz (very softly so as not to draw attention from anything BUT Svartalfs). Several came. One had a huge six foot spider with him and it was very aggressive and at one point nearly attacked me. It calmed a bit after I made an offering and took my hands out of my pocket keeping them palm forward.<br /><br />H. spoke to them and explained why we were there and I confirmed their response empathically. She later said she was hoping my sight wasn’t on and picking up the spider but oh, it was. She spoke Enochian, which is sort of a diplomatic language of sorts between different races and worlds. [I got pinged to learn this eventually]. The Svartalfs said they were busy with the blood moon and basically to come back tomorrow. The damage to our car had been done by unsupervised Svartalfar youth but though this had been unsanctioned, the Svartalf party said they’d consider that our “stupid” tax for having interrupted them on blood moon. Then we were told to leave and not look back.<br /><br /><br />We made a bee line to the car. I got scratched up by thorns pretty badly but when I asked them to let me go, they did. It was sobering to think that Svartalfs could cover that type of territory silently and at about 15 mph. H. said that my night blindness was actually an asset because it made me less of a threat. Also, I was totally unarmed, as instructed. I begin to wonder if I’d have gotten out alive had I BEEN carrying weapons. (<em>Yes, one can incur serious physical injury and even death at this level of path-walking</em>).<br /><br />We then spent the next seven or so hours trying to get the car out. We were not permitted to call for help until every other option had been exhausted. This was part of the ordeal, I suppose. At the last minute, Svartalf youths would muck our plans up: pushing us, snapping rope, throwing shit. Finally, when they broke the jack in half and all other options had been exhausted and I was risking hypothermia, H. was permitted to call the Belgian AAA emergency number and they sent a tow truck in about 40 minutes. While H. went out to the main road to wait for the truck, I stayed in the car and Svartalf youngsters threw pebbles at the car. Once the truck arrive and pulled us out of the ditch, we went home for food, bath and 4-5 hours of sleep.<br /><br />Sunday March 4:<br />At about 3pm, after about four hours of sleep, we drove to Dinant again, H. having doubled checked the location of the cave. She left me by the La Lesse river while she went to scout the best route to the cave. Doing so, she ran into a local arborist cutting some trees and told me later that in lore rich areas, it’s often necessary to get a local “gatekeeper” to give you access to magical sites themselves. He pointed out the cave. This time, we were not waylaid by Svartalfheim adolescents. Their antics were actually an embarrassment to the adults and lost them a bit of face. So while H. was scouting, I explored the La Lesse river. It was so easy to sense the river Goddess and the vaettir were very strong, pleasant and plentiful. I made offerings of chocolate, which was what I had on hand. Had I been there longer, I would have started picking up the scant bits of trash that were around but H. came back and we had to go to the cave. The first cave she’d found had her a bit worried---it had a twelve foot steep climb and was very much in view. One of the maps gave the location of Trou Margritte in a slightly different location though and when she checked that out, that turned out to be the right place. It was off the side of the road, up a rocky hill and completely concealed. It overlooked a lush river valley.<br /><br />We walked through overgrowth and climbed up the hill, which was in itself pretty damned steep. I’d never been in any caves let alone a major Neanderthal cave and it was AMAZING. The energy was old, layered, primal and strong. It was easy to sense vestiges of the people that had once lived there. Originally, I was going to be in a climbing harness dangling from the mouth of the cave for awhile and dealing with the Svartalf Goddess that way: like a spider’s prey bound before being devoured. I’d have been hooked to H. and blind folded for the initial drop off, which would have been a very direct entry into Svartalfheim, which doorway I wouldn’t have been allowed to see. Because of the car trouble and attendant cold and discomfort (perhaps in face saving payment?) that was deemed unnecessary now. (Also, I’d tried the harness in a lower drop the first night I was in Belgium and far from being an ordeal, I found it a lot of fun…which I’m sure played in to my being permitted to enter the cave on foot, rather than by a means I found enjoyable).<br /><br />I fell once inside the cave itself but only bruised myself – on piles of rocks. H. took me to a small nook in the back upper right of the cave and gave me 1/8 dose of calamus tincture, to sharpen my energy Sight. She then anointed my head and back of neck with two oils to which the Svartalfs are allergic. Basically this would keep them at a distance and keep them from tearing me apart. She went down and behind an altar (a large rectangular rock that was perfect for an altar, right inside the entrance in the right corner of the cave) to set up. I laid out the glass ornaments (I’d broken one by falling on it, so didn’t offer that) cigars and candy and turned out my light.<br /><br />They came and quickly. It was claustrophobic and terrifying (one later teased me about having mountain etin blood and being claustrophobic—I was surprised to find that even in the midst of an ordeal, the Svartalfar have a healthy if cynical and sarcastic sense of humor). One to my right took the form of a VERY LARGE spider and it was all I could do to remain calm. Of course it was just as scary, the thought of having to push past him to escape. I was wondering how long the oils would last!<br /><br />I asked what my crime against them had been and was shown the image of a Svartalf. It took me a little while to figure it out but I realized in one of my incarnations as a brash, thoughtless and prideful fighter (I won’t call what I was then a warrior), I’d killed him. While the Svartalfar can be ruthless and excel at killing, I not only had no reason to kill this man but from what I could tell, had betrayed some sort of interaction or alliance by doing so. And I killed him for no other reason than my own pride, for no other reason than to prove I could, to test my skills and possibly impress. It was brazen arrogance. I wasn’t shown much so aside from the deed, so I must infer detail. It doesn’t matter though; in the eyes of the Svartalfar I am guilty. It really brought home the fact that each life is known and cherished by the Gods. Nothing is lost to the eddies of time and incarnation. Also, while killing may sometimes be necessary, it should not be desecrated and that is what I did. Anyway, I was told to seek out their Goddess for details on how I could make proper reparation. Remorse alone, after all, is pointless.<br /><br /><br />I told H. that I’d been told to come down and seek their Goddess and she prepared to allow that Goddess to possess her. She warned me when I could come around the corner into the main cave room. She (the Goddess) was a very good fit for H. H. had previously gone to bat for me in an earlier interaction with Her that day, which resulted in my being allowed the oils, all the more important since I was also bleeding and blood can oh so easily set off predators, even Deities). Now H. crouched down behind the altar and told me I should speak when I felt Her fully seated. (When I speak of a Deity being fully seated, it implies that the possession of the human consciousness by the Deity is complete and the human consciousness has been fully pushed aside. This can take a few moments to happen even with one experienced in such work). This didn’t take very long with H. The black light in the room took on a bluish cast and I felt Her presence smooth as glass and utterly deadly waiting, immense, behind that rock.<br /><br />I told her “Lady, Your people bade me speak to you.” And I explained that I’d been shown that I killed one of them and wanted to know how to make amends. It was an intense though brief encounter and at several points She spat out (and I cannot begin to describe Her voice): “Filthy oils! Lucky to live!” In other words, I am lucky to be alive and quite probably would not be, were I not so warded (there was also the matter of the deal Odin had struck with Her in order for Her to consent to facilitating this ordeal).<br /><br />When I told Her what I’d been shown, She said “My lover.” I apologized for my poor human hearing and asked her to repeat. She said the man I killed had been Her lover, that they all were male and female both. I don’t know whether this was meant literally or whether it was symbolic of the way this Deity feels about each and every one of Her people. It really didn’t much matter at the time. I was sure at that moment, that I was a dead woman. I asked how to make reparation. She pointed out that nothing would bring him back and that they breed only with difficulty. She said were it up to Her, She would order me to breed one but that “Your Odin” won’t permit it. (Thank you, Husband!!!!). Instead, I was ordered to find a Svartalf-souled human (it happens) and foster him (and it will be a man), whether he likes me or not, whether I like him or not. I must guide him and give him what he needs (not sexually, but foster as a guardian might foster a child). Then She said She was done with me, but to tell “my” Odin that She wasn’t done with Him yet. Then I was dismissed with the words “Lucky to live. Get out.” I said, “Yes, Ma’am” and got the hell out of the cave, leaving everything behind.<br /><br />I waited outside the cave for H. who brought our things out awhile later. Then we set off down a winding , but fairly easy path that we hadn’t seen before. This took us to the car. We drove home, made a fire, and I called my mother to assure her I was ok, as she’d been very worried. We had high protein dinner and did some energy work. Right before I went to bed, I felt the tag dissolve and a huge but very corporeal spider crawled out of my pant leg and away.<br /><br />I asked H. if I should set up a small shrine to their Goddess as I’ve been doing after each of my ordeals for the Deities in question and she said she felt their Goddess might like that and gave me some workable instructions. I was also given a steel ring with the symbol of the Svartalf house to which the man I killed belonged. I was told to wear it and that this would draw us together, though it might take a decade or more. So I have my slave bond LOL, but one that will give me a bit of protection from lesser nasties as I’m now in the employ of the Svartalfar. One thing this really drove home is how great a gift fertility is. It’s not a gift I personally want-- I never want to breed -- but it IS a gift. Granted, humans have abused it by not taking into account our resources (we over breed) but still….given the high rate of still births and difficulty in conceiving and carrying to term other races like the Svartalfar experience, it is a gift. When I have my Vanaheim ordeal, I want to see if there is some way my fertility can be removed from my body and given to a Svartalf woman, so that she would then have human fertility. It’s a gift that should be used by someone who cherishes it.<br /><br />So, that is it. I came home Tuesday after several more protections were loaded onto me for safe passage. (Svartalfar are pretty ruthless and upfront only in their ruthlessness so …”trust God but keep your powder dry” as the saying goes). H. was treating me like a diplomatic parcel. My Muspelheim ordeal is already scheduled for May so I now have that to prepare for. I’m grateful to have survived this one, though I have to say, even at their most terrifying, the Svartalfar have a definite aesthetic sense.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-69051203176265087382009-04-16T16:53:00.000-07:002009-04-16T20:42:53.056-07:00Cockyby Anya Kless<br /><br />Ordeals come in many forms, as does the training that prepares us for them. Part of my path is the path of the flesh - sex work. I only realized much later that much of my sexual history has been preparation for the things I do in the name of Odin, and Lilith, and--last but not least--Loki. Looking back, I am made aware of how thoroughly He shadowed me during my formative years of sexual play and performance.<br /><br />My high school boyfriend fell for me while I was dressed as Zorro. Maybe it was the riding boots, the black mask, or the penciled-on moustache. Maybe it was my cocky little smile. In college, I fucked boys and girls interchangeably—sometimes in happy groups of naked lust—and I continued masquerading. I cropped off my hair, dyed it fire engine red, and ran the gambit of self-expression from extreme femme to farm boy butch. I began a written correspondence with one of my best female friends—and bedmates—even though we lived in the same building. She played Fritz, a bright-eyed German student, while I answered as Alexi, a brooding Russian revolutionary. We filled pages with our fervent, melodramatic desires, all the while staying up late critiquing bad porn, discussing our feminist theory class, and watching every film from the “Gay/Lesbian” section of our local Blockbuster. It was a fruitful time of experimentation. I honestly didn’t know what box I belonged in, but luckily I was in an environment that didn’t care if I ever chose.<br /><br />After college I had less opportunity for such blatant play, but Halloween has always been a good excuse. For one of my first Halloweens in New York City, I morphed into a goth princess to the extreme. I covered myself in tattoos and piercings (temporary), made up my face, whitened my skin, and sprayed my hair into a jet black spiky halo. When my unsuspecting boyfriend knocked on my door, a whispered “Oh my God” slipped out before he could say anything else. As we rode the subway, parents moved their children away from my layered black gown and arched eyebrows. A few years later, my roommate and I went out as a loser hipster boy and his Russian bride. I provoked a fair amount of amused disgust with my stubbled jaw, stringy hair, and faux paunchy physique. I didn’t go as far as I used to with rolled socks down the crotch of my jeans, but I felt the transformation was a success. <br /><br />I have always enjoyed the fluidity of my appearance and the possibilities of multiple identities. There are times where it’s worked against me, yet it’s also made me more generally adaptable to whatever life throws my way. I am a natural chameleon, which explains why I could fit into the social world of every person I’ve dated, from academics and composers to lawyers and insurance salesmen. It’s another kind of drag, what my friend Tamyris calls the “Midgard drag.” In other words, how well can you “do” normal as your spirit work slowly pulls normalcy away from you? <br /><br />My answer: surprisingly well. <br /><br />My abilities in this area no doubt stem from Loki, master showman, trickster, and transformer. I built Him an altar in the fall, but I’ve only been starting to have ‘sessions’ with Him in the last month. Most of these sessions involve charging my strap on, a sacred tool that sits on His altar when not in use. The first time I held it during a meditation, He came through as a rough and gorgeous punk boy, there to break all the rules and show everyone how it’s done. While I watched, speechless, He took Odin—my very dominant husband and master—and used Him as a demo bottom. “This,” He grinned while thrusting, “is how you fuck an Odin’s man. This is how they need it.” Hail Loki, Blower of Minds.<br /><br />Luckily for me, I had fucked men before. Before I’d ever used a strap on, I was skeptical that it could provide any enjoyment to the person wearing it. I saw it as the equivalent of turning yourself into a sex toy for someone else. It set off all my feminist alarms about women, even dominant women, serving as mere tools for male pleasure. <br /><br />Boy was I wrong. <br /><br />I remember the exact moment I realized it, too. I had a beautiful, bound male submissive on his knees before me, someone I cared deeply about and switched with for almost two years. That evening, he greedily sucked on my strap on, choking whenever I decided to pull on his collar and slide it down his throat. Needless to say, he was moaning—when not choking—and rock hard. The surprise? I was so wet my own juices were dripping down my leg. I don’t know if it was the control, the energy, or something else, but I had an epiphany. This is fucking hot.<br /><br />By the time I got to Loki, therefore, I knew there was both power and pleasure contained in my silicone cock. I knew that I would need to extend my energy into it and create an astral connection, literally building a phallus for myself. Of course, the trickster had more surprises for me.<br /><br />Last week, I went to see Him again, despite the fact that my new harness had not yet arrived (I had lost the old one when my relationship with the beautiful cocksucker ended. I never keep used toys – too much of an energy connection there.) With a black bungee cord, Loki taught me how to quickly and simply fashion a makeshift harness. I attached my new cock and carved up a nice red candle for Him. I felt the energy in the room changing. As I stood in front of the mirror, freshly showered, hair slicked back, makeup-less, cock in place, I was morphing. I wanted to erase my breasts and thrust my hips. I felt—to use a bad pun—cocky. Loki had nudged me into the headspace of a gay man. <br /><br />As a top I tend to be quite femme, so this was odd to say the least. Some of my past female partners had triggered my male side, but in a very hetero, sexual predator kind of way. This was different. I grunted and muttered things through gritted teeth as I stroked my cock with a lubed-slicked, gloved hand. I wanted different things, I made different noises, I even came differently. Rather than the full-body, paralyzing girl orgasms I usually have, this was localized around my cock. Interesting.<br /><br />Yesterday we had another session with the same results. I wonder if there are going to be clients I’ll have to penetrate as a man, or if He’s just trying to widen my horizons. The more permutations I have, the more useful I am. I know I have the potential to see anyone as a potential partner. I know I can be both top and bottom, and I know I can do drag. I just never guessed I’d be in drag energetically. <br /><br />I have never felt that I was born into the wrong body or that I wanted to physically change my sex. For me, it’s a matter of fluidity and transformation. For some people, that might make it less real. For others, play is a dirty word that connotes not taking your true identity seriously and living it 24/7. I know that my ability to “pass” as “normal” is not a choice some people have or frankly want. Personally, I celebrate the idea of play, even as it becomes my work. Knowing my history, it makes sense and just seems like the next step. It still caught me off guard, but then again, that’s what He does best. <br /><br />Hail Loki, Master of Disguise.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-17091155646607798712009-04-14T08:17:00.000-07:002009-04-14T08:19:56.907-07:00Serving Odin - the Second Ordeal: NiflheimBy G. Krasskova<br /><br />One of the things that became powerfully clear to me throughout my ordeal cycle was that I have been immensely blessed by a handful of very dear, very close friends. It’s not that I neglected my friendships before this, but having everything in your life, especially in your interior life stripped away to the bare essentials really does tend to realign one’s priorities and bring a certain perspective and clarity. Certain truths are brought home when a friend is willing to walk into hell with you and, moreover, to care for you during and after such a trek. Niflheim, above all other worlds, taught me gratitude.<br /><br />Looking back on my first ordeal, I’m amazed at how terrified I was at the time, at how overwhelmingly difficult it was. I realize now, that each of these ordeals were pushing me, challenging me, training me, and preparing me for the next one. That wasn’t their only purpose, but it was something that occurred consistently throughout the cycle. I could not have begun with the third or fourth ordeal. This was a gradual building process and Hela laid the foundation stones. All the ordeals hold places of remarkably stark clarity in my memory and it seems that there was a huge leap in physical difficulty from Helheim to Niflheim. I suppose when dealing with this particular world and the lessons it brings, that is only to be expected.<br /><br />Niflheim is the Norse world of ice and cold. It is a world of stasis and contraction, of inertia and rot. In the beginning, before time was, before even the Gods were, there was Niflheim (and its sister world Muspelheim, the world of fire). They spun in opposition to each other, and in balance. Gradually they began to draw closer to each other and one day collided in a great, primordial conflict, a big bang, if you will. From this collision of diametrically opposed dimensions, all life burst into being. Niflheim is the home of the dragon Nidhogg, who gnaws the rot from the roots of Yggdrasil. It was this being I had been ordered to meet.<br /><br /><em>The following is transcribed from my journal account, written two weeks after my February 2007 journey into the world of ice. Odin is pushing me to post these much faster, much closer together than I otherwise would. Any reference to my mother is to my adopted mother, not my bio-mom.<br /></em><br />It’s been two weeks since my Niflheim ordeal and I’ve only now been able to gather myself enough to write about it. I know that it’s important for me to keep clear accounts for myself, but this particular ordeal pushed me to the limits of my physical endurance and ripped me open emotionally in ways I never, ever expected. I’ve had such an aversion to the whole experience that I even left all my camping gear with W. and F. after the journey was done. I just didn’t want to look at it for awhile.<br /><br />The shape and structure of this ordeal was determined at the tail end of my Helheim ordeal in November: I was to seek the dragon Nidhogg in the wilderness over a period of three or four days. It was very important for me to experience Niflheim not by spirit journey but in the actual flesh, so that I would truly understand what that realm was all about and, I now suspect, so that the sheer physical discomfort would further contribute to the process of ripping me open. W. and F. volunteered to take me up into the woods in Lincoln, NH for four days of winter camping. Eventually, we scheduled this to take place the first weekend of February and I set about purchasing my gear. I had never camped before and I have a severe back and neck injury so there was a strong element of potential danger in this ordeal. I’d never gone camping before, or hiking, or really done anything out of doors. I’m coming to realize that my childhood and early adulthood were very sheltered things!<br /><br />I traveled up to their home as planned on February 1st. It’s odd how many important situations and ordeals in my spiritual life seem to take place around Imbolc. Before going, in honor of that, I performed a brief Imbolc ritual and made a necklace as a gift to Brigid, since it is Her holiday. For all that I am Heathen, She does seem to crop up again and again in my life, though I have no particular call by or to Her. Still, it never hurts to be respectful. I made sure to pack my prayer beads too and a journal, as well as scalpels and bandages in case the latter were required as part of the actual ordeal. After arriving at W. and F.’s, I spent a night at their apartment and we set off in the morning.<br /><br />We stopped at EMS to pick up some last minute supplies and food and arrived at the park rather later than we expected. We got geared up and headed off on a four mile hike to get to the actual woods. I knew I was in trouble the moment they put the pack on my back…it was much heavier than I thought it would be and I staggered under the weight. To get to the actual woods, we had that four mile hike ahead of us. The four miles were on a wooded trail, but one fairly well traveled by other hikers and skiers. W. and F. had selected a route for us to follow weeks in advance of the actual ordeal trip and the route selected was perfect. We entered the initial path by crossing a suspension bridge. The water was beautiful. It was the most vibrant shade of icy green that I have ever seen, in part because of the layers of ice that had formed beneath the surface of the water. Upon crossing that bridge, there was the palpable sense that we were crossing not into Niflheim but into an in-between place, a place of passage form one world to the next, neither our world, nor Niflheim. We weren’t just walking; we were path-walking, journeying between realms, between the nine mighty worlds.<br /><br />It was cold, but not terribly so as we began. The first couple of miles of the hike weren’t bad. By the fourth mile, my left hip began to spasm badly. Since we started late, we were rapidly losing light and W. had gone on ahead of us to scout the campsite and start setting up the tents. F. stayed with me and encouraged me through the worst of the pain and really kept me going. Finally, we came to a second bridge and the end of the populated trail. On the other side of the bridge lay unbroken woods and she challenged me, letting me know that if I wanted to back out of this ordeal, this was the last opportunity to do so. I knew that I couldn’t though and so we crossed that second bridge walking and path walking and there was the palpable sense that by doing so, we were crossing into Niflheim.<br /><br />A half mile later we were at the campsite. It had started to snow by that time (W. said the only thing worse would have been icy rain) and we hurried to set up the two tents. Since I’d never been camping before, W. and F. did almost all of the actual work setting up, teaching me as they went how to manage my gear. For the entire time we were there, we had a cold camp (no campfire) and after boiling a bit of water on a tiny portable stove, I ate a couple of bites of a dehydrated meal and went to bed.<br /><br />Late that night is when the emotional weight of the ordeal began to hit me. I knew I was in Niflheim and as much as I may dislike Midgard and feel myself an alien there, it was rapidly brought home to me that it is my home. I am as much a part of the human world as I am any of the other worlds and it’s important to honor that. There are emotional ties that I have to people in Midgard that could never, ever have existed in any of the other worlds and we live, despite how badly we fuck it up, at a far higher level of comfort here than in any of the other worlds, especially Niflheim. Ties here are based on emotional connection and caring, not, as in Niflheim, on ruthless survival. This ordeal was also the first time I’d really courted my own mortality. It’s one thing to work out in a dojo with folks wielding edged weapons. That’s dangerous, but it’s a controlled danger. Here, there was no such control. We were completely at the mercy of the elements: ice, cold, and snow.<br /><br />It wasn’t my mortality that I was confronted with though. Late that night, I was hit hard by the mortality of those I care about the most, especially my adopted mother. The reality of her impending death really hit me terribly hard (This part of the story is not mine to tell. Those who know her will understand why it hit me so hard. ). That knowledge was sudden agony. I do not know which frost etin came to drive the point home, but I felt the presence and I was rapidly reduced to sobbing. She nourishes me in ways I was never before able to express and the thought of her death struck home, a blow for Midgard, like nothing else. When she dies, it will leave my life as barren as Niflheim was that night I huddled in my tent.<br /><br />I couldn’t stop crying and I was told that Midgard is the brightest of worlds. We live and love here with a uniqueness that I still don’t quite understand. I was told that this uniqueness is unknown elsewhere: Midgard is the meeting place of Gods. We carry that forth causing both confusion and brilliance in our lives. We carry those bits of Gods in our DNA. This is the place where creativity can flourish and the friendships and love bonds that we have are so precious and unique precisely because they would be impossible elsewhere.<br /><br />That night, the temperature dropped ten degrees below zero, the coldest I’d ever endured. I started noticing things about the woods around me: trees have their own language and talk to each other if one listens carefully enough. It’s even possible to understand their speech a little bit. The cold has a different smell at night when it’s coldest and in the morning, when light warms some of the chill away. Ice can sing.<br /><br />Saturday it was very, very cold throughout the day and we mostly huddled in our respective tents and sleeping bags. I was allowed very little contact with W. and F., though they kept an eye on me to make sure I was alive. I spent a little time with them that morning, telling them what had hit me so hard about my mother, about Midgard, etc. Then I went back to my tent to write a bit in my journal and to write a letter to my mother. We were originally going to pack up and move to a different site and then come out of the woods two days later by a different route but the brutal severity of the weather changed our plans. Since I’d found a place where I could go to call the dragon later that day, and for safety reasons, we decided to stay at our original campsite and depart the following day, provided I did all I needed to do with Nidhogg. Around dusk, I prayed my prayer beads and went to the clearing selected to call Her.<br /><br />I have to admit, huddling in a freezing tent (which at night iced over inside), colder than I’d ever been, completely cut off from anything Midgard, being slowly opened emotionally and ripped raw (I am a very private, reserved person who would generally prefer to eat glass than talk about her feelings), I wondered what on earth I was doing there. For the first time, I really regretted being a spirit-worker, having sought out Mimir and having asked for more skill. I regretted everything and wanted nothing more than to live a quiet monastic life without any magic or shamanic crap. I knew this was impossible but still, for the first time regret hit me so very hard. I even felt immensely resentful of Odin and wondered if there was any point to what I was doing at all. The whole experience was like some sort of vicious experiment in sensory deprivation and I still feel rather traumatized by it…far more than I expected I would, though I knew these ordeals would rip me open and change me. I found myself missing my connections to Midgard, especially those people closest to me, longing to hear their voices, especially longing to speak to my mother. At one point I had to fight down the panic that I would not get back to civilization again and she. wouldn’t be there, would already be dead. I found myself praying to the Gods to get me through this. Magic, shamanism, the rest of it held at that point utterly no allure for me. I just wanted to love the Gods with the humility my mother has in her devotions. I found myself questioning whether being a spirit worker (as though I had a choice) was really the way I am meant to serve. I have never before felt cut off from everything that I am, and everything and everyone that I care about. I’ve always considered myself a solitary person but my mother (she is my adopted mother) had pointed out that she felt that was only because I’d never had a choice in the matter. Now I began to realize she was right: I need the people in my life. I need the contact, both to give and to receive. Despite the way that Midgard has harmed me, and the pain it continually evokes, I saw that through those I care about, I have a place there. Maybe the beauty of Midgard lies in the fact that love and friendship can overcome that terrible hurt that it can so easily and readily cause.<br /><br />I was so damned cold on Saturday that I found myself actually thanking the Gods that we were leaving Sunday. I don’t think I could have taken one more day in that place. Even now, it makes me sick to my stomach to think about those three days. Anyway, Saturday at dusk, I prayed my prayer beads (though I felt like doing anything BUT praying to Gods that had brought me to that desolate place) and headed out to the clearing I’d selected to seek the dragon. W. and F. stayed in their tent while I went out. First, I laid a large pouch of cardamom tea (a favorite of mine) loose in an organic linen bag by a log. This was an offering to the frost etins for granting us safe passage (more or less) in and out of their territory. Then I spoke aloud, explaining why I was there and I began to sing to the dragon. I had been told at the end of my Helheim ordeal that I would have to sing to the dragon. I tried over and over to prepare a song in advance but nothing would come. I managed part of a chant to the dragon of rot but ultimately I was moved simply to galdr and I sang the rune nauthiz for quite awhile. I’m not sure how long it was until this massively long blue dragon appeared. She (although S/He told me S/He could appear as either gender or none depending on Her wishes) took the remains of the poison from me, not in blood, as I’d expected, but in tears.<br /><br />Hela had infected me with a poison during my Helheim ordeal, a poison designed to bring up my contempt and all the rotted parts of my spirit and psyche so that it could be extracted by the dragon. Nidhogg did extract it, but through my tears. As I galdred, W. and F. told me later that they could hear a second voice counter-pointing and answering my own. When I went back to my tent, I stopped by theirs to ask W. if there was anything more to be done (I was very glad not just to have two friends there who were experienced campers, but to have one who was also a shaman to double check things). He said I looked like a weight had been lifted, that I looked completely different from before meeting with the dragon.<br /><br />I went back to my tent and slept as best I could. Kari sent His son Frost to watch over me, a gift I appreciate immensely. That night, the temperature dropped to 23 below zero. We had all planned to get up and get an early start Sunday and every time I woke up during the night of terrible cold, I’d check my watch and think, “only X more hours until we can leave.” A little after 8am W. called up to see if I was ok and after I yelled back that I was, I heard him say to F.: “Thank god, I don’t have to run to the ranger station. She’s still alive.” It drove home the fact that had I not managed my sleeping bag rightly the night before, the temperatures were so brutal that I could in fact have died. We were camping not too far from where a lost hiker had been found dead two weeks earlier. (When another ordeal master, L, very experienced in hiking and winter camping as well as mountaineering, saw the pants and boots I’d been wearing, she said I was damned lucky not to have gotten frost bite or hypothermia).<br /><br />We packed up and were moving out by 9:30am. It was still terribly cold and windy. I naturally feel grateful that I have all my toes. I’d had to sleep with my boots inside a stuff sack inside my sleeping bag to melt the ice on them and they got very cold again very quickly, painfully so. Once we were on the trail back, it wasn’t so bad, but while we were packing up, it was awful. It took us several hours to wind our way back to the ranger station. We first crossed the suspension bridge out of Niflheim and into the in-between place that we had to travel to get back to Midgard. I was so relived and seeing the first human being on the trail as we walked and pathwalked back was both a relief and an odd joy. It seemed to take forever going back, but as amusing as it may sound, the thought of a heated bathroom, clean underwear, and getting the god-damned pack off my back kept me going.<br /><br />Eventually, we made it to the initial bridge and crossed back into Midgard. Those passages over the two bridges were physically palpable things and I have never been so glad to return to the human world in my life. I went home with W. and F., bathed (we all oh so seriously needed a bath), changed into blessedly clean clothes and then we all went out for dinner. I realized that, with the exception of a few bites of food, I’d essentially just fasted the entire time I was out there, which L. said later made it much harder on me physically. I just had no desire to eat when I was there. I was also somewhat dehydrated. I brought a bit of water back from Niflheim to add to my altar but that was all and it was days before I could touch it after I returned. I was originally scheduled to return to NYC on Tuesday, but I had such a craving to be in my own space, to return to my own home, to call my adopted mom, make sure she was ok (and alive), and to just be back to what was familiar to me, that I went home Monday instead.<br /><br />My next ordeal is the first weekend of March: Svartalfheim. Nidhogg told me I had to offer blood to the Svartalfar and there was a tiny bit of Hela’s poison left in me that only they could remove. I also found I brought the cold back inside of me…I’m still not warm. I also discovered something that Hela did to me during Her ordeal: She tied me into my root. I can’t dissociate from pain anymore. I used to be very good at doing so and could handle intense amounts of pain. Not anymore. Things that wouldn’t even have registered on my radar before are now extremely painful. My massage therapist here in NY said that now I actually HAVE a relationship with pain…which kind of hit home. But it’s really made ordeal work a whole different experience of unpleasantness. I’m still recovering from this particular epiphany. It means that I must learn to share space with pain instead of just shoving it away (and not just physical pain). I have a sickening feeling that I will be unshielded, unwarded, and completely open most especially emotionally throughout the duration of the ordeal cycle.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-37525872226163423302009-04-13T18:03:00.000-07:002009-04-13T18:08:29.213-07:00Serving Odin - The First Ordeal: Helheimby G. Krasskova<br /><br />In November 2006 I began the process of dying for my God. Over the next three years, I would undergo nine ordeals, one ordeal for each of the nine worlds in Norse cosmology. I started at the bottom of the World Tree, Yggdrasil, the Tree of life, death, wisdom, and sacrifice. I started at the bottom because I belonged to Odin. Throughout this cycle, I would work my way, through terror and pain, through love and devotion up the Tree toward Asgard, toward Him. This accomplished several things (no one can ever tell me our Gods aren’t good at multi-tasking!): I was able to undergo my shamanic death and rebirth, I journeyed to all the worlds and established contacts and allies there, I learned about His journeys and the path of Odin that I’m on.(1) It was horrible, terrifying, beautiful, painful, joyous, ecstatic, and transformative, just like this God that I serve. It was three years of calculated, on-going terror beyond anything I had experienced to that point. I did it willingly but that willingness did nothing to lessen either the pain involved, the loss (and there was much) or the fear. Yet…one other thing I learned through all my ordeals: if He asked me to do it all over again, I would. Joyously.<br /><br /><br /><em>The following is from my journal, which I kept throughout the cycle. The death cycle spoken about is something many shamans go through: a psychic/mental/emotional and sometimes physical death and rebirth, wherein the Gods remake the shaman in any way They see fit. For many, it occurs in one traumatic incident. For others, it is a process. Mine was a calculated (how could it not be with my Lord) cycle.</em><br /><br />Today I began my ordeal cycle. I’ve known I had to do this for months now. I’ve had it confirmed by two different diviners and shamans. The only way out is through. Odin is killing me in pieces, bit by bit, because I do not love life enough to come back were He to do it all at once. That is what He said: I simply do not love life enough. He cannot simply spear me and be done with it. I would not have the passion for life to drag myself back. Nine worlds, nine ordeals and I will walk into them all…and I’m terrified. Today, I began with Helheim.<br /><br />My adopted Mom flew in from CA and came up to R.’s with me. It was so good to see her. She is my touchstone of normalcy, of rock-solid steadfastness. She belongs to Sigyn and Loki and while she’s not happy about this ordeal, I know she trusts the Gods and is praying that I can see it through. She cannot be present at the ordeal, but she will be waiting to provide any necessary aftercare. I’ve been a warrior all my life and I have never felt so weak…and hopelessly unprepared.<br /><br />We arrived at the farm about 1pm. W. arrived about an hour later. The actual ordeal started a little after 4pm. Between the nerves and the terror, I felt like I could barely breathe for the hour or so beforehand. For weeks I’d been experiencing this intense sense of dread and impending death. I was worrying over my adopted mother, who is not in good health and over my oath-sister, thinking that perhaps something terrible was going to happen to them. Then I took a good long look at the threads of wyrd and realized that sense of impending doom had my name all over it! I was heading toward death. I was heading toward Helheim. I was heading toward that place where no one returns unchanged. All that sense of doom was me. <br /><br />It was quite cold outside but fortunately I was allowed clothing. R. had made me a robe out of a warm white blanket. He also permitted me to wear a woolen, white cloak – white the color of death and rebirth in so many traditions, and of cleansing. My Gods were with me, even though through my fear I couldn’t feel Them much. Loki had told me months ago that if I got a specific tattoo for Him, He’d walk with me as far as He could through my ordeals. I had hunted and hunted, but had not been able to find what He wanted. The night before the ordeal, awash in nervousness, I asked Him if He’d walk with me anyway. I couldn’t hear His answer though. I could not calm myself enough. Right before I was about to robe, R. went out to get herbs to burn to ash2 and came back with two huge mullein leaves. He said he didn’t know why, but Loki had told him to pick them (mullein is one of Loki’s herbs) and to give them to me: one to put in each of my shoes. I almost cried. I knew it was Loki telling me that yes, He’d walk with me. I would not be alone.<br /><br />After I robed, and at the appointed time, I took a basket of altar supplies and walked alone down to the field. W. was already there having been selected to witness (he volunteered and fit Hela’s criteria, having recently undergone his own shamanic death). I set up the altar and poured Her an offering of alcohol. Then W. directed me to kneel at the Northern Gate, a torii-like structure marking the North perimeter of the ritual space. I did so and each wrist was secured by rope to either pole of the gate. Then I waited. After what I thought was about a half our or so, Hela came. She had possessed the body of Her shaman R. Her presence was unmistakable. Death walked the field that night. She circled behind me as though I was less than prey, as though I was nothing, as though contemplating what She wished to do to me, what would be the least blow to do the most shattering. Then came to the front of me and extended Her hand to be kissed. It was Her skeletal hand and as soon as my lips touched the bones, this indescribable, icy shudder passed through me. Then my ordeal truly began.<br /><br />She was far more merciful than I expected or deserved. She challenged me on several fronts: my massive contempt, my hatred of life especially my corporeal nature and all the fear and weakness that I hide away. Hela facilitated my colleague and friend’s death ordeal and in that ordeal, he was rarely permitted to speak. For me, who prefers to remain silent on those matters I hold most closely to my heart, for whom speaking of pain, or fear, or love, or anguish is the hardest thing in the world, well, She made me speak. She forced me. She allowed me no quarter, no breathing space in which to hide a single motivation, failing, or ugly, ugly fault. At one point, She slammed my face down into a large cauldron of water, holding me just long enough. I was surprised She let me up so quickly, after the initial shock. Then She took out my heart and made me beg to have it returned. She forced me to give voice to my deepest fears. All must go, She said, whether I would or not, all save my fear that Odin won’t want me. That I’m allowed to keep, that is fitting reminder, a memento mori or sorts.<br /><br />The Goddess of death and decay chastised me for my hatred of my body and my ill-conceived abuse of it. She held a knife to my throat and taught me to be grateful for breath. My hatred of my flesh invalidates the offering of the ordeal and She charged me to examine that and to give it up. She drew forth my contempt, plucking at its roots. She took my blood, forcing me to take blood oath in the river Hvergelmir that I would break it down and give it up. That was my sacrifice to Her. I who am not ever fully of Midgard, must learn to connect and build threads there and contempt causes whatever roots I lay to wither away like dust. She forbade it. Then She laid a challenge on me that caused my stomach to roil and every fiber of my being to protest: I was charged with finding three people that I held in great contempt (rightly or wrongly it does not matter) and apologizing to them. Contempt in Her eyes damaged me. It was not about the other person. They might in fact deserve lawfully every ounce of contempt I could muster. I was still not allowed this indulgence. It destroyed my own worth and by doing so, made me unfit for Odin’s service. It poisoned my soul. It must go.<br /><br />As of this writing, I have already taken care of this. I did so almost immediately after the ordeal, calling one person and contacting the others by email. My words were mocked and misunderstood but that matters not. It only matters that I did as Hela bade and gave what was not mine to hold, back to its rightful owners. I returned contempt to its source allowing it to run out of my heart like water through a sieve. It was wrenching. I was required to choose those people that I least wanted to contact, those people who had slandered, harmed, attacked, and libeled me for over a year causing me no end of trouble. I was required to choose people who had attacked my relationship with my Gods, especially Odin, my value, my sanity, my worth, and my right to call myself Heathen. I was required to contact those who had forced me out of what was then my tribe. I only realized afterwards that this was Hela’s blessing: in apologizing, I freed myself. My only caveat was that I should not choose someone for whom my anger was worse than my contempt.<br /><br />After Hela gave me this order, the ordeal was not over. I was flogged with a bundle of thorny roses, which was more symbolic than anything else. But then She grabbed me and carved a great bindrune in my lower back with a scalpel. I did not find out until my next ordeal a few months later, that in doing this, She worked a charm into my flesh that prevented me from dissociating from pain. I had committed to my ordeal cycle, so I would feel everything. I had long been used to simply turning the needs of my body off, including pain. I had been a professional ballet dancer for years as a young woman and learning to not feel pain is a necessary skill. This was no longer acceptable to Hela. She locked me down into my flesh.<br /><br />She said she both bound and poisoned me, that if She were to rip it all my contempt out now, it would kill me. Instead, in addition to binding me to my flesh, She poisoned me with a charm that would rot the crap within me that needs to go. She told me it would be painful and that at my next ordeal, Nidhogg would suck it out of me.<br /><br />Finally, She cut the cords binding me to the gate posts, tossed the knife point deep in the dirt and left. I got the ropes off my wrists which were both bruised and burned and sat for awhile, getting feeling back in my legs from where I’d been sitting seiza. W. had previously rescued my glasses – I hadn’t noticed – and brought them and a towel.<br /><br />Hela had challenged me to be the type of person I’d have others emulate and to explore my failings there. Eventually, R. came back to the fire and had to sit and tic. Hela is very still, so it’s hard not to tic afterwards, after She leaves the body She had possessed. We talked and debriefed each other. There was one shocking moment when we realized that despite the fire, everything Hela had touched, and only what She had touched, was frozen over.<br /><br />Before this night, I’d expected physical pain but this was a humiliation ordeal, one that reduced me to tears several times. At one point, I just sobbed and held Hela’s hand, nuzzling it. She was hard and very just as only Death can be.<br /><br />Aftewards, R. and W. took care of my bloody back. I found out later that they were a little concerned at how deep the cuts were. As I have since experienced several times, the Goddess of Death has a very firm touch with the scalpel! They cleaned that and a cut I had gotten on my head when we got up to the house. There, Hela gave me one more gift.<br /><br />I have the berserkergangr. It runs in my family very strongly. Odin has long told me it is one of His gifts but also that I must learn to master myself in the storm of its fury. I had been failing at this utterly. That rage-beast that lay in wait within me was always close to the surface, always ready to explode, to attack. It might be a gift, but by not learning to value and discipline it, by not learning control, I was not serving Odins’ will. Hela helped me. She allowed her shaman to give me a charm, based on the charm that the Gods used to bind Her brother. This shaman R. gave me the first three parts of the charm: breath of a fish, spittle of a bird, beard of a woman. He told me how to get roots of a mountain and footfall of a cat. He said to wait on nerves of a bear, the final piece of the charm, until I find out what that has to be for me. It’s different for everyone. I was instructed to gather these things, put them in a pouch, tie it with a dog’s choke chain and keep it on Hela’s altar. He also gave me the bones that had been part of Hela’s regalia glove. I was gifted with several other items from W. and E., all of which now rest on my altar to Hela. I’ve decided that out of gratitude to the Deity’s facilitating these ordeals, I will maintain a small altar to each of Them. I began with Hela’s. (It goes without saying that I also gifted the ordeal worker/shaman serving as human facilitator too)!<br /><br />My next ordeal is Niflheim and it appears I have to seek the dragon by myself, in the cold, alone. W. and F. are taking me on a four day cold-camping trip in February, so that’s when the God’s want it done. That ordeal will be physically grueling. I hope I don’t fail.<br /><br /><br />Footnotes:<br /><br />1. This is an interesting concept, the idea that each Deity has multiple ‘paths’ through which devotees can serve. I first learned about it in Santeria. Each orisha has different paths and when a person is dedicated to that orisha, divination is done to reveal which particular path the person is walking. This helps him or her draw closer to the Orisha in question and also provides important clues as to what challenges may be required. Over the fifteen years or so that I’ve been serving Odin in one form or another, I’ve come to realize that the same holds true for the Norse Deities. They have multiple paths that They walk and often times, this is reflected in how Their devotees are claimed.<br /><br />I know that Loki, for instance can come as the gentle Husband of Sigyn, the Breaker of Worlds, the young Hellraiser with Odin, and several other paths as well. Odin has over a hundred names and each one of those sacred by-names represents a path that one of His can walk. I recently met an Odin’s woman who was following Odin as Bolverk. I walk the path of the Wanderer, the path of Odin in His quest for knowledge, Odin as ordeal worker, as the One who willingly sacrificed…everything. This is a new idea within the Northern Tradition, but it is one that, I believe, has its merit in the stark realities of service.<br /><br />2. Mugwort, yarrow, plantain, elder, agrimony, aconite, rue were burned by W. and then Hela rubbed them into the cutting on my back. This causes the wound to heal in stark, black relief against the flesh.Galina Krasskovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06926374525306007900noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2042153161519025615.post-83185232451505023182009-04-10T08:49:00.000-07:002009-04-10T08:53:24.382-07:00Making Love to Odin, For the First Timeby Anya Kless<br /><br />I have a strong tie to my Polish ancestors and speak to them regularly. Somewhat enigmatically, they had predicted that this latest ordeal, marking the beginning of my <i>deathing</i> process, would be “like making love to your husband for the first time.” Now that the ordeal is behind me, I understand the true meaning of their words. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Days after my corset-piercing ordeal, I still struggle to comprehend what happened. I know it was real, and yet it seems like something out of a fairy tale (granted, a very twisted fairy tale, but a fantasy nonetheless). In retrospect, I understand that this aspect of my ordeal was quite intentional in Odin’s grand design. Only by giving me something miraculous, so outside the realm of rational explanation, could He overcome my first two boundaries: my skeptical brain and my wary heart.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I traveled into the country with two good friends: Tamyris, a fellow Odinswoman and god-spouse, and Katelan, a practitioner of Santeria and a gifted medium. The day before the ordeal, we stopped by the farm to say hello and check out the state of the back field, where a blót would also be taking place. We greeted each of the god-poles in the field, ending with Odin. I gave Tamyris space to greet him first, self-conscious of interacting with Him in front of others. As the others turned to walk across the field, I winked at Odin and kissed Him slyly on his wooden cheek. I wanted to stay and talk, but I felt too girlishly shy with others around.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Down a path leading into the woods, Tamyris lead us to the tree where she had hung for Odin. As the final stage in her ordeal cycle, she had been suspended from the tree by an elaborate system of ropes and hooks buried in her back. I had seen pictures of the ordeal, but feeling the energy around the tree was another matter entirely. The woods were dead quiet. I felt in awe of her sacrifice and the pulsing energy in that sacred spot. It was the first time she’d returned to the tree since her ordeal. Odin had been present with Tamyris, horsed by W., a spirit worker who would supervise my own ordeal the next day. A few weeks before our trip, Tamyris had warned that it was possible—though not probable—that Odin might make an appearance during my ordeal through W. I had spent the next few weeks alternately fantasizing about meeting my husband in the flesh and assuring myself that it wouldn’t happen. I tried to guard myself against wanting that too much, fearing disappointment if it did not happen. <i>The ordeal will be enough, </i>I lectured myself.<i> Don’t get greedy, little girl. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On Saturday morning, I rose early to honor my ancestors – dousing myself in cold, raw milk as they had instructed in a meditation. Even as my husband began my deathing process, they stubbornly held my lifeline. I felt a pulsing vitality fill me after the shower and drove to the farm eagerly. The three of us revisited the god-poles after we arrived, leaving offerings of rolls and donuts, some of which the farm puppy gleefully stole, keeping the mood light.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As the other blót attendees arrived, however, I began to feel somewhat isolated and disconnected from the activity of setting up and small talk. Physically, I began to feel dazed and ungrounded, a feeling that had been growing for the past few weeks. I suspected it was part of my opening to the ordeal, but it threw me nonetheless. Then Odin began to trigger my emotions – I started to feel raw, teary, and lost, even surrounded by new people I found interesting and worth knowing. I felt myself pulled to Odin, but Tamyris was facilitating a small needle ordeal for a young man in front of his god-pole. I retreated into the woods and found myself at the hanging tree. I felt myself growing emotional, wanting to cry. I took out the Wodinic prayer beads Tamyris had presented to me at my wedding to Odin. Despite my earnest attempts at coherency, I soon gave up - I kept stumbling over the words and forgetting lines. This made me more upset. I tried to make myself still and listen to Him. I heard one line: <i>I’m going to make you cry for me today. </i>I realized my emotional state was yet another preparation for my ordeal. I could feel Him stripping away my defenses, one by one. I decided to embrace it rather than fight Him off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stumbled out of the woods, figuring I should tell Tamyris to expect this during the ordeal. She had finished with the young man and stood making preparations at a table with several other people. I approached and said quietly, “He’s going to make me cry during my ordeal. Not pretty crying like a few tears, but real sobbing.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She nodded. “I know.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I just wanted you to know. I’ll try to keep my back from shaking too much.” As I said it, I wondered if that would even be possible—if He was going to make me cry, could I really hold back anything?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I could tell a few other people had overheard, but I was in no state to even look at them. I walked off to get my supplies out of my bag instead. Needles. Caps. Nine yards of vibrant blue silk ribbon. I placed the ribbon in my pocket and the needles on the table. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think it was at this time that Tamyris finally introduced me to W. As an experienced needle worker, he would be supervising her work on me, which I knew was more complex that anything she had done previously. His partner F. would also be assisting, which made me feel a little self-conscious. I respected all three of them – for their abilities, their experiences, their knowledge – and felt awkward being the center of attention for their joint efforts. When I went to shake W.’s hand, he was occupied sharpening a knife for Tamyris. He shifted the blade to his other hand to shake mine. Something about that seemed ominous to me, but I stumbled idiotically over my hellos and tried not to think about how advanced a worker he was, or that he had horsed Odin for Tamyris. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoPageNumber">T</span>he blót finally began. The horn came to me first, and I hailed Him: “I hail Odin as my husband, my master, and my god.” I realized later that it was the first time I had publicly proclaimed myself as His wife. The horn made its way around the circle and reached W. last. He hailed Odin, whom “reserves His most terrible torments for those He loves.” Tamyris nodded knowingly. I felt sensations of dread creeping into me again. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After the blót, most of the participants were ushered up to the farmhouse for a feast. One man needed his head shaved, which Tamyris would do with a straight razor in front of the bonfire. As she prepared for the shaving process, I retreated to the woods, asking Katelan to fetch me when it was time for my ordeal. I sat at the base of the tree again, trying to calm myself. As the time grew closer, I grew more and more anxious. My tongue still failed to say my prayers, leading me to whisper the only line I could over and over again: <i>“I bind myself to Odin…I bind myself to Odin…I bind myself to Odin…” </i>It seemed appropriate considering that His presence would soon penetrate and be laced into my back. I saw and heard His ravens gathering in the woods at a distance. I had been surrounded by birds of prey for the past week—vultures, hawks, owls, scavengers, death birds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In this middle of my second stint at the tree, Katelan appeared, saying that Tamyris wanted to know if I knew how to use a straight razor. I answered no. I asked if I was needed. “She said that it would be interesting for you to be involved in this process,” she recounted. I stood up to follow her out of the woods. Perhaps Odin wanted me to begin my work assisting in ordeals, starting with the head-shaving. Soon after we entered the field, however, W. intercepted us. He said that Tamyris only wanted to know if I knew how to use a straight razor, and if not, she didn’t need me. I felt awkward and confused and resolved to go back into the woods. Before I could, however, he drew me into conversation. At some point Katelan had left, and I was standing with him near the place where the blót had occurred.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He looked at my face carefully and asked, “Are you okay?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>He’s stripping my defenses from me – how could I possibly be okay? </i><span style=""> </span>“Yes,” I lied. “He’s just making me raw and emotional before my ordeal. He wants me to open up to Him.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You haven’t been doing this long, have you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No. We just had our wedding at the Winter Solstice.” I sat down on a white bench in the field and showed him the rune cuttings Tamyris had made on my legs, darkened with sacred ash. W. continued to stand and alternated between looking at me and looking out over the field.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“He’s moving you rather fast. There must be something extraordinary about you, for Him to take such an interest in you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know,” I answered, awkwardly. “I don’t think there’s anything that spectacular about me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You must be extraordinary,” he pressed, “or have the potential to be extraordinary – for Him to give so much effort to you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I felt at a loss for words. I hadn’t really considered what it was I brought to the table in this relationship. He chose me, and I tried my best to serve Him. That was about it. I started rambling about what I knew about my path: that it involved sex and pain, that I had to Top an Odin’s man at Beltane, and that Tamyris had just revealed my next ordeal the night before – wearing a metal crown of thorns to open my head. W.’s attention shifted when I mentioned that, and he cut in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Ah, I’m <i>very </i>familiar with that,” he grinned. Something in his voice and intent gaze made me unsteady. There was something predatory coming through him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s right,” I countered, “you made it, didn’t you?” I remembered having asked Tamyris the night before where she had possibly found such a thing, then learning it had been crafted specially by W. and F.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” he smirked knowingly. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wanted to ask what it was like, how many thorns it had, how he made it, but the questions caught in my throat. Finally I mentioned going to see if Tamyris needed anything from me, and it was over. She didn’t need my help, but she was almost finished. W. was back over at the table, going through his supplies. I told Tamyris I was retreating to the woods again and crossed the field to the path to the hanging tree. I began to gather myself and felt calm again. A feeling of serenity and acceptance filled me from some unknown source. Later I would recognize this sensation: strength in my submission, that curious paradox I had fought and puzzled over for years. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I heard a sound near me that didn’t match the gently rustling leaves. Looking up, I saw a black garter snake coasting down a small hill, heading right for me. I held absolutely still and curbed my fear, reasoning that he couldn’t hurt me, that he was too small, not poisonous. I kept expecting the snake to veer off or stop, but it came closer and closer until finally it rested at a diagonal angle to my back, its raised head inches from my skin. I held my breath. Its black and red tongue darted out of its mouth, sensing the air. After a moment of stillness, however, the snake turned, circled around me, and disappeared into the underbrush. I sat still, wanting someone to appear on the path so I count find the snake and point it out to them. How else would anyone believe what had just happened? </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a moment of stunned silence, I stood up and gathered my sweater, eager to tell the others about my encounter. Could it have been Lilith? Was my first divine teacher dropping in to say hello and give me strength? When we reached the table, I recounted what had happened to Tamyris, prefacing the story with “You’re not going to believe this, but…” She listened, and then said something that made the story even more miraculous.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s one of Odin’s forms.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was speechless. I had no idea, having always associated Him with ravens or wolves. I had no time to make inquiries, however, as everyone was ready to begin. I handed the ribbon to someone. Katelan stood by, armed with my camera. My trio of spirit workers donned gloves. I sat at the table, removed my shirt, and held my sweater to my chest. I took my prayer beads from their bag and held them nervously. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With the eye and skill of a true artist, F. assessed my back and began making measurements and dots in different color markers. She asked how many needles I was getting, and I replied as I knew I had to: “that’s not up to me.” F.’s initial suggestion of six was shot down as too few, as I instinctively knew that it was. Finally, the number became 24. I marveled at it, glad the others could not see my face. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tamyris stood over my back, assessing the energy with her hands. “He is <i>so</i> possessive of you right now,” she stated, awe and admiration clear in her voice. That touched me – knowing that He wanted me as His and His alone. It gave me strength to submit to His desire for my pain and my tears. It was a strength I would sorely need. Tamyris inserted a practice needle on the right side of my lower back, getting a feel for the “in-out-in-out” movement of the 2 inch needles that would create the eyelets for my corset. I realized immediately that I had underestimated how much this would hurt. “This is an ordeal about penetration,” Tamyris announced, squarely in valkyrie headspace, allowing Odin’s words to speak through her, His energy to move through her hands, into the needles, into my back. In the next hour that it would take to insert 24 needles, I would be penetrated by Him over and over again. I quietly whispered a prayer: “<i>Odin, take my pain; accept it as a sacrifice to you.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">During the first few needles, I tried to remember what my first Dom had taught me about breathing through pain: exhale at the worst moment, allow the pain to circulate through your body rather than holding it at one spot. If only I could continue to breathe and process the pain, I’d be okay. By needle 3 or 4, it became apparent that this was not going to cut it. It kept me from jumping off the bench, but it did nothing to assuage the pain. Each needle seemed to bring more pain than the last. Tears started sliding down my face as I sniffled quietly. The needles continued with mechanical precision—no breaks, no breathers. I became less able to hold back my tears and began openly sobbing. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s crying in front of other people, of showing my weakness. I couldn’t help it. By this time the physical pain had triggered my emotions, and I began a silent appeal to my husband.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>You hung on the tree, you suffered agony – how can you expect that from any human? You are impossible to follow. Absolutely impossible. Why do I have a husband that demands such terrible pain? Why aren’t I strong enough to handle it? Why had He chosen me and not someone better? How could I ever please Him or be enough for Him?<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I sobbed at the thought of failing Him. I began openly crying out and screaming when the needles pierced my skin. My voice sounded tortured and alien to my own ears. I heard someone commenting that the needles were literally penetrating me more deeply. I gripped my prayer beads in one hand and my kyanite stone in the other, trying to pour the pain into it. At some point, Tamyris paused from inserting needles to place her hand firmly on my back. She leaned over my shoulder to my lowered head to give me more of His words: “Nothing you could be doing right now would please Him more.” I started sobbing again at this. My desire to please Him was overwhelming—a huge gulf of feeling and need. The immensity of it shocked me. I felt my body shaking—with pain, with emotion, with desire. <i>Please, </i>I pleaded silently, <i>please let me please you. </i>The voice of the valkyrie came again. “He is so pleased by this. He is pleased by your pain.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Somehow I survived the long litany of needles penetrating my flesh. Once I realized I had taken the last needle, I dissolved again in tears of relief. I had made it. The pain had ended. Now for the lacing. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes as the ribbon snaked its way slowly down my back. I steadied myself as the lacing continued, bracing only when the metal of the forceps touched my skin to help the ribbon through the eyelets. My facilitators realized that the caps on the needles—which were there to keep them from poking me and others—were in the way of the ribbon. They were removed, making it so that any slight change in position on my part caused pricks of sensation to ripple across my back. Tamyris carefully tightened the ribbon as if lacing a real corset, which gave a slight ache but nothing compared to what I had endured with the needles. When the ribbon had been skillfully woven into place, the others remarked on its beauty. I remembered the words He had spoken to me in the weeks before, when I had gone through a particularly low point of self-esteem. <i>“I make you beautiful</i> – <i>through the adornments I give to you.” </i>He had adorned me with His presence, now on display for all to see.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As F. finished tying off the ribbon, Tamyris gave me instructions on how to proceed: “When you’re finished, come over to Odin’s pole. We will tether you there and leave you for a few hours. Odin also has one more gift for you. A syringe full of saline has been sitting at His pole during your piercing. <i>It will be injected into your chest.”</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I nodded as my heart pounded. I felt the familiar mix of dread and desire rise in me again. The idea of the syringe scared me, especially as a surprise. I had not prepared for that or had time to come to terms with it. Yet there was also something undeniably erotic about it. I was going to be injected with the essence of my husband, just over my heart. Hadn’t He said after my last ordeal that my heart was next? My desire to be mastered and claimed by Him in such an intimate way overcame my fear. I stood from the table, F. placed the remaining ribbon in my hand, and I walked slowly over to Odin’s pole.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tamyris and W. were already there, conversing. I saw the syringe and am sure my eyes grew wide at the size of it. This was not a vaccine syringe—it was a large tube of clear liquid. I felt however, that the wheels of the ordeal had already been set in motion, and I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. I got on my knees facing the pole, sitting on my boots. I looked up at the wooden effigy of Odin, which seemed to be smiling and somewhat mischievous. Tamyris took the strands of ribbon from my hand and wrapped them around the pole. She began singing a song Odin had given her, one I had heard her sing several times before. This time, however, it was softer and less strident than it normally came through her. Something was happening.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My heart began racing in my chest. I knew that W. was standing next to Odin’s pole as Tamyris worked and sang, holding the syringe in his hands. Something told me to look up at him. I felt terrified, but I knew that if I didn’t look, I would hate myself for the rest of my life. I raised my eyes. It was not W. that I saw. Two black eyes stared at me with intense hunger. A devilish, knowing smirk contorted his face. And then something happened that confirmed, without a doubt, that this was Odin. He winked at me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>Oh. My. God.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was Him, here, in the flesh. He had come to wield the syringe Himself. This was real.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tamyris finished tying and moved behind me to continue singing. Odin stepped forward and traced the plastic cap of the needle over and around my naked collarbone. My lips parted, letting shallow breaths escape. I realized in that moment that I had not been touched by anyone in months, which made that small act all the more erotic and overwhelming. I was just so hungry. He reached down and stroked my cheek with a gloved hand. Slowly, with one finger, He tilted my chin, raising my eyes to meet His. He crouched over me, His face inches from mine. I felt dazed with His presence and my own desire for Him, thundering away in my chest. He spoke four words to me, in a voice full of gentle mastery.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>“This won’t be pleasant.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I felt the needle enter my chest and closed my eyes, overwhelmed by sensation. I think I moaned softly, feeling the pressure of the saline fill my chest. My heart pounded and opened into a fountain of pure bliss.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">They left me at the pole, remaining in the field to keep an eye on me. I began crying tears of gratitude almost immediately, chanting <i>“thank you, thank you”</i> over and over again as I knelt before Him. I felt the ribbons tug against my back as they circled me like an embrace. I felt them caress me as they danced in the breeze. I smiled, I laughed, I sang to Him in delirious happiness. I realized something profoundly important about my husband: the immensity of His demands would be matched only by the immensity of His generosity.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After what seemed like only twenty minutes (I later learned it was over an hour and a half), the others returned to untie me. I announced that Odin had instructed me to be naked when the needles came out, but that I could leave my boots on. I walked back to the table and the sacred fire, a different woman than the one who had left it. I shed my skirt and underwear with a little help and stood facing the fire, my hands over my blossoming heart. As the needles came out, the blood flowed freely down my back, over my ass, down my legs, and onto the ground. I tried to conceal how erotic it felt—the release, the trickling blood, the ache of withdrawing needles—but I think some of my soft sighs and moans were audible. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Capable hands rubbed me down with alcohol wipes, some harder than others. No doubt they were guided still by Odin’s hands. Tamyris had told me that all three of them, at one point or another, had horsed my husband before. She later confirmed that He had been present all day, shadowing them, prompting W. to speak to me in the field, speaking and acting through Tamyris’s hand as she pierced me, then finally and unexpectedly taking human form through a full possession. I felt humbled and awed at this gift. I told Tamyris that for those 30 seconds of His presence, I would go through the needles all over again. She nodded with perfect understanding. I knew that I would replay those moments over and over again, feeding off their sustenance for years. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Later I realized something even greater about my reaction and my longing—I was in love with Odin. I honestly had not known if I loved Him before, even after our marriage. I lusted after Him, I served Him, I stood in awe of Him, but love had always eluded and puzzled me. <i>How exactly does one know that one is in love?</i> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After the ordeal, I knew.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9