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Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in fire gods

Posted by on in Paths Blogs
The Gold Ring from the Sacred Fire

Yes, it's a barbecue smoker lid. Yes, I really do light sacred fires in it. Because cooking for a ritual feast is a sacred act, and so is cooking for ordinary purposes when I'm intending to share some of it with the gods, so if I were cooking in my kitchen the gas flame on the range top would be a sacred fire, because that's how that works. The hearth fire through which Loki brings energy to us or from us to the gods does not have to be a replica of the hearth in a Viking longhouse or other historical type of building. I think I might draw the line at an electrical cooker or microwave, because those aren't really fire, but the wood and charcoal fire in the barbecue is just as much a traditional wood fire as anything our ancestors made.

So how did this shiny golden circular shape get here? I'm glad you asked. The story went like this. It was the full moon of Friday the 13th, which occurred in September this year (2019.) Now, Friday the 13th doesn't mean anything in heathenry-- in historical heathen calendar systems, it doesn't even exist-- but in modern American culture it's considered unlucky, which is the reason that some members of the witchy community consider it to be especially lucky for witches, along with black cats and broken mirror pieces.

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Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Where the Fire Lives

In 1543, Henry the Eighth extinguished the Holy Fire which had burned at the sanctuary of Brigid at Kildare since before anyone could remember.

(The eternal flame is an ancient tradition among Indo-European peoples. In some Zoroastrian temples in Iran, the same fires, lovingly tended by their communities down the centuries, have burned continuously for more than 1200 years.)

In 1993, the Brigidine Sisters of Kildare relit Brigid's Fire. Since then, it has burned continuously and spread all over the world.

(No, I'm not rushing the season. Bear with me, dear reader.)

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Posted by on in Paths Blogs

Continuing my story of my personal journey on my heathen path: On Loki’s Day 2014, for the first time, I held a blot specifically for Loki. April 1st had become my traditional Loki's Day a couple of decades ago when I participated in Ostara festivals that overlapped April 1st. That was back when I was a member of the old Ring of Troth. Ostara was a campout with an indoor sleeping area which was a World War I era bunker, and the grounds also included an outdoor campfire and a trail down to the beach. The women who gathered around the campfire in the morning chill with our coffee started throwing our hair combings into the campfire spontaneously, and because it happened to be April 1st, and people at the festival were already observing April 1st as Loki's Day, a day to tell jokes and play pranks, we came up with the idea that throwing things into the fire on April 1st was a sacrifice to Loki. It was not a really serious ritual, just a spontaneous moment of fun, but I think Loki likes spontaneous fun. Throwing hair combings into the fire for Loki became a tradition at that festival among the early risers. 

So, when I decided that I should hold a ritual to thank Loki for inspiring me to write Some Say Fire, and for all the help he gave me through that medium, I went with the tradition of throwing hair combings into the fire on April 1st. It was what I had done year after year when I lived in California in my 20s, so to me it was tradition.

I lit both a bonfire and a barbecue fire, just like I did at Yule when I engaged in that duel. At the time, I still had the burn scar on the side of my right foot. It disappeared about a month later, when I accepted another sort of symbol, but that's another story which I'll tell later. I had been saving my hair-combings, each time I combed out freshly washed, clean, dry hair. I had spun my hair combings into one continuous ball of yarn, and placed that in the bbq fire along with expired spices and various types of woods and charcoal. But I lit the bonfire first, which contained only wood and twigs and brush from my yard which I had saved after the fall chopping and had dried in the side yard. I first made a short, formal statement of thanks to Loki, “I burn this for Loki,” and listed my gratitude for his inspiration for my novel and his literal inspiration of air in my lungs. It did not light. “OK, not good enough,” I said out loud.

The only other heathen there was T. N., who is a Heimdall’s man. I had told him exactly what I planned to do at this blot and given him an opportunity to decide not to participate, but he was there. I met his eyes and we both smiled uncomfortable little smiles.

I next made a slightly longer formal statement of thanks and tried to light the fire. It did not light. “OK, still not good enough.” I realized I was going about it wrong. I had to relate to the fire first and foremost as fire. “OK, I’m going to be smart and stand blocking the wind.” I moved to a new position and realized I was now pointed due north as I should have been from the beginning. “OK, you like this better? Light, you.” I was irritated and I said nothing of gratitude or supplication.

The fire did not just light. It whooshed out in a ten foot horizontal gout of bright orange flame. It continued to burn like a flamethrower even after I put the iron lid on it.

Like when I’m writing, he spoke through me. Unlike when I’m writing, it came out my mouth instead of my fingers. “Don’t talk to me like I’m [expletive] Odin.”

I added, “he says.” I realized my own voice is actually deeper than Loki’s.

If T. N. had any particular reaction to hearing me abruptly turn medium and let a god talk through me, he did not make it obvious. Of course, I had been talking to him about my book a lot because I was in the middle of writing it. I had told him the gods spoke through me into my book, so perhaps he was not really surprised. I certainly was, though.

I went on to light the barbecue fire too, and then hold a normal blot, and then cook the post-ritual feast. There were no more surprises that day. The big surprise came later that month. I plan to blog about that soon.

Image: Loki by Miguel Regodon

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Posted by on in Culture Blogs

It's a crisp night in late October. A friend and I have driven out to the annual “Burning Man Midwest” event that for the past decade or so a local couple has hosted at their place in rural Wisconsin. A stiff breeze is blowing out of the northwest. We process through the woods with jack o' lanterns, and circle up around the Wicker Man.

He's a Cornstalk Man, actually—this is the Midwest, after all—a 25-foot wooden armature covered with bundled cornstalks that we'd harvested earlier that day. As we arrive, we set our pumpkins in a circle around him, at his feet.

The ritual continues, and we all know where it's headed. But Fire has other ideas. From the candles in the jack o' lanterns, the Man lights himself, in several places. The dusty, dry cornstalks kindle with a crackle, and the fires mount alarmingly fast. In a nightmare moment of awe and terror, the separate fires merge into one, and their united voice roars with the terrifying freight-train roar of a tornado.

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Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Ian Phanes
    Ian Phanes says #
    For what it's worth, corresponding the elements with the directions goes back at least to Agrippa, and probably further. However,
  • Mabnahash
    Mabnahash says #
    That should be whom I am calling, not who, but I can't edit the comment. Also, after several years of ranting against them as a
  • Mabnahash
    Mabnahash says #
    Michelle- I don't understand what you mean by calling the directions. The compass points are hardly sentient. I certainly invoke a
  • Michelle Simkins
    Michelle Simkins says #
    Mabnahash, I mis-typed. I meant to write "I struggle with calling the elements as if they aren't ever present." I agree that creat
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Thanks, Michelle. So far as I can tell, the assignment of elements to quarters originates with Eliphas Levi, which isn't very far

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