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Some stories tell themselves.
In The Miracle Detective: An Investigation of Holy Visions, Rolling Stone editor Randall Sullivan tells the story of the supposed Marian visionaries of Medjugorje, of the processes by which the Vatican authenticates (and de-authenticates) visions, and a personal tale of unbelief wrestling with belief.
But (to this reader, at least) the book's most intriguing story is its underlying pagan subtext.
Saturday night we offered to Thunder.
Together we sang, danced, and prayed that He be merciful to our gathering.
Sunday night the big storm hit.
Yikes! Pagan Spirit Gathering 2015 canceled in mid-run due to flooding and rainstorms past and predicted.
What's a pagan response? On the immemorial principle of do ut des, a gift for a gift, perhaps we need to begin our outdoor gatherings with an offering to the god concerned.
Well, you know gods. The answer may still be “no.”
But it never hurts to ask.
Truly, the Old Gods are everywhere. You can't escape them.
I had been listening to Bach's Goldberg Variations on the radio. “That was American pianist Simone Dinnerstein,” said the announcer.
Dinnerstein (rhymes with “seen”): a not uncommon Ashkenazic surname. But suddenly it was as if my ears had become unstopped.
It's Yiddish for “Thunder stone.” (German would be Donarstein.) There are men named Þórsteinn in Iceland, and Torsten and Torstein in Scandinavia, even today. English Thurston could be “Thunar's stone” (or tún: Thunder's enclosure). It's a name from the Danelaw—the area of England settled by Scandinavians—so it could bear the name of the Norse rather than the English Thunder. But they're both still Thunder.
We have it from the mothers and fathers that Thunder is a powerful Protector.
To call on His might, stand tall. With your strong hand, reach up into over-heaven. Seize the lightning, and grasp it in your hand. With arm extended, pull it down to heart-height. See the flash, hear the roar, smell the superheated air.
Having brought down lightning, you must give it a ground. With arm still extended, move your clutched fist horizontally beneath the down-stroke to form the shape of an inverted T. For obvious reasons, this is mostly done from left to right.
As you do this, intone:
There were once three neighbors who lived side-by-side: a Dakota, a heathen, and a santero. Each had a fine large backyard garden.
One afternoon a beautiful thunderstorm rumbled through and watered all the gardens.
Grateful, the three gave thanks, respectively, to the Thunderbirds, Þórr, and Changó.
Sleet chitters against the panes as I write this. Our all-too-brief Bridey's Spring is, it would seem, well and gone, alas. Cold air masses are sailing down from the north towards us (they call them “Alberta Clippers” here), driving snow before them, with deep cold in their wake. Today they're predicting Thundersnow.
Thunder-and-lightning snowstorms aren't something that we see here very often. To hear the very Voice of Summer in Winter's cold midst cannot fail to feel uncanny. Thunder and snow just don't keep company much.
We last heard Thunder's voice on October 6th. Perhaps, like other birds, the Thunderbirds fly south in the winter. The First Thunder of the year is always a sure sign of spring. In Russia they say that Perún is breaking up the ice with his hammer. Snorri, no doubt, would have it that þórr is smiting the Frost Giants.* According to our local folk wisdom, spring's First Thunder is a sure predictor of future weather: six months later comes First Frost. Apparently the climatological evidence (here in Minnesota, anyway) actually bears out this correlation. Today is February 10. Oh dear.
