Although I was pretty sure that

How Fare the Land Wights
http://edred.net/community/members/14/vault.php

was the story I wanted to tell, I decided, in due diligence, to go through a lot of collections to make sure there wasn’t another story that was more timely or appropriate.  There were a lot of stories to consider.  There is a lot of lore available to us.

Modern heathens sometimes focus on the fact that so much was lost after the conversions, but as Tennyson wrote in his poem “Ulysses” Tho’ much is taken, much abides.

We are far richer in stories, histories, records, artifacts, and other forms of lore than many would admit and with the help of many scholars that lore is able to speak volumes.

There is a tendency in various ‘reconstructed’ magico-religious traditions to bemoan what was lost, without using what is already valid, tested, and available – to the fullest capacity.

Maybe this comes from a desire for a nice and tidy complete ‘set’ of instructions so that there is no ambiguity and no need for personal responsibility.

Maybe it ties in with what some call the ‘professional student’ attitude where the ‘student’ always feels less than capable.  That more information is needed, or new skills acquired before they take action, before they allow themselves to ‘graduate’ to a realm of praxis.

It’s the old:  “Someone else should do it.  I’m not qualified.  I’m not capable.  What difference can I make?”

While there is always more to learn, we have quite a bit of tools at our disposal.  This is especially true in the Gild where the abundant works of the Yrmin-Drighten as well as the Mastery gives us more with each book, article, mp3 file, PDF, and personal conversation.  And hopefully all of that informs our own individual quests into the mysteries of the lore.

A main goal of the Gild is remembering and rediscovering the past in very precise ways so that we can build a future that resonates truly.  See Edred’s article "How to Be A Heathen"
http://runegild.org/2008/03/24/how-to-be-a-heathen/

for a complete explanation of the process.

There’s a lot we can do and a lot we need to do.

In Northern Magic Edred wrote:

“A large part of Teutonic, or runic, magic is developing the techniques to recover our authentic individual and collective souls from the depths of Hel (the dead) and the heights of Asgardhr (the eternally yet transcendently living).  High runic magic is a cosmic level working for the recovery of our lost souls, and for the transformation of our world according to the timeless structure of those souls.”

And in the introduction to Runelore:

“In an elder age we made a mistake.  We rejected – slowly and incompletely to be sure, but nevertheless, we as a people rejected – the wisdom of the gods.  No wondrous ‘cure’ will reverse this rejection overnight, no ‘grace’ is forthcoming from Óðinn!  Only our own hard efforts will bring each of us back to the long-lost lore.  To this difficult yet noble task, all of our efforts of this book and of the Rune-Gild are dedicated.”

As we work to recover what was lost, as we build our bridges and new enclosures we should also make sure that we remember and find *all* who were lost.  All who suffered the breaking of oaths.

We need to look in the wild places, under the bridges, under the stones, in the shadows of the graveyards, and in the cellars.

To borrow again from Tennyson, we need To Strive, to Seek, to Find, and not to yield.…so that no one gets left behind.

Ek Truí á landvættir

Reyn til Rûna.

I’m not naturally inclined towards math.  It’s not my default way of thinking but I’ve always been fascinated by the Fibonacci sequence and how its progression underlies so much of the organic beauty and wonder of the world.  Spiral formations are some of the most apparent and common manifestations of this sequence in nature.

With these initial stories, I’m either spiraling in towards, or spiraling out from (maybe both.  I can’t really tell from my vantage) what led me to recognize that a Traditional practice is what resonates strongest in my life.

I don’t remember the first time I told “A Dead Man Gives Back” http://edred.net/community/index.php?t=browse_vault

but I do remember the most important time I told it.  I’ve been with Jan, the love of my life, for almost 11 years now.  About 9 or 10 years ago, her parents were visiting during the Yuletide.  The plan was to have a traditional Ukrainian celebration with all the right food, drink, and music.  They were very connected to their heritage and, in some ways (even though they wouldn’t word it quite this way) their heritage and the honoring of their ancestral ways *was* their religion.

The only thing wrong was that I didn’t really know them and they certainly didn’t know me.  Who the hell was I, some new stranger, to be living with their daughter and grandkids.  While we weren’t rude in our interactions with each other, there was more than a bit of discomfort and awkwardness.  It was going to be a very long week.

But Jan suggested I tell them this story.  After the tale was told out, they knew who I was.  And they knew that I recognized something that was important to them.

The way they listened and the effect it had upon them, told me who they were.  The semiotics of the storytelling experience communicated more than we would have been able to say with a week of more ‘profane’ speech.

We knew one another.

When some people say things like “Why do you love stories?” or “It’s just a story” or “What’s so important about storytelling?  That’s kid’s stuff.”  I think about this story and the very real magic it created.

I don’t think I would’ve polkaed with Jan’s dad while downing whiskey that year if not for this story.

0+1=1… 1+1=2… 1+2=3… 2+3=5… 3+5=8… 5+8=13…  All the previous numbers form the current ones, which form the numbers yet to come.

Spirals are wonderful and Mysterious things.

Some Family... Ontology

Before finally making their way to California (after a decade long stop-off in Roswell, New Mexico from approximately 1944-1954), my mother and grandmother’s family set down roots in Lubbock, Texas.  Before that, their ancestors (of English and Irish descent) lived and spread kin all over the southern and southeastern United States.

As a result, my grandmother filled my ears and my imagination with tons of stories from, what some would call, American Folklore.  The way she told it, the farm folk, hill folk, and even a few swamp folk from our family had amazing histories of strange occurrences and tall tales.

When I asked if these were true stories, she’d always say “Of course Honey.”  But she would quickly wink at me when she said it (as a good Christian she’d never want to tell a fib).

I learned early on not to let the truth get in the way of a good story.

This particular story, Taily-Po

http://edred.net/community/index.php?t=browse_vault

is one that many people have heard (what you might call ‘an oldie but a goodie’).  I personally believe the reason for that is that this is a very common experience which might pose quite a danger to everyone living on the North American continent.  Listen and judge for yourself (forewarned is forearmed after all).

Why are you looking at me like that?  I’m serious.

There are tons of weird (and wyrd) things going on out there.  You just have to know where to look.

You might think I’m crazy, or joking, but if you ever ask me if I believe in Jackalopes I’ll say “Of course, my Grandma’s Uncle Jim’s friend Oscar caught one once.  And anyway, I saw a dead one on display at the Corn Palace in South Dakota.

http://www.cornpalace.org/

And if you can’t trust the proprietors of a Moorish palace, made out of corn, hosting rodeos in the Midwest U.S. who can you trust?”

Gullet Snakes?  Yup.  You know my mom’s step-father Papa Louis?  Well, his cousin Ernie would’ve been killed by one if Papa Louis hadn’t grabbed it by the tail right quick, just as it was about to go on down Ernie’s throat.

Don’t even get me started on Hoop Snakes.  They’re just… not right.

This is a true story which leads to a strange and, possibly, magical object lying in the Vault of Downloadable Treasures here at Edred.net.

Once upon my time there was a boy who, like so many others, first met Mystery and Magic within stories and, subsequently fell in love.  Not the fleeting puppy love that most of his friends professed – quickly declared and just as quickly forgotten.  His love was strong, and although he felt unworthy, he served the stories with a true and humble heart – never speaking too loudly but instead whispering and treating them gently and always with an ear ready to listen to whatever the stories had to say.

As a man, he learned to tell stories and hoped to spread a little of the Mystery and Magic to others who would listen.  During this time, he began to study the lore of his ancestors and, again fell in love with the Mystery and the Magic.

Fearing that arrogance and ignorance would taint his love, he vowed to become truly worthy.  So, while his Words and Works gained and grew, he protected his love of stories by hiding it in three places:  deep in an abandoned Well where it would be washed wisely; inside a darkened Lantern high atop a lamppost in a neglected graveyard where the winds and darkness would whisper old secrets; and, finally, within the hollow of a Birch tree where it would be nurtured and kept safe against the Works of others.

Years passed and he prepared to set off on another journey of exploration when he heard harmonious voices.  The stories were calling to him, louder than they ever had before.  Sweetly but insistently.  He put off the journey he had planned, for he realized that the stories would not be denied.  Someday, when the time was right, he would undertake that journey with the stories as his allies.  So he went to reclaim what he had hidden.

He drank deeply from the Well and found the water to be sweeter than any he had previously tasted.  There was no reason that the people should have abandoned it.

He looked closely at the Lantern and saw that with a bit of care and repair, the Lantern would easily stay lit.  Maybe, if it shone again, people would return to tend the graves.

When he came to the Birch tree he reached inside and found a dark blue egg.  He placed it, safely, within his coat and vowed to keep it warm and safe until whatever grew inside hatched.

He looked North, towards a road leading to many villages and with wonder, excitement, and more than a little bit of joyous fear, walked to where he would speak words and tell stories.

----------------

While that’s not the factual history, it is the true story of why I’m now posting the first of many digitally recorded oral stories here on Edred.net.  While some stories in the future I might charge some nominal fee for, most will be free, and others may have all proceeds donated to Edred.net to help Edred and Waldo improve the site, maintain servers, etc.

While I reserve the right to practice them until I feel that they’re at their best, all of these stories will be told in one go, without any editing, warts and all.  There are no ‘do-overs’ in storytelling and I’m going to stay as true to the live storytelling experience as possible.

Eventually I will be telling Germanic and Runic stories, but, for a number of reasons, I am starting off with three non-Germanic stories.

One reason is that I need to get my chops back up to speed, especially within the medium of digital recording and distribution where the audience can’t see my body language, facial expressions, etc.  In the same way that potential carvers of Rune Stones would be well served to be sure of their stone carving techniques before attempting to rist the potent stave-forms themselves, it would behoove me to be sure of which techniques to use, and the possibilities and limitations of this media before carving more potent words into my stone of digitally recorded stories.

Another reason is that there is a personal and poetic beauty in returning to the stories that I first told, 11 years ago, before I heard the call of the Runes.  To return to them, and to rediscover what I liked about them and why I chose to tell them.  As with many stories, it is often best to start at the beginning.

This first story, The King of the Cats, 

http://edred.net/community/index.php?t=browse_vault

was the first story I ever told at a storytelling swap, so I think it is highly appropriate to be the first story I tell here at Edred.net.

A return to beginnings.  Depending on how one realizes that return, it can either be an unconscious repetition of patterns or, as Mircea Eliade described it, it can be an Eternal Return where one is renewed by regenerating a state of existence that lives – Once upon a time…