4 Reasons Heathens Hate Lokeans: By a Lokean

First of all, I love the etymology of Rokkatru presented here. I love the amount of thought and work that went into most of this piece. The historian in me has giggle fits when people refer to historical documentation and all manner of things that remind me of long nights in libraries.

This being said, I hate the implication that all of Loki’s “newb” followers got here because-Hiddlesmut and the fact that they READ about GODSPOUSERY and decided, “That seems like a freakin’ fantasticly fun thing. Let’s get going on that.” I’m not a godspouse, but I wouldn’t have delved into a relationship on the level that I have with a deity (without thinking I should be medicating mysef, that is) if I hadn’t found a support structure within the Heathen community. I had a-for all intents and purposes-mystical experience. After the experience I frantically began searching for others in the same boat. The first person I found was a Lokean Godspouse and I am CERTAIN Loki had a hand in directing me to someone who was capable of helping me kindly and sanely in what can be a bumpy road toward Spirit Work and generally existing in a larger world. I would like to know how many people are out there that found the cloaked world of Spirit Work this way? Why do we not hear from more of these people?
I have posted about intimate things which have happened to me during meditation sessions and with Loki Himself here on my blog, and I do so because I’m trying to feel my way through my experiences and also because I want others out there to see that even if they are experiencing something beyond the pale it isn’t necessarily scary.
I want other people who feel like they are going crazy to realize that they aren’t alone. I guess Crazy loves company as much as Misery. I do agree that there are some over the top people though. Even I don’t share everything. I keep some of my UPG to myself for various reasons, though I don’t let something being risqué stop me from posting.
Maybe I don’t have my sense of humor intact as much as it should be, but I am tired of reading these rants about how Lokean Godspouses are all coming off as wakadoos. More who AREN’T wackadoos need to pipe up of that is the case.

Sacred Iceland

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Sacred Iceland will be back to you shortly after this special bulletin, which I fear is going to piss off a lot of people, but I want to say anyway, so please make sure your sense of humor is turned on.

Before too many anti-Loki people jump to “like” this article, and too may pro-Loki people start furiously typing an angry complaint letter to me over its title, let me quickly clarify my stance: I LOVE Loki. I have been a devout Loki worshipper since about 1994, and it was my love for Loki that brought me into Heathenry in the first place. I also love my Heathen community (I’ve been a Troth member since 2006), and have many friends therein of many various theological opinions. It is because I love these two parts of my life that I have grown increasingly concerned with how the definition of “Lokean” (a…

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Lokivational Life- The Push onto the Pagan Path

 The Summer I was 12 years old was a big one for me. It was the end of an era in many ways. I wasn’t a child anymore physically, though mentally I was far from an adult. This is the Summer I decided I was done with Christianity. I was done with heavy handed adults telling me I was going to hell if I didn’t do what theysaid, not necessarily what the Bible said. There is a difference and I was smart enough to pick up on that early on.

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“You’re going,” my Grandmother said sternly in her no nonsense tone. She was a rotund woman who always smelled of baby powder and Far and Away perfume and she was terrifying to me with her wrinkled arms crossed under her extremely large bust.  She didn’t tap her foot or do anything more overt than glare, but I knew she was disappointed. Her disappointment cut me open to the core and I could feel all of my good feelings bleed out and disappear into the carpeting. I could hear it leak into the basement and disappear into the dirt. I could feel it slide down the hill to float away in the stream near our house as she continued to glare.

 

“But, I don’t know anyone. Why do I have to go to church camp? I’m not old enough to stay in the dorms. I don’t know this preacher and his kids and they don’t know me. I don’t want to go!” I whined as much as I could without crossing that line where she would be spitting mad and I would be doing some horrible chore as punishment. “Dad said I didn’t have to go if I don’t want to!”

 

“I don’t care. We already paid for it and you’re going. The end. Our church paid for you to go, so you are going to go and behave yourself,” her voice rose steadily until she was shouting.

“I didn’t ask the stupid church to pay for me to go! I told you I didn’t want to go.”

“This is a good opportunity for you to meet some really devoted children. Then you can see what is wrong with all of those books you read. You’re going to come back here with a changed attitude. I swear, if I could send you to the Amish for the summer I would. They’d fix your attitude!” My grandmother storms out of the room as fast as she can with a bad knee in one of the largest snits I’ve ever seen her in.

“Jesus, fucking, Christ,” I mutter to myself as I throw random clothing into my old, blue suitcase. It’s seen a lot of use and is scuffed and dented. I’m not sure if the unusual blue color is how this old thing started out, but it’s all I have.

The next morning my Grandmother drives me over an hour from our home to the camp. I am not fond of camping, so I’m delighted to see real buildings with real electricity. We arrive at the front gate and I scramble out of the car as fast as I can. We’d fought about this whole thing again this morning and my Grandmother’s mouth is set so that her lips are so thin they are almost non-existent. She won mainly because I think she may have murdered me if I had managed to find a way to stay home. My Dad was at work and I couldn’t find a way to badger him into making her see reason before he left. She drives off in a spray of gravel and I’m left to figure out where I am supposed to go. I don’t know anyone. I don’t know where I am supposed to be staying. I don’t want to be here.

“Joy,” I mumble to myself and drag my suitcase toward the only building that looks like it might house an office. 3 hours later I’m sorted out. I’ve missed lunch and no one seems to care and I’ve been herded in with other children for the evening sermon. After 2 hours of hellfire and brimstone I am in tears. I’ve already been convinced I am the worst kind of horrible person by my usual church and this is worse. I hate it. I want to leave. I want to repent. I want to never see a cross again. I’m conflicted because this is all I’ve known, but my mind keeps slinking back to a book I’ve found recently. A book on a different way. A book about a religion that doesn’t fear death and doesn’t have a hell and doesn’t tell me I am a terrible person.

Dinner is small and I go to bed hungry. I’m on the floor sharing a cabin with a preacher’s 3 indoctrinated daughters. They’re perfect and skinny and blonde and I know my Grandmother would love them to pieces. They are polite and proper and they have matching plaid nightgowns. They’re simpering about how wonderful the sermon their father gave was and I briefly wonder if it would be considered a crime to smother them in their sleep so I won’t have to hear this bullshit in the morning.

We have crafts in the morning. We make tiny crosses so we can carry them around with us. Just what I wanted. A constant reminder of gory death. I sigh as I paint Popsicle sticks and daydream briefly about using it on a vampire hunt. The other children are loud and obnoxious and …stupid. They argue about the Bible as if they know what they are talking about even though it is clear they are parroting crap from their parents or sermons they’ve heard before I got here. There are 3 sermons a day. We play games in between where I’m picked on by miscreants for not talking, for being fat, for being slow, for not wanting to talk about the Bible.

Seething hatred overwhelms me by the second day and hunger gnaws at me. I don’t talk beyond the barest polite minimum. I go to the sermons. I listen I cry.

By day 3 I nearly weep for joy when I find the tiny bookstore on the holy campus of from hell. I snag a book, I’ll never forget it. It was a book about a boy who was horribly abused by his parents and how he found solace through god. I am morbidly transfixed. I can’t put it down. I don’t have any money and I start reading it for real in the shop. I find a small corner and crawl into it with the book because I just want to read and be left alone. I’d finally found something, an anchor, in this madness. Reading. And escape.  

“You know, that’s stealing,” a gruff male voice startled me. I looked up to see an angry, red face on a large, out of shape body.

“What is?” I asked stupidly.

“You didn’t buy that and you’re using it,” he points at the book and I shrug turning back to read the rest of the page I’m on. Then I just kept going. I was all out of giving a fuck.

Dinner is small again. After dinner that night, at the sermon I go the altar and weep there. I sit there in front of everyone hating them all. I hate the snickering children. I hate the condescending adults looking on some horrified at my emotional display, some assuming I am repenting as I should for…what I don’t know. And I resolve. I’m not staying here for 3 weeks. I ask God to forgive me for whatever I’ve done that is wrong, but I can’t stay here.

That night I think and think. I can’t come up with anything other than packing my suitcase and walking home. Then it strikes me. I smile to myself in the dark.

It takes me all day to spot him. An entire day of walking around avoiding horrible, obnoxious children that I despise. All fucking day.

The wasp flitters here and there on the side of the building. I approach and hesitate for a moment. I’m allergic to bees. If I get stung they are going to have to call my parents. I might die today if they don’t get me to the hospital in time, but it seems a small price to pay not to have to stay here anymore. Not to have to endure this shit. I close my eyes and put my right palm on the wasp. As I squish him and feel him sing his stinger into my skin an odd jubilation rushes over me. I’m so happy I have to focus on the pain to work up some tears as I rush to the office. I cry. I wail. I tell them I’m allergic. They don’t believe me until the swelling starts because there is nothing in my file about that. By the time my breath begins to become ragged and hitch my Grandmother is there, her face a thundercloud. I blink at her innocently. The trip to the hospital was fast and silent.

I’m pretty sure she knows.

Looking back I’m still happy I did this. This was the turning point. The definite push. This is when I embraced paganism. After this I went home and dove headfirst into Wicca, witchcraft, and embraced my natural abilities to the fullest. Looking back I see a bit of Loki and The Madness Path in my decisions, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.  

 

 

 

Something Old, Something New

This morning I met Odin in the shower. Yes, it was a surprise to me too…though, perhaps it shouldn’t have been.

Each morning I light incense for the Gods and toss out a Hail to everyone and all of the positive energy carriers in the universe some days…it varies. Then I jump into the shower. I did the same thing this morning. Halfway through my morning ablutions, after I had grounded and centered myself I got pulled…partially out. I was still feeling things in Mundania and generally going about my day, but interacting in a way I had only ever interacted with Loki before.  I suppose for all intents and purposes the Godphone got a jolt, even though I don’t generally like referring to it as the “godphone”.

I got the sense of an older man, in his late 60’s or early 70’s dressed in a non-descript grey traveling outfit-very old, old, OLD world. He had a grey cloak and grey pants and everything about him gave off the same vibe as a good “notice-me-not” spell or someone trying to blend in. Only, he wanted me to notice him. He looked a bit grizzled with a long grey beard and a large, wide brimmed hat was pulled down low over part of his face.

The Conversation:

Me: “You’re not Loki.”

Mystery Man: “Do I remind you of Yaweh like this?” (Genuinely curious.)

Me: “Ummm…More like Gandalf.”

Mystery Man: (A dry chuckle) “Try again.”

Me: “Ummm…”

Mystery Man: “I’m Odin.” (In a wry sounding voice.)

Me: “Oh. Okay. Nice to meet you. Naked in my shower. Not that shower time isn’t cool and all…but…why are you in my shower?”

Odin: “I like to keep an eye on Loki’s projects, especially the ones he cares about a great deal.” (Smug grin, then poof.)

Me: (Alone, to myself.) “I’m a project?”

…Not really how I envisioned meeting The All Father.

…and I’m not sure how I feel about being a project.

Me: 10 hours later…
“OH-keep AN EYE on his projects. HA! Apparently Odin does puns!”

Friendship and Frith: Love by Degrees

I have friends who are family. I have friends who have stood by when I had no money. I have friends who frantically helped me move out of the apartment of an abusive ex and who stood by me during the following harassment and stalking behavior. I have friends that I love like family and I have friends who have stood stronger than family at my side.

I love my friends.

To me, friendship is really love. I am friendly, but I don’t do casual acquaintances because of this. The feelings I have for my friends come from the same area of my soul that my feelings for my family come from and the feelings for my soul mate come from. They are all pulling love from the same, bottomless pool. And it is love. If one of my friends hurts my feelings it is the same feelings my husband can stomp on. If I lose a friend the same grief overtakes me that I have struggled through every time I break up with someone. It is real pain.

I’ve never understood people who have popcorn friends. Someone who has popcorn friends can use Set A of friends to help them move, Set B to borrow money from when they are in trouble, and only ever really hang out with or do things for Set C. They use people whenever they are bored and then toss them when they aren’t exciting anymore. They plow through people like a handful of popcorn-spitting out the hard ones and tossing the rest when they don’t taste as appealing as the first buttery mouthful. I can’t do that. I’ve never, ever been able to do that. I can’t take from someone-emotionally or in other ways-that I don’t feel I am capable of ever returning something to. I say ever because it is conceivable that I could be in a bad spot and incapable of being useful in any significant way at the present moment, but that doesn’t mean I will always be that way. I have to be able to envision a future with a person for them to be my friend and sneak under the umbrella into the people that I think about.

When I was in high school I had 2 friends. I had mountains and mountains of “people I knew”, but 2 friends. I always described those people, the casual “friends” or acquaintances, as people I knew too. I didn’t really call them my friends. And when I talk about my real friends I have the annoying habit of saying “my friend so-and-so” as if it is extremely important that everyone recognize the connection. I still do this. Now that I am older my umbrella has widened. I have more people that I genuinely care about, perhaps because I’ve become less guarded or maybe just because I’ve had more years on this planet. I’m not sure.

I never had a term for how I feel about my family of friends until someone tossed the term “frith” at me. To me frith means a person who may or may not be family for whom you would do the same things that are traditionally reserved for family. My true friends are people I have frith with. If I can’t trust someone I have trouble making them my friend because I know I will start caring for that person, whether I want to or not and whether it is healthy or not if I label them as friend. My true family consists of more family of choice than blood, so perhaps that is why? I’m not sure.

I am sure that when I read the word frith for the first time I found something that clicked in my mind and resonated with my true nature.

And woe be to someone who takes issue with those I hold frith with. I have their back and they have mine.