I love gardening. I love the buzz of a dozen bees at my side. I love Spring. I love the was the early light makes the fresh buds and young leaves glow against grey-white skies. The long grass against the blue heaven.
I yearn for it more with each passing year. Maybe because I know I’ll wither and die like a tree in the Fall, and then Mother Earth will swallow me whole and I’ll give her a belly full of me. What I was in flesh will push up daisies and green the land over. Even devoid of any spiritual significance, of which I think there’s more than a horn of plenty, it’s a beautiful thing. I’ll have given a life devoted to Earth to become the thing I’ve treasured.
Of course, there are arguments to be made about the salience of a European belief on reincarnation. If you’re dieing to see if autism is contagious, you can find my most bloated effortpost here. Suffice to say, I think a belief in reincarnation via Blood and Soil (clan and land) is a Trü and honest Retvrn to Tradition, there are many evidences to support the claim that our indigenous traditions felt this.
For example, take the Greek Myth of Gaia. Elsewhere I have written my belief that Greek homos inverted the iconography of predisposed Snake/Goddess Cults to get the less relatable Medusa, Typhon, etc. These are all connected through Gaia (Mother Earth.) Gaia takes the “monsters” (practitioners of old Cult) back into her womb where they are eventually reborn. Here we may have servants of the Goddess being reborn through history, remembered darkly by Greeks who saw them as threats. Hades, in a way, is that womb with Tartarus being her innermost depth. In another tradition there was the Omphalos, navel of the world, the Great Goddess’s belly button. From here one could expect to observe the stars, which held great significance as our people evolved. These are all likely throwbacks to ineffably old traditions.
This past week I have finished Annie Dieu-Le-Veut’s book “Stories in the Stars.” It had a lot of ground for me to cover which was, to me, on my periphery inhabiting a vague and shadowy Utgard of ‘I’ll get there some-days.’ But it was a good and Illuminating read and had prompted me to examine my beliefs and yearnings. If has because her book has nudged a handful of shelved mental images into respective pieces of an internal puzzle which now makes more sense. She hasn’t made a shaman of me, but has stoked a curiosity to learn more as I can palpate a very functional worldview with excellent internal consistency within the conscript of that multivariate tradition- which I must confess I remain an appreciator of and admirer for. Jan Fries wrote a book, Helrunar which I shall revisit, as well as my collection of astrologically based tomes I might cross reference. I will now finally peradventure to read Galina Krasskova’s book Neolithic Shamanism – even though I know at a hypothetical dinner table she would likely reach across it to punch me. (We inhabit very different moral spheres, for lack of better terms – but I am also a firm believer that if you keep your mind sharp, and your mind’s eye peeled, no knowledge can truly poison you- ergo my frequent stress on metacognition.) But where am I happiest, spiritually?
I’ve come to see working the land as a sacrament. The land where I live is a heritage from my mother’s side of the family. It had a little German-ish matriarchy led by a woman her Anglo-Saxon neighbours (my cousins, incidentally) felt may have been a witch. It’s a world I can’t imagine. But for stories passed down, and some of them are but wild.
The point is, in my case, Blood and Soil is a Matriarchic question. I live and love on land passed on by my mothers. I find myself inclined to worship the Goddess as sought by the God in the archetypal metalanguage of our ancient religious strains and up. Even though the structure of my House is broadly patriarchal, because it is what works for us, yet I cannot help but sympathise with worlds we’ve lost – Wōden knows, I don’t always want to be in charge but I know some things are simply up to me. If a man knows arguing with women is a waste, than arguing with Nature is fifth-dimensionally retarded. Still, being looked to for leadership always comes with intense pressure and self-doubt – I am jealous of a woman’s power to be invincible in her (however at times frustratingly momentary) convictions of her own righteousness.
As a Sacrament, my work feeds the Goddess. I should say simple as, but Gnosis for us now is distilling the complexities into simplicities because we have no connection to an ancient metalanguage which speaks through and for us. As a rule, and by design. Simply: We don’t eat until she does. It’s very telling that modern man, rootless, fails to understand that bounty is a gift of the Goddess. Or even see bounty as a gift, at all, much less recognize a divine pulse. It doesn’t materialise from nothing. If we feed her Garbage, starve, abuse and neglect her… Well, what do we have? Eroded soil, nutritionally deficient yield, and a revolting rootless human race on top of all this making everything worse in an orgiastic circle jerk of co(s)mic stupidity. It seems to me Mother Earth is neither fat, nor happy; and in every epoch conceivable there was at least a nod to Her hidden away, where I like to think pockets of us always found Her in secret rites and dark, unlit places. Until the post-industrial revolutionary times, that is, and even then the seeds of Neopaganism were being sewn in their way. Mankind more often than not knew we would do well to keep Her satisfied, even if she was the ghost in a foreign machine as she became through Christendom.
So, I feed the Goddess with my work, my beliefs, and in the end I will myself become an offering when it is my time to die. It isn’t as if we have a choice, so we might as well make peace with our role in the food chain – everything ends up on the dinner table. Mother Earth will outlast us all, so it stands to reason she gets the last word, and the last bite. Thus, I try in my way to heed her. She is I think most accessible from the archetype of Mother Earth, sought after by the Green Man. I guess that’s me, in my little world. We cannot expect the fruits of her womb to be rich and plentiful, unless we are willing to lavish her and hold the Cornucopia to her lips in offering. Anyone even remotely acquainted with any strain of European Paganism worth it’s decidedly unkosher salt knows that the iron law of reciprocity prevails. “Asatru” (which I feel is a spectrum rather than religion) calls this the Gifting Principle. Romans had a term, I believe, do ut des. Which my spellcheck tried to write off as “donut.” Sure, bud.
Anyway. It is a thrill, working the land. Feeding the Goddess. Wearing the Green. Which I think is an Irish custom hearkening to Pagan times, perhaps for precisely the reason I think. If you think of it, most religious customs can be retconned and assumed to be adaptive fertility rites. Often libations were poured into the Earth, as in the Blòt of Asatru. The Celtic Pagans fed objects of value into bodies of water where they believed Cthonic Goddesses dwelt. Like their Morrigan, or our Hela of whom both dealt in rebirth and its Geas (a Celtic handicap of Wyrd.) There’s plenty of other examples.
I watch with glee as the suckers push up from dead stumps, unearthly slimy things they are, and then wonder upon wonder – dry into saplings, twigs and trees of their own. I see the shells of beans and seeds pushed up by their green inheritance. I see the grass blades rise. And I know I have been a good steward. And I can’t help but think our earlier agricultural ancestors felt something similar, if the archeological record has anything to say, there was a high probability we once saw a symbolic connection between Earth as a feminine archetype and our own Blood and Soil landlock. We did not, as a rule with a few exceptions, worship Valkyries and Amazons so much as Domestic Goddesses of an older breed who if appearances are to be believed appreciated a good harvest. These were not dainty, breakable, little things that you had to rustle the sheets to find – as my grandmother’s husband (who died a year before I was born, incidentally in the room where I grew up) was reportedly fond of saying.
Speaking of the old Kraut, one of my tasks this year is to develop cultivars from an apple tree he developed. Through successive grafts from his father he stabilised his own breed of appletree which populated the road where I live. We’re down to one, which my parents own where they live up the road a piece. And nature has been chipping away at it, and has killed the rest. My gut tells me the land will be happier for it if I can clone and regrow her. Even if I’m not rightly related to the man, nevertheless, he’s part of the land and I believe it’s what he’d want. He’d have wanted other things I can’t do, but you do what you can. He also, was a Green Man in his way.
I don’t think one can have a higher calling, a spiritual experience, without having that intimate connection with the Land. The ploughing field of the Goddess, as many a late Pagan would cheekily infer. And I have come to think that in this day and age, where so many are uprooted even amongst their roots, that the prevailing nihilism is easily explained. A great Massachusetts rhetorician once said “you hahv bot one Muthah.” If you have not gotten down and dirty with Her, what can you do?
Even hidden in the mystery rites of unorthodox Christendom, is Heathendom within whose bosom is an ancient faith without a language of her own. And in the earthlier forms, such as early Anglo-Catholicism there were naked nods to Mother Earth as God’s wife who was, literally, a cornfed maiden. Corn dolls were made to her honour, as the Irish did with Brigid. (Corn didn’t always refer to the plant we have now, but was often a general term for grain.) She would render a bellyful of blessings onto the English peasantry who had sustained her, with the Lord’s blessing of course. I’m willing to bet that Lord dressed in green to do it. You can read about it in Kathleen Herbert’s book “Looking for the Lost Gods” of England, which I’ve reread a half dozen times the last six years.
The point is, roots can be lain. Blood and Soil can be a movable feast for what becomes an immobile deity. She is perhaps exemplified by what one writer called Tribal Goddesses; Columbia, Britannia, Germania, Roma and so forth. These Goddesses represent the stabilisation of phenotypes from vagabond clans, they represent settlement, colonisation, determinism. They are not universal archetypes, but hypostases with their roots run deep, anchoring them. Our people have always moved, but they always settled in and laid down root. Offshoots abound. Our racial history is really permutations of a now unfathomably ancient taproot so deeply buried in history none can say what is true. But! They always fed the Earth, even if it was unconsciously and coded in their mystery rites whose meaning and purpose have been lost and found and propagandized so often that in truth, UPG is our greatest ally. Most decidedly not Israel.
Maybe this means something, maybe it don’t. Wæs þū hæl. Happy Monday – named for the forgotten Moon Goddesses of old, if Lochlainn Seabrook is to be trusted. And he agrees well with what I’ve read elsewhere. So again, wæs þū hæl ōnd glædelig Mōndæg.
The White Oak opens up.