The Day of the Turkey is upon us. One can almost hear the groans of the engorged. The platitudes of those oppressed by plenty. And so forth. I like Thanksgiving. It has always been my favourite Holiday, one I actually look forward to. Not because of the shapeless, feckless way America does it now, no. I take a more perennial outlook to the day. Thanksgiving is one of those Holidays with neglected roots. Yes, it is a day to celebrate the Founding of America. It is a day to celebrate the hardiness and strength of my Settler forefathers, Pilgrims, who undertook the trek to the New World at no small risk to themselves. There is much to be said there, in a world that underplays the courage of the pioneers of our culture to prop up inferior replacements. And there is much to say about the Holiday that was before the Pilgrims engineered the one that would be.
As to my fathers… We look around and see a cushioned bunch made for pushing (around,) but one cannot look at themselves today and see a Dissident equal with or superior to the Dissident yesterday. A dissident man today might get defunded and have to shill wicked friggin hard on his GoGibzMeDat when he loses his job – or – and least popular opinion, go get an anti-fragile job that doesn’t end when your opinions are known, rather than martyr posting about the horrid sacrifices of doing the right thing. A job. Like plumbing, electrical, construction, or literally anything that isn’t punching buttons with your fingers and sipping gay West Coast sludge. Real, American jobs which contribute material culture, not propping abstracts up. Anyway. And as to women, who have become OnlyFans stars for comparatively less than financial hardship, there were likewise consequences for dissent. But far be it from me to stop CupcakePrince$$666 or whatever from living the Weimerican dream when she could probably find less potentially degrading work. But then again, is that any more degrading than selling yourself in a pocket protector and pushing pencils but hard? I dunno. Self-made men are the future, is the hill I’ll die on. I’ve had my full of corporate entanglements.
Dissenting men of yesterday faced torture and death. Today’s dissenters face diminished returns to the Funko Pop fanclub. The Pilgrims who would be Puritans had lived in exile in libertine Holland for many years before determining that the New World would be their City on the Hill, or their God-given graveyard. This was a real possibility which their faith did not blind them to. On a ship which was becoming outdated they sailed to strike up a land and compact which suited their compact. With them they brought their own spurious traditions, which were as accidentally Pagan as anything else that’s English.
So, in short, the daring-do of our forefathers is something we should acknowledge. The achievements of the Pilgrims was a great one. We are often overshadowed in the public eye by the more popular Cowboy, Pioneer and Roughneck archetypes. But where would they have been without us? Still in the British Isles. With all due respect to my cousins across the pond, of course. While soldiers were amongst the ranks of the Pilgrims, ours had been not a warrior community, but a faith community. Agrarian values were stressed. “Real” democracy, which is to say, a rule of the people amongst their own, according to blood and tenets of faith. You may not care for that attitude, and I would be given to understand why, but it was an honest one. Communities acted together. They pushed with one mind. Without that basis, there could have been no survival. The lone-wolf dies alone, and likely hungry. There is no food coma for that one.
So there’s that. Of course, the accidental paganism of the English is a favourite of mine. Long before Thanksgiving became an English-American Holiday, it was an English holiday, which was at one point an Anglo-Saxon Holiday. Thanksgiving was a Harvest Festival, in Ye Olde Heathen Days. The earliest converts to Popery were unwilling to give up the ship and throw the baby out with the bathwater. Contrary to the sad opines of modern Christians, no, Asatru is neither horribly new, nor thoroughly invented – it is the sum of folk survival right under the noses of the papists and their protestant spawn, a perennial expression of an undying soul.
I believe it was Freya Aswynn who tried the hardest to make the case. She points out that the basic symbols of Thanksgiving betray a clearly Pagan root. Her favourite example, which has become one I appreciate, is the notion of the famed Pilgrim Woman in her garb with her Cornucopia that has for ages been trotted out around November in many American homes. Unless you’re French and you deck the walls with Savage statues – don’t do that. Anyway. That figure, she argued, is a Goddess. After all, does she have a name? She acts as the arbiter of plenty, presenting with her form the arbiter of the abundance of the collected folk. That archetype is ripped straightaway from Heathen England, and it channels Mother Earth in her many names and masks. But this is my argument. Frau Aswynn’s was more clinical, perhaps. The Horn of Plenty can be traced back to Greek Myth, and has obvious cultural inheritance from Norse where horns and plenty went hand to mouth. I would argue that the Plenty Goddess is much older than even these, and that is clearly enough for some. The Woman and Horn is an archetype of excessive antiquity which takes us to The Venus of Laussel, and maybe even earlier.
Her Archetype has been carried across time and space, and it’s no mean thing that it found it’s way into the English-American foundry of this country. She shares her hall with the horn-bearers of countless Indo-European cultures, but it is of the Valkyries that I think, whose blessings afforded restorative blessings to the low much in the way Morgana La Fey bestows her blessings on the mortally wounded Arthur, echoing the reincarnative aspects of the Goddess archetype.
There is the harvest, of course. In Old England, if one follows Kathleen Herbert’s writing, this time of year culminated in a blessing of the land by God’s Wife, who had been fattened up through the year and finds herself now heavily pregnant and full of next year’s life. We of course had many such days. One of which, more well known than others, is Llamas, the Loaf Mass. It comes six months after old Candlemas and provided a fair split to the year. This marked the time of feasting which accompanied us through the winter, merrymaking, lovemaking, all that good stuff. So it comes to us, the hour of divinely mandated gluttony shepherded over by an all but forgotten but nevertheless nigh-omnipresent Goddess.
A cynical, short-sighted peevishness arises. The holiday is seen as nothing but an excessive display, an artefact of colonialism, and hypocrisy. Blah, blah, blah. Excess, mere excess. But if you believe in genetic memory, Folksoul, and so on – allow me the courtesy of consideration. The relief we feel at seeing the spreads, the harvest fruits up on the tables, the benches bent with heavy faire – it isn’t just commercial enterprise. It isn’t just jew meddling. Yid product placement. Do you think they care about pumpkins? That isn’t exactly a big business, guy. No, no, no. In our veins is relief, a blunted expression of an older memory. Imagine how much more searing the relief felt by our ancestors. A fat Fall meant a living winter, a poor harvest meant death. The “excess” of Thanksgiving is less a curmudgeon and more a testament of folk survival. Or at least it was. A plump turkey and a pile of potatoes meant you had beaten the odds.
And so here we are today. The Fall is pockmarked with spice and fine smells. Our ancestors offered fire and incense to our Gods in the long hours, long ago. And now we gravitate if only for a few months to the candlelight. The candles live in the veins as a memory of the ancient needfires that begged the return of Sol Invicta in the blessed Summer. There is nothing of this most delicate season which does not palpate the veins of the ancients of days. By falling into the Season, we take part in an ancient communion, unbroken by any alien god, no matter how full of sand. Ah yes, the trendy boys and girls will throw on their plaids and tartans. Buffalo plaid will give way to Stewart tartan. And what is this but an instinctual craving for a time when the clothing on your back marked the tribe you called your own? The Fall is the time of the Dead. In a subtle way, it is the Folksoul reaching for itself, and that is a beautiful thing which should not be denied. What hearkens to that which makes us ourselves, is comfort. Telling it is, that ZOG pushes such standard deviations so far below and away from the standards established on soil and in blood.
In fine, there is nothing which we see that is in some way not impacted by the past. Put out of your mind this notion the past has died. How could it, when all that is, is extracted from her? We are the past, moved forward. We come from the wombs of our mother at the prodding of our father. Their blood runs in our veins, as their blood was got from their own. That blood flows. For the past to be dead, an extinction level event needs to occur – but that may be a talk for another table. I would like this post to carry an uplifting note.
So nevertheless, it seems to me that the day is a good day for an offering. A Blót to Jörðadis, the Earth Mother to whom the harvest is owed and from whom the bounty is taken, whose body is our home and heaven, whose womb is death and new life. It seems as well to raise a glass to the Fathers and Mothers of our people, who brought us here, and took the land we have from them. Which is what I shall do. Irrespective of who comes, or does not, who answers what invites I send, or who doesn’t, it pays to remember that we are never absent from our ancestry. And I before all, lest you think me a hypocrite, do well to remember them, to invite them into our affairs. Far we have come from leaving a seat at the table for Gods and dearly departed kin alike, having instead chairs full of paperwork or merely unintentionally empty. So it goes.
I do hope, reader, that your Thanksgiving is a good one, and as you fidget with your buttons, do recall to whom your blessings are owed. If one doesn’t care to heed the Goddess of the Earth, than at the bare least of all things one must take time to honour their glorious dead. Their fathers and mothers, whom they can recall, and the lands of their birth, the lands of their ancestry – which by logical proxy brings us to the Gods that shaped these and other fine things. Wassail and blessed be, however you take your well wishes, I hope you have them.
Eat the Turkey, Bigot.
More to Love (or not:)
Last Year’s Thanksgiving
Memes for Dessert, Cheers Bigot.