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The Penzler Scale - March 23, 2007

Being an attempt to bring more peace between factions of Heathens through being more specific and using new terminology for positions held on race issues.

Varđlokkur (Seiđr-Songs) Theory - August 05, 2006

Being a discussion of some less-considered possibilities of the meaning and nature of the songs mentioned as part of the Greenland Seeress's divinatory rite.

On Race - February 28, 2006

Being an explanation of the nature of race and ancestry in Heathenry.

On Oath Rings - February 22, 2006

Being an exploration of the nature of oathrings in the ancient Heathen period, from linguistic and saga evidence.

Hávamál - More Advice Than You Can Shake A Hlautteinn At - October 24, 2005

Being a discussion of the Hávamál and the depth of study that can reveal its more obscure passages.

Magic - Natural Human Action - October 17, 2005

Being a discussion of my idea that magic is something everyone can do instinctively, rather than by formulaic spells.

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March 23, 2007

So many of us are frustrated with the "Folkism vs. Universalism" debate. I feel that labelling is a large part of the problem. I worked up this scale to begin to address that issue and hopefully get people speaking more precisely to promote understanding. Having posted it to a couple of e-mail lists at that time, several people wrote to me to tell me that they really liked what I had worked up and wanted to pass it along to other places, in some cases even translating it into other languages. One person even suggested we call it "The Penzler Scale," in deference to the last such attempt, "The Jarnsaxa Scale" (I feel that one's a nice idea, but doesn't get specific enough--not enough gradients). I have now rewritten some of it to be more easily understood and hopefully clearer of bias, and present it now here in its new form.

The "Folkism vs. Universalism" debate, or "the old F/U" as I like to call it, comes up time and again on just about every Cyberheathen grouping in existence. There is a reason why it continues to come up--it has yet to be remotely resolved. Each side tends to feel that the other is a bunch of crazies who don't know what they're talking about, and communication breaks down, largely because of the assumptions made and not addressed.

Universalism vs. Folkism simply is not a paradigm that works for these discussions. It is nowhere near detailed enough. That very dichotomy is part of the reason why so many people get into arguments about Folkism in the first place--because they see those who are culture-oriented but accepting and those who are race-oriented and exclusivist using the same term for themselves, and it is confusing.

In large part, those on the Folkist side of things have framed the debate in their own terms, and those on the other side have done little to correct this. The very terms Folkish and Universalist tell us that, because each is labelled from the Folkist's perspective. But when those on the other side use the terms the Folkists have chosen in order to speak out against practices and attitudes which they feel to be wrong, they get the former, culture-oriented but accepting group angry, when they were actually speaking of the latter, race-oriented and exclusivist group. The former group of Folkists are angry because of being accused of attitudes actually borne by the latter, and the "Universalist" doesn't understand the former group's denial because they see only one term, Folkist, and do not realize that there are shades within that spectrum.

Since more precision is in order, perhaps a completely new scale showing the fine points of difference might help.

A given Heathen or group feels that someone not of Germanic/Scandinavian ethnic background pursuing Heathenry/Asatru (by whatever name) as a faith should be:

A) Necessary: "Everyone in the world should be following this as the One True Faith."

B) Encouraged: "We should be actively recruiting people of other ethnic backgrounds."

C) Welcomed: "We needn't recruit them as such, but they are as welcome as anyone else."

D) Accepted: "Because of ancestral ties, they might not have as strong a connection to these ways, but that's their business, and I can accept their participation."

E) Tolerated: "They'd be better off following their own ancestors' ways, but we'll allow them in, reluctantly."

F) Discouraged: "Those people should be actively discouraged from taking up our ways, and sent seeking their own people's ways instead. If they really insist, I don't care -- but they aren't going to be a part of any group I'm in."

G) Disallowed: "They simply cannot be a part of this faith, ever."

H) Fought: "They must not be allowed to take up these ways -- they are harmful by their very presence and/or should be gotten rid of by whatever means."

Obviously, A) Necessary simply doesn't exist, though it is the true meaning of the Universalist label that keeps getting thrown around -- more reason not to use it anymore.

Obviously, H) Fought is a sort pretty much everyone (except others like them) doesn't want around. The Heathen Front is a perfect example.

So most of us fall somewhere in between. The point of this scale, though, is to encourage people to stop using a simple either/or labelling system and expecting that to properly elucidate someone's stance on an issue like this -- we should get more detailed so that we can really begin to understand each other.

Let's say you are more accepting of non-Germanics in Heathenry, and you get into a situation where you may have conflict with someone who calls himself Folkish. Rather than challenging him to defend his views, or attacking him for being a racist, challenge him instead to explain in greater detail his actual position on the issue, perhaps using this scale, since Folkish is a term encompassing too broad a spectrum of views. You might find that his feelings are closer to yours than you thought, and you might not have a problem with him after all.

Let's say you are more restrictive about non-Germanics in Heathenry, and you get into a situation where you may have conflict with someone who is more accepting, and you think of her as a Universalist. Rather than berating her for being such, or attacking her for not understanding what the faith is really about, find out from her more specifically what her views are, perhaps using this scale. You might find that her feelings are actually that non-Germanics should be accepted, if they really want to be here, when you might have assumed she felt that they should be actively recruited, and you were about to use a term that would suggest she felt that they and everyone else must follow this way like it was Gospel. She might be only a step or two away from you on this scale, not on the opposite side of things, like you first thought.

Every time that one "Universalist" Heathen and one "Folkish" Heathen argue with each other having accepted or encouraged those "either/or" labels, it is just possible that the one who calls himself Folkish may actually be at, say, D above, when the person they feel is a Universalist is actually at C--not very far apart at all, and the inaccurate labels only serve to push them further apart.

I have created this scale in hopes that people on both sides of the debate--or, as I hope you might now see, at each individual point in the broad spectrum--might come to a better understanding of each other. Certainly there will still be conflict--B and G are still going to vehemently disagree--but perhaps C through F can begin to see that they are not quite as far apart as they first thought.

For the record, I find myself at point C on the scale, and have no problem with people all the way from C through E, and can deal with people at B and F.

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August 05, 2006

We are told in the tale of the Greenland seeress that certain songs were sung, called varđlokkur, as part of the oracular ritual the little völva performed. We know that the seeress needed others to sing the songs, we know that a Christian woman from among those gathered knew such a song that her foster-mother used to sing, and we know that, when she sang it, the seeress told her that because she sang it so beautifully, she was able to attract more spirits than before, and more wisdom was shown to her by the spirits than before. But this is all we know.

Working linguistically as I am wont to do, I've been working for some time with the word varđlokkur to see what I can glean about the nature of the songs and their function purely from the word. Unfortunately, this one's a little tough.

"Varđ" is "ward," but why is protection required? For a long time, I'd had trouble trouble finding the singular of "lokkur." "Loka" means "to lock, shut" (and most explanations of this word use this meaning, translating it as something like "ward-locks").

But there are other possibilities for what this part of the word is. "Lokka" means "to allure, entice." "Lok" is a noun meaning a cover or lid, also a fern or weed. "Loka" is a noun meaning a lock or latch. "Lokkan" is an allurement, an enticement.

I long thought that this could mean that the purpose of the songs is as wards allowing the enticement of spirits to a protected space, drawing them to the seeress with promises that they'll be safe, so that they might speak to her.

But then I realized that I hadn't taken a good look at the other part of the word. What if it's not "varđ," "ward," but rather something else? Even the Cleasby-Vigfusson dictionary gives varđlokkur as "ward-songs," "guardian songs." But when I looked, I found "varđa"--Zöega gives this verb as "to warrant, guarantee, answer for; to bargain for; to be of importance; to guard, watch, defend; to be liable to, punishable by; to belong to." Cleasby and Vigfusson give an identical noun--"a beacon." With these additional meanings, varđlokkur could mean things far different than I'd assumed by the "ward" translation. "Guarantee-enticement?" "Bargain-allurement?" "Important-puller?" "Beacon-draw?"

Perhaps the varđlokkur are songs sung as a beacon to attract spirits, with whom the seeress then interacts. Some translations give the seeresses reaction to the song's beauty as her saying that she had attracted many spirits there who thought it lovely to lend ear to the song, which seems to hold with this idea.

Either way, I had long figured that the reason the Christian woman's foster-mother knew the song (I don't believe she was a seeress herself, or that probably would have come into the story as well) was because the song was one of many of this category of songs called varđlokkur, and that those songs, as the old ways were practiced less and less, may have gradually become like children's songs or even lullabies. Such things have been known to happen in many cultures. The name for the kind of song had stuck, though for most people they didn't think of them as magical anymore, they just sang them because they worked well as lullabies, or whatever they'd become. At least, that's my theory.

Still, many questions were still drifting through the back of my mind when a whole new way of looking at the songs occurred to me today, right from the very basics of the ancient Heathen worldview--"a gift looks to a gift." I suddenly realized that, from the details we had available, the spirits were giving information, knowledge, wisdom without any return gift--unless it was the song. Beyond any power the song may have had to attract the spirits, it was a beautiful song sung for their benefit, a gift to them. This would make them more likely to share their wisdom, as they would wish to return the gift.

Even with this, which makes a lot of sense to me, a question still bothered me--why was the seeress not singing the songs herself?

I think that the seeress needs to be in trance to be partly in this world and partly in the spirit realm in order to see the spirits, or perhaps even to act as a conduit of sorts, allowing the spirits to hear the song from this world transmitted into their world. She can't be in trance and sing beautifully at the same time, so someone sings for her. Usually, this would have been her sisters who travelled with her, but she's the last one left and no longer has her "chorus." In the days before recording devices, she couldn't sing the song into a tape recorder and play it back while in trance, so she needed to find people who knew the songs everywhere she went to prophesy.

Unfortunately, the words themselves are forever lost, but considering that I think that they are like children's songs and are a gift to the spirits, they are most likely heavily-alliterative verses praising the spirits and extolling their virtues and accomplishments. Since they had to be general, rather than written for and about specific spirits, these praises were probably along the lines of "you who watch over us," "you who won victory and success in former days," that sort of thing. Though the actual songs are lost, it should be possible to construct something like them again.

With the ideas of the gift of the song, the song taught to children as a cradle-verse and the song as a beacon-enticer for spirits to be drawn to a seiđr-worker, I think I finally have a pretty good idea of what the varđlokkur were all about. One main thing remains: depending on translation, everything I've said above about "song" and "singing" is instead sometimes "chant" and "chanting." Cleasby and Vigfusson clearly think that they were songs, but I now disagree with them about them being "ward-songs," so who knows? I'll probably have to translate this bit for myself as well, eventually, to ever get a good idea one way or the other. Though I much prefer the idea of chanting to singing, if I ever try to take up this art myself (I hate singing), I can at least take comfort in the knowledge that the one doing the prophesying isn't the one doing the singing!

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February 28, 2006

Ásatrú and Heathenry are two names for a collection of modern reconstructions of ancient ways of faith and culture that often attract accusations of racism and neo-Naziism. This statement exists as a refutation of those accusations and clarification of the actual nature of Ásatrú and Heathenry.

Ásatrú and Heathenry is a faith borne out of related cultures, of related tribes and proto-nations in the areas we today call Germany, Scandinavia and England, from more than a thousand years ago. It was indigenous and unique to those peoples. Indeed, the cultures from which Heathenry was born are an important part of the faith--one understands the faith partly through understanding the people who held it, their lives and worldview. To be Heathen today, it is important to have an understanding of what it was to be Heathen a thousand and more years ago. Also, the honouring of ancestors is an important part of Heathenry. Some Heathens even believe that we are descended from the gods themselves, not an uncommon belief among ancient indigenous faiths.

However, this is as far as it goes. Ásatrú and Heathenry, though it does involve culture, has no basis in biological race or ethnicity in practice.

Understanding the cultures from which Heathenry comes is an important part of the faith. Some feel that being descended from those cultures helps that understanding, but it is not strictly necessary. Remnants of the ancient Germanic worldview are more likely to have survived in the current worldview of cultures descended from the Germanic peoples, and adapting to the different worldview of the ancient Heathens is necessary to the deep understanding of the Ásatrú and Heathen faith. However, our modern worldviews, whatever our home cultures, are so far removed from the ancient Heathens' worldview that anyone must adapt a great deal to achieve that understanding, regardless of personal background. It may be that Germanic-descended peoples and non-Germanic descended peoples are like apples and oranges, but comparing apples to acorns and oranges to acorns yields little difference.

Honouring the ancestors is important, but one honours one's own ancestors and the Heathens of old, not generalized ethnic groups, like "Germanics." One's ancestors need not be Germanic, or even European, to be honoured in this way. A reconnection to one's own family line is what's important, not the colour of the skin of the people in that line.

There are some who feel that being descended from Germanic ancestors helps forge a connection to the faith, but they are proceeding only from a strong sense of cultural identity, not from any feeling of superiority or exclusivity.

However, there are others who self-identify as Ásatrú or Heathen for whom race and ethnicity are absolute necessities. Any Heathen who claims that feelings of racial superiority are part of the Ásatrú faith or wants to actively keep non-Germanics, non-Europeans or non-"whites" out of it is either proceeding from a poor understanding of that faith, or merely using the faith as a smokescreen for a pre-existing predilection to racism or neo-Naziism. We condemn this corruption of our faith in the strongest possible terms.

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[Composed of

On Oath Rings - November 02, 2005

More on Oath Rings - January 30, 2006

Even More on Oath Rings (Or: When Good Research Goes Bad) - February 22, 2006]

On Oath Rings

November 02, 2005

Oath rings were physical objects of great holy status, present in ancient Heathen temples and carried and cared for by gođar. However, the modern Heathen faith is having trouble with the idea, because we don't know enough about them as they were back in the day.

Based on my investigations so far, it seems we haven't found such an item in the archaeological record that can be clearly said to be an oath ring. When Christianity swept the old faith away, most physical traces of it were destroyed--temples, god-posts and holy groves burned down, other items smashed or melted down, and so on. So there is very little to go on.

But the Icelandic Sagas have a few mentions of oath rings and the temples in which they reside. Unfortunately, the descriptions are not very detailed, and there is a lot of trouble with translation.

So I set out to see what I could come up with from the popular translation of Eyrbyggja Saga, where one of these descriptions appears, as well as some "bits-and-pieces" translation of my own from the Icelandic. Here's what I found.

From Eyrbyggja Saga's temple description:

"...og lá ţar á hringur einn mótlaus, tvítugeyringur, og skyldi ţar ađ sverja eiđa alla. Ţann hring skyldi hofgođi hafa á hendi sér til allra mannfunda."

This is translated by Morris and Magnusson as:

"...and thereon lay a ring without a join that weighed twenty ounces, and on that must men swear all oaths; and that ring must the chief have on his arm at all man-motes."

Regarding the weight or value:

Looking up tvítugeyringur in the Cleasby-Vigfusson Old Icelandic-English dictionary, we see that tvítug is definitely twenty (twice-ten). Eyringur means either coins, ounces, ounces of silver, or the equivalent monetary value. Since the text has no verb forming a phrase with this word, it may mean that the ring weighs twenty ounces, or twenty coins, or that it is made of twenty ounces of silver, or that it is worth the equivalent of twenty ounces of silver, or twenty coins. We cannot be sure from this reference alone. Also, the word ounce may be more modern a concept than the description -- when they said something like this, what were they actually referring to? A set measure from a trading scale? Comparison to some common object of a given mass? An approximate measure, as we might use a word like "dollop?" Twenty ounces, if that's right, is very heavy to be worn on the wrist or arm. But if it instead means that its worth is twenty coins or twenty pieces of silver, what could it be made of that would be worth more than silver in order to weigh less? Gold? By today's market numbers, twenty ounces of silver is equivalent to about one-third of an ounce of gold, so that can't be used as a measure--but what might the ratio have been back in the day? Perhaps the workmanship involved might make, say, eight ounces of silver, wrought beautifully, worth the same as twenty ounces of silver ingot?

Another interesting point is that the term given is one word, "tvítugeyringur," not two or three. This may mean that this is a specific, well-known quantity, a "twenty-weight" as we might in days of old refer to a "hundredweight." Perhaps there was a particular weight as part of the trading scale sets of the day referred to this way, and this reference is telling us that the weight of the item should be equivalent, or that its value should be equivalent to that weight in silver (either of which may not actually be twenty ounces as we know them today).

Regarding "without join:"

Looking up einn mótlaus, einn and laus are easy--they are definitely one and -less/without respectively. Mót is a little more complicated. Primarily, it means a meeting or joint, but also bears the meaning of a stamp or mark. Cleasby-Vigfusson specifically translates mótlaus as "without joints," but this may or may not be the case. It might just as easily mean "without mark," "without a stamp"--stamping was a popular method of decorating rings, bracelets and such. Perhaps einn mótlaus does not mean "one without join," but rather "without one mark on it." Again, without more to go on, it is difficult to know. Also, even if mótlaus is meant to mean "without join," does that mean a ring that does not come together in a complete circle at all, a ring that has no visible joint like a solder point or twist, or a ring that needs no join, like one cast as a complete circle in the first place? From this point, we need other references and/or to go to the archaeological record to see what items may be extant that fit one or more of these descriptions.

A ring either joined as with a solder or twist, or cast as a complete circle, is very difficult to wear, as it must be put on from the wrist upwards, and therefore tends to fit to the part of the arm of the correct size, with parts of the arm below it being smaller--it slides down. A ring that does not come together in a complete circle, whether it goes around nearly once or several times, can be sized to fit a higher but smaller part of the arm, such as the lower end of the bicep, where parts below are larger, and the ring does not slide down. A closed circle is easier to wear as a bracelet on the wrist, so this may make a difference to the next section.

Regarding "have on his arm:"

Looking up hafa á hendi sér, hafa gives us to have, no surprises. Sér is reflexive, to himself; also not strange. Hendi, however, refers to the hand, not the arm. By that alone, this could mean that the gođi is to have the ring on his hand, perhaps finger--is it a finger ring? Since the ring either weighs twenty of some unit or is worth twenty of something, it most likely refers to something too large to go on a finger--a finger-ring would also be too small to swear an oath on, in the way we usually picture the act. So we're left with our translation work suggesting hand, and the typical translation mentioning the arm. Perhaps what is actually meant is for the gođi to wear the ring on his wrist--that part which is actually arm, but is at the hand?

Other words nearby may also add meaning. Looking deeper, hafa can mean to have, but can also mean to keep, celebrate; to hold, observe; to hold, keep, retain, maintain, have; to use; to take, carry off, win, weild; to catch, take; to carry, bring; to take, get, gain, win; to get, receive; to carry, wear (of clothes, ornaments, weapons). So it could mean that the gođi should wear the ring, but from that verb alone, it could just as easily mean that the gođi should have the ring, should maintain the ring, or should keep the ring. Á followed by a noun in the accusative declension (stem alone) means "onto," but followed by a noun in the dative declension (stem+l) means "on top of." I'm not familiar enough with the noun hendi to be sure, but since there is no "l," I suspect this may be the accusative declension (it also makes sense in the sentence). "Onto" doesn't quite fit, but when you put all these words together, it is possible that the picture they are painting is as our modern phrase "on hand"--that the gođi is to "keep the ring on hand," to have the ring with him, not necessarily worn at all.

If the ring need not be worn, a complete circle is not as impractical. Also, a weight of twenty ounces is, although very expensive and still heavy, not unreasonable as it need not depend from the wrist.

So it seems, from what we have in this description, because of the vagaries of language and translation, the anonymous author may have been telling us of "a ring of a complete circle weighing twenty ounces that the priest should have on his arm/wrist," or of "a ring without any markings worth twenty coins that the priest should have with him," or anything in between.

At some future point, I'll dig up the other saga references to oath rings and give them the same treatment to see if I can finally start to put this matter to rest and figure out what an oath ring really is.

More on Oath Rings

January 30, 2006

Further research and additional references have illuminated further my search for what an oathring really was, back in the Heathen period.

We know that sometimes, words like eyrir can refer to weight or to worth (in ounces of silver). There are places in Old Norse writings where the worth and weight of an object were both indicated by the same word, in the same sentence. For example, there is a reference to a cast-iron scythe weighing "18 aurar" (pl. of eyrir), worth "2 aurar" (presumably in silver).

However, if such a ring were made of silver, of course, one eyrir of weight is the same as one eyrir of value, as that value is counted in ounces of silver. Since oathrings are sometimes said to be of "tvitugeyringur" (20 aurar) and are often said to be of silver, then these, added together, means that such an item must weigh 20 aurar. If an eyrir truly is an ounce, this makes for a very heavy item to wear on the arm.

Another concept is to be found deep in the recesses of Cleasby-Vigfusson that adds another dimension, that of "pure silver."

First, let's introduce the idea of a "mark" of worth or weight ("mörk" in ON) to add to the "ounce" of "eyrir." Cleasby-Vigfusson tells us that a mark is equal to eight aurar. It also mentions that a mark is half a pound. For one thing, this tells us that the supposed "ounce" of eyrir is basically the same as the ounce of weight we think of today. The possibility that it could refer to some standard weight reference which happened to be translated as an ounce can pretty much be put to rest.

So an eyrir is equal to one-eighth of a mark. But a mention is also made of one ounce of "pure silver" being worth a mark, itself. So, if an eyrir, an ounce of silver, is worth 1/8 mark, and one ounce of "pure silver" is worth a mark, then "pure silver" seems to be something distinct from regular old "silver," and worth sixteen times as much. Perhaps it is another substance entirely, but which hadn't acquired its own name yet? One way or another, if it can be believed that silver and pure silver are different things, this difference in value could perhaps explain some of the differences in the accounts. Some say two ounces, some say twenty--if an item were worth two ounces of pure silver, but composed of regular silver, by that exchange rate, it would weigh approximately sixteen ounces--not far from twenty. Assuming that rings made for this purpose were made by a general method, rather than being created, then weighed, and if not of precise measurements, melted down and made again, then we can assume that not every oathring weighed exactly the same, though the approximate weight was likely close. Sixteen and 20 ounces are not far off, and could mean that we're on to something.

Of course, it's also possible that what was implied by two ounces was that the metal which composes the ring should contain two ounces of silver, along with whatever quantity of whatever other metal goes into it, rather than that the entire item must weigh two ounces. That would throw our theories off quite a bit, as the final intended weight could never be known. However, any other metal that might be involved is simply never mentioned. Additionally, there is a story in which Olaf takes the ring from a temple he's destroyed and gives it to a queen as a pledge, hoping to marry her. Her metalsmiths can tell by weight that something is not right, and break it open to discover that it is a "false" ring, made of copper inside. In this case, the ring was said to be of gold, but still, the copper core making it a false ring and never having any mention of another metal involved with an oathring make it unlikely that what is prescribed is that the metal must merely contain two ounces of silver.

Eyrbyggja Saga contains a reference to Snorri the priest wearing his oathring on his arm when he becomes embroiled in a fight, and it saves him from a sword-blow to the arm. It is not ruined, though it is marked. From this, we can gain many new details. First, the oathring was definitely worn on the arm somewhere (hand, wrist, lower or upper arm) and not simply kept "on hand" at Thing. Also, especially if it was made of silver, which is quite soft, it would need to be of significant thickness to stop a sword blow, so a total weight of two ounces seems impossible. What's more, two ounces of metal made thin enough to go around an arm or wrist would be a thin wire, incapable of stopping any blow and not really even enough to serve its primary function. Since Snorri himself wielded a sword in that fight, we can presume that the ring was not around the thickness of his hand, or it would be in the way. Having stopped an incoming sword blow, presumably from its wielder's right hand, it is perhaps likely that it was worn on Snorri's left arm, but without knowing a great deal more of the specifics of the fight, this cannot be known.

So far, we're also still wondering about the shape of an oath ring, whether "ein mötlauss," usually translated as "without join" (though it could also mean "without mark"), means a complete circle so that there is no obvious point at which the circle comes together, or an incomplete curve, not unlike a horseshoe, that has no join in that it does not come together at all. There are several places where rings of one sort or another play important roles, and they all seem to have a symbolic role in common.

It is often said by modern Ásatrúar that an oath ring should be a complete circle because of the symbolism of the continuous, never-ending nature of the oath, but I've found no lore indications to back up the claim that this symbolism was seen the same way by the ancient Norse.

However, we know that there should be a ring on a reginaglar in the tree-pillar of a building, explored in my examination of that stanza of Hávamál. As we are told that putting this ring in place assures better luck for the building and those inside, it seems that the ring is a repository of the luck of the structure. Assuming for the moment that the ring is not attached to the nail, like a ring-pin style of cloak pin, but rather the ring simply hangs on the nail, this strongly indicates that this ring type is a complete circle, as it would hang best and not be easily knocked off the nail.

Likewise, the oathring can be seen as a repository of the oaths sworn upon it, and therefore of the luck created through the honouring of those oaths.

These taken together lead me to strongly believe that, indeed, the oathring should be a complete circle, and that the shape is intended to contain the oaths and luck, whether through the symbolism of the unending or through the circle being like the top of a well into which the oath is cast, or some other symbolism.

A complete circle could be created by an item cast in that shape from the beginning of its existence, an item with ends twisted or welded together to form a circle, or an item composed of wound or woven strands, woven together to form a circle, perhaps with individual strand ends hidden inside the weave. We had a question earlier about whether "ein mötlauss" meant that the ring was "without join" or "without mark," and exactly what either of those might mean. Perhaps there is another concept that could embrace them both--what if what is meant is "without solder or weld?" Either of these definitions could give that meaning, and it also fits with the likelihood of a complete circle. Given that my research is leading me to embrace the symbolism of the unbroken circle, and that I believe many rings on reginaglar to have been of iron (not easy to bend into little twisty shapes, or to weave and braid), I now believe quite firmly that an oathring in the ancient style should, indeed, be cast as a complete circle.

A complete circle, as we've mentioned, is not easy to wear on the arm. As it cannot be bent to fit once put on, nor made smaller than, say, the width of the hand but put directly on the wrist, and there is a danger of it slipping down the arm and off the hand. In size, it must be at least as big around as the width of the hand, or it cannot be worn at all. To be put on over the hand and left to dangle from the wrist, it would be pretty likely to fall off from time to time, and would certainly have been awkward in Snorri's fight, especially if on his right wrist. It seems more likely to be pushed up onto the forearm, where the give of the muscle could seat it more securely, or above the forearm muscle but below the elbow, or above the elbow but below the bicep, or even at the top of the bicep below the shoulder, depending on the diameter or the ring compared to the diameter of the wearer's arm.

This particular distinction we need not make, I think. In the sagas, there are examples where one particular godhi founds a temple, but it is then passed down to his descendants or someone else the king appoints, along with its wealth and presumably its ritual trappings, including the oathring. Therefore, though originally made to fit a certain point on the arm of a certain person, over the generations, we can presume that the same ring needed to be worn by a series of people who would likely have varied somewhat in physical dimensions. Perhaps it was cast to be worn above the elbow, but a later, larger godhi wore it on his forearm, and a still later, smaller godhi wore it on his bicep. The specific diameter of an ancient oathring would have been roughly arm-sized, but not terribly specific, nor, logically, would the specific location on the arm at which it would be worn.

So, where are we now, in our quest for the "real" oathring?

We know that it was worn on the arm. We know that it at least contained two ounces of silver, though the total weight, of silver or of silver plus other metal, may have been as high as twenty ounces, though that may have been awkward to wear. We know that it was worth at least two ounces of silver in value, though it may have been worth as much as sixteen to twenty ounces, about the value of eight to ten cast-iron scythe blades. We strongly believe that it was cast as a complete circle, as a vessel to contain its oaths and the luck of their keeping. It is also highly possible that the finished product bore no marks or stamps, as this might also be implied in the surviving descriptions we have.

Not a complete picture, certainly, but far, far better than where we started. Though with my Authentication project, I'd like to reach a point where I can say exactly what an ancient oathring was like and have one just like it for myself, there is simply not enough evidence left in existence to put such a complete picture together. Even with exhaustive and meticulous digging, there are still gaps. In this case, and because I know just where those gaps are and why I'm making the choices I am making in filling them, I feel comfortable making my own decisions about what I feel the missing pieces might be. My choices for filling those holes are not made randomly, nor by personal preference or for the sake of dramatic presentation, with full knowledge of what is authentic and what is supplemental, as consistent with the goals of my Authentication project.

Even More on Oath Rings (Or: When Good Research Goes Bad)

February 22, 2006

In my enthusiasm, I seem to have messed up. There is an important reference with lots of answers that I already knew about from before I started my Authentication project, but forgot to check again. Having failed to do so, I think I've done a lot of extra work for nothing.

I already knew that there were several different words for ring. In the language of a culture that values alliterative poetry, it's important to have different words for a thing that start with different letters. I also already knew that, because of the concept of cutting rings off a coil of silver or gold to be used as money before coins came into widespread use in the north, when using any of the words for ring in Old Norse one might be speaking of rings, or of money. I did most of my lexicon-oriented research on oathrings from the Cleasby-Vigfusson and Zöega entries for hringr, and by extension, eyrir, because these appear in the saga references I was checking. But I forgot to go back and check again their entries for the first Old Norse word for ring that I ever knew, where I had learned about using rings as money - baugr. I even had a note written down about having discovered that the legal term for one particular level of seriousness of oath to be sworn was actually called "ring-oath"--baugeiđr.

Having stumbled across these entries again yesterday, I realized my mistake. Not only can baugr, like hringr, refer to either a ring or a coin or an amount of money (baugr in particular is found in many compounds dealing with were-gild), but those dictionary entries actually specify that it can refer to an oathring from a Heathen temple, and what's more, they specify several things about them.

From Cleasby-Vigfusson:

"Baugr. I. a ring, armlet, esp. in olden times to be worn on the wrist plain, without stones: a. the sacred temple ring (stallahringr) on the altar in heathen temples; all oaths were made by laying the hand upon the temple ring; at sacrificial banquets it was to be dipped in the blood, and was to be worn by the priest at all meetings. The ring was either of gold or silver, open (mótlaus), its weight varying between two, three, and twenty ounces (the last is the reading of Eb. new Ed. p. 6, v. 1., the classical passages in the Sagas are…"

So here we have most of my questions laid bare. If this source is to be trusted (and I've trusted it for nearly everything else it's told me; though I don't know the source of the information that C-V used, definitive information from a fairly-trusted secondary source is far better than mysterious information from primary sources plus my own ponderings and attempts at logical interpretation), we know that an ancient Heathen oathring was either silver or gold, of two or three ounces (twenty seems to be only one reference, a late-period aberration), without decorative stones, open (i.e. not a complete circle) and actually worn, on the wrist. As it turns out, I have such an item already, bought on a whim some time ago in case this is the direction in which my research pointed.

Of course, as is my nature, a new question now occurs to me. ("Each word led me on to another word, / Each deed to another deed…") Just how did one "lay the hand upon the temple ring?" I'm sure we'll never know the answer, but it's interesting the think about.

I had sort of always assumed that the ring would be held in the hand of the one swearing the oath, and perhaps also held by the gođi. Was the ring held horizontally, or vertically? Was it held between the two, aloft, or with both of them facing toward the rest of the people present, out in front of them? The wording of this entry in C-V may mean that, rather than actually grasping the ring at all, the one swearing the oath might simply lay a hand upon it, which would require the ring to either be held by the gođi or to be resting on the stalli (or an outdoor hörgr) at the time. And now, seeing in my mind the ring actually worn on the wrist of the gođi, another possibility occurs to me. What if the gođi simply held out his arm, and the one swearing the oath laid his hand upon the ring on the gođi's wrist? Again, this could be done between the two of them, aloft, or between them and the gathering, but it creates a slightly different picture of the event than I'd ever had in my mind before.

So my "exhaustive and meticulous digging" wasn't as good as I'd thought. I should have already known the answers to most of my questions. That'll teach me to publish results when I think I'm finished researching, rather than waiting six more months, just in case.

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October 24, 2005

* hlautteinn -- the twig or twigs used to sprinkle the participants and temple area at a Heathen blót, or offering ceremony, thereby sharing the blessing of the gods

The Hávamál is said by many Heathens to be one of the most important surviving works informing our modern practice of the ways of our spiritual forebears. Just about every Heathen has read it, and new Heathens who haven't tend to be sent in that direction. But what do we really know about it?

Hávamál means "the sayings of Har," and Har means "the High One," referring to Odin. The poem purports to be the words of Odin passed down to us here on Midgard. Let's leave aside for the moment the debate about whether we actually believe this wisdom to have literally descended from Odin in some sort of revelation (I leave that to you to decide for yourself) and simply treat it as a work of literature, giving much good advice and ancient wisdom.

Essential? Trustworthy?

Many Heathens today see Hávamál as essential reading for the practice of our ways, but the feeling is not universal. First, there is the matter of locality--Heathens today make choices about their personal practice based on a location (and often a time, as well), such as the Icelandic model, the Anglo-Saxon or the continental Germanic. Since Hávamál is written down in Old Icelandic by an Icelandic man, some Heathens whose practice is informed by other regions see it as too strictly Icelandic to apply to them, that the basic advice for life contained in the work is advice for an Icelandic life specifically.

Then there is the matter of faith--when these works we have today were written down, virtually all of the people in the nations the stories had come from had converted to Christianity, centuries before. How can we know how much or how little the poem as it might have been told in centuries past had been changed to suit Christian mores and propaganda? Well, this is a debate that will never die, as little can be proven either way, but for my own practice, I feel quite confident that it has changed little. The people who had told these stories had a rich tradition of oral history, and in such cultures it is generally the norm to find that the exact repetition of the story as previously told is a mark of honour, that they should be passed down exactly. Surely, no changes at all over the course of many generations is unrealistic, but at least we can be fairly confident that the emphasis was on exactitude, and therefore the result was unlikely to be too far from it. Once the time came for Christian scholars to write down these tales, they did so such that they would not be lost to future generations, as the tales were not told as often as they once were. The effort was from the point of view of an historian, a preserver of cultural heritage that was disappearing.

Lost in Translation

Anyone who has delved into the Hávamál to any serious degree knows that there can be quite a bit of variation between one translation and another. Many translations are easily available on the internet and a few in print, from Auden and Taylor to Bellows, Thorpe, Cottle, Hollander, Larrington, Chisholm... the list goes on. So which one is the best? Well, you just have to know that's a loaded question.

Each translation, by the very nature of the exercise, has its good and bad points. A translation which speaks well to one person will not work as well for someone else, so my advice is to explore at least a few, and find one you like. It's difficult sometimes on the internet, where often only the basic text appears, but if you spend the money to buy a print edition of the Poetic Edda, look for one with good notes. There will be lots of references that you won't understand at first, and extensive footnoting will go a long way toward making sense of things.

Some translators attacked the text with the aim of literality, to produce a translation as close as possible to the original meaning. Others came at it from a point of view of poetry, to produce a translation preserving as much of the original poetic style and feel as possible. Most probably tried to balance the two, to varying degrees of success. Again, see if the edition you're looking at has an introduction from the translator explaining their choices. If you know the point of view going in, you're more likely to get a proper feel for what is being said--thinking you're reading a literal translation when you're actually reading one that sacrificed specifics for poetry could lead you to believe the text says things that it actually doesn't.

"I ween I hung on the windy tree..."

One case in point: Even before I began to study Old Norse, some of these problems became clear to me through critical reading. Bellows is one of the translations that I quite like, but something that jumped out at me a while ago was this line, famous to all of us in one form or another: "I ween I hung on the windy tree...," as Odin tells us of his time hanging on Yggdrasil, after which he takes up the runes. Now, "ween" is a word we don't use too much anymore, so I looked it up. I'd encountered it in my work on Shakespeare years ago, but wanted more specifics. The American Heritage Dictionary defines it as "to think, suppose." This didn't sit right with me. I mean, Odin wasn't wondering about whether he hung on the tree, he's pretty certain about it, isn't he? Ween is not a very good word to choose, to convey the proper meaning. However, it suits the alliteration nicely, and so preserves a little of the poetics of the piece.

In the couple of years I've begun learning some Old Norse from online sources, and will soon move into book sources and face-to-face instruction. In the meantime, the experience I've gained and the knowledge contained in sources like the Old Norse-English dictionaries by Zoega and by Cleasby and Vigfusson, now available online, have granted me even deeper insights.

"Give it a ring..."

Recently I found myself wondering about the "ring" involved in the stanza often translated similar to "Strong is the beam that raised must be / To give an entrance to all; / Give it a ring, or grim will be / The wish it would work on you" (Bellows). I had in my mind that this might mean that the wooden beam over a doorway should have an iron ring around it for added strength, but I wasn't sure. At first, I went looking for other translations to illuminate the issue, but they were no help--many of them seemed to change things around completely, referring to the giving of wealth and that it is the guests, not the beam, that might be wishing you ill.

This didn't make much sense to me, so I finally started working on translating at least a few words of it on my own. The first thing I discovered reminded me of something I already knew--back in the day, before the minting of coins in the north, a spiral of silver or gold would be cast such that a ring could be chopped off easily and given to someone in much the same way as a coin would in later years. Poetically, coins were often referred to as rings. So that part of the confusion between the two translations at least made sense, but I was no closer to knowing whether the gifting of wealth was actually what the passage was referring to.

I next took a look at the pronouns in the passage, to see whether it was "it" or "them" who should be given rings, and whether it was "it" or "they" who would wish ill on you. This part was cut and dried--as soon as I checked, it was plain that the pronouns were singular. That was one puzzle solved. But then it became less likely that wealth was referred to, for why would the stanza advise us to give a beam wealth?

Having asked around a few e-mail lists what others thought the stanza meant, I received a lot of different ideas. One of them, which sounded very plausible at the time, suggested that what was intended was that a ring, like a large iron circle, be attached to the door-beam as a ward against ill luck, in much the same way that some use horseshoes. This made some sense, as I'd heard of rings being attached to pillars, sometimes called "roof-trees," in old Heathen temples, along with reginnaglar--"the gods' nails" or "sacred pegs." This made me start to wonder about the door-beam itself. Some of the translations had it as a roof-beam, so there was another point of dispute worth looking into. This was the one that solved the puzzle for me.

The word in Old Norse given for this mysterious object was "tré"--"tree." So, it was not a horizontal timber that was referred to, but a vertical one, a roof-tree pillar. Now the ring made perfect sense--this stanza is advising us that the roof-tree must be strong to hold up the hall that admits many guests, so we should give it a ring (and possibly a reginnagli as well) to protect against bad luck so that it should not break.

So here we have an instance where, with an amateur's level of knowledge and the translation of only about five words out of the stanza, the meaning became clear and the previous translations I'd seen seemed suddenly to be woefully lacking. Bellows was basically the right meaning, but unless you already knew what he was talking about, you wouldn't understand it. The rest seemed to simply be wrong, at least to me.

I suddenly realized at this point that I was simply going to have to try to do my own translation of the whole thing. Well, so much for the next year of my life... "The religion with homework," indeed.

Well, I think I have blathered on long enough. Suffice for now to say that Hávamál is a source of much wisdom and information about the culture from which is comes, but you really do need to know what you're dealing with--the nature of the poem, the man who recorded it for us, what's involved in translating it to English and how that can change the meaning. Ultimately, I think that the exercise of translating Hávamál for myself, if I can complete it, will be one of the most satisfying and personally valuable things I've ever done.

Zoega and Cleasby-Vigfusson Old Icelandic-English dictionaries:

http://www.northvegr.org/zoega/index.php

http://www.northvegr.org/vigfusson/index.php

Hávamál translated by Bellows:

http://www.northvegr.org/lore/poetic/index.php

Hávamál translated by Thorpe:

http://www.northvegr.org/lore/poetic2/index.php

Hávamál translated by Auden and Taylor:

http://home.earthlink.net/~wodensharrow/havamal.html

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October 17, 2005

Magic is not about theories and formulae and specific spells crafted in specific ways. Magic is something that everyone can do (to one degree or another), through whatever method feels right to them. This is because magic is not special --it is a natural human action, just like breathing and walking.

However, most of us are taught by society that magic isn't real, so we naturally don't do it. As children, imagination is everything. If we want that swingset to be a spaceship, we imagine it, and it is so. For our mind and heart, it is every bit as real as a physical creation of steel structure and hydrogen fuel, and so it is.

This is magic, and it is natural. As we grow older, we are taught that imagination and daydreaming are wrong, or only for children, or that it's worthless because it's not "real." And so, suddenly, it's not real, because we don't believe in it any more.

Another example that comes to mind is a firefighter heroically lifting up a wrecked car so a trapped child can be rescued. We have all heard stories like this, and some of us have even seen it happen, or accomplished such feats ourselves.

This too is magic, and it is natural. Obviously, the human body is capable of such feats, because they happen. But can we do this every day? The answer is no, because only under extreme circumstances can our will be so focused as to allow us to tap this deeply into our true potential. We learn that such feats are virtually "impossible," and so we don't succeed at such things--until a moment comes when we are fully focused and ignore what we have been told--then we accomplish the "impossible."

As to magic requiring specific ingredients, rituals and invocations: Did that child's spaceship require sage incense, a blue candle and the casting of a circle? No, because that child just did what felt natural to make the spaceship for himself, because his spirit already knew how to achieve it--he just had to will it to be. That firefighter didn't require special rituals or preparation either, nor did she require that the moon be in a certain phase. She knew that the child would die if she didn't move that car, and she knew that she simply had to try--and it happened, because her will was focused, probably more so than at any other time in her life.

When we learn to walk, we are doing something that is instinctive and natural to human beings. It does take time, and there are many stumbles, but it is fairly simple, because our bodies already know how to do it--we just need to awaken those muscles and tell them to do their thing. We don't need to know how many muscles we have, how they work, in what order they should flex--we just do it. And magic is the same way.

Your subconscious mind and willpower already know how to work magic. The process of spellcasting is merely an exercise of focusing your concentration and activating your mental resources--telling them to do their thing.

When crafting a spell or ritual, don't be concerned with doing it "right"--do it however it seems to make sense to you, and it will be right. If the spell doesn't work, it doesn't mean you were burning a candle of the wrong colour, it just means your will wasn't focused, or the result you wanted is beyond your means. Keep trying.

Always remember: because magic is natural, you are a magical creature, and the magic is within you already, you just need to release it--to do your thing.

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©2007 Gary Penzler

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