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Odin

Page 4

by Diana L. Paxson


  Wheresoever a thinker appeared, there in the thing he thought was a contribution, accession, a change or revolution made. Alas, the grandest “revolution” of all, the one made by the man Odin himself, is not this, too, sunk for us like the rest! Of Odin what history? Strange rather to reflect that he had a history! That this Odin, in his wild Norse vesture, with his wild beard and eyes, his rude Norse speech and ways, was a man like us, with our sorrows, joys, with our limbs, features—intrinsically all one as we, and did such a work! But the work, much of it, has perished; the worker, all to the name. “Wednesday”, men will say tomorrow, Odin's day! Of Odin there exists no history, no document of it, no guess about it worth repeating. (Carlyle 1840)

  Northern mythology was new and exciting, but the people who read it had been educated in the classical tradition, and it was natural for them to see Odin, or Wotan, as a northern equivalent of Zeus. It was Richard Wagner, abandoning the Italian models that dominated the opera of his day, who repopularized German mythology on an international scale with The Ring of the Nibelungs, an epic four-part retelling of the legend of Siegfried and Brunhild, creating, or perhaps discovering, a new incarnation of the god.

  In Das Rheingold, the first opera in the Ring cycle, Wotan is a young warrior/king, already fond of women and wandering but driven most by a lust for knowledge, which leads him first to capture the Ring of Power and then to give it up. In Die Walküre, the second opera, he is the All-father, trapped in the conflict between Will and Love and seeking a way around the laws that he himself has made. In Siegfried, the third opera, and the one with the most explicit borrowings from the Eddas, he appears as “the Wanderer,” who tempts and manipulates the other characters rather than intervening directly. By Götterdammerung, the last opera in the cycle (in which he does not directly appear), Wotan is bound by the fate he has laid down and can only wait, hoping that his offspring will end the old world so that a new one can be born.

  Myths have a wonderful capacity to adapt to changing cultures. Wagner, sensing the potential hazards of the forces unleashed by the Industrial Revolution, made the “ring” a key to boundless wealth and power and Wotan a tragic figure struggling with the problem of how to use it. Wagner's operas occupy a unique position in music today, and some of Odin's divine nature still shines through. In a radio interview, I have heard a Wagnerian singer describing performing the Ring as a “religious experience.”

  This romantic nationalism continued into the early 20th century, especially in Germany, where, as Jung observes in his essay, “Wotan,” “What is more than curious—indeed, piquant to a degree—is that an ancient god of storm and frenzy, the long quiescent Wotan, should awake, like an extinct volcano, to new activity, in a civilized country that had long been supposed to have outgrown the Middle Ages” (Jung 1936).

  In the early 20th century, young people wandered through the forests and revived Pagan ceremonies. By the 1930s, however, they were marching for the Nazis. Jung saw Wotan as the Wild Huntsman, a fury that was sweeping the Christian culture of Germany away. Writing before World War II, he could not imagine the horrors to which the furor teutonicus would lead; however, he clearly identified the power of those aspects of the god that bring madness and destruction, about which I have more to say in chapters 8 and 9.

  Who Was That Masked Man? Odin Today

  During and after the First and Second World Wars, many German-Americans anglicized their names, and Scandinavian newspapers and cultural organizations closed. After the Second World War, it was decades before Wagner's Ring operas became acceptable once more. Even today, the swastika, an ancient sun symbol found all over the world, cannot be used.

  Ralph Metzner, who grew up in Germany during the Second World War, “had an almost visceral revulsion against any belief system even remotely associated with the Nazis' genocidal ideology” (Metzner 1994, 4). In The Well of Remembrance, he describes his struggle to reconnect with Germanic mythology. As he began to explore, it seemed to him that

  the entire trajectory of European culture, with its relentless pursuit of knowledge in many forms, seems in some way related to the figure of this wandering god, his Greek counterpart Hermes, and such legendary wizard figures as Faust and Merlin. Strangely, the Odin myth seemed to describe many aspects of my own life-path, my continuing interest in exploring nonordinary realms of consciousness, triggered by my first psychedelic experience in 1961, as well as my continuing fascination with cross-cultural studies of religion, mythology and shamanism. (Metzner 1994, 10)

  For many, The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien, a Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford University, was their first exposure to Germanic culture. Originally appearing during the mid-fifties, the trilogy became a worldwide sensation in 1965, when Don Wollheim published the first paperback editions. I first encountered the books in 1963 when they were recommended to me by my mentor Dr. Elizabeth Pope, head of the Mills College English department. At that time, fans were dedicated but few, and having read the books admitted you to a select society, populated by medievalists and science fiction/fantasy fans. But by the end of the 1960s, posters advertising Middle Earth were on dorm room walls, and high school students were learning to write in runes.

  By the time The Lord of the Rings had become a cultural icon and Metzner was beginning to explore consciousness, old memories were fading. Change was, one might say, in the wind, and one of the things that suddenly seemed possible was worshipping the old gods once more. A “church of Odin” had been founded in Australia before World War II. It was reestablished in England in the early '70s, and in 1980, it was renamed the “Odinic Rite.”

  Else Christiansen started the Odinist Fellowship in 1969. A lot of her work was done with people in prison, which I discuss at more length in chapters 7 and 9. In 1973, Sveinbjörn Beinteinsson petitioned the Icelandic Parliament for recognition of Ásatru as a legitimate religion. Since then, it has flourished in Iceland, where, as of 2015, the Ásatruarfelagid had 2,700 members (in a population of 370,000) and is now building a national temple.

  In the United States, an early group was the Asatru Free Assembly (AFA), founded by Steve McNallen. It foundered for lack of support, though it has since reorganized as the Asatru Folk Assembly and is now specifically limited to people of European ancestry. In 1987, former members of the AFA started two new groups, the Asatru Alliance (a federation of kindreds for people of European ancestry) and the Troth (which is open to all who are called by the Germanic gods). For a more complete account of all these developments, see chapter 7 of Our Troth: History and Lore. The Troth is the organization to which I have belonged since 1992, and I am understandably prejudiced in its favor. If you are looking for an inclusive organization that values both scholarship and inspiration, I recommend it. For information, see www.thetroth.org.

  So what role is Odin playing in the 21st century? In the chapters that follow, in addition to the testimony of the lore, you will find comments and accounts from people who are encountering him today.

  Practice

  1. Build an Altar

  If you are hoping to develop a relationship with someone, a good first step is to find a place to meet. When the “someone” is a god, begin with an altar. In time, your altar for Odin may become quite elaborate, but start simply. A dark blue cloth, a candle, and a shot glass for offerings are enough to serve as a focus for meditation. If you want to do more, you can make a backdrop from a cardboard box in the form of a triptych, painted or covered with cloth. Find three images of the god online, print them, and attach. This will also be useful as a traveling altar. However, be prepared to expand the space—if you continue to work with Odin, you will collect additional items, and your altar will grow.

  Fig 3. Portable altar for Odin

  2. Collect a library

  Odin may be a god of inspiration, but he is also a master of lore. Your altar should be balanced by a bookshelf. If followers of the Abrahamic religions are the “people of the Book,” Heathens are �
��the people of the Library.” For starters, I suggest:

  H. R. Ellis Davidson, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe, Penguin, 1965 (reissued as Gods and Myths of the Viking Age, Crown, 1982). This is a classic work that provides a good general introduction to Old Norse culture and mythology. Used copies are readily available.

  Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology, Barnes & Noble, 2017. A new and sometimes irreverent retelling of the basic myths.

  John Lindow, Norse Mythology, Oxford University Press, 2001. An accessible, dependable source to help you keep track of who's who.

  Andy Orchard (trans.), The Elder Edda: A Book of Viking Lore, Penguin Classics, 2011. These are the great poems that are the basis of Norse mythology.

  Snorri Sturlusson (Anthony Faulkes, trans.), Edda, J. M. Dent & Sons, 1987. This is a complete, relatively recent translation of the Younger, or Prose Edda, a 13th-century compendium of stories about the gods intended as a sourcebook for poets.

  If you want to find out more about Heathen religion, try Our Troth: History and Lore and Our Troth: Living the Troth, by Kveldulf Gundarsson (available from Lulu.com or Amazon) or, for a more introductory account, my own Essential Asatru (Citadel, 2009).

  Contemporary writers are telling new Odin stories of their own. For tales of how the gods may appear today, see:

  Steve Abell, Days in Midgard: A Thousand Years On, Outskirts Press, 2008.

  Laure Gunlod Lynch, Odhroerir, Nine Devotional Tales of Odin's Journeys, Wild Hunt Press, 2005.

  John T. Mainer, They Walk with Us, The Troth (Lulu.com), 2015.

  “Wanderer”

  Who is this who walks the roads,

  An old man, tall and grey?

  One of his eyes is gone,

  The other looks far away.

  He's leaning on a walking-stick,

  It's very long, it's very thick,

  His steps are slow, his eye is quick,

  On this cold, foggy day.

  Always be kind to travelers,

  Wandering near and far,

  Always be kind to travelers,

  You don't know who they are . . .

  The old man knocking at the door

  Asks if you'll be kind,

  Two crows in the sky,

  Circle close behind.

  Give him a cup of what you've got,

  Beer that's cold or coffee hot,

  A bowl of stew if you've a pot,

  Whatever you can find.

  Always be kind to travelers,

  Wandering near and far,

  Always be kind to travelers,

  You don't know who they are . . .

  Patterns always weaving

  More than you can see,

  The courage, wit and kindness,

  Strength and honesty,

  Can weave the pattern round you

  Better than you know,

  Take the old man's blessing

  That he'll give before he'll go.

  Who was that gone down the road?

  You never got his name.

  He never said where he's bound

  Or said from where he came.

  What comes after, who can tell?

  Earthly heaven, earthly hell?

  But did ye treat him ill or well

  Then you will reap the same.

  Always be kind to travelers,

  Wandering near and far,

  Always be kind to travelers,

  You don't know who they are . . .

  —Leslie Fish, Avalon Is Risen (Prometheus Music, 2012)

  Fig. 4, “Vegtam”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Wanderer

  Wide have I wandered, dared many deeds,

  Striven in strength against Powers . . .

  —Vafþrúþnismál 3

  Most names have been given to him as a result of the fact that with all the branches of languages in the world, each nation finds it necessary to adapt his name to their language for invocation and prayers for themselves, but some events giving rise to these names have taken place in his travels and have been made the subject of stories . . .

  —Gylfaginning 22

  As we've seen, Odin is a god of many names, and the hero, or sometimes the villain, of many tales. Books on Norse mythology usually identify him as the ruler of Asgard, but when you look at the lore, it's clear that if Odin were a full-time executive, he would never have time for all the traveling he does. Sometimes we encounter him on the road, sometimes he comes to our door. Whether we seek his guidance on our own journeys or welcome him to our hearts and our halls, we need to understand where he wanders—and why.

  Many of Odin's journeys are recorded in the Eddas. When he exchanges insults with his son Thor in Hárbardsljódh, he says he has been in distant lands seducing witch women. In Baldrsdraumr, Odin saddles Sleipnir and fares down to the underworld to consult the Völva, whose burial mound stands by the eastern gate to Hel. With songs and spells he summons her, and despite her complaints, he compels her to tell him why his son Baldr is having bad dreams. When she asks his name, he calls himself Vegtam (“Way tamer”), son of Valtam (“Tamer of the slain”) (Baldrsdraumr 6), simultaneously claiming power over travel and over the dead. His final question is apparently one too many. The seeress recognizes him as “Odin, oldest of gods” and predicts that the next time he sees her will be at Ragnarók.

  In Vafthrúthnismál, he journeys to wager his head in a contest of wits and wisdom with the giant said to be the wisest of all, giving his name as Gagnradh, “Giver of good counsel.” The giant, understanding the rules of hospitality, offers him a good seat and proposes a contest of riddles, but Odin insists on standing until he has answered the questions and thus won the first round. The god then questions Vafthrúthnir. When the giant has given twelve correct replies, the god continues with questions until he stumps the giant by asking what Odin whispered in the ear of his dead son as Baldr lay on the pyre. This—the great question of the lore—reveals his identity. The answer, however, is not revealed.

  In the Hervararsaga, a man called Gestumblindi (“blind guest”) sacrifices to Odin for help in a riddle game with King Heithrek. In answer, a man who looks exactly like him and also calls himself Gestumblindi takes his place in the contest. He wins by asking King Heithrek the same question that won against Vafthrúthnir. When the king tries to strike Odin with the cursed sword Tyrfing, Odin turns into a falcon and flies away.

  When the last of the Germanic lands turned Christian, the god's statues were pulled down, his worship suppressed. But if Odin became a wanderer upon the roads of the world, it was not a defeat but an opportunity. Wotan appears as “the Wanderer” in the opera Siegfried. Despite the fact that Gandalf also has many names, it is as the wandering wizard that we best remember him.

  Neil Gaiman's novel, American Gods, is the story of a road trip. In the book, Mr. Wednesday offers to Shadow, whom he has recruited as a sidekick, his own explanation of how gods get around.

  When the people came to America they brought us with them. They brought me, and Loki and Thor, Anansi and the Lion-God, Leprechauns and cluricans and Banshees, Kubera and Frau Holle and Ashtaroth, and they brought you. We rode here in their minds; and we took root. We traveled with the settlers to the new lands across the ocean. (Gaiman 2001, 123)

  Although Mr. Wednesday's belief that the gods have been forgotten may have been true for a time, I do not believe it is so today. Wagner's operas kept Wotan in the public consciousness through the 20th century, and Gaiman's book and the TV series are contributing to Odin's resurgence today. Gods do change from time to time and place to place, but the more people study the lore, the more likely the god is to look like the Odin whom Shadow meets in the epilogue rather than like Mr. Wednesday.

  Some years ago, I was interviewed by an Icelander whose first question was how we could practice a Scandinavian religion in California. I replied that we do it the same way the Norwegians did when they settled Iceland. We honor the spirits of the land where we live now, and we look at the
lore to learn about the gods.

  But they do not exist only in the lore. The gods travel in our minds, and not only when we are consciously thinking about them. I've met too many people who have encountered Odin quite spontaneously not to believe that gods also exist in another dimension of being, call it the Collective Unconscious or what you will, from which they can emerge to confront us when the time is right. As my friend Becky puts it:

  In that first year, the All-father showed me only a few of his faces—the Wanderer, the Wisdom-Seeker, the Trickster, and the benevolent All-father. Those faces spoke to parts deep inside that were safe and fascinating and that I wanted to be closer to. The Wanderer was the first to knock, and it was no accident that he felt like Gandalf of the stories. Gandalf could be terrible but never to his friends. Odin who wore Gandalf's hat at my door got around my fear and was invited in. Odin, Wanderer, matched so many of the figures from my well-loved stories, and so I answered the knock of the stranger with bed and board and stories exchanged. I knew well that courtesy was needed for the one who knocks and that he honors the gifts freely given, no matter how humble, so I could give hospitality safely.

  The Trickster has always whispered in my heart, and I have always smiled. Now when the trickster whispers, it is sometimes my voice. The All-father was much like the God of my childhood—all powerful, all knowing, all loving, and I never, ever feared him. He loved me and wanted the best for me. Starting there, I was able to pick apart what was Odin, what was Yahweh, and a child's dream of climbing into the lap of “god,” held in perfect love and safety and interest and joy.

 

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