Odin
Page 21
The head of Mimir seems to be the only example of a magical head in Norse lore, but severed heads are a staple of Celtic tradition and may have inspired the Scandinavian story. In Pagan Celtic Britain, Anne Ross devotes an entire chapter to the Cult of the Head. In Gaul, Celtic chieftains would preserve the heads of distinguished enemies in cedar oil and stone heads from ritual sites abound. In the Welsh Mabinogion, on their retreat from the war in Ireland, the gods carried with them the head of Bran the Blessed to advise and prophesy, and finally buried it beneath the Tower of London to guard Britain. The lore of early Ireland includes a number of stories in which placing a severed head in a well causes the well to become magical.
On the other hand, Mimir may be one of the wise jotnar. In Skaldskaparmál, Mimir is listed in a kenning for “giant” and in various constructions for describing the heavens. It is possible that a god called Mimir and a jotun named Mim were combined in the later mythology. The gods and giants are closely related, and as custodian of the Well, Mimir may retain this primal nature.
Whatever the origins of Mimir may be, Mimisbrun, his well, is one of the Three Mighty Wells (the others being the Well of Urdh, where the Norns live, and the well Hvergelmir in Nifliheim from which run all the rivers of the worlds). It lies under the roots of the Worldtree, another name for which is Mimameith. Mimisbrun is in the east, the direction of Jotunheim, which is in general a region inhabited by wilder powers. In the tale that precedes this chapter, I interpreted Mimir as the spirit of the Well rather than as a separate being. After I had written the story, I was interested to find I am not the only one to have seen it as a crystalline structure while meditating on the Well.
Next comes the question of what the Well is and does. In Völuspá 28, “each morning Mimir drinks his mead out of Fjolnir's pledge.” Leaving aside the problem of how a severed head drinks out of an eyeball, we note that the byname used for Odin in this context is Fjölnir, translated by Price as “much-wise” or “concealer.” Another name, Fjölsvid, is “Wide of Wisdom.” In these names, there is a sense of breadth, multiplicity, and hidden knowledge, which may give us a clue to the kind of wisdom that Odin wins from the well.
In Völuspá 27, the Völva
knows that Heimdall's hearing is hidden
under the holy bright tree;
over it flows the waterfall
from the pledge of the father of the slain.
So we know that the Well holds two of the senses. What Odin has offered to the Well is part of his vision. But which eye did he sacrifice? In illustrations, the eyepatch usually covers the left eye, and it is that eye that many of those who work with Odin choose. However, when one eye is injured, the other one takes over outward vision. Therefore someone whose right eye is weaker would imagine Odin missing that one.
In Asgard, Odin has a seat called Hlithskjalf, variously translated as “doorway-bench” or “high tower” (Lindow 2001, 176), the Seat of Seeing from which “he saw over all the worlds and every man's activity and understood everything that he saw” (Gylfaginning 9). Our eyes are cross-wired, like our hands, and for most people, the right eye is wired to the left side of the brain. The concept of left- and right-brained thinking has been debated, but we do know that the left hemisphere tends to specialize in logic, language, and analytical thinking, while the right is better at expressive and creative tasks involving emotion and images (C. Zimmer 2009).
Always bearing in mind that in practice the two parts of the brain work together, this provides a useful metaphor for the way the two eyes might function in Hlithskjalf and the Well. I reason, therefore, that when Odin sits on Hlithskjalf, he is using his left brain (and right eye) to take in and understand what is going on in the physical world. Thus, it must be the left eye, connected to the right hemisphere, that he gives to the Well. I was delighted to find some support for this view in an article called “An Eye for Odin?” by Neil Price and Paul Mortimer (2014), whose close examination of the Sutton Hoo helmet—and a number of other Scandinavian objects dating from the 6th to 10th centuries that depict or are associated with Odin—showed that the left eye had been disfigured or altered to seem darker than the right.
If the hearing of Heimdall, who continues to hear everything that passes in the world, is still functional, one assumes that Odin's missing eye still works as well. Seeing from both eyes, his binocular vision reaches a level that is truly godly, as he simultaneously views the world outside and the dimensions within. Although the etymology proposed by Françoise Bader for Odin's name has been challenged, the interpretation of Odin as a god of vision in general and in particular clairvoyance in her 1988 book, La Langue de Dieu, emphasizes the importance of Odin's visit to the Well. Only when he becomes Blindr, the Blind One, does he truly see.
Using your inner vision to contemplate the god can lead to some remarkable experiences, as in this report by Thomas Fernee.
I really wish I was making this up, because it is easier to believe that there isn't a force we don't understand and may never possibly understand beyond ourselves, than it is to believe in anything. I may never be able to rationalize the Big Bang with how the Earth was created by Odin, Vili, and Ve from the body of Ymir.
Anyways, so yeah, I did my ritual for Odin, and followed it with a trance/meditation. I found some good music online and had that playing in the background.
As the experience starts, I cover my eyes with a bandana, and I'm having a hard time getting comfortable. I keep telling myself to let all my thoughts go and my mind go blank. I finally get comfortable, and I keep envisioning Odin. Every manifestation I see, I ask him what he wants.
He materializes, then turns into a mist and swirls away, and then he materializes; this pattern repeats until I see his face through a mist.
He looks like he's trying to say something, and I get impatient and yell, “What is it that you want!” Then I say, “I'm sorry, I deeply respect you, all humans can only respect you. I'm new to all of this, I'm sorry.”
He looks at me again like he's trying to say something.
I respond to him, “Sir, how can I get to hear you?”
He doesn't say anything out loud, but I understand what is being communicated, which is, “Before you can understand you need to do something.”
I feel myself—my essence—being pulled through his eye and eye socket. I feel slightly afraid and overwhelmed. And then he materializes in front of me.
I ask again, “What is it you need me to do?”
And then he responds in a fit of passion,
“I WANT YOU TO NEVER STOP LEARNING! I WANT YOU TO HAVE PASSION! I WANT YOU TO LIVE YOUR LIFE, EMBRACE YOUR LIFE!”
I immediately burst into tears.
I yell, “I'm sorry, I've taken it all for granted, I'm so sorry, I will never stop learning . . .”
I find myself out of the trance. My bandana is wet with tears.
He's right; too often I wish I'm somewhere else, and I act like everything sucks. This is the creator of all of us, he who breathed life into us, and he's telling me to embrace life. I feel like such an asshole.
I'll be honest with you guys, at the beginning of my Heathen journey, I thought some of you were making up a lot of this. Anyone who thinks you're making it all up should definitely try to give your way a chance. The only other explanation for my experience is that Crafted Artisan Meadery is selling some spoiled mead at Total Wine. I've never just *snapped* into a trance like this—it hit me out of nowhere.
If Odin gives part of his vision to the Well, what does he gain? Mimir's name comes from the same root as Memory. To us, this can mean the short-term memory that tells you where you left your glasses or the long-term recollection of feelings and events from the past. Today, it is a most essential capacity of our computers. Through my computer, I now have instant access to the lore both in Old Norse and translation, which makes writing easier because I can check sources, but takes longer because each connection tempts me down a path to new discoveries. Contemplating the conti
nually unfolding and proliferating wealth of knowledge that has become available online lets me glimpse what the eye Odin left in the Well can see.
Odin's offering to the Well is presented as a literal sacrifice. In the world of the gods, essence and appearance are the same; but in Midgard, soul and body are distinct though allied. If you wish to drink from the Well of Mimir, do not begin by actually plucking out your physical eye. Instead, consider what aspects of your current worldview you are willing to sacrifice and what new, previously unguessed at perspectives you are willing to see.
This poem by Michaela Macha suggests some of the opportunities:
“Come to the Well, to the Well at the Tree
Come and look deep in its waters,” said He
“And I'll drink with you if you'll drink it with me,
And the more you drink of it, the more you will see.
“One cup for the price all who drink here must pay:
Once you start to see, there's no turning away.
What's seen can't be unseen; the images stay
At the back of your eyelids by night and by day.
“One cup for confusion, the choices you make
Seeing all of the forks in the road you may take;
Always aware of how much is at stake
On the path that you choose, and the ones you forsake.
“One cup for the burden of knowing too much,
No longer with blissful nescience as crutch;
One cup for the loss of the common man's touch,
That's set apart by the vision you clutch.
“One cup for the thirst that grows as you drink,
One thought needs the next as a link needs a link.
One cup for desire, to step on the brink
As the water wells upward, and let yourself sink.
“One cup for ecstasy, rapture of sight,
Grasping the World in a swirl of delight;
The veil drawn away, all aspects unite,
Translucent reality, clarity's height.
“One cup for wisdom, your boon, to remain
When your vision at last fades to normal again.
One last cup I raise with you, to the Norns' skein
That binds us both to this gift won with pain.
“Come to the Well, to the Well at the Tree
Come and look deep in its waters,” said He
“And I'll drink with you if you'll drink it with me
And the more you drink of it, the more you will see.”
The way that Odin's inner eye sees cannot be conveyed by the language of the eye that opens on the world. It is the Truth of the Spirit, and can only be expressed in poetry.
Odhroerir
Invoking the aid of Odin our father*
And Bragi the bard-god, the brew of dwarves,
Poetry we pour, the potent drink.
Quaff now this cup of Kvasir's blood.
Remember the roving Rider of Yggdrasil
Stole the stuff to bestow on men.
The gallows-god in Gunlod's bed
Won the wondrous wine of bards,
And in form of feather flew with the gift,
The magical mead that men might sing!
Give thanks for the gift to Gauta-Tyr,
And raise now the praise of the Raven-god!
—Paul Edwin Zimmer, 1979
Odin shared the runes he won by his sacrifice on the Tree. He continues to share the wisdom he gets from his sacrifice at the Well of Mimir. As Fimbulthul, Odin is the Mighty Speaker. Poetry, his reward for sharing Gunnlödh's bed, is his third great gift to humankind. We have already discussed parts of this story in the chapters on Odin as the Desired One and the Bale-worker. When he leaves Gunnlödh, he takes the form of an eagle and hotly pursued by Suttung, speeds for home.
But it was such a close thing for him that Suttung might have caught him that he sent some of the mead out backwards, and this was disregarded. Anyone took it that wanted it, and it is what we call the rhymester's share. But Odin gave Suttung's mead to the Æsir and to those people who are skilled at composing poetry. (Skaldskaparmál 58)
What can we learn from looking at the mead he won? The idea of an intoxicating drink that confers magic powers is well known in Indo-European mythology. The Norse version has a complex history. As told in Snorri's Skaldskaparmál 57, at the end of the war between the Æsir and Vanir, the two groups mixed their spittle in a bowl, from which the gods made a being called Kvasir, who went about the world spreading knowledge. Two dwarves, apparently wishing to monopolize this resource, killed him and by mixing his blood with honey, made the mead that can turn whoever drinks it into a poet or a scholar, two avocations that were linked in the Viking Age mind.
Kvasir was not the only traveler they betrayed. When the dwarves killed two giants, the giants' son Suttung took the mead as weregild and placed it in the cavern with his daughter Gunnlödh as guard. The mead was placed in three vessels: the vats called Bodn, “a vessel,” and Són, “Atonement or Sacrifice,” and a pot called Odhroerir, the “rising up” of Odhr. This last term is also sometimes used for the mead itself.
In order to reach Gunnlödh, Odin passes through several transformations. In the poem that precedes chapter 7, I suggest that Gunnlödh can be viewed as a manifestation of the Muse, whose gifts cannot be taken by force. The spirit of poetry is usually represented as female, but any writer knows that inspiration, like the breath from which the word comes, can only be gained by opening up to let it in. Ynglingasaga tells us that Odin knew how to work seidh magic, a skill that was considered ergi, or characteristic of someone who is sexually as well as spiritually receptive. The lines in Hávamál about Odin's encounter with Gunnlödh say that by leaving, he caused her sorrow. The tone suggests that he felt regret as well.
It has been argued that there is little evidence for Odin as a god of poetry before the 10th century; however, not much Old Norse poetry of any kind from before that date survives. By Snorri's time, the connection between Odin and bardcraft was well established. In Ynglingasaga 6, we are told that “he said everything in rime in a manner which is now called scaldcraft. He and his temple priests were called song smiths because the skaldic art in the northern land had its beginning from them.” In later writings, Bragi (who may be the skjald Bragi Boddason the Old, the “first skjald,” raised to divinity) is the “best of poets” (Grimnismál 44), but after Egil Skallagrimmsson has raged against Odin for allowing his sons to die before him, he thanks the god for the gift of poetry that enables him to deal with his sorrow, a reaction that any artist will understand. From Egil's Saga (Eddison 1930, “Sonatorrek” 22–24):
Well stood I with the Lord of Spears:
I made me trusting to trow on Him,
'Till the Ruler of Wains, the Awarder of Vic'try
Cut bonds of our friendship and flung me off.
Worship I not, then Vili's brother,
The most High God, of mine own liking.
Yet Mimir's friend hath to me vouchsafed
Boot for my bale that is better, I ween.
Mine art He gave me, the God of Battles,
Great foe of Fenrir, a gift all faultless,
And that temper that still hath brought me
Notable foes 'mid the knavish-minded.
What Odin gains from the Well of Mimir is linked to what he gets from Odhroerir, for without language, there is no way to communicate what the visionary sees. Arguments have been made by Bader, Pokorny, and others to connect the name Wodan to the Celtic vates, the title of a Druidic poet. Be that as it may, the essential connection between Odin and language is clear.
In the section of the Younger Edda called Skaldskaparmál, “the language of poetry,” Snorri explains that the two primary elements in poetry are language and verse form: language consisting of speaking directly, substitution, or kennings; and verse forms being the many complicated ways of putting words together that are presented in the third part of the Younger Edda, the Hattatál.
In contrast to the ornate interlacing of Old Norse poetry, the prose of the sagas is terse and straightforward. Both poetry and prose communicate, but while prose tells us what Odin's right eye sees, what he perceives with the eye in the Well can only be conveyed through poetry. That's one reason there are so many poems in this book, including several by Michaela Macha, perhaps the most prolific Heathen poet of this century. Her website (www.odins-gift.com) includes sixty-eight poems for Odin alone.
But poetry is not the only way to express complex ideas and states of consciousness. The more languages we understand, the better we will understand the god. If, as I believe, Odin has continued to evolve along with our culture, one of the languages he must have helped to develop is that of mathematics.
Mathematics is pure language—the language of science. It is unique among languages in its ability to provide precise expression for every thought or concept that can be formulated in its terms. (In a spoken language there exist words, like “hapiess”, that defy definition.) It is also an art—the most intellectual and Classical of the arts. (Adler 1991, 235)
One scene from the film A Beautiful Mind sticks in my memory. The mathematician John Nash is standing before a plate-glass window that he has covered with equations. The equations make no sense to me, but it is clear that to Nash, they express concepts and connections whose beauty has propelled him into an ecstatic state of consciousness matching anything that can be created by poetry. The formulae and equations of chemistry and physics are also languages, elegant ways to communicate information whose meaning would be blurred by simple prose.
The same is true of computer code, another language whose meanings I can glimpse when I feel the presence of the god, but do not have the vocabulary to express in human words. When meditation gave me the vision of Mimisbrun that precedes this chapter, I interpreted what I saw as “ice,” but I have come to believe that the essence of that refractive, scintillating environment might be better represented by silicon. A computer is a construct of layered language, symbol, patterned energy. A computer is transformation and memory. Computers give Odin new ways to understand the world.