The Mother

I stroke broad white eagle wings up to the sun, torch in hand, into the Heavenly Throneroom, and steal Holy Fire.  The court is empty of angels and demons.  My hair is long and curled like a brass candelabra and my gown white and glistening as if dew is a second layer on it.

I come to the waterfall gateway to Earth and jump down into the Deep, away from New Jerusalem, my wings skirting skies of velvet red and violet.  Clouds dampen me and the stars stretch out like an elegy.

I come to the humans that amble about Africa without warmth or a way to cook their food.  I descend as lightning, and Jophiel’s eponymous torch strikes the brush and lights bushes on fire.  The ancestors of modern man marvel, kindle torches, and the fruit of the Tree of Life which I guard is given against God’s will.

I ascend back to Heaven, but as I break the boundary between the physical and the immaterial, I hear the cry of Heaven’s general, the shriek of a red-tailed hawk, a raptor of red and cream brown feathers, and he rises with the moon in the desert and dwarfs me, the size of a roc.

His eyes are not his own.  Michael is possessed by Divine Will, whether Sophia or Demiurge, I cannot tell, but the urge to run courses through my limbs and I flash serrated wings and fly on a gale away.

Dart, dodge talons, but soon his beak is around my throat, squeezing the breath from my throat, roc throttling me until a white ring of a collar scars my neck and my torch is dropped far below to the abyss.  For I have stolen from Heaven, and God is displeased.

Blood is hot on my breast, and I know in his divine berserk madness, it will take a miracle for Michael to hear me.  I scream his name, over and over again, pleading until he breaks and shifts to wings and man, and then he sobs, over and over, clutching my rag doll body and broken wings:

“I’m so sorry Jophiel.  The Mother told me to kill you.  I wasn’t myself – your screams awoke me.  Please, forgive me, forgive me!”

In that moment, Michael questions our Creator – or more properly, Creatrix – for the first time ever, and I clutch his face and kiss him.

“It’s okay, Michael – your madness has quit.”

He rocks me to sleep best he can as he sets to healing me, tears bright in his eyes.

“Why do we always hurt the things we love?”

Raise Your Rapier to Her Death

I will be glorious, the broken sword
a girl-built pyre, accursed, adored!
Bow before me, oh my lord, I will melt
your icy hoard, pluck your roses, weld
together disharmonious chords, we reign
as consorts over bloody hordes, our men
fragile, feeble, battle-weary, and then
screaming as guts fly, I die yet again
a spear through the heart for my noble
commander, a dagger in the rib, stalwart
defender, you fall, I fall, crash mobile
crib angels, bleed out in your hands, art
my death, sacrifice, remember? You scream:

“Dear God! Not again.”

“Not again?”

“I lose her every time.”

“Caught between worlds,
we remain, in this hell
of reincarnation, a play
on a stage of Demiurgos
dimensions, Samael the
killer, you my pain,
eternal bane, how I
lost the girl, it’s
always the same.”

Canyon Rim

There’s thunder in the canyon as I gallop through the night
Colt revolver pressed against me, the pistol shining bright
my sweetheart left with linen, letters, didn’t say goodnight
I grow cold at the valley rim, waiting for deliverance’s light.

Did he take a canoe or candle, the prairie path or meadowsweet?
I have burned a hundred smoky campfires, remembering his heat
just the boldness of his brow, his thunder trigger hoof beat
and I am growing old out here, amongst rolling winter wheat.

Dream Diary: Bring Your Parents to Grad School Day

I find myself back at monster graduate school.  The semester is about to start up in a few days and we picnic in monster caves, play living chess in quarters that look straight out of Hogwarts, add and drop classes, and of course, buy enchanted books that sometimes try to eat your finger if you aren’t careful.

It is bring your spiritual guardians to school day, a mixer the head of the student council thought up to give students from all cultures of the world exposure to all the pantheons.  I handwrite invitations to Samael and Michael, expecting them to be too busy to even reply.  Instead, they show up at the last minute when I am up on stage before my cohorts, answering questions about Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, and general Abrahamic practices.

Suddenly, in plumes of red and blue smoke, Michael and Samael materialize besides me decked in armor and cloaks.

“Sorry I’m late, Allie.  I got held up fighting off demons,” Michael says, blushing as he adjusts his blue cloak.

Samael smirks.  “I was about to pound his head into the dirt when we got your summons.”

Michael grits his teeth, then looks at the homemade banner I have made for my extra-credit Abrahamic presentation, and flexes his bulging biceps.  “So, ahem, anyone have any questions for me?”

One of the students raises her hands:  “Who exactly are you?”

Michael hates the spotlight, I can tell, and winces at the bright lights.  He is much more at home leading choirs in prayer or on the battlefield.  “Wonderful question.  You see, I am Archangel Michael, or Saint Michael, defender of all the people of the world-”

“From me!” Samael interjects.

“- yes, from him, and from negative forces.  I am the defender of the Israelites, the right hand of God, an angel of death, heaven’s general, and even the angel of police.  Archangels take on many different roles in service of humanity.  Any other questions?”

A young man’s hand shoots up.  “How many wings do you have?”

Michael smiles softly and spreads his golden white pinions.  “Six.”

Samael pumps his open.  “You lose, Mikey.  I have twelve.”

“Samael, please, wait for your turn to speak,” Michael says patiently.

Samael yawns and stretches.  “Whatever, stick up the ass,” he mutters.

I scuff my shoes in embarrassment.  “Alright, um, thanks everyone.  Any questions for Sam?”

“Are you really the Devil?”

“The Chief of Satans, yes.  Don’t come crying to me if you wind up in Hell, no one tempted you there.  We all fall of our own accord.”

I narrow my eyes at Sam, he winks.  I curse inwardly.

Another question: “Where is Heaven and Hell?  Isn’t Hell full of flames?”

“That offends me, young woman.  Heaven is a bit above and Hell a bit below.  Heaven is full of boring blowhards and fruity men in gowns and Hell is the most happening place in the otherworlds – the only flames you will find are at the steakhouses where we eat mortals like you.”

“That’s not true, Samael, you’re scaring the children,” Michael says, voice steely.

“Better than lying and saying all is sunshine and roses like angels do.”

“I’m taking Allie home, you’re a bad influence,” Michael says, shielding me from Samael with his gigantic wing.

“I don’t think so, she likes Hell and my place better, it has more bars and plus I have a motorcycle,” Samael sneers, tugging at my arm.

“You mean your home smells like a bar, Sam,” I mutter.

“You’re delusional,” Michael sighs, grabbing hold of my other arm.  “She enjoys nature and peaceful tranquility, not your disgusting habits and demonic friends that are always trying to get her into trouble.”

They keep pulling at me and I feel like my arms will come off like a Mr. Potatohead doll.

“As if!  Heaven is a snoozefest compared to Hell.  Young people like parties.  Attractive men like myself.  Not prematurely old archangels whose greatest talent is gardening.”

“Guys, we’re still on stage,” I plead.

The audience is rapt.  “Do angels and demons always fight like this?” my best friend asks.

I nod a solemn yes.

Mead of Joy

When I write from joy I’m the mead of song
When I write from joy I’m the sparrow’s flight
a humble songbird, pecking at red winter berries
I taste a sweetness in holly humans cannot see
what is bitter to you is a blessing on my tongue
heady like new love, or old love rekindled, just
a melody of harvest and bitter beauty months,
snow falls, ice and sleet, but I am so warm.
We drink the from horns of happiness together
I am your sparrow, I am your joy, I am your
overcurious wren of the winter hollow, a nest
on your breast, woven of your hair, your love
gives me strength to fly and drink nectar from
the heavens – my pen is my sword, yours alone.

The Lay of the (Spiritual) Land

So if you are a reader of my blog, you might wonder – what is Allie?  Is she crazy? (Probably)  Is she an eclectic pagan?  An angel fanatic or shitposter about demons?  Why does she write so many angsty poems about archangels?

Trust me, I’m confused too.  I’ve been pagan since I was 7 and started out as the elementary school version of a Hellenic (prayed to Hermes in traffic, Athena for tests, Pan for longer recesses).  Still, I was connected to the angels starting at seven, and had known Samael since I was two (the idiot’s my first memory – 2 1/2 year old Allie crying in a crib as red-eyed Barney Samael rings her with mutilated ghost children and says I LOVE YOU in a voice like pure evil distilled down to clanging chains and screams of the Damned)  I didn’t watch Barney for a week.  Anyways, when I was seven I started dreaming about who I later learned was Ariel, Samael-Nergal, Uriel, and Metatron.  There were tons of other characters that I later learned were actual demons or angels, like the demon “Bane” (Eff you, Bune) and Ragnar the Space Viking Demon, who was also another thinly disguised Samael.

Anyways, so in elementary school I considered myself a pagan – the only one in the world, I thought, before I discovered the Internet, which took about until I was ten – and mainly worshiped the Greek gods.  When I learned I couldn’t be the Messiah in Sunday school because I was a girl and couldn’t be a priest I decided the Abrahamic faiths were evil and sexist and that God was a mean grumpy old man.  I was also terrified of Satan.  Deathly terrified.  Now I just think he’s a turd.  Anyways, despite constant dreams of angels and demons, I thought they were just my characters, nothing more.  Uriel was my protective older sister, Ariel was my prankster brother, Samael was the bad babysitter that took me to archdemon councils and hid me under the table with a bag of chips and book to keep me occupied, and Metatron just gave me healthy snacks and tea and told me to behave and do my homework.

The Hellenics, while nice, didn’t stick.  God knows I tried to trade in Samael for Athena about a bajillion times in middle and high school.  In middle school I entered my fairy-vampire phase and devoured everything I could about Celtic mythology, but still, that didn’t fit, despite Manannan being a badass.  I devoured books on world mythology and was eclectic as hell, all while ignoring Michael and Samael and Beelzebub and all the rest of the Abrahamics until I was 18, when I begrudgingly accepted their existence outside of my self-insert urban fantasy novels, after I started a Samael roleplay blog for creative writing purposes and had all these pagans and Satanists coming to me thinking I was channeling Samael or believed in him or whatever.  Misha was one of them, now his godspouse, and we’ve been best friends since I was in high school.

Anyways, I grew to appreciate the Abrahamic faiths – Islam, Judaism, and Christianity, and considering I was already well-versed in angelology and demonology and the Bible and apocrypha (Gnostics smoked some dope weed, yo) and had nightmares about the Book of Enoch, something else was going on around the time I was 17.

That something was Loki.

Loki showed up in my dreams, best buds with Samael, and we did dumb shit in the astral and they played pranks on me and I had to go to too many bars where they hit on spirits and served as each other’s wingmen.  Like most teenagers, I went through a HUGE Loki phase – I made a blog named after him, took the moniker lokisdattir that he had given me, and started exploring Norse mythology.  It resonated with me and I loved the gods and their antics and the Eddas and sagas.  It felt like a hole in my heart had been filled.

Loki came and went and came again, he shows up when he feels like it, and the Abrahamics were a near constant as usual, dominating my spiritual interactions.  However, I was missing the name of a spirit that had been with me since childhood: one I had described in my writings as the Green Man and having green eyes and golden hair and looking like “a Norse god in winter wear.”   Samael was jealous of my affection for this mystery spirit who I majorly platonically crushed on in middle school and high school, this Green Man who I wrote an entire novel about, complete with Odin and him searching for Freyja and the Wild Hunt led by who I later learned was Frau Holda.

Blond Norse god of the harvest and fertility whose blood fructifies the Earth, a Golden God of the North.  I had all the clues, and while I’m usually pretty smart, I’m pretty dumb when it comes to discovering the name of spirits.  I literally googled “Blond god of the north” and “Green Man of Scandinavia” and somehow, after over a decade of searching, I realized, omfg, the guy you fawned over in middle school and wrote an entire NaNoWriMo project on was Freyr.

I’d always considered the Green Man my patron god, but he took on a very familiar face, and that face was Freyr.  I finally officially met Freyr when I was 21 over the summer and he affirmed that he had been watching over me my whole life and that my life, as an environmentalist and caretaker of nature through river cleanups and biology and ecology, was a fine way to serve him.  I asked if he would be my patron god and he accepted.

I’ve been exploring heathenry since I was 17 and now, three weeks away from 24, I feel very comfortable in its framework.  I’ve devoured the myths, devotionals, blogs of devotees, and am very close to Loki, Thor, and Freyr, with a love for the likes of Nerthus, Njord, Skadi, and Idunna, with a healthy respect (AND FEAR) for Odin.  Out of all pagan traditions, heathenry most aligns with my world view and spiritual practice, with the focus on community and service and being an upstanding individual.

So, after nearly seventeen years of exploration, I’ve chosen my spiritual framework: a Heathen spiritworker.  I love the Abrahamics and am oathed to Michael and Samael, but my astral home is in Vanaheim and my ancestry and blood as a Norwegian and German and Anglo-Saxon tie me nearly completely to the Norse pantheon.  They always return to me year after year, month after month.  I’m an Abrahamic mystic, but I am a Heathen layperson that participates in blots and acts of living devotion and service to my gods.  I am not a professed Heathen, as I do not want to cut ties with the angels, demons, and other gods I know that are dear to my heart, and much of the spiritwork I’ve been called on to do is interfaith work between different pantheons.  It would be unfair to pledge myself solely to the Norse gods, so I suppose I’m eclectic in that sense that I work with other spirits, but do not worship any but the Norse.

To me, the overarching Source of all is Mother Nature, and I view the angels and demons as part of that, having never met Yahweh, but his deep love for his people, temper and mercurial nature remind me of nature at its best and worst.  Worshiping Nature as the ultimate Source of All is the only way monotheism makes sense to me, but I am far from a monotheist – I believe in Mother Nature and her children as different parts of the cosmos with individual identities and personalities.  I guess that makes me a hard polytheist.

Choosing a religious path never worked for me – the spirits that wanted my service always came to me, and me offering myself to Athena never ever worked.  I’m the rare example of someone that doesn’t get much choice in who they work with – I can love and respect other spirits of other pantheons and be inspired by them, but they are not my gods.  I’m a budding Freyrswoman, a devotee of Loki, and oathed to Michael and Samael, whatever the hell that means.

What I can choose, however, is how I practice, and I chose to honor the gods of my ancestors and the ones I most resonate with – the Norse gods.