Odin: Ecstasy, Runes, & Norse Magic - Diana L. Paxson 2017

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.

Journeying

Odin journeys to gain wisdom. When we ourselves travel, what are we looking for, and what can we learn? Life itself is a journey, and our travels from place to place no more than stops on the way. Odin can be a good guide to both physical and spiritual journeying.

This poem by James Moore-Hodur expresses one way in which we can participate in Odin's journeys.

Óðinn is breath, The All-Father is the very air that fills your lungs. He is the wind. He is everywhere wandering like the breeze through the new autumn leaves.

Óðinn wanders on . . .

He is in the roaring scream! He is in the Galdr Chant.

He is the speech among kinsmen. He walks among us as we are reflections of Yggdrasil itself.

Óðinn wanders on . . .

Breath connects all life. Breath makes peace. Breath makes love. Breath makes war. Breath sings a Rune's true song. Breath tells lies. Breath whispers secrets. The absence of breath brings death and destruction. Breath brings poetry to life. Breath connects us all.

Óðinn wanders on . . .

When I begin a trip, I call on Odin as Vegtam the Way tamer, Gagnradh the giver of good counsel, and Farmögnudhr “Journey Power.” If I'm traveling by car, I ask him to show the way, along with Heimdall to watch my back, and Thor and Tyr to guard the car on either side. Odin gets called again when I am trying to figure out the best way to get somewhere. He is also my best ally when communicating with the people I meet along the way.

We can learn also from the way Odin travels. Rather than appearing in full armored glory, he usually journeys in disguise. If we keep a low profile when on the road, we'll learn more. Nobody likes the tourist who complains his way across the world, refusing to adapt to local customs and cuisine. If you weren't ready to listen, why did you leave home?

And you may meet Odin on the road. There have been a number of sightings. My friend Amy “saw him driving down the interstate in a jeep one day. The wheel cover was wolves. I know it was him; he looked very much like I picture him.” In a bar, another friend encountered a tall lanky man with a white beard and long hair, wearing a navy suit and a wide-brimmed hat. He had a long nose and clear eyes. The bar was loud and crowded. My friend bought the man a drink. He says the fellow thought he was crazy.

Julia wrote to tell me that

I had an encounter with an Odin-like wanderer in January. I had just arrived in New Zealand and was visiting an island named Waiheke off the coast of Auckland. We were at the beach, and my husband was reading a book about Marx. A man with long white hair, a beard, and wearing a tie-dyed shirt and no shoes appeared out of nowhere, sat down, and started a conversation with us. He was extremely intelligent, and we had a fascinating conversation with him about globalism, Marxism, and environmentalism for about a half hour. Before he left he told us . . . that he was just staying on the beach for the night before moving on. He told us he had no home and was just a traveler who had recently lost his boat.

After he left, I turned to my husband and told him that I thought we had just met a god. I had the sense that it was Odin, and my husband agreed with me. We were on the island for about another week and never saw him again. A very strange experience indeed. It almost seemed like he was welcoming us into the way of the wanderer.

Was that really Odin? Sometimes the encounter results in a life-changing realization. But other meetings are more in the nature of an omen—something you see or hear that is ordinary in itself but meaningful because of the significance you attach to it. When you travel, a word to Odin at the beginning of each day will sensitize you to events and images that deepen your understanding of the world.

Wandering through Midgard teaches us many things, but some of our most productive travels are those that lead within. In my book Trance-Portation, I wrote about the skills needed for inner journeying, in which one detaches the mind from the outer world to take the road east of the sun and west of the moon. One goal for such travel is for us, like Gylfi, to seek the High One in his own hall.

Close Encounters of the Thridhi Kind

Artists may be particularly open to Odinic influence, but sometimes the god appears in person. In addition to the chance encounters quoted above, there have been times when someone who looked like the god acted like him as well.

For instance, a friend of mine told me that some years before, she had been forced to leave Arizona and take a job as a receptionist in a Midwestern city. She had promised to come back, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time. One afternoon, a tall man with grizzled hair and beard came to see her boss. As he was leaving, he turned to her and asked, “Why are you still here?” in a tone that made it clear he was not referring to quitting time. In that moment, she saw him as Odin, and realized that she had been delaying too long. After that, things fell into place for her to go back to Arizona.

Another friend, on her way to check on the progress of a legal case, passed a well-dressed gentleman with an eye patch on the steps of the courthouse who gave her an approving smile. Inside, she learned that the decision on the case had been what she'd hoped for.

Odin is not the only god who appears in this way. When my husband has had car trouble, several times Hermes, in the form of a young red-haired man, has turned up in answer to his prayers. When such things happen, what is actually going on? In Homer's epics, the gods often take the forms of humans to give advice or otherwise move the plot along. It is only after the god or goddess disappears that the mortal realizes to whom he was talking. There are several possibilities. The human may have imagined it, the god may have actually taken human form, or—my favorite theory—the god has dropped in on an appropriate human and spoken through him.

The Greeks were not the only people to recognize the presence of a god only after he had gone. Take this example from the History of Olav Trygvason 71:

It is related that once on a time King Olaf was at a feast at this Ogvaldsnes, and one eventide there came to him an old man very gifted in words, and with a broad-brimmed hat upon his head. He was one-eyed, and had something to tell of every land. He entered into conversation with the king; and as the king found much pleasure in the guest's speech, he asked him concerning many things, to which the guest gave good answers: and the king sat up late in the evening. Among other things, the king asked him if he knew who the Ogvald had been who had given his name both to the ness and to the house. The guest replied, that this Ogvald was a king, and a very valiant man, and that he made great sacrifices to a cow which he had with him wherever he went, and considered it good for his health to drink her milk. This same King Ogvald had a battle with a king called Varin, in which battle Ogvald fell. He was buried under a mound close to the house; “and there stands his stone over him, and close to it his cow also is laid.” Such and many other things, and ancient events, the king inquired after. Now, when the king had sat late into the night, the bishop reminded him that it was time to go to bed, and the king did so. But after the king was undressed, and had laid himself in bed, the guest sat upon the foot-stool before the bed, and still spoke long with the king; for after one tale was ended, he still wanted a new one. Then the bishop observed to the king, it was time to go to sleep, and the king did so; and the guest went out. Soon after the king awoke, asked for the guest, and ordered him to be called, but the guest was not to be found. The morning after, the king ordered his cook and cellar-master to be called, and asked if any strange person had been with them. They said, that as they were making ready the meat a man came to them, and observed that they were cooking very poor meat for the king's table; whereupon he gave them two thick and fat pieces of beef, which they boiled with the rest of the meat. Then the king ordered that all the meat should be thrown away, and said this man can be no other than the Odin whom the heathens have so long worshipped; and added, “but Odin shall not deceive us.” (Sturluson 1844)

Welcoming the Wanderer

How do you know who's knocking at your door? This is the problem faced by the dwarf-smith Mime—not to be confused with Mimir who owns the mythic well that is discussed in later chapters—in the first act of Richard Wagner's opera Siegfried.

As the opera opens, Mime and the young and brash Siegfried are arguing because the dwarf has not been able to forge a sword that Siegfried cannot break. There is one sword that might serve—Nothung—but only if it can be repaired. This is the point at which a stranger in a ragged cloak and a broad hat appears at the door, leaning on a staff whose shrouded tip hides the fact that it is really a spear. He proclaims himself a way-weary guest seeking shelter and names himself “Wanderer.”

Much I've sought for, and much I've learned.

I have made men wise and knowing,

Saving many from their sorrows,

Healing their wounded hearts.

Many believe that wisdom is theirs,

Yet most of all they lack what they most need.

When they ask me, seeking for knowledge,

Then I teach them my lore.

—Richard Wagner, Siegfried

Mime, however, insists that he knows all he needs, and, failing in hospitality, tries to send the Wanderer away. At this point, Wotan shifts to another of his identities, Gizurr (the Riddler). He wagers his head on a battle of wits. Following the pattern in Vafthrúthnismál, each player then asks three questions. Mime's questions are about the world and its inhabitants, which of course the Wanderer answers easily. Winning, he can now require Mime to wager his own head on another three. Mime is able to answer two of the Wanderer's questions, but the third fixes on the one problem he has been wrestling with since the beginning of the opera—how to reforge Nothung. Wotan points out that if he had used his opportunity to ask that question of his guest, he would know what he needed. He now owes his head to the Wanderer, who passes the forfeit to the person who will forge the sword, the man who has never known fear.

For most of us, however, the first image for a wandering wizard that comes to mind is that of Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings. Not too surprisingly, given that Tolkien was a professor of Anglo-Saxon literature at Oxford, the book, like the earlier Hobbit, is studded with gems from Germanic culture, especially in the portrayal of Gandalf, who “...wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that stuck out beyond the brim of his hat.” (Tolkien, 1954, 33). It reads like a portrait of Odin the Wanderer.

The name Gand-alf (Wand-elf) comes from the catalogue of dwarves in Völuspá, which also provided many of the dwarf names in The Hobbit. In the Lord of the Rings, the wizard grows in both physical and spiritual stature. To the elves, he is Mithrandir, the Pilgrim Grey. Among the other kindreds, he has still different names. After Gandalf is lost in Moria, Frodo's song of mourning lists his wanderings but also his ability to communicate with all beings and his skills as a warrior and healer. He is a lord of wisdom, a deadly fighter, and “an old man in a battered hat” who leans on a staff. Gandalf is not a name of Odin, but it's only a half-step from Göndlir (Wand-bearer), which is, and his characterization is unmistakably Odinic. If one has any doubt, having Gandalf arrive on a Wednesday and drink only red wine (like Odin in Grimnismál 19) at the dwarves' dinner should be a giveaway. When Bilbo opened the door to admit Gandalf to Bag End, for many readers he also admitted a reflection of the god.

In 1983, before I ever encountered Odin personally, I had already written about him in a book called Brisingamen in which he periodically possesses a biker-poet who lost an eye in Vietnam. Not too surprisingly, after I began to work with him, Odin began to turn up in my other novels as well. He is, of course, a major figure in the Wodan's Children trilogy, my own retelling of the story of Siegfried, Brunhild, and Gudrun, and a major force in The Book of the Spear, book two of my Arthurian tetrology, in which Merlin (whom Nikolai Tolstoy also considers a somewhat Odinic figure) ends up with Odin's spear.

Hosts and Guests

As Leslie Fish's song points out, you may not always recognize Odin when he comes to your door. When a traveler knocks, it is not enough to let him in. You must know how to offer hospitality. The first section of the Old Norse poem called the Hávamál—the sayings of the High One—is a manual of etiquette for both guest and host.

To the givers, hail! A guest has come.

Where shall he sit?

Anxious is he who by the fire

Must test his luck.

—Hávamál 2

This is followed by several stanzas detailing the heat, food, dry clothing, and wash water that will be needed by the newly arrived guest and thirty stanzas of instructions to the newcomer on how to behave while he is there, beginning with “Wits are needed by the one who travels far” (Hávamál 5) and ending with a warning not to outstay your welcome.

One of Odin's bynames is Fjolnir, variously translated as “Many Shaped,” “Much Knowing,” or “Concealer.” Grimnir, the “Masked One,” is another name Odin uses when traveling. The old lore offers examples of what can happen when you get hospitality wrong. The Eddic poem Grimnismál opens with an argument between Odin and his wife Frigg regarding which of the two brothers each of them favors as the better man. Frigg claims that Odin's protégé, King Geirrod, “is mean with food, and abuses his guests if he thinks too many have come.” She challenges Odin to go see for himself, then warns the king that a dangerous sorcerer is around, who can be identified because no dog will attack him.

When Odin arrives, he gives his name as Grimnir and refuses to say another word, even when the king has him tied to a post between two roaring fires. Whether this was the first celebrity roast, I do not know. When this has gone on for nine days and nine nights, the king's son cannot stand the abuse of hospitality any longer. He unbinds the toasted guest and offers him a horn of ale. Grimnir's first response is to predict that the young man will be king. He then proclaims seventeen stanzas of lore, including a list of his names. By the time he is done, King Geirrod has managed to figure out who he is. The king leaps to his feet, trips, and falls on his sword, thus fulfilling the god's prophecy.

In “Völsa Þattr,” a story found in the Flateyjarbók, “Grim” is the name given by King Olaf Digre and his companions when they come in disguise and more or less invite themselves to dinner at the home of a farmer in a remote district of Norway. As it happens, the family always begins the evening meal by passing around the room the phallus of a horse that has been preserved in herbs, invoking its fertile power. When the thing comes to King Olaf, he throws it to the dog, adding bad manners to the impiety of impersonating the god. He then throws off his gray cloak, reveals himself as the king, and requires that the family immediately become Christian. In the story, the king was the victor, but he eventually ticked off enough of his subjects for them to ally against him, and he was killed at the Battle of Stiklastader in 1030.

The relationship between host and guest is a complex one. According to the Online Etymological Dictionary, both words are descended from an original Indo-European term, *ghos-ti-, meaning “someone with whom one has reciprocal duties of hospitality,” representing “a mutual exchange relationship highly important to ancient Indo-European society.”

As with so many things in Germanic culture, successful hospitality depends on an equality of exchange. Both host and guest are sacred. Once you have claimed the shelter of the hearth, your host is honor bound to defend you, even if you later prove to be an enemy. For either to turn against the other is a betrayal. Drawing on this tradition, in Die Walküre, Sigmund, having been welcomed at Hunding's hearth, is safe even when his host discovers that Sigmund has killed some of his kin.

The rune Gebo—X—means “Gift.” Its equal lines express the importance of keeping the balance in an exchange. In Hávamál 42, we find the advice that a man should give gift for gift, laughter for laughter, and lies for lies. Even the generous appreciate gifts (39), but it is good to give gladly (48). Later (145) we are told, “A gift always looks for a gift.” This also applies to hospitality and to our relationships with the gods.

We offer the gods praise and welcome them to our feasts. What do we get in return? Two more names of Odin—Fjölsvidh, “Wide of Wisdom,” and Svithur, “Wise”—suggest one answer. For Odin, especially, the greatest reward is the exchange of knowledge. Casting that exchange in the form of questions adds the excitement of a contest. What can Odin learn from us? Our human experience, the things we have learned from living in a fleshly body in a physical world. What can we learn from him? To find an answer we must learn more of his names.

Nine worlds there are upon the Tree,

BEHOLD THE RAVENS FLY,

Who knows the secrets of them all?

THE WANDERER DRAWS NIGH.

He knows the darkness and the light,

The heavens and the sea,

A HORN WE RAISE IN WELCOME TO

THE GOD OF ECSTASY!

—Diana L. Paxson, “God of Ecstasy”

(for the rest of this song and the music, see appendix 2)

Practice

1. Reread the riddle game scene between Bilbo and Gollum from The Hobbit, or watch it in the Peter Jackson film. Bilbo is playing for his life. What is Gollum getting out of the game?

2. Make dinner for the god. Fill one plate for yourself and set the other before your Odin altar. There is general agreement that rare roast beef or ribs please him, or smoked salmon. I often cook asparagus spears with garlic—“spear-leek.” If you have a dog, ask it to act as priest of Odin's wolves and clean the god's plate afterward. For drink, pour mead, whisky, or red wine.

3. As you walk downtown, pay attention to the homeless. Look out for people, signs, etc., that seem significant. Take nine quarters, or, if you can afford it, nine dollars, and give them to someone who asks for a handout.

4. Make a car charm and bless your car before going on a trip. The illustration shows the one I use. This charm is a bind rune in which three runes have been combined:

— EHWAZ, the horse who carries you

— RAIDHO, riding, the act of travel

— ELHAZ, the Elk rune of protection

These god runes have been sketched on the back:

— for Odin, to guide your wanderings

— for Heimdall, father of men, to watch your back

and — Tyr and Thor on the sides to ward you from harm

Fig. 5. A car charm

5. Write the story of your life as a journey.

6. Learn to spirit journey using the exercises in my book, Trance-Portation.

7. Do the First Night of the Nine Nights meditation.

You can do these meditations, inspired by the structure of a meditation for Loki in Dag Loptson's Playing with Fire, as you finish each chapter or on nine consecutive nights after you have completed the book.

Set up your Odin altar and make sure the room is secure. Light a grey candle and pour a little mead or whisky into a glass as an offering. Then say:

Odin by these names I call you:

Gangrádh (Journey Advisor)

Gangleri (Wanderer)

Vegtam (Way Tamer)

Farmögnudh (Journey Power)

Farmatyr (Cargo God)

Gestr (Guest)

Gestumblindi (Blind Guest)

Grant me wisdom for my journeys,

Wanderer, in your cloak of gray,

Tame the obstacles before me,

Give me strength by night and day.

And when, returning from my travels

I try to listen for your call,

Help me see you in the stranger,

A welcome guest within my hall.

Think about journeys you have made. Remember people and places and what you have learned. Let the wind off the moors sweep through you. Scent the forest and the sea. See the white road unrolling before you and leading at last to the home you love. Then sit in silence, opening your heart, and when you hear the knock at the door of your spirit, welcome in the god.

The Second Merseberg Charm

Phol ende uuodan uuorun zi holza.

du uuart demo balderes uolon sin uuoz birenkit.

thu biguol en sinthgunt, sunna era suister;

thu biguol en friia, uolla era suister;

thu biguol en uuodan, so he uuola conda:

sose benrenki, sose bluotrenki, sose lidirenki:

ben zi bena, bluot si bluoda,

lid zi geliden, sose gelimida sin!

Phol and Wodan were riding to the woods,

and the foot of Balder's foal was sprained

Then spake Sinthgunt, Sunna's sister,

Then spake Frija, Volla's sister,

Then spake Wodan, as well he knew:

So bone-sprain, so blood-sprain, so joint-sprain:

Bone to bone, blood to blood,

joints to joints, so may they be glued.

Fig. 6. Göndlir