When The Line Trembled

For a while, I was riding it high.

The braid was humming. I was painting every day, my hands knew what to do. We were in good health, walking in the forests, feet on the old deer trods, breathing that green, mossy air. I felt strong in the weave.

Then the line trembled.

We received the kind of news that stops the breath. The kind of news that stills the hands and quiets the forest path. The kind of shadow that falls across the hearth.

And when the line trembles for one of us, it trembles for both. My hearth-companion and I — we both trembled.

So I laid things down. I laid down my brushes. I laid down my walking staff. I stepped off the trod for a while, not because the path had gone, but because the hearth needed tending.

I have not been idle. I have been holding. I have been sitting with the fire.

The braid did not break. It is still here, waiting. The tendrils are still waving, even if my hands have been too full to weave them.

And now, slowly, I feel a thread coming back into my fingers.

Tendrils of Their Own Bits of Wisdom – My Braided Path

‎I've been trying to find the right words for how my path looks these days.

‎For a long time I thought I had to choose. Am I walking the Viking path? Am I walking the Celtic path? Or am I walking Old Britain?

‎‎The answer that came to me is — I don't walk three paths. I walk one braided path.

‎One strong braid, woven together. One strand is my Viking heart — the raven, the wolf, the horns, the courage to cross cold water. One strand is my Celtic blood — my Cornovii ancestors from the Midlands, the hedgerow, the holloways. And one strand is Old Britain itself — what many of us who walk this land know as following the Deer Trods. The green, soft-footed way of the deer through hazel and hawthorn.

‎‎Braided together they are stronger. They are me.

‎And what I love most is that the braid isn't too neat. From it there are little tendrils, little wisps that wave free in the wind — tendrils of their own bits of wisdom. A saga here, a folk tale there, a bit of seidr, a bit of hedge witchery.

‎‎Like the gods themselves, really. Different names, different faces, but so many of the same stories underneath.

‎‎This is my path. Woven, wild, and a little bit wispy at the edges. Just how I like it.

‎Finally, after years of seeking, I know who I am.

‎Gwearbennen