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
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