It was 2.22 last night when I came back into the log cabin after having witnessed the most epic and wondrous Perseids meteor shower in my life, while lounging on the porch on top of a mountain plateau in Norway. Fireballs were hitting the sky, and one huge green dragon with a red tail was going through a long arc that made my hair rise.
Not that I needed it enforced, but such a marvelous show of what I aim to aspire to, namely, the gossip among the stars up there rather than what I get to experience down here when I’m among folks in the city, made me consolidate my one and only wish: To extend my 5-week vacation every year up in the mountains in Norway to forever.
I’ve been doing Norway like this for more than 15 years in a row now, and while some of my friends are convinced that I’m ‘going native’ I’m convinced myself that I’m going domestic.
There are certain things that I do religiously while here, which is to follow the cycles of nature, enjoy some astral power, and dig the water in the creek that runs nearby. Align also the picking of poisons with the dark moon, the washing of talismans and power jewellery in sacred holy water, moonlight and candle light, and shower myself in the magic of cards.
I allow myself to be curios about what nature is up to generally, and how it can give me a sense of how to better my interpretative skills. I play the detective up here, and I like to go back to the basics in the reading of signs and omens, images, and texts (the topic of my second essay in my column on Patheos: The Cartomancer).
In one of the few active social media groups that I’m still in – as I simply don’t have time for the myriad of opinions and claims to knowledge on the internet – I made this comment connected to how we define what others have called the language of the birds, the secret language of mystics, alchemists, and other magical folks.
I offered a definition of my own: ‘The language of the birds is simply ‘the language otherwise’, where ‘otherwise’ means other perception that has the potential to reveal the impenetrable obvious.’
I think that what we call ‘house’ – the place where we can exercise being in the world on our own premise – has a lot to do with what we make of what inspires us against the background of what we give and to whom.
While picking the beautiful monkshood in the wild on this dark moon, I read the cards at the spot, as an offering for the spirit of this plant.
The Star, The Lovers, The Emperor, and the World assured me that my ambivalence can be taken care of if I turn to taking stock of the imperial power available to me, and enter the world armed with a scepter rather than always with the chalice of giving.
I don’t like to keep scores, but the monkshood was saying that there is a reason why I seek its spirit out and why I swing my knife over its head – as I do every year – and that in this reason, I find a way to counteract the resistance and doubt that is thrown at me unjustifiably.
In my new book, The Oracle Travels Light, I talk about the cards as tools that perform on two levels:
First as a divination tool – answering a question – and then as a tool for intervention, enforcing whatever acts that may have to do with the ‘eating of the enemy’, or the casting of benefic or malefic spells unto another (p. 96).
Out here in nature, what I appreciate the most is the possibility to rise above our own man-made principles. Look up at the stars, smell the sweet scent of the poisonous plants and call it all home.
A big thank you to the many who have already gotten my book – I’m very honored that you support my writings here by supporting my writings that I put out there in ‘product’ form, ensuring that we honor the tradition of the necessity to trade for magical solutions.
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