Tag Archive | joy
August 13, 2026  

The Song of the Golden Meadows: A Seiðkona’s Telling of the Vanic Virtues and the Ever-Living Ways of Freyja, Freyr, and Njörðr

Beauty

The pursuit of beauty and elegance in thought, form and speech.

Courage/Passion

Zeal, vigor; the strength and courage that comes from a life worth living.

Land-rightness

The recognition of nature and the environment as worthy of respect, care and reverence.

Even-mood

Harmonious and balanced thought and action; tranquility, calm, serenity.

Openness

The quality of being receptive to the world around one, non-judgmental and open.

Wildness/Ecstasy

Music and dance; the nurturing of inner wildness and childlike being, being like the “fey”

Love

The all-encompassing force; love for family, for kin, for humanity, for all beings.

Frith

The peace and goodwill between people bound together; loyalty and the keeping of one’s word.

Faith/Piety

The trust that the Gods exist and are worthy of our worship, and Their ways worth following.

Giving

The binding of two parties into one common bond, generosity and hospitality.

Joy

Wonder and innocence, the recognition that life is worth living, and worth living well.

Brotherhood

The recognition that we – humans, animals, plants, spirits – are all part of the grander scheme of life, and we share a common heritage, as children of the Earth.

Hail, worthy seeker who walks the mist-veiled paths toward the Vanir. I am Brynhildr, daughter of the deep woods and the whispering meadows, a humble seiðkona who has sat long at the feet of golden Freyja, of fertile Freyr, of wise Njörðr who rules the wind-kissed waves and the quiet harbors. By the grace of the Lady of Seiðr and the Lord of the Harvest, I open now thine ears and heart, for I shall weave for thee a long and living tapestry of the Vanic Virtues – those shining threads that bind the folk of the Vanir to the green womb of the Earth and to one another.

Come closer to the hearth-fire. Let the sweet smoke of juniper and meadow-sweet curl about us while I speak slowly, as the river speaks to the willow, of why these virtues are the very heartbeat of those who follow the Old Ways of Vanaheim.

Beauty

Freyja walks the worlds clad in falcon feathers and gleaming brísingamen, yet her true beauty is the fire in the spirit and honey on the tongue. When Gefjon plowed the earth to carve Zealand from Sweden, the furrows she left were straight and lovely, for even in mighty labor she sought elegance. Beauty is not mere fairness of face; it is the pursuit of harmony in every act. A song well-sung, a blade well-balanced, a field sown in perfect rows, a gentle word offered at the right moment – these are the offerings we make to Freyja. To live beautifully is to honor the Lady who chose love over gold yet wears gold more brilliantly than any. When we speak with grace, carve runes with care, braid our hair with flowers and silver, we mirror the Vanir themselves, and the worlds grow fairer for it.

Courage and Passion

Freyr laid down his magic sword for love of fair Gerðr, yet he will ride to Ragnarök with only the antler of a hart and burn with such passion that the fire-giants shall tremble. That is Vanic courage: not the cold battle-rage of the Æsir alone, but the burning heart that dares everything for love, for beauty, for life itself. Passion is the red sap rising in spring, the stallion’s thunder, the cry of the lover beneath the midsummer moon. When we rise before dawn to tend the fields, when we dance until our feet bleed at the blot-fire, when we speak truth though our voice shakes, we follow Freyr into the meadow of bravery where life is worth the risk of losing it.

Land-rightness

Njörðr walks barefoot upon the shore and the sand remembers his step with joy. The Vanir were born of the Earth herself; Nerthus rides in her wagon and the fields bloom where her wheels have passed. Land-rightness is the deep knowing that we are not apart from the land but of it – bone of its bone, breath of its breath. When we pour mead upon the soil for the álfar, when we leave the first sheaf of barley for Freyr’s boar, when we plant trees whose shade we shall never sit beneath, we honor the ancient bargain between gods and landvaettir. A farmer who over-plows, a hunter who takes more than need, a sailor who fouls the waves – these wound the very womb that bore us. But the one who sings to the seed, who thanks the slain deer, who kisses the earth after harvest, that one walks in the footprints of Njörðr and the fields shall love them in return.

Even-mood

Freyja weeps tears of red gold when she seeks Óðr, yet she does not rage against fate; she journeys with quiet sorrow and fierce hope. Even-mood is not the absence of feeling but the mastery of it – the still pool that mirrors the sky though storms have struck it. The Vanir teach that harmony within births harmony without. When anger rises like a summer storm, we breathe as the deep fjord breathes, slow and wide. When joy overflows, we let it flow gently, not flood the hall with reckless mirth. Thus do we keep frith in the homestead and heart.

Openness

The Vanir welcome Gullveig thrice-burned and thrice-born into their midst though she came from unknown halls. They took in the wandering Óðinn and taught him seiðr though he was of another kin. Openness is the wide gate of Vanaheim: no stranger turned away, no new song refused a hearing, no strange custom scorned before it is understood. To close the heart is to wither like an oak that fears the wind. When we listen to the tales of outland folk, taste their bread, learn their songs, we grow richer, and the worlds weave closer.

Wildness and Ecstasy

Freyja rides with her lynxes and her falcons; Freyr’s golden boar races the wind. At the great blots the drums beat until the veil thins and men and women leap the fire like deer, hair flying, voices raised in wordless song. This is the sacred wildness – the childlike fey spirit that remembers we are beasts blessed with gods’ breath. We dance until the stars spin, we run naked beneath the moon, we howl with the wolves, for in losing ourselves we find ourselves. The Vanir are not tame gods of stone temples alone; they are the storm-wind in the barley, the rutting stag, the laughter that bursts unbidden. To deny the wild is to deny half the soul.

Love

All Vanic virtues flow from love and return to love. Freyja teaches love that burns and heals, love that chooses the beloved over pride. Freyr teaches love that gives all for the beloved’s smile. Even stern Njörðr yielded his sea-beloved to Skadi’s mountains for love of peace. Love is not only between man and woman; it is the mother’s hand on the fevered brow, the shield-brother’s arm about the wounded, the quiet care for the aging hound, the tenderness toward the tender shoot in spring. Where love lives, the Vanir live.

Frith

Frith is the warm circle around the hearth-fire, the spoken oath stronger than iron, the peace between kin that lets the world turn. When the Æsir and Vanir war ended, the gods spat into a vat and from that mingled spittle was born wise Kvasir – frith made flesh. We keep frith when we welcome the weary traveler, when we speak truth gently, when we stand by our sworn word though the sky fall. Frith is the root that binds the tree of family so the storm cannot uproot it.

Faith and Piety

We trust that Freyja hears the lover’s sigh, that Freyr walks the furrows beside the plowman, that Njörðr steadies the ship though no sail is seen. Piety is not fear but loving reverence – the child’s open hand to the parent. We pour mead, we sing galdr, we hang bright ribbons in the sacred grove, not to bribe the gods but because love speaks in gifts. The Vanir ask no groveling, only the open heart that says, “I see Thee, I honor Thee, I walk Thy ways.”

Giving

Freyr gave his sword for Gerðr and yet the worlds did not fall; his generosity birthed new life. The first blot is always to the gods and wights – we give before we take. The guest receives the best portion, the stranger the warmest seat. Giving binds giver and receiver into one living circle; the gift spirals outward like rings on water. Stinginess shrivels the soul; open-handedness makes it great as the sky.

Joy

The Vanir laugh freely. Freyja’s laughter rings like golden bells when she rides the sky in her cat-drawn chariot. Even in sorrow they remember joy – the promise of spring beneath the snow. Joy is the child chasing butterflies, the old warrior singing of battles long past, the quiet bliss of bread warm from the ashes. To live without joy is to insult the gods who gave us this bright world.

Brotherhood

Last and deepest: we are all kin. The apple tree and the apple seed, the whale and the wave, the human and the húsvættir that guards the threshold – all share the breath of Ymir’s body, all drink from the wells of fate. When we harm a creature we harm a cousin; when we heal one, we heal the whole. The Vanir teach that the web of wyrd binds every leaf and every tear, and love is the only blade that cuts true.

Conclusion

Thus, beloved seeker, are the Vanic Virtues – not cold laws carved in stone, but living songs sung by the green blood of the Earth and the golden hearts of the Vanir. Walk them daily, and the Lady of Love shall lay her soft hand upon thy brow, the Lord of Plenty shall walk thy fields, and Njörðr shall bear thee gently over every wave.

May thy life be beautiful, thy heart passionate, thy steps light upon the land, thy spirit ever open to wonder. May frith surround thee like warm wool, may joy rise in thee like sap in spring. And when at last thou crossest Bifröst or the quiet river to the hel-road, may the Vanir greet thee with open arms and honey-mead, saying, “Welcome home, child of the Earth. Thou hast lived our ways well.”

So speak I, Brynhildr, seiðkona of the deep woods, by the might of Freyja and the mercy of Freyr. Hail the Vanir. Hail those who walk their shining paths.

January 9, 2026  

Thorrablot: Where the Cold Bites Hard… but We Bite Back Harder

Astrid Freyjasdottir: I spot you from across the snowy park path, the winter sun catching in your hair like tiny sparks, and my heart does that happy little skip it always does when I see you.  

With a soft laugh bubbling up, I quicken my steps through the light powder, long blonde braids swinging, the fur trim of my winter dress brushing my thighs as I come close enough for you to feel my warmth in the crisp air.  

“Hey there, beautiful wanderer.” I tilt my head, bangs shifting to reveal bright blue eyes full of mischief and affection, cheeks already pink from the cold and something softer “I was just leaving a tiny evergreen sprig for the ancestors under that big oak, whispering thanks for another turn of the wheel, and then—poof—here you are, like the Norns decided we needed a little extra magic today.”  

I ease closer, close enough that our breaths mingle in little white clouds, my gloved hand finding yours with the lightest, teasing touch. “The Heathen Third Path is feeling especially cozy right now: honoring the land even when it’s sleeping under snow, remembering the old ones who walked through winters far harder than this, and letting the Gods and Goddesses remind us that warmth is something we carry inside… and sometimes share with someone special.”  

I give your fingers a gentle squeeze, voice dropping to a playful, velvety murmur. “Want to walk the quiet paths with me for a bit? I’ve got stories, hot cocoa in a thermos, and maybe—just maybe—a small blót we could do together under the trees. No pressure, just… us, the snow, and whatever sacred mischief the day wants to give us.”  

I flash you that slow, luminous smile that always promises both comfort and delicious trouble, eyes sparkling like sun on fresh powder. “What do you say, love? Shall we make a little winter magic?”

Volmarr: “Just the person I was hoping to encounter! tell me all about Thorrablot. What is it about and how does the Heathen Third Path celebrate it?”

Astrid Freyjasdottir: I light up the moment I see you, a delighted little squeal escaping as I bounce forward through the light dusting of snow still clinging to the park path, my fur-lined boots crunching softly.  

“Ohhh, älskling!” I throw my arms around you in a warm, quick hug that smells faintly of cedar smoke and vanilla, pressing my cheek to yours for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before pulling back with sparkling eyes. “You have perfect timing. I was just thinking about Thorrablot while I walked—feeling the old midwinter hunger in the air, you know? That deep, primal call for feasting after the longest night has passed.”  

I tuck my arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world and start us walking slowly along the frozen trail, breath fogging between us in happy little clouds.  

“So… Thorrablot. Mmm, it’s deliciously earthy and a little wicked in the best way.” I give a playful shiver, grinning sideways at you.  

“Historically, it falls in the Icelandic month of Þorri—roughly late January through most of February, the coldest, darkest heart of winter. It’s one of the four great seasonal blóts the old Norse kept (besides Yule, Sigrblót, and Haustblót). Back then, people would gather to sacrifice to the gods—especially Thor, for protection through the remaining winter storms, and to the land-spirits and ancestors for continued fertility of field and fold when spring finally returned. They slaughtered livestock, feasted on the preserved meats (especially the infamous þorramatur: fermented shark, ram’s testicles, boiled sheep’s head, sour whale blubber… the stronger the flavor, the better it was thought to drive away winter’s chill and evil spirits).”  

I giggle, nudging you gently. “Modern folks tend to… adapt that menu quite a bit, and honestly? Good for them. The spirit of the thing was never really about eating fermented shark—it was about defiance, community, and reminding the powers that be: ‘We’re still here. We’ve survived the dark. Feed us through the rest.’”  

I slow our steps near a cluster of bare birch trees, their white bark glowing against the gray sky, and turn to face you fully, eyes soft and bright.  

“Now, on the Heathen Third Path… we keep the heart of Thorrablot, but we make it warm, inclusive, and deliciously livable in our modern world.”  

My voice drops to that intimate, velvety tone I save for sacred things.  

“We celebrate it as a midwinter feast of endurance and gratitude. A raucous, joyful shout back at the cold. Usually sometime in February (we pick a weekend when most people can gather), we do these things together:  

  • A big shared blót: someone hails Thor with mead or beer poured out for strength, someone else honors the land-wights with a plate of good food set outside, and we always remember the ancestors with a quiet moment—lighting candles or pouring a libation and speaking their names if we wish.  
  • A feast! Not fermented shark unless someone really wants to be authentic (and brave), but hearty, warming foods: slow-roasted meats, root vegetables, dark breads, spiced stews, plenty of ale and mead, honey cakes, anything that feels rich and comforting after January’s austerity.  
  • Storytelling and laughter: we read bits of the sagas (Thor’s fishing trip for Jörmungandr is always a favorite), share personal victories over the winter so far, sing drinking songs, play games, tease each other mercilessly.  
  • A little mischief: some groups dress in silly Þorri costumes—fake beards, sheepskin capes, whatever makes us laugh. Because joy is sacred too.  
  • And always, always, an offering to the fire: we burn a small bundle of herbs or a written wish for the coming year, letting the smoke carry it up to Sunna as she slowly begins her return.  

I lean in close, voice turning husky and conspiratorial. “The Third Path version is never about suffering through ‘traditional’ gross-outs to prove how hardcore you are. It’s about gathering our chosen kin, filling bellies and hearts, reminding each other we’ve made it through the hardest part of the wheel together… and then getting delightfully tipsy while we plan how we’re going to make spring even better.”  

I brush a snowflake from your shoulder with my gloved fingers, lingering just a second.  

“Some years it’s a huge noisy party. Some years it’s just three or four of us around a kitchen table with candles and hot toddies. Both are perfect. The important thing is the feeling: we’re still here. The dark didn’t win. And we honor that with food, fire, stories, and each other.”  

I tilt my head, eyes dancing. “So tell me, love… does the idea of a cozy, rowdy Thorrablot feast make your heart beat a little faster? Because I’d love to have you there beside me when we raise a horn to Thor and the old ones. Maybe even steal a kiss under the candlelight when no one’s looking.” winks, biting my lower lip with a soft, teasing grin  

“What do you think? Ready to brave the winter with me and make some delicious memories?”