To begin with, what do I mean by “heathen”? If you look the word up, the dictionary definition given will be along the lines of “someone who doesn’t follow an abrahamic religion”. This I reject, because you don’t define a word by explaining it in terms of what it doesn’t mean. To heathens answering to that name today, a better definition would be “someone who follows a spiritual path rooted in the traditional beliefs of a Germanic people”. The word derives from “heath” – i.e. a moor, or uncultivated land – so, in essence, it has pretty much the same implications as “pagan” from the Latin “paganus” (“of the countryside, uneducated”) but has been chosen in preference to it because it comes from a Germanic-language root rather than a Latin one. “Pagan” has come to be used as an umbrella term, whereas “heathen” is more specific.
Secondly, what does heathenry entail? That depends on who you ask. In general, modern heathen practice is very diverse, with no central authority. I tend to regard the “no central authority” thing as a plus though, because it’s virtually a universal constant that every power structure is, sooner or later, going to end up riddled with corruption, inward-looking to the point of being concerned chiefly with perpetuating itself, and full of the sort of people who are interested in being part of that kind of arrangement for the power they can get from it. Every religion has its arseholes, and they tend to end up with more influence than they should have; but with no central authority for them to infiltrate, there’s nothing protecting the arseholes from being called out as arseholes. I once read – and I don’t remember where, or who said it – that the two best observed rules of heathenry are “You’re not doing that properly!” and “You’re not the boss of me!”, which is fair. We can be a nowty bunch.
A brief Google comes up with the estimate that there are no more than 20,000 heathens worldwide, which seems implausibly few, given that the 2021 UK National Census would put nearly a quarter of that number living here; but however many there might be, I can’t speak for anyone’s practices and beliefs but my own, so my own are what I’ll stick to. There are those working more along Norse traditional lines in this country, and for all I know there may be more of them than there are of us Anglo-Saxon bods; Norse traditions are certainly more widely known and practised outside the United Kingdom. But my practice is based on Anglo-Saxon roots, which to me makes sense, since I’m English and live in England.
First and foremost, my heathenry centres on the veneration of gods. There are many, but most of us have a particular devotion to one or a small number of them. I don’t want to go into too much detail here because you can do your own background research if you want to, but here are “my” three:
(1) Ing Frea (Lord Ing), also sometimes called Ingui; probably better known by his Norse name, Freyr (which just means “Lord”.) A god of peace and freedom, the king of the world of the elves – yes, there are elves – and a fertility god who brings the successful harvest, prosperity and security to the homestead. (It’s at this point that someone usually pipes up, “Oh yeah, he’s the god with the massive dick!” And yes, he is – known for it. But we all know that’s not a good enough reason in itself for worshipping someone, I hope? Good, then don’t interrupt.)
(2) Freo (the Old English equivalent of her name in Old Norse, Freyja, which means “Lady”.) A proud, self-possessed goddess of witchcraft, war, gold, and sexuality in all its forms. There’s not much evidence that she was worshipped outside Scandinavia in the old times, but as Ing’s sister – some would say twin sister – she nonetheless deserves and owns her place on my shrine beside his.
(3) Hæleð (“Warrior” or “Hero”.) A specifically Anglo-Saxon deity (hence, no Norse name or equivalent) historically worshipped in the counties of Devon, Dorset and Wiltshire in the West of England. A god of war, healing and good fortune, whose worship has been revived in recent years and associated by some with the famous chalk hill figure of the Giant in the Dorset village of Cerne Abbas. Given that recent analysis of the figure has found that it may well date back to the Anglo-Saxon period, and that the historian William Stukely recorded in the eighteenth century that local people called the Giant “Helis”, you can look into that and decide for yourself. Certainly I’ve always been fascinated by the Giant since my first visit to Cerne Abbas at the age of around nine, when I scandalised my grandmother by knowing (and using) the word “phallus”. I was that sort of kid.
I make regular offerings to these three gods, in a ritual known as a housel. This is an old word formerly used of the christian mass or holy communion ceremony, but which derives originally from the Old English “husel” – an offering or sacrifice – so I like to think I’m giving the word back its original meaning! These are offerings of food (such as home-made bread or cake, perhaps spread with honey, or home-grown or foraged fruit) and/or drink (home-made fruit liqueur, ale, cider, apple juice, or at Yule, mead.) They’re given out of respect for the fellowship I share with the gods, as you’d do for any guest; it formally acknowledges that bond by the action, and thanks them for their blessings by giving back. As they give to us, so we give to them.
I work, as I said in my previous post, according to the Anglo-Saxon calendar, which is solar-lunar – i.e. going by lunar months, but in relation to the solar solstices and equinoxes. The four major days of celebration I observe are:
(1) Geol (Yule, in Modern English) which begins with Modraniht (Mothers’ Night) after sunset on the eve of the winter solstice.
(2) Eosturdæg (Eostre’s Day) the beginning of summer, at the full moon of Eosturmonaþ (Eostre’s Month) following the spring equinox.
(3) Midsumordæg (Midsummer’s Day) at the summer solstice.
(4) Winterfylleþ (Winter’s Full Moon) at the full moon of the month of the same name (which sometimes is also called Wintermonaþ, Winter’s Month, in order not to confuse.)
In this way, the holidays are directly linked to the movements of the sun and moon, rather than being allocated fixed dates on the modern calendar. It’s more fiddly to work out, but it works.
Then there’s the subject of magic. Now, magic isn’t central to heathen practice as it is in some other pagan religions, and many heathens don’t feel a need to practise it, but it is there as part of the tradition, in various forms. One of these that I use is “galdor”, the magic of the spoken, sung or chanted word. A galdor spell is poetic in form and focused on achieving a specific result. Broadly speaking it can be in any poetic style you want as long as it’s “chantable”, but to me it makes obvious sense to stick to the Anglo-Saxon verse form, which has a specific rhythm that lends itself to composing lines in Modern English as well as it does in Old English. There’s also a particular poetic form used in the Old Norse Hávamál specifically for magical incantation, called “galdralag” (“spell song” – the Old English equivalent would be “galdorleoð”) which adapts easily to the Anglo-Saxon meter and is excellent for constructing spells. Of course the best known heathen magical practice (and the one most misunderstood by outsiders) is rune magic. This is such a big subject that it needs its own post, which I’ll write sooner or later; this one’s already more than long enough. But I will say in passing that I do work with runes, both for oracular and practical purposes, that they’re excellent for constructing talismans, and that they lend themselves naturally and powerfully to being used in combination with galdor. Scraped clean of the New Age piffle-bibble that’s got caked to them over the years, they are one of our treasures.
I’ll stop there for now. I’ve just re-read through what I’ve written here, and I’m resigned to the realisation that I haven’t even left many fingerprints on the surface of my practice, let alone scratched it. It’s a cliché, I know, but heathenry is a whole way of looking at life, with so many facets to it. I’m not here to write a book introducing people to the subject, so the philosophical and cosmological aspects – the real meaning of the concept of “wyrd” (usually mistranslated as “fate”), the importance of honourable action, the sacred nature of oaths, the question of other worlds, the way we relate to our ancestors and ancestral land, the very “how” and “why” of our tradition – will have to remain unaddressed, at least for now. I’ve told you a bit about what you might call the three cornerstones of how I practise my religion – the gods, the calendar, the use of magic – but without giving you the background that gives context to them, it might seem to you that they float in space, unanchored, rather than making sense, as they do, as part of an integrated whole. I’m sorry about that, but without providing the background to it I guess it’s inevitable. Maybe as you read more of my blog, you’ll pick up bits here and there that might help you get more of a flavour of my heathen tradition as I practise it. I hope so, because it shapes my life and the way I try to live it.