In the beginning there was a sacred thread.
A thread of binding, warp and weft.
A thread of binding, strand to strand.
In the formation of the thread, the world.
In the weaving of the thread, the wyrd.
What is the wyrd? To the ancients, the Saxons, the Norse, wyrd is fate.
And fate is woven.
In my studies of the runes these past years two things have come clear: historical record and our dependence on quantifiable experience have left fractures in the web. A hole torn without regard for the strands. The runes are fractured pieces in this divine web of existence, as are all symbols–the symbolic language our earliest synthesis of sound and picture, image and word.
There is power in that matrix.
For the past two moons I have been weaving, in the long traditions of our common ancestors.
Each web tells a story of a moment in time. They are more than tools for divination, though the process looks similar.
To draw them, I center in ceremony, lighting the fires, burning mugwort or cedar.
I call to the sacred directions, the ancestors, my guardians and guides, divine presence. I make an offering.
And reach in to the pouch.
Then, I make.
I do not read the runes, exactly, but rather they tell me through the making how they wish to be in relationship. Sometimes runes are made that were not in the original draw.
And sometimes new runes are made, too.
The webs become a gnosis gift for whoever receives them. Not an answer, but a map, to follow through the synergy, to meditate with, to use as a personal symbol or guide through a particular process.
An offering in honor of the fate we all share.