Weard-gework; just what do I mean?
It's my Gewessi view of the discipline of action; working wyrd. I
was listening to an old OBOD Druidcast (number 46 I think) where the
lady talking mentioned that only those who have a daily focus to
their spiritual practice seem to reap the deep spiritual gnosis and
she prefers their company
This daily practice concept is one that
is common to all work that brings long term benefit. On Velominati,
a road cycling fan site that I'm over-fond of, it's called La Vie
Velominati; the life as a road cyclist. http://www.velominati.com/
In Yoga it's called Karma Yoga and is
thus an ancient spiritual practice -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karma_yoga
Much of my pagan work is done inside,
the British weather is not always conducive to outside work, but the
true Weard-gework is outside and involves physical effort. Perhaps
it's the combination of adrenalin and endorphins with the patterns of
nature that, for me, brings benefit to my spirit.
An example occurred this weekend – a
combination of a virus, the weather being very wet and Yuletime
festive commitments meant I'd not been on my bike much. I'd been 2
weeks without MTBing. Which, in my head, is a long time and doubts
start to gnaw at my soul, much like Nidhogg gnaws the roots of
Yggdrasil. Am I still a biker? Am I getting too old? How much will
it hurt to get back into the rhythm? Is my chest well enough to
ride? The belittling nagging madness that is sometimes my
negative-mind chatter.
I pumped up the tyre (I must replace
that slow leaky inner-tube) and got on my winter soul bike. Three
gears with the fourth gear option of shank's pony; walking. I headed
out into the grey dreariness and past Blackstone. My body was
complaining, legs aching in the way they do when they've been unused
for a while. Then hit the off-road and the first muddy bog. As my
foot sunk into the sodden clay the laughter bubbled up. Frige is my
mud-goddess and in the winter we play whilst waterproof socks keep me
dry. Skipping, or attempting to skip, over each mudhole in the
trail I practice the mount and dismount of the bike and I don't care
that I'm no cyclo-crosser. I'm outside and the tree lined trail is
marvellous. I feel the energy poised in the leaf tips for the spring
explosion. The Oak King is born and the birds are singing.
As I approach the hills a gap in the
grey clouds appears and a hint of blue sky! My hope for sunshine on
the top of the Downs briefly takes wing. Then there's the climb
ahead of me. The Edge of the World is the path up. Certainly not
rideable, even in the best of conditions, for a mortal like myself.
I grab the bike and start the push& trudge up the steep, claggy
wall upwards. I'm settling into the rhythmic pain of climbing, a
familiar pain as calves and back ache. Near the top I feel an energy
pulling me and my spirit soars – two trees lovingly entwined. An
Elder and a Hawthorn I'd never noticed the two of them before. I
spent a moment with them and moved up into the fog.
My hope of sunshine had been dashed but
the fog enfolded me like a chilly blanket. I know this land so well
50 yards visibility is more than enough. I leap-frogged some women
runners over the next couple of rises until just before the final
climb they asked me how to get back to Portslade. I discussed where
they expected to get back and divined the route for them. Riding up
to Devils Dyke and down to Saddlescombe I then play gate opening
leap-frog with another MTB'er. Discovering that he lived near to me
but was going to take the road as he didn't know another route. My
turn as navigator or trail-seer had come again. I took him over the
next hill and pointed him home.
The nidhogg of mind silenced in the
land-boon of spirit. True weard-gework.
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