Stone-Slab Envy

People in places post altars and spaces they’re creating. Some of the efforts are pretty epic—gigantic slabs held up by other slabs they hauled in with heavy equipment. Very archaic. Very stone. Very we-have-money.

Raising a Vé on a Shoestring

I’ve had my little vé (sacred enclosure) for a few weeks now because, when under attack, I needed a place touching ground to lay wards and—at last—be serious. I can’t get a tractor in here to haul a big, awesome slab of stone—LOL—even if I could afford it, so I do as I’ve always done and work with what I have. A popup tent from my craft-fair days sits under the maple, layered with cedar and the Algiz rune traced in sand. Each corner faces a cardinal direction.

Off to the side the beginnings of a marble-slab table rise, brick by salvaged brick. The fire-pit I bought ten years ago—used twice—has been reclaimed from decay and propped with more old bricks. Juniper trees line the back of the property, planted by the guy who built the house, and what’s left of a stubborn holly tree lives off to the side in my pet cemetery. The whole place is a liminal space because that’s how I live and breathe.

Bricks, Tornadoes, and a “Holy Grove”

The bricks are reclaimed from a church destroyed by the devastating tornado that hit us dead-on. (We were ground zero.) I’ve been planting fruit trees here and there; we just put in another pawpaw. I called it my orchard (of POWER!) a week ago, and Loki corrected gently but very clearly, “A holy grove.” First off, I wasn’t aware he was watching me and my friend clean and bless the place. Second, I had to go look up what makes a grove. He keeps throwing new-old concepts at me.

I’m not very familiar with how groves happen or what makes them, having only seen a mention in books, but the way I do the land is a family thing. If I’m making a grove, then I have always lived in a grove.

Daily Use & Future Guests

It’s just me—sometimes a friend—that uses the place. I hope to pitch-pull live people someday without being made fun of (looking at you, Lokean subreddit) because I truly want to help people. This place might be where I’d take them if I could make it more comfortable. People would be welcome if I had folks nearby. Mostly the place is used to renew the wards, meditate, and speak to things.

At first I thought it was just going to be a place to hang out. As far as I know, when Dad made these things for himself, that’s what they were. But maybe he, too, was working the wyrd (the weave of fate). Of his three children, I’m the only one he made such hideaway places to play in for. I’ve just… always lived in a grove. I get maudlin without it… and without the river, too. I’m too far from the river here, but for now I’m working with what I have.

When the Gods Show Up

More magic than I expected has happened. I got up on a whim and did a ritual, calling to reclaim myself, and Loki whispered things to add—good-for-me things. I giggled and said, “That, too, because my husband is silly,” and he answered, “It’s important.”

I’ve summoned Thor twice there—the first time as part of a soul-retrieval because, while my friend paid 225 dollars to a shaman, I was told, “What a lovely story,” and—as with many serious things—had to figure out how to do it myself, no training, DIY. It reminds me of going to the doctor.

When Thor comes and it’s just him, he smells like a copse of fertile orchard trees growing by a calm ocean strand. You can smell the earth, the musk of the tree-shed ground. I see the area first, and then he appears: very large, very strong. When I first encountered him, I had no idea he actually was associated with those things. That’s the beauty of doing world-walking and spirit work cold: you can verify what you saw.

The first time I asked him to the Grove of Power™ it was with Loki and Freya for soul-retrieval. That was a very, very monumental night. I’d never seen magic work on a level-0 basis before. There was a cicada. It burned for all it tried to escape. My shaman awakening had begun when my soul was kidnapped as a fairy bride by a cicada type—red and black, which this cicada was. As Freya casually knocked over her tiny goblet in acceptance of my offering, it felt like they were showing me what they were doing on my behalf.

I’ve had people stand up for me; I won’t deny it. But to my recollection, I’ve never had anyone come to BLOWS for me before. Imagine living fifty-plus years with no one literally fighting for you—ever—and then three gods punk your abuser. Overwhelming doesn’t cover it. I tried to explain that to a friend earlier today, but she couldn’t catch the enormity. I remembered seeing her brothers threaten to come to blows; of course she wouldn’t understand.

If I hadn’t worked with Mengloth for a friend, I might never have come into Loki’s and Odin’s sights, because when I finally was free of the Cicada and was hurting, I flew only where I knew to go. Heaven would not see me. Of course Heaven would not see me… was it design that I’d go to them? Chance? I don’t know.

A Final Retrieval, a Dead Cicada

The other night, doing more soul-retrieval, I dared to reach into The Garden—fairyland—and see if pieces remained there. It’s hard because I’m still blinded. I may not have managed it, but Loki was there and I think he was helping. I’m using the fey equivalent of echo-location—I call it “vector-location”—to see these days.

There was a brightness; feeling around, I found a grub-glowing shard of myself in a wooden cradle box. It had been there so long vines grew over it. Nature was taking over. Then I sensed someone standing to my left. I reached over, felt the legs, and knew it was the Cicada. He wasn’t moving, not like him. I kept feeling upward until—”oh. That’s an eyehole. You’re a husk. I’m letting go of that now… yeah. I’m just going to take this piece of myself and see myself out. You’re dead. You won’t notice.”

Later I realized those guys hadn’t just gone to bat for me—they’d killed my abuser. Someone had finally stood up against an abuser “and won,” Loki says smugly. I blush and glow.

I agree women should stand up for themselves. Too often I was the only one standing, and it was a losing fight. I think back and wonder if things would be different—would I be different—if I’d felt secure in being strong, knowing I had backup like that. Over the years, standing alone and being beaten down, even by my own mother siding with the abuser, I just stopped fighting. Say what you will, but three gods went and punked a motherfucker on my behalf. I love them for it.

Next Steps for the Grove

The vé’s construction was built with advice from a Celtic spellsinger friend and my upbringing’s know-how—a glorious mix of traditions. I need two crabapples and a few other things. My holly looks lonely. 😛

I forgot to pay the light bill and the power was out for a couple of days. But that’s okay. I grew up making do, harvesting blackberries, and using older ways to survive. I got out the oil lamps, realized I’d let that go, and have spent the past two days putting this basic necessity back in order.

I went harvesting today: juniper, black walnut, feverfew. I’m not sure how to keep the juniper from going bottoms-up; I want to package it for purifications. Not sure how to treat these things. I hope someone will show me the way.

Work with what you’ve got. Turns out that can be plenty.