All Posts

Frith — friðr — isn’t just the absence of conflict. It’s the peace that grows from trust, respect, and healthy relationships. It’s not about remaining silent; it’s about maintaining faith with each other. In old traditions, Frigg is the weaver of that web — the one who notices when threads fray and guides what needs repair. She never forces stillness; she teaches the importance of right relationships. Through her wisdom, we learn there’s a big difference between peacekeeping

I'm so honored to have these amazing authors endorse Frigg's Twelvefold Flame! "Frigg's Twelvefold Flame is a wonderful resource. From the oldest textual mentions of Frigg to a modern day understanding of her, Rev. Máire Durkan takes the reader on a journey in which she uncovers every aspect of this deity and her retinue of goddesses. The book highlights the relevance Frigg and her companions have for modern spiritual practice and daily life...Rev. Durkan gives thorough consi

Walking the perimeter of the meadow, I breath in the scent of fallen leaves beneath a sky brushed with cirrus clouds—mare’s tails drifting across the bright autumn blue. The season has just passed its peak of color; leaves loosen and dance toward the earth, fluttering in the cool, brisk wind that snaps the flags and stirs the senses awake. The trees at the base of Brandywine Creek State Park’s sledding hill are still golden, but bare limbs remind me that winter is not fa

“Limina” is Latin for “threshold”—the space in between. During Samhain and Winter Nights, we stand on that boundary, a time when the veil between worlds thins and life's usual pace slows. This season isn't for distraction or rushing; it's for pausing, listening, and remembering. In this transitional space, awareness becomes more profound. The atmosphere seems to resonate with memories—the aroma of smoke and earth, the rustle of leaves, and the heaviness of the darkening sky.

Walking the Brandywine Creek trail today, I enjoyed the peacefulness and shimmer of autumn’s transition. Beech and tulip poplar leaves glowed with yellows and ambers, while a few maples and sweetgums blaze red along the water’s edge. Leaves drifted downstream toward the old mill race, carried by the current. Occasionally, a cool breeze stirred the surface, transforming the reflections of trees and sky into an impressionist painting — rippled, shifting, and alive. At times, t

Walking along the edge of a meadow yesterday late afternoon, I paused to admire a browned milkweed pod with delicate cracks. Its silky seeds unfurled and floated on the breeze, like visible light. What was once confined and hidden gained form in motion. The seeds didn't fight against the air; instead, they lifted into it, letting the unseen force carry them forward. This is how it is for us: when we open up and reveal what's inside, stopping our grip on old fears or patterns,

Winter Nights is not just a single day, but a sacred season — a time for observance. It is a period designated for remembrance, reflection, and connection. Unlike a one-day festival, it spans multiple days, encouraging us repeatedly to recall memories, consider, and feel the presence of the Álfar and the Dísir. This is a tide of remembrance. We reflect on those who came before us — our beloved dead, ancestors of blood, spirit, and land. We thank them for their struggles and h

As the sun dips lower in the sky and morning frost begins to sparkle, we gather at the boundary between seasons — between summer’s warmth and winter’s quiet. This time isn't about ending but about transformation. Nature shows us the importance of releasing what no longer serves us. Trees drop their leaves in gold and rust, fields lie silent under mist, and animals prepare their shelters. Deer grow thicker coats, snakes shed their skin, and fallen leaves nourish the roots. We