“Hesh!”, or, “the Heroic Roadkill”


Every once in a while I run across the Dead, lying in gutters, their faces sometimes peaceful, sometimes locked in a final grimace of pain, eyes milky or shriveled shut. I almost always stop to witness and pay my respects.

A teacher of mine, Martín Prechtel, talks about an old Tzutujil Mayan practice of throwing pottery, greek-wedding-like, against the stones and crying, “Hesh!”, which I understand means, “eat!”.

The Tzutujil do this to feed to unseen other, the divine, because we take so much from the world, they give back in this way. A gift has only been fully received by the divine when its physical body is destroyed. And so they smash cups, plates, bowls.

A good friend of mine, Hedieh, a woman of Persian descent, told me that when people in her culture accidentally break a cup, plate, or bowl, they thank it – because it took the bad luck meant for them.

This arrow of this idea hit its mark in me when I lost my favorite tea mug, a magnificent gentleman of Finnish extraction, and a twin to one I brought back for my sweetheart.

As I looked at the shards of my beloved cup scattered across the kitchen floor, I thanked him/her/it/ze for taking my bad luck. And feeling overwhelmed me – suddenly I had been drinking from the cupped hand of a hero, a protector. I felt deep gratitude, and the colors of life felt richer. I still think of that cup fondly and wonder what bad luck it grounded.

I’ve witnessed those raised by this culture often offer pity to the Dead lying by the road. Opossums, squirrels, raccoons, cats, rats, we usually see on the streets and in our gutters. On paths we might find moles, shrews, mice. These wild people, lying there, having lived their tiny heroic lives in the midst of all this madness, elicit “awwwws” and “that’s so sad” from passersby.

On the one hand, a cat, a family member (I wept for days when my cat died), we tend to treat as infants or children, and I understand the offering of a parental pity.

But for the others – adult heroes and heroines, raising children and not giving up their wild lives in the midst of industry, I find pity a poor offering for such beings.

Parents offer pity, sure, but we wander far from the path when infantilizing these wild beings. They come here to teach us, to remind us what a well lived and wild life looks like, even raised on garbage and poison.

In some stories, these beings participated in the actual building of the world itself, that we only came later to live in. And here they lie, still building it, still living in it.

I think by offering thanks for their heroism, we dignify both them and ourselves, and come just a little closer to our human selves that these wild beings would then thank in turn when Death comes for us.

Endless Blessings

IMG_3052Play games, my friends, play games.

Cultural creation starts with play – and matures as structured play, what we call “a game”.

The folks doing the most important work culturally I often find in the world of games.

I offer up Bernie De Koven, of DeepFun, as a fantastic example of this. I’ve long known we need to reclaim and practice our ability to thank and bless each other. Well Bernie has developed a game towards just this end, called “the Endless Blessings Game.”

I see a special shine on the work Bernie does, because of his emphasis on light-heartedness and “play for its own sake.”

Oftentimes cultural creatives such as myself get too serious – we lose our sense of playful exploration – because of how much importance we place on our work.

But if we can stay open, stay in the “playful space”, for its own sake, we can discover and re-discover what opens our hearts up without even trying.

So appreciate your innate ability to discover what cultural practices deeply nourish human beings, by appreciating and savoring your own sense of play.


The Paradox That Wasn’t

The animated video below explains “the Fermi Paradox”, a paradox only to the infantile or insane. The idea that knowing the high probability of life on any one of billions of habitable worlds, that it must naturally beg the question, “Where are all the ‘advanced civilizations’ – where are all the spaceships?”

The madness of this unrooted babbling, culminating from 10,000 years of civilization, hits its apex as this story brings global ecological collapse to the brink. We stare down the barrel of the gun we made.

And the biggest question on our culture’s mind? “Where are all the spaceships?”

And meanwhile the poisons from Deepwater Horizon, Fukushima, Chernobyl, the tar sands, fracking, and on and on lay siege to a dying planet.

“Where are all the spaceships?” we say as we pull the trigger.

Accelerating Self-Decolonization With A New View of Life


My ancestors go back through Ireland, England, Denmark, Germany, Austria, all the way back to the cradle of the earliest form of my recognizable ancestry on the Central Asian and Eastern-European steppe. My people worked for empire and civilization for a long, long time. And so decolonization looks very different for me than for indigenous peoples just a few generations into coercion to collaborate on this modern project.

For me, fully embodying the fundamentally different, animist perception of life, continues to challenge me. But year by year I make progress. I believe the only way “away-from” destructive and rapacious modern technological mythologies lies through them. Which means that we must find our animism there, somehow.

I have seen some amount of attention on a new physical theory of life, based primarily in physics rather than in biology as we know it. A professor at M.I.T. recently has gotten a lot of attention from the media, and in his view we can talk about life, in physics, as structures of energy diffusion, that naturally emerge in a field of energy work (sunlight, tidal waves, geothermal marine vents, etc.), as what-we-think-of-as matter aligns and forms into structures that more and more efficiently diffuse that energy – structures that once they get complex enough and self-replicate, adapt, and so on, that we feel compelled to call them life.

Christopher Alexander’s 4-volume book, the Nature of Order, offers another view on this very same thing. In his view, matter and space-time naturally wants to differentiate itself into more and more “whole”, coherent structures that we eventually call “life”.

My friend and fellow tracker Garth Olson, co-host of the Art of Tracking podcast, also introduced me to Constructal Law, another way of looking at the puzzle; that what we think of as (dead) matter aligns and forms into structures that more efficiently accommodate flows of energy into a natural system – we eventually call this too “life”.

You can see our direction by now.

All of this fundamentally connects with the world of complexity sciences, where science looks at systems that are far from equilibrium, high-dimension, and open, calling them “complex”.  Living and non-living systems cannot be distinguished through this lens – a galaxy, or a village, can be viewed intelligibly and usefully with the same perspective.

In my opinion, these points of view, these approaches, all fall in the category of “western science slowly creeping towards animism”. I don’t think the scientists would necessarily agree with me, but as time goes on indigenous points of view become more relevant, not less, which ought to surprise you.

With this point of view, Carl Sagan’s “demon-haunted universe” gets its demons back – but these demons generate insights, rather than blunting curiosity out of fear, as Sagan once worried. By recognizing spirits and demons we can interact with complex systems that we normally wouldn’t call “alive”, from a scientific perspective, and yet they have as real an influence on the world as me. The internet for example, has as much life as any other complex being – and its impact is unfathomable. Ideas, stories, Richard Dawkin’s almost robotic notion of cultural “memes” that at once seem both slave and master to human beings, rather than that notion demoting life to artifice and dead matter, we can promote them to the status of fully “living” agents – because we understand that all of space-time lives. Emptiness has life – fullness has life. The Tao Te Ching famously speaks to this.

Christopher Alexander might jump in here and say – “Well, sure, but also remember that everything also has degrees of life.” And I would agree with him – in the sense of places, times, stories, people, can become fully alive, or they can fall asleep, so that they have very little influence. In this talk about degrees of life, Alexander doesn’t refer to their value, he points to their impact and level of complexity. These complex beings – rivers, storms, cultures, recipes – may even die and return to feeding the rest of life. But they never stop participating in the space-time field of life. They never lose their fundamental aliveness.

I believe when I can embody that a story told, or watched on a screen, has as much life and agency as myself, that I will have really integrated something deep about diffusion structures, constructal law, complex systems, and most of all – animism. 

High Contrast Thinking

IMG_2893 In my opinion, you can “be right”, or you can learn. As simple as that. The pursuit (or belief in) Rightness closes doors, closes perception, closes awareness.

The avoidance of Wrongness creates hesitation, cowardice, smallness. It diametrically opposes bravery and discovery.

Rightness also misleads, because the universe simply doesn’t work that way. However, I’ve come to believe that for anyone new to a skill, or new to a field of ideas, that a new learner naturally hews to what I call high-contrast thinking.

High-contrast thinking means looking at nouns, instead of verbs. Looking at facts, instead of relationships. It means looking for separation and identity. By doing this, a new mind can navigate this new world of learning they find themselves in. In essence, it means looking at “right” and “wrong”, “correct” and “incorrect”. In tracking, it means looking at the shape of a track and matching it with a pattern in your mind, or in a book. It means forcing reality to change to fit your model of reality. You have to begin here, of course.

But! You must keep going. You must move on from high-contrast thinking as soon as possible. This illusion that empowers  you to begin a journey, you must abandon for a richer perspective on the world as soon as possible.

Relationships, flows, verbs, context. The opposite of high-contrast. You might call it low-contrast; wherein you can barely see the edge of one domain as it slides along a continuum into another. High-contrast, like the tracking stick, always waits for  you to need it again. You can always go back there, and you will, though you will need it less and less as time goes on.

All models of the world come from high-contrast thinking, and essentially lie. But these lies can create life if they point to deeper currents of truth. Low-contrast thinking means pure-awareness without labels, navigating according to an unconscious sense of everything at once.

Literacy and Tracking


A person could argue that most of the living world “reads” constantly. Like introverts in the library, we never want leave the constant unfolding stories carried by winds, scented earth, star positions, ocean currents, body languages. All beings – whether bears or bees, clouds or cormorants, lichen or lithic giants slumbering under the sky, we all read each other.

And yet the modern sense of reading – words in sentences, sentences in paragraphs, text that crawls from one page to the next until the book ends with a clap of covers, but always remains the same each time we look within – to me, this new “reading” has nothing to with the original reading at all.

Even worse, this new form of reading (and writing!) makes us terrible trackers. We expect words to “mean” what the dictionary says, and for these meanings to stay the same under different eyes.

The more I learn about tracking, the more I look for flows and forces, relationships and dynamics, within the soils and sands crushed underfoot. And yet I started out, in the very beginning, thinking, “that is a cat track”, “that is a bird track”, “that is a snake track”, and I do mean “is”, in violation of my e-prime habit.

In some ways this just points to a natural learning arc; in the beginning, we need clear sign-posts. As we mature, nuance and perspective enrich so much that we abandon our sign-posts.

I suppose one could engage a modern book in this same way; questioning every word, looking for forces and flows, juggling multiple interpretations.

My oldest tracking mentor, Tom Brown, Jr., often shares the perspective that his mentor in turn shared with him: “All earth moves like water”. As a Lipan Apache, water had a special meaning as a source of wisdom, as springs and seeps source life in the dry places.

Perhaps then, for reading we best assume all words, sentences, paragraphs, stories and texts, perhaps they all move like water too?

In any case, the joy, the thrill of entire worlds churning and sloshing within the track, waves crashing against currents all under the passing forces of beings about their business from one track horizon to the next, this for me describes the real world of tracking that awaits any who ask enough questions and court the tracks with an open heart.


The Landscape Within A Track



Controversy swirls around author, teacher, and tracker Tom Brown, Jr., I can’t deny it. As founder and head instructor-for-life at The Tracker School in New Jersey, he has made a career out of having strong opinions without any apologies. And yet one thing, that he said in the very first class I ever took, has stuck with me for almost twenty years:

If you believe everything I say, you are a fool.

Prove me right, or prove me wrong.

But I betcha can’t prove me wrong…

Pressure Release tracking, what Tom (in his inimitable fashion) calls “master tracking”, called to me from the first time I heard of its possibility. And yet, due to my health and the maladies of youth, I couldn’t sink my teeth into more than just the surface of this traditional art.

Tom asserts that this art directly comes from the Lipan Apache Scout tradition of tracking. Over the years, knowing Tom’s storytelling nature, I’ve wondered about its origins and investigated other possibilities. But, at last, I have decided to defer to the decision of the still thriving Lipan Apache Tribe of Texas – who, as best I understand it, recognize Tom as a teacher via his Lipan mentor.

So, I feel confident speaking about my pride and awe at this indigenous system of tracking, which to me, shows as much or more complexity than the acupuncture point system in Traditional Chinese Medicine. Tom shares what his mentor taught him as thousands of “pressure releases” – individual behaviors and expressions inside the track – upwards of 5,000.

What does “pressure release” mean? Well, you could call it “how the earth feels about the movement of your foot against it”. You could also call it a track landscape feature – ridges, caves, crests, fissures, and so on.



But more than that, this approach dives into the soul of the being making the track – exploring not just how much they weigh, how tall, male or female, handedness, leggedness, how old, but also how much food in their belly, how much they need to pee or poop, hunger, thirst, emotional state, where they look, injuries, sneezes, coughs – only your curiosity limits you.

You can best think of this world – this amazing tiny massive world inside the landscape of the track – as a cultural world. A traditional, indigenous, continuously mapped and remapped world of the living soul. As Tom has translated into English (and you probably know my feelings on how widely “civilized” languages and indigenous languages differ from each other in character and purpose), the Lipan Apache Scouts had a deeply expressive yet highly technical jargon for describing and exploring the tiny world of the track.

As a lover of Sherlock Holmes and mysteries of all kinds, this original science has owned my heart for years.. And over the past few months I have begun to embrace Tom’s call to “prove me right, or prove me wrong”.

Due to the limitations of WordPress, I encourage you to follow my adventures here on my tumblr blog. I dream of a well-designed online space for collaborating on this inquiry into pressure releases, but for now, a tumblr blog will have to do.

Let me end with this thought: up until Tom began sharing it, this system of pressure releases, a few thousand different features in size (and growing slowly with the discoveries of new trackers), remained hidden from view. I don’t know of it surviving anywhere else (apparently other tribes had similar systems). I hope beyond my knowledge other native folks still carry it for the benefit of their people, but I can’t help but wonder at how easily it may have died out.

This beautiful, majestic, system of mastery, far more than the wildest dreams of any modern hunter, any modern geologist, any forensic scientist,  and even many traditional trackers.

As I look back at the cultural world of my ancestors that crumbled under the onslaught of colonization, and then recognize my line became just one more platoon of colonizers, I think of how much we have lost, how much we almost lost, how much we continue to lose right now, and how important and precious the duty to decolonize ourselves, support the indigenous cultures all around us, and caretake that inner urge to do magnificent things and make the heart of the mothering land swell to have such children.




Serve Your Community – Find the Lost and the Missing

Recently attended my second class with man tracker Fernando Moreira. Had an amazing time – night tracking with flashlights, blind-folded tracking by feel, tracking across debris, sand, grass, gravel, approaching vehicles in a search and rescue scenario, tracking as a team, and on and on.

In my current opinion, every tracker must have the ability to find lost and missing human beings. This seems fairly self-evident, but for 20 years I haven’t prioritized it.

Some SAR (search and rescue) tracking educators out there don’t quite meet my expectations, so I felt really glad I met Fernando.

Check out Fernando’s work at http://professionaltrackers.com.

The CoMC Archives Are Now A Zine


Alright, I’ve changed my strategy here – I know there are those of you interested in a more readable form of the old writing here, but I’ve gotten very few buyers of the ebooks. So, I decided to experiment with making the ebooks into a zine format.

The first zines I’m making are of course the anthology of the 2004-2005 posts here.

The book is 49 pages long, with a hand-stitched spine, and is digest size – about 5″ x 8″.

I plan for each year will have a different color cover – this is contingent on interest of course.

The books will be first come, first serve. These are a labor of love, and I have lots of other work to do, so if you’d really like one, order now while I have time and inspiration to make them!



To buy, paypal me $12 at mythic dot cartographer at gmail dot com. If you live in Portland, I’ll just hand them to you. If you need them mailed, please add $3 shipping.

Thanks everyone!

For the Love of Tracking

1457718_678892208809141_1721277194_nThe College of Mythic Cartography originally came into this world to really celebrate the interface between Story and Land, and as a love letter to animal tracking. It has grown beyond that to encompass much more, but its roots lie there.

For all that, I don’t talk much about the practice of animal tracking – and I’d like to change that.

In a recent blog entry I mentioned starting a separate blog on just tracking, but that didn’t seem to make much sense, juggling two different blogs. So I’m going to try to integrate the different trails right here at the College of Mythic Cartography.

I make no claims as any great tracker – quite the opposite, but experience has eminently qualified me for at least one thing: talking to beginners about beginning.

I’d like to offer more resources toward this end, I’d like to help you to begin your beginning. It feels immensely satisfying – no matter where you turn, you’ll find some aspect of tracking will set your hair on fire with never-before-considered insights. It just requires looking at the ground – at least in the beginning.

Though Tom Brown, Jr. acts as my principle elder on this path, I have several teachers – Jon Young, Fernando Moreira, and my friends and fellow trackers.

The CoMC, years 2004-2005, Now In Ebook Format

cover-2004-2005So, I’ve been working on making the archives of this blog more accessible, and more readable.

To that end, I’ll release ebooks for each year, combining years for those times when other priorities distracted me too much to keep blogging.

Each book should run at least 40 pages. If enough folks buy them, I’ll combine them all together (or maybe just split into two or three volumes) and release them as a physical book.

If this sounds exciting to you, please buy the first one. I consider this all an experiment – editing these old blogposts for ebook format takes some serious work.

If I don’t get enough of a response, no harm, no foul – I’ll just finish with 2006 (which I sit working on right now).

Thanks everyone – your comments and feedback always encourage me to share and do more.

To Tell – And Retell – A Story

statues in the forest

One of the few other folks blogging about rewilding animist stories – meaning, as non-indigenous, long-ago colonized people who perpetuate colonization to this day, re-indigenising and de-colonizing our oldest tales, on a never-ending path of re-becoming traditional for we who have long forgotten our original traditions – Heather Awen at Eaarth Animist responded to my recent posts by sharing her story of the Norse Creation.

I sit in deep appreciation of this, and I have something to say about it.

I don’t carry much gift as a researcher or a scholar. In spite of my weighty words and long sentences, my heart turns me away from diving deep into the nitty-gritty trails and tracks of old etymologies, ancient details, hidden histories.

Probably you don’t believe me – for what else do I write about here but those very things?

Well, you have scholars, and then you have scholars. My friend Jason Godesky, my partner Jana, and others I know also belong to that wise tribe of textual nomads, making their migratory figure-eights back-and-forth between the pathways of dehydrated words spoken through long-mouldering lips, and back into this world of light and air. Meaning, they dive deep into the leaves of that linguistic time-machine and former forest we call “the book”.

I don’t have their patience, and so I must rely on others to double check and follow my lines of thinking, and produce your own that inspire me to reflect at the campfire, or stare up at the starry expanse on the inside of Ymir’s skull.

I would not claim anything here as “correct” or “right” or “factual” – much like I don’t work in the agreeing business, nor do I work in the being right business. I don’t evaluate the quality of what I say in that way – a problem of incommensurability. Meaning, we don’t measure time by the pound, and I don’t measure how well I’ve spoken by whether or not I have backed my words up with citations and references that agree.

However, don’t mistake me – the beauty of finding echoes of one’s insights in a book, or needing to re-examine them completely because of an inspiring alternate perspective – I value this tremendously. Since I cannot do this as others can, I have found my own ways. For those who have the endurance to dive deeper and travel longer on those dusty cellulose trails, I bow in appreciation of your contribution.

For me, and I know others of my sub-tribe exist within this animystic rewilding world – I suspect my friend Finisia Medrano belongs here – I and we evaluate the worthiness of our story by how completely does it destroy our hearts.

My truth, I evaluate it by its authenticity. A sub-species of sincerity, authenticity demands what you say rings with the harmonic of your whole being. This harmonic usually sounds and looks like weeping.

So I ask my words, how much do you keep me liquid, and when shared, how well do you do the same for others?

If as Finisia has so well said, we must “confess and be broken-hearted”, then I consider all my writing a personal and cultural confession. I speak, without permission or consensus, for all of us lost Indo-European horse-husbands and wives, great captains and queens of the Sea of Grass of ancient central-asian memory, our red-haired and tartan-wearing mummies drowned in the dust of western China.

What wounded us so that we went mad and poisoned so much of the world with our fear? And what wounded those who wounded us?

To de-colonize, I think we must admit our ongoing acts of colonization. This keeps us honest and humble. And then we must stop burying our giants in forgotten holes and wastes, but disinterr them, bring them up and feast them, asking them to tell us their stories.

Because I do not pursue “rightness” or “factuality”, the responses and tales of others only enrich the stories that I tell.

All of this to say, in the most long-winded way: tell me what you’ve found, tell me what you see, you don’t have to agree with me, and I don’t have to agree with you, in order to celebrate that we both feast the Giants who carry the Old Stories on their backs, and the newbirthing stories in their arms.

Thank you.


Photo Credit: bass_nroll via Compfight cc

Remembering Giants

sleeping giant

As I’ve written before, I believe Giants in every pagan religion (non-animist), represent the Land themselves, the clans of the land, the vast diversity of watersheds and manyscapes.

But even more than that, I now perceive for myself that Giants embody something even deeper than this – they embody the great underpinning of all memories, that birth the great embodied past and the unmanifested potentials of the future.

They exist in Deep Time, enmeshed in a layer more real, more foundational, a place of time and space that in story “came first” (In The Beginning…), and must “come first” in every moment for a physical reality to lay upon it. They exist as vast embodied memories, some as species memories – all things human beings have done or thought – and others as memories of the land, layed out before us.

Since we live on an island of now, the only place where anything happens, where the strands of all possibilities come together to weave a moment, a moment seated in the bone-dust layed down underfoot from past stories – knowing all this, the influence and vitality of these giants laps up on the shores all around us on this island of now. They represent both an inheritance of how things happened before, and express how things will happen next. They in fact provide the small infinity of yarns for the weaving of any moment.

The killing of giants, as told over and over again in the old stories of modern amnesiac farming religions, tells therefore at the same time of the attempted killing of memories, of how we once lived, of how the land once looked.

The killing of giants also means killing our futures – future possibilities we try to break off at the bud, snapped strands that will never weave any more now-moments.

Imagine 7 billion humans, all trying to forget something – imagine the size of this gigantic helpless remembering, pulled together and embodied across all these hearts and minds, moving, alive and breathing, influencing.

Can we ever truly kill these giants? Can we ever snap those strands? I don’t know. I do know we can smother, entomb, deny these beings, and we do this every day, in fear of finding out the very secrets that we ourselves hid away – and this feels just as awful, just as much a violation.

When we remember these Giants, as Martín Prechtel constantly reminds us, we re-member them…we put them back together, fitting every body part in place, that once we scattered, and which ten thousand sacred outlaws hid inside their treasure-caves insuring that at some possible future we could do this very re-membering.

Out comes the column of pilgrims, out comes the nomads with every part, every hair and finger-nail, every echoed word and heart-beat that hushed through hidden canyons in ancient mornings.

Out comes the unwelcome unwashed, with gap-toothed grins, open palms laden with vast powers that glitter gem-like with wild vitality – the medicinal herbs, the food plants, the secret bones, fibers and glands of every animal, the smell and taste of every weather, the origination power of every conceivable thing.

Whether we will, or will not see it, when we make things the old way, with fur and fiber, stone and bone, when we talk to these beings and sing them back into our camps and living rooms, we re-member the forgotten Giants. We put Her back together, we put Them back together, we return to the places where our greatest-grandparents buried our belly-buttons.

For me, when I hear a story about a Giant, it wakes me up and I listen deeper, for some lost wanderer who needs re-membering. And so I find myself.

Photo Credit: cromely via Compfight cc

The First Murder

norse ymir wolf fenris fenrir


According to some tellings of the tales of the Norse Knights of the Round Table, also known as the Aesir, or “the Norse Gods”, in their Camelot fantasy land of Asgard…

Let’s start again.

You may have heard this story, one way of telling the Creation of the World. I believe every Creation story speaks the truth, and really happened, though you may have to dig into the details. Often times the story tellers don’t want you to know what they really did, and where the bodies are buried, but they can’t brush away every track. If you stay on the trail, and while away the years waiting for them to make a mistake…you’ll catch them. Eventually.

One more try.

In the beginning, you could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing, taste nothing – an expanse of nothing, a grassless void. The Ginnungagap. A waiting womb.

Then two powers emerged, or came into the perception of the Ginnungagap. The freezing fogs of Niflheim, and the spinning fiery maelstrom of Muspellsheim. A kind of primeval marriage between the two spilled ice and fire into the abyss of the Ginnungagap, and out of this dark space, this blackest of black holes, emerged two beings of overwhelming vitality.

The great giant-of-giants, giantess-of-giantesses, the two-spirited trans great-grand-parent of all before any All-Fathers (whether Odin or Zeus or Yahweh or pick your poison), Ymir, of ice and stone and bone before such things even had forms. After ze (meaning neither him, nor her, nor it, but yes, third-person animate of some sort, as Ymir originated animacy, sentiency, soul, and self-awareness aeons before any human sat in judgement of such things), emerged the adoptive Great-Grand-Mother of all modern gods (meaning the young amnesiac gods of the last 10,000 years of second-growth human cultures) and their humans. This Mother: Audhumla the Cow. THE Cow. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Though grassless the abyss, Audhumla feasted with her rasping, scouring, glacial tongue on the salty hoar-frost that formed on the edge of the Cosmic Ginunngagap (maybe shares Indo-European root with the Latin “cunnus” for vulva – “Cunni-gap”? The world may never know. Someone check on that), and from this nutrition, rivers of milk flowed from her udders, feeding Ymir.

A Glacier* Mother, nursing Ymir’s transgendered bodyscape with glacial milk.

Already we have an array of powers, an array of parents and grand-parents, but almost all mothering powers – no guys in sight to show up and start bossing folks around to get some pyramids built. Hold that thought.

Ymir, the great frost giant-giantess, the ineffable man-woman, mother-father, grandmother-grandfather, but earthy, sweaty, stinky, being of life, gives birth to a diversity of frost trolls and giants. Squish! Out from zir armpit comes a male and female giant couple. Squich! Out from between zir legs comes entire clans of trolls, laughing, roaring, and rolling into life.

They immediately begin finding each other, some celebrating that their bodies fit together in such magnificent ways. And so more giants, trolls, and earth beings emerge, dancing on the body of their magnificent place, their diversity of watersheds, their identity, Ymir.

Meanwhile, Audhumla the Cow, another grand mothering being, continues licking the ice – and what do you know, but a warmed cheek appears as the ice recedes. Then an eye. Then a nose. Then a forehead. Then the entire shining face, the glimmering handsome form, of the perhaps first domino (or maybe the one before that?) to fall towards the worst thing to ever happen to any living being, any being native to this sweet spinning world. The sticky-sweet nightmare of a world enslaved to – what? I don’t know. To an idea?

The grand generous-hearted Cow, at his request, adopted this handsome man, Buri, took him as her child, and fed him too with her rivers of milk. Buri, one of the first wandering kings of the steppe, before anyone even called Cows sacred, he called her mother, and he had a son (how? with whom? don’t know), Bor, who who courted Bestla, the beautiful daughter of Bolthorn, proud father and frost giant.

Perhaps Bor no longer saw the Cow as his mother, but still considered her a sacred being, if not a relative. Who knows for sure.

They had three children. Two of them you almost certainly don’t know – Vili one, Ve another. But the third, Odin, you almost certainly do know, and for many good reasons, one of which will happen right now, since this Odin certainly did not consider the Cow his grand-relative, nor did he see the road of life leading through his mother Bestla leading into the ancient body of Ymir. Odin talks Vili and Ve  (or perhaps the three of them conspired together, or maybe, just maybe goaded by their father Bor? That seems madness. Certainly Bestla must have wept and fought against this) into the first murder.

Really, perhaps, we could call this the murder. The murder by which we measure all others. What do you call the original patricide, matricide, the original locking-away-of-your-elder-in-a-purgatorial-nursing-home, the original hatred and denial of wild-willed-ness?

However, or whatever, the three great-grandsons of the licking-into-life-act by a Cow who birthed all cowboys (this Cow who, knowingly or not, freed an idea of spiritual violence from the primordial ice of human past, who freed the beauty of this form that all must fawn over and genuflect to), these three sons of a frost-giantess named Bestla who must have begged them and pulled at her hair and clawed her face in horror, these three killed their greatest-grandparent Ymir, the original land on which they all lived.

They killed their own land.

So much blood came from those wounds, rivers, oceans of blood. This salty brine filled the bottomless Cunnus-Gap to the brim, the blood from this being, the first being to love children, drowned the world.

All the parents and grandparents drowned in this cataclysm. All the cousins and relations, including the Cow herself (clearly for the best – to honor a Cow as your great-grand-mother seems difficult for swaggering gods with work to do).

Only the three brothers – Odin, Vili, and Ve – and a frost giant couple, Bergelmir and his wife, clinging to their bobbing dowry box, survived.


Many things happened then – the brothers took Ymir’s body and “built” their world, bones into mountains, blood into rivers, teeth into great boulders. They took sparks from Muspellsheim (watch this space for good news/bad news depending on your partisanship to civilization or lack thereof) to make the stars, to “make” the Sun (placing her in a great chariot) and the Moon (and him in his too).

Clearly they must do this, because though before we had all these things, Odin didn’t control them. So he killed the free-willed originals and replaced them with slaves. Something Monsanto has probably perfected at this point.


Some ages passed. Or maybe just a few minutes. Because something important happened.

In the East the old one lives
in Iron Wood
and there she bears
Fenrir’s brood
From all of them comes
one in particular,
the ruin of the moon
in the shape of a troll.

He gorges himself on the life
of doomed men,
reddens the gods’ dwelling
with crimson gore.
Dark goes the sunshine,
for summers after,
the weather all vicious.
Do you know now or what?

-The Sibyl’s Prophecy, 40-41, trans. Jesse Byock

The old one in the East, from whence this fleeing tribe of felonious divinities come off the Indo-European steppe of vanishing ancient memory, some call her Baba Yaga, and in other stories they speak of her sons Night (on his black horse) and Day (on his white horse) and Twilight (on his red), and behind all stories as Bear Mother of the World.

This old one sends her children, troll-giants, in the forms of great black Wolves.

One of these Wolves falls behind the Sun, nipping at her heels, and her chariot lurches into motion, tracing the now-familiar path across the sky.

One of these tireless children falls behind the Moon, causing him to shriek and his horses to roll the whites of their eyes as they bolt forward.

From then on the modern story goes like this:

Fear shall drive you awake with the sunrise.

Fear shall chase you into your dreams as the sun flees into the belly of night.

Fear shall govern the tides within you.

You shall wake up in the night, as the horses of the Moon pull him ever on in a panic, and feel hot breath on your neck, and know the tireless chase shall not end, until you atone for what your grandparents, your gods, your cities, the ruin of your mad culture has done to the world.

Because the largest giants, globe-spanning and ancient, come in the form of memories, ensnared with guilt and shame. Impossibly large, remembered by billions of human hearts.

With blood on your hands you watched the wild world drowning – the act of killing itself killed the soulfulness of the world, drowning it in sorrow and denial.

Now would make a good time to finally weep over this. I’ll wait for you.

From all of them comes
one in particular,
the ruin of the moon
in the shape of a troll.

He gorges himself on the life
of doomed men,
reddens the gods’ dwelling
with crimson gore.
Dark goes the sunshine,
for summers after,
the weather all vicious.
Do you know now or what?

The viciousness of the weather has already begun and only worsens as spinning wind giants continue to rake their earth with their massive hands, flood the earth with their wet rolling bodies, parch the earth with breath so hot the air warps and bends and shimmers and soil cracks into endless labyrinths that lead nowhere and anywhere.

But remember – when Baba Yaga’s son and daughter, great black wolves, devour the Sun and the Moon,  remember they are just devouring the impostors.

Though dark goes the sunshine, for summers after, the weather all vicious, we may still find a world, if we cleanse long-clouded eyes with sufficient weeping, if we relearn to become children in a mother’s lap, and hide nothing from our enemies, most of all our greatest enemies – ourselves –

If we do all these things, we may find the original one who first loved children waiting for us on the other side.




*Thanks to my partner Jana who shared her insight of the Glacial Cow Mother.

Photo Credit: Steve Courson via Compfight cc