A Letter to Freyja: Night Mares

Dear Freyja,

I send out this prayer to you in an unusual way. Instead of the words being carried by the wisps of smoke from a dying brazier, they come to you via the thrums and strums of electric impulses joining a network of spider’s threads. In the end, it’s all electrons energetically shifting, so I suppose there is little to be said there comparing the two. It’s all much the same when it comes down to it.

I can’t comprehend, sometimes, just how lucky I am. I live in one of the most advanced cities in the world. I’m safe and warm and surrounded by people who love me. I have a wonderful child, a career I am so excited to pursue. I wish I didn’t feel so ungrateful.

I should be on my knees begging for the joy of it, but instead I am always searching. I feel like something is missing, like I am in want, in need, in lack. Friendship, family and lovers help for a while, but underneath it all, I dream unhappy dreams.

I suppose I’m a bit scarred by life, just like everyone else. Nothing new under the sun, as Agatha Christie says. She’s right, of course. But somehow we all think that our story will be different, that we can make it different purely by the wishes and efforts we put into it. You’re the goddess of sunshine and good things, Freyja, so tell me, what shall I do with this dream?

I am so afraid, in my dreams, of this feeling, the sensation of powerlessness and despair. As though my very life air has been ripped from my lungs and sent to power someone else’s body. I’m missing something, and I’ve forgotten what it is. Worry and winding tendrils of black snakes slither around my heart, and I see Loki everywhere I look. It’s fear of an unusual and particularly disturbing sort, violence and silence and all things rested and ready. Hunger waking, endless cawing and leering mouths surrounding me in a cavalcade of wolves snapping.

I want to rip it all out by the roots, fears forgotten and cycle of pain ended. Terror, trysts and frightened tears abated and instead plant a garden of immortal beauty. Where there is no want, no need, no lack. It’s not about the wild roses that grow wherever they please. It’s not about the birds, bushes and bees. It’s about finding pretty things and letting them grow, not sacrificing needlessly and trampling underfoot what might otherwise have one day borne green and gold fruit.

So very many pathways, so very many stories can be told in a garden like that. I’m lucky, because when I’m awake, I do live in that world. I live in the garden of immortal beauty, because that’s the truth of Midgard that some people don’t want to face. All those electrons energetically shifting are amazing and fizzing with excitement, and no one really wants to eat me. Outside of my dreams, I am not alone. In fact, an army of well-wishers and friends stand at my back.

But I started this asking to pray to you, and please goddess hear my prayer. I pray that I never dream of wolves again, I pray that I never again hear a trickster’s voice on pretty lips, I pray that I never again feel unwanted, I pray that as many people as fit can live in my garden with me, I pray that the rising sun never sets on me, I pray red roses line my paths and I pray that you guide my way back to sweet dreams. For I cannot continue with these night mares, you are the goddess who rides a chariot, please guide the reins of my wild horses and reign over them.

ég bið,


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