Susannah Ravenswing

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Susannah Ravenswing

First Season: Winter

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Arctic air swirls the scent of snow
Light to counter darkness, muffle sound
Revealing mouse paths
And the impressions where the deer lie
Their grayed coats like laden skies
Breath offered to the stillness

Ice daggers drop from cliff face
And the laurel leaves curl tightly with the cold
To drip when sun-touched
Along the stream, the rime grows thicker
While in the depths, catfish sleep
In muddy dreams

In her den, the she-bear sleeps, her
Tiny mewling cubs nestled close
To rosy, milk-filled teats
My den is cozy, too, and warm
With the pop and crackle
Of the dancing wood-stove fire

Hunger stalks and an old stag falls
Food for the ravens and the foxes
His flesh, their larder
While frozen branches crack and groan
Thrashed by storm winds and
Bowed beneath their icy burden

Strong tea steams in my mug
Enriched by amber honey
And my chilled hands are warmed
More snow will fall and stillness deepen
The forest’s long winter nap
Renews and restores

All life drops toward stillness, rests
Then leans toward spring
The storm sweeps northward and
As the clouds break, moonlight
Silvers new-fallen snow
A promissory note of light to come

Susannah Ravenswing 2021

To Birth a Drum

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Drums are among the earliest musical instruments made our ancestors, who likely discovered that hollow logs and stretched and dried animal skins produced resonant sound when struck. Drumming has the ability to entrain our heartbeat and breath and to alter our state of consciousness, as evident through the frequent use of the drum to drive rock and roll and as a foundation for many spiritual practices. Perhaps no tool is as synonymous with the practice of shamanism as the shaman’s drum.

In my own practice, which has roots in both Norse and Siberian traditions, the drum is viewed as the shaman’s horse, both enspirited tool and means of travel. I have three drums, two of which I acquired and one of which I made. Each one has a unique spirit and assists me in specific ways. I use a drum to break up and disperse negative energy in clients or spaces, and to assist healing by removing energetic blocks. The drum I made for journeying (that uniquely shamanic process of entering an altered state in order to access wisdom, guidance and instruction by spirit allies) is of horsehide stretched over a cedar frame and although small, has a bright, bell-like sound that quickly propels me out of my everyday consciousness.

The very act of making a drum for sacred use calls one to center, to intentionality, and begins with a question: What is the purpose of this drum and how will it be used? This central starting point informs the choice of materials for the drum’s frame and head, perhaps even dictating how these must be acquired.  Traditional frame drums are made with heads of untanned animal skin or ‘rawhide’, chosen for how it shrinks and tightens with drying. As the skins of freshly killed animals must first be prepared by soaking and removing all hair and fat and connective fiber, this is an arduous and smelly process. Fortunately, one can purchase prepared rawhide ready to work with, made from the skins of deer, elk, moose, cow, buffalo, goat and reindeer. Traditionally drum frames were made of thin strips of green wood boiled and bent around a form such as another tree of appropriate size, with the ends tapered and overlapped, then sewn together with sinew or rawhide. Today, good quality pre-made drum frames are available on Etsy and Ebay in a variety of woods. The voice of a drum is a product of many factors: its size and the depth of its frame, the choice of skin, the method of attachment, the beater used, humidity and the spirit that ultimately inhabits the drum.

When I make a shamanic drum for someone, they may approach me with a clear idea of what they need. Just as often, they ask me to journey on their behalf and seek guidance on the best choice of hide and wood for their purpose. Most recently, I made a journey drum for one of my apprentices who requested horsehide and ash wood for reasons that were meaningful to him.

I ordered the supplies and, as I always do, did divination using my runes to get a sense of when it might be best to make the drum.  When that day arrived, I recaned myself and made offerings to the Holy Powers. ‘Recan’ is the Northern Tradition term for smudging or cleansing with sacred smoke. Then, not knowing the circumstances of how the horse died or his skin was handled, nor of how the ash wood for the rim had been harvested or manipulated, I recaned these items with Juniper and Rosemary smoke. Checking their energy as it changed, I sensed the need for additional ‘fiery’ energy, and so also added a bit of Dragon’s Blood resin to the smoldering charcoal. While Dragon’s Blood is not a sacred herb of my tradition, I’m nothing if not pragmatic. “Use the tool that will work”, we say.

I began by preparing the rim – skeleton and foundation of the drum. Ash is a tree long honored in the Northern Tradition, strong and straight grained. Some believe that Yggdrasil, the mighty tree upon which Lord Odin hung himself in the pursuit of knowledge, is an Ash. Sadly, the non-native Emerald Ash Borer is quickly killing off ash trees on the East coast, and so their wood may soon be unavailable. I said a prayer for the spirit of Ash and sang as I sanded the rim, 14” in diameter and a bit over two inched wide, with finer and finer grits of sandpaper, finally hand rubbing three layers of wax into the golden-brown wood. I dislike the use of shellac or polyurethane as a coating on drum rims – the wood needs to breathe.

Next another prayer, this time to the spirit of Horse. My song changed to something with a loping rhythm, bespeaking freedom of movement. I trimmed the drum head to size and marked the places where I would later make holes for the lacing. With sharp, heavy shears I cut a long 3/8” strip from one piece of rawhide, spiraling in from the edge of the hide. This strip would become the lacing to draw tight the drum’s head. I think of it as the fascia that binds together the human body. Rawhide needs to be soaked overnight to become supple enough to work with, so I submerged the bundle of lacing in a bowl of cold water and placed the drum head in my bath tub. “Drink deep, Brother Horse,” I prayed.

The following day I again recaned and divined. “Is this the right day to make this drum?” I asked the runes. Raido-Gebo-Dagaz, they told me. An important journey undertaken in partnership will yield insight. Good. The hide that arrived stiff and brown was now supple and cream colored. Hailing again the spirit of Horse, I laid out the drumhead inside up and began punching the holes for the lacing, working sunwise around the edge. I often hum or sing as I make sacred tools and long have done so. I find it puts me in a mildly altered state, more open and able to engage with the spirits in my tools and materials.

I held the drum rim between my hands, and hailed the spirit of Ash, considering as I did so how its circular form defines space and possibility. Centering it on the drumhead, I began the process of lacing from side to side across the back of the drum, moving around the circle again sunwise, considering how the taming of Horse transformed Human culture. Somewhere on the vast grassy steppes of Asia, some Ancestor chose to befriend Horse, viewing him as Partner rather than Food. Once I’d taken the bundle of soggy lacing all the way around, I said a prayer of gratitude for the opportunity to hear and understand the different perspectives of others and began to gather and wrap groups of laces. Ultimately, this process helps to draw the laces taut and yields a cross shaped handle suspended at the center back of the drum. With a song honoring the Old Ones, I wrapped the center with overlapping layers and tied the tail off.

At this point, I needed to smooth the bulk of the drumhead’s edge and worked it toward the back with my thumbs, molding and pushing the excess. I first used carpet tacks to anchor the excess hide to the rim, then continued to smooth and stretch the excess, clipping it in place with clothes pins until it dried sufficiently to hold its form. When stuck, the sleeping drum sounded like a cardboard box. Satisfied, I sang my gratitude and went to bed.

The next morning found the rawhide drumhead once again translucent and golden-brown and the laces and handle stiffer. “Boom!” the drum sang in a soft low voice. “I am waking up.”  

None of us begin as who we will ultimately be, stretched thin and tried by life. We are shaped by events that pierce us, that stretch us to our limits, that define who we are and help us to find our voice. I removed the clothes pins and pulled out the tacks – the edge of the drumhead was crisp and dry, fitted snugly against the rim. Horses eat grass and grain and thrive in sunlight. I placed the drum in a pool of autumn sunshine pouring through the skylight onto my kitchen island. “Keep waking up, Little Horse,” I told it and smiled.

By the third morning, the horse drum rang out in a resonant, golden baritone. I smiled. “Welcome, Horse. You’ve found your voice.” A drum was born.

The Red Leaf

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Perhaps the heart of my work as a shaman is my deep connection to the natural world and rhythm of the seasons. There’s also my work with the spirits, especially The Dead. Isn’t Death, after all, a season of Life?

My mother, having once experienced sunstroke as a girl, was always sensitive to heat. When my dad retired from his career as a State Park Superintendent, they bought an old farmhouse up in Ashe County and moved to the mountains. There, she adapted well to the snowdrifts and keening winds of their homestead at the foot of Three Top Mountain. “It’s a fair trade,” she said, “for the comfort of cool and breezy summers.”

Her sensitivity to heat meant that if I wanted to see her over the summer, I had to make the drive up NC 16 out of the stifling haze that blanketed the Piedmont. But my own children were young and traveling with them in summer always challenging. “I’ll come visit once it cools off,” Mom promised, and she would.  So, when I found the first red autumn leaf, I’d tuck it into a note or card and mail it to her as a sort of promissory note for the changing season, a message understood between us: See, Mom – Autumn is coming! Make plans to come down for a visit.

I did this for over twenty years, until early red leaves came to symbolize her presence, even after she was gone. Years after her death, the family gathered in early June on the wide, sunny lawn of the house we’d once lived in to honor my father’s passing. We passed the box with his ashes from person to person around the circle and told tales, sprinkling his mortal remains on the land he’d cared for so diligently. As I stood, awaiting my turn, a single red leaf drifted lazily out of the clear blue sky to land at my feet. I glanced around, seeing nothing but the green foliage of pines and oaks and hickories. There was no wind – where had the leaf come from? I could only conclude my mother had given us a sign of her presence.

Now, when I encounter a bright red leaf out of season, I place it on my Ancestor altar and pour a cup of coffee for my mother’s Shade. Then I sit with her at my round oak table and speak to her of my world and drink memories.

Autumn is Coming

I know that autumn is coming when the blackbirds arrive:
Small dark bodies rustling and creaking in the treetops,
Their sound a symphony of rusty gates.

I know that autumn is coming when the Joe Pye Weed
Bows heavily beneath the dance of butterfly feet
And tattered confetti wings.

I know that autumn is coming when I can open the windows
And lie down to the sweet night symphony
Of the owls calling, calling.

I know that autumn is coming when the sourwoods
Drop their first maroon and scarlet leaves in promise
Of cooler nights and days ahead.

I know that autumn is coming when my heart grows restless
And I gaze westward, toward undulating hills,
Longing for a dear, familiar face.

Susannah Ravenswing 2020

Raising a Godpole

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Almost all religions have their own particular icons and spiritual imagery. Among Norse, Germanic and Slavic people of the pre-conversion era, it was common to raise carved votive images of their revered gods. Often such godpoles, the term by which these are now known, served as a place of conversation with and offering to the represented deity. It seems likely that this practice was an outgrowth of the ancient practice of designating certain trees as holy. With a renewed interest in pre-Christian spiritual practices, modern Heathens are considering ways to honor the gods, and the carving and placing of godpoles is experiencing resurgence.

Here at TwoTrees, we have developed several sacred sites through our intentional interaction with the Landvaettir or spirit of the land, akin to the Roman genus loci. Each of these locations is physically unique and each lends itself to specific interaction with the Sacred.  The first to be developed was a worship area located on the knee of a hill, a sun-dappled glade amidst tall pines and intermittent hardwoods. At this site we honor the Vanir, those gods associated with the fruitfulness of the year and the agricultural cycle, revering in particular Freyr and his twin sister Freya.

Our first godpoles were very simple and Freyr’s, being made of hickory, decayed quickly. While I’ve been doing smaller votive carvings, I’ve never undertaken something of size. Still, late last fall, I began to feel compelled to undertake a substantial replacement pole for the Lord of Sacrifice out of Eastern Red Cedar. While this fragrant, reddish wood is not related to Freyr in the lore, it has the advantage of being common here at TwoTrees and of resisting rot. Eric and I surveyed the hillside and found several trees of appropriate size and I dowsed each of them, seeking the best candidate. A tall, straight tree about 35 years old and close to 12” in diameter at the base indicated it was willing to be harvested.

At the beginning of the summer, in conjunction with the pandemic, I took on a student-in residence willing to exchange work on the land for spiritual instruction. As it happened, this young man was also being ‘courted’ by Freyr. Thus, one of his first tasks was to assist us in the ritual harvesting and preparation of the wood for Freyr’s godpole. As we always do before cutting a tree here at TwoTrees, I again asked the tree’s permission, made offerings and praised it, bound off the base of the trunk and asked the life force to depart the tree and flow outward into the surrounding ecosystem to benefit the land.

I laid my hands upon the trunk and felt the vital force slowly ebbing and when it had stilled, I stepped back and signaled Eric that the tree was ready to be felled. As he started the chainsaw, I began to drum, pushing any remaining energy into the earth. The tree swayed and fell gently onto a deep cushion of dead leaves and ferns. As I ever do, even when a tree is cut down out of necessity, I felt an ache and a sense of sadness. My student removed the branches and we realized we had wood for not one god-pole but two.

Freyr is a god of love and sacrifice, the Grain Lord who willingly gives his life each year so the people will thrive, only to be resurrected as he springs forth from the warming earth. The first step was to strip away the fibrous bark, symbolic of Freyr’s willingness to give of himself for others. Among many Native American cultures, cedar bark was an important resource, being finely shredded for use as absorbent filler in infants’ cradleboard, provide fire tinder, or twined into strong cordage. The sapwood beneath is ivory in color and faintly piney in fragrance, revealing a loosely spiral growth pattern, reminiscent of our DNA. Deeper in, the heartwood of cedar is deep rose and softly aromatic. As my student removed the bark in long strips and trimmed away at the many knots left by small branches, I sketched the face I planned to carve.

Freyr is often associated with phallic imagery, appropriate for a fertility god, so I roughed out a somewhat helmet shaped head that hinted at other symbolism. My previous carvings had all been in soft wood, no larger than 3” x 9”, so clearly I needed larger tools. I’d often watched my father, a master carver, but he’d also worked on small pieces, frequently carving with a pocketknife. Still, I acquired a set of wood gouges and chisels, recaned my tools with sacred smoke (the Northern Tradition equivalent of smudging) and blessed them before starting to carve. The work proceeded slowly. I found I was able to carve for about an hour each morning and afternoon before my back knotted up. Still, I persisted, often singing to Freyr as I unbound Him from the wood. Carving is a process of starting from the outside and working toward the inside, revealing the intended object as more and more material is removed.

I had chosen an image of Freyr based on many traditional Viking Age depictions, with a long, straight nose, wide, staring eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Bit by bit I chipped away, deepening the relief, shaping and detailing. I also marked out and carved the rune Inguz – associated with Freyr, sacrifice and harvest – further down the pole. The tale is told of how Freyr took advantage of the All-Father’s High Seat to spy out across the worlds, and while doing so, he saw a Jötun maiden and lost his heart. His attempts at wooing her were repeatedly rebuffed until at last he gave up his fine sword, enchanted and given to him by his own mother, to prove the depth of his love, gave it up knowing he would never again heave another with which to defend himself. In its place he took up an antler, another symbol of masculine potency.

While I was busy carving, my husband Eric, a sacred smith, forged a u-shaped iron staple which we would use to fasten an antler to the pole. As I neared completion of the carving, I also cut two almond shaped eyes from a sheet of bronze and applied them. To give the image warmth and presence, I ground red ocher, that rusty iron-based mineral our ancestors associated with blood and life force, then used the ruddy stain to tint the details of the carving. Finally, I cut out a groove to accept the antler and with Eric’s help, pinned it in place with the iron staple.

Our plan was to erect the pole at noon on the Summer Solstice, the moment of bright Sunna’s greatest potency. By this time it had become clear to all of us that my student had indeed been claimed by the Grain Lord and so he took responsibility for the raising of the pole. We offered beer to Thor, asking that the threatening thunder storm hold off long enough for us to complete our ceremony, and hallowed the hole dug to receive the pole with offerings of milk, honey and barley. Afterwards, we celebrated with a feast of foods associated with the Golden One: crisply roasted pork with steamed grains, glossy red cherries and in the sweet spirit of mid-summer, a rich lemon sour cream pound cake.

Gift of the cedar, Freyr’s godpole now stand proudly overlooking the glade. The second half rests downstairs, awaiting my tools to be transformed into a votive pole for Freyr’s twin sister, my Lady Freya.

Hail Freyr!

The Needle: The Value of Making a Point

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When one thinks of a shaman’s tools, objects like drums and staffs and rattles come to mind. And while I have used and do use such things, one of my favorite shamanic tools is a tiny #8 English sewing needle, bright and viciously sharp.

One of my earliest memories is of my maternal grandmother, a master seamstress, skillfully smocking a yellow lawn dress for my youngest cousin, weaving the thread back and forth through miniscule pleats to create the gathered honeycomb pattern adorning the yoke. She wore a sterling thimble, which I now prize, on her right middle finger, and her stitches were tiny, even and precise from decades of practice.  Over the course of the years, I watched her hem wedding gowns, baste and tailor men’s suits, and mend socks with stitches so fine they left no tangible rib to annoy the wearer. Her skills created and adorned the debut and party gowns of many of Winston Salem’s foremost ladies.

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Hallowing a Blacksmith Shop

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Thanks to the huge popularity of the television show, “Forged in Fire”, blacksmithing and bladesmithing are undergoing a huge swell of interest. Still, I wonder how many of these would-be smiths appreciate the deep history of their craft? Since our Ancestors first discovered the ability to smelt and forge iron, roughly 3400 years ago, the blacksmiths who possessed the knowledge and skill to convert stony ore to tools and weapons were thought to possess magic. In many cultures, the smith is regarded as a specialized type of shaman or magician, a master of an arcane process and specialized skills unknown by the general populace. Within the cultures which hold smiths in such regard, the smithy or workshop of such individuals is held as hallowed or particularly sacred, a place of transformation, and is generally viewed as a shrine to Fire.

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