The Song of the Golden Meadows: A Seiðkona’s Telling of the Vanic Virtues and the Ever-Living Ways of Freyja, Freyr, and Njörðr

Beauty

The pursuit of beauty and elegance in thought, form and speech.

Courage/Passion

Zeal, vigor; the strength and courage that comes from a life worth living.

Land-rightness

The recognition of nature and the environment as worthy of respect, care and reverence.

Even-mood

Harmonious and balanced thought and action; tranquility, calm, serenity.

Openness

The quality of being receptive to the world around one, non-judgmental and open.

Wildness/Ecstasy

Music and dance; the nurturing of inner wildness and childlike being, being like the “fey”

Love

The all-encompassing force; love for family, for kin, for humanity, for all beings.

Frith

The peace and goodwill between people bound together; loyalty and the keeping of one’s word.

Faith/Piety

The trust that the Gods exist and are worthy of our worship, and Their ways worth following.

Giving

The binding of two parties into one common bond, generosity and hospitality.

Joy

Wonder and innocence, the recognition that life is worth living, and worth living well.

Brotherhood

The recognition that we – humans, animals, plants, spirits – are all part of the grander scheme of life, and we share a common heritage, as children of the Earth.

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Hail, worthy seeker who walks the mist-veiled paths toward the Vanir. I am Brynhildr, daughter of the deep woods and the whispering meadows, a humble seiðkona who has sat long at the feet of golden Freyja, of fertile Freyr, of wise Njörðr who rules the wind-kissed waves and the quiet harbors. By the grace of the Lady of Seiðr and the Lord of the Harvest, I open now thine ears and heart, for I shall weave for thee a long and living tapestry of the Vanic Virtues – those shining threads that bind the folk of the Vanir to the green womb of the Earth and to one another.

Come closer to the hearth-fire. Let the sweet smoke of juniper and meadow-sweet curl about us while I speak slowly, as the river speaks to the willow, of why these virtues are the very heartbeat of those who follow the Old Ways of Vanaheim.

Beauty

Freyja walks the worlds clad in falcon feathers and gleaming brísingamen, yet her true beauty is the fire in the spirit and honey on the tongue. When Gefjon plowed the earth to carve Zealand from Sweden, the furrows she left were straight and lovely, for even in mighty labor she sought elegance. Beauty is not mere fairness of face; it is the pursuit of harmony in every act. A song well-sung, a blade well-balanced, a field sown in perfect rows, a gentle word offered at the right moment – these are the offerings we make to Freyja. To live beautifully is to honor the Lady who chose love over gold yet wears gold more brilliantly than any. When we speak with grace, carve runes with care, braid our hair with flowers and silver, we mirror the Vanir themselves, and the worlds grow fairer for it.

Courage and Passion

Freyr laid down his magic sword for love of fair Gerðr, yet he will ride to Ragnarök with only the antler of a hart and burn with such passion that the fire-giants shall tremble. That is Vanic courage: not the cold battle-rage of the Æsir alone, but the burning heart that dares everything for love, for beauty, for life itself. Passion is the red sap rising in spring, the stallion’s thunder, the cry of the lover beneath the midsummer moon. When we rise before dawn to tend the fields, when we dance until our feet bleed at the blot-fire, when we speak truth though our voice shakes, we follow Freyr into the meadow of bravery where life is worth the risk of losing it.

Land-rightness

Njörðr walks barefoot upon the shore and the sand remembers his step with joy. The Vanir were born of the Earth herself; Nerthus rides in her wagon and the fields bloom where her wheels have passed. Land-rightness is the deep knowing that we are not apart from the land but of it – bone of its bone, breath of its breath. When we pour mead upon the soil for the álfar, when we leave the first sheaf of barley for Freyr’s boar, when we plant trees whose shade we shall never sit beneath, we honor the ancient bargain between gods and landvaettir. A farmer who over-plows, a hunter who takes more than need, a sailor who fouls the waves – these wound the very womb that bore us. But the one who sings to the seed, who thanks the slain deer, who kisses the earth after harvest, that one walks in the footprints of Njörðr and the fields shall love them in return.

Even-mood

Freyja weeps tears of red gold when she seeks Óðr, yet she does not rage against fate; she journeys with quiet sorrow and fierce hope. Even-mood is not the absence of feeling but the mastery of it – the still pool that mirrors the sky though storms have struck it. The Vanir teach that harmony within births harmony without. When anger rises like a summer storm, we breathe as the deep fjord breathes, slow and wide. When joy overflows, we let it flow gently, not flood the hall with reckless mirth. Thus do we keep frith in the homestead and heart.

Openness

The Vanir welcome Gullveig thrice-burned and thrice-born into their midst though she came from unknown halls. They took in the wandering Óðinn and taught him seiðr though he was of another kin. Openness is the wide gate of Vanaheim: no stranger turned away, no new song refused a hearing, no strange custom scorned before it is understood. To close the heart is to wither like an oak that fears the wind. When we listen to the tales of outland folk, taste their bread, learn their songs, we grow richer, and the worlds weave closer.

Wildness and Ecstasy

Freyja rides with her lynxes and her falcons; Freyr’s golden boar races the wind. At the great blots the drums beat until the veil thins and men and women leap the fire like deer, hair flying, voices raised in wordless song. This is the sacred wildness – the childlike fey spirit that remembers we are beasts blessed with gods’ breath. We dance until the stars spin, we run naked beneath the moon, we howl with the wolves, for in losing ourselves we find ourselves. The Vanir are not tame gods of stone temples alone; they are the storm-wind in the barley, the rutting stag, the laughter that bursts unbidden. To deny the wild is to deny half the soul.

Love

All Vanic virtues flow from love and return to love. Freyja teaches love that burns and heals, love that chooses the beloved over pride. Freyr teaches love that gives all for the beloved’s smile. Even stern Njörðr yielded his sea-beloved to Skadi’s mountains for love of peace. Love is not only between man and woman; it is the mother’s hand on the fevered brow, the shield-brother’s arm about the wounded, the quiet care for the aging hound, the tenderness toward the tender shoot in spring. Where love lives, the Vanir live.

Frith

Frith is the warm circle around the hearth-fire, the spoken oath stronger than iron, the peace between kin that lets the world turn. When the Æsir and Vanir war ended, the gods spat into a vat and from that mingled spittle was born wise Kvasir – frith made flesh. We keep frith when we welcome the weary traveler, when we speak truth gently, when we stand by our sworn word though the sky fall. Frith is the root that binds the tree of family so the storm cannot uproot it.

Faith and Piety

We trust that Freyja hears the lover’s sigh, that Freyr walks the furrows beside the plowman, that Njörðr steadies the ship though no sail is seen. Piety is not fear but loving reverence – the child’s open hand to the parent. We pour mead, we sing galdr, we hang bright ribbons in the sacred grove, not to bribe the gods but because love speaks in gifts. The Vanir ask no groveling, only the open heart that says, “I see Thee, I honor Thee, I walk Thy ways.”

Giving

Freyr gave his sword for Gerðr and yet the worlds did not fall; his generosity birthed new life. The first blot is always to the gods and wights – we give before we take. The guest receives the best portion, the stranger the warmest seat. Giving binds giver and receiver into one living circle; the gift spirals outward like rings on water. Stinginess shrivels the soul; open-handedness makes it great as the sky.

Joy

The Vanir laugh freely. Freyja’s laughter rings like golden bells when she rides the sky in her cat-drawn chariot. Even in sorrow they remember joy – the promise of spring beneath the snow. Joy is the child chasing butterflies, the old warrior singing of battles long past, the quiet bliss of bread warm from the ashes. To live without joy is to insult the gods who gave us this bright world.

Brotherhood

Last and deepest: we are all kin. The apple tree and the apple seed, the whale and the wave, the human and the húsvættir that guards the threshold – all share the breath of Ymir’s body, all drink from the wells of fate. When we harm a creature we harm a cousin; when we heal one, we heal the whole. The Vanir teach that the web of wyrd binds every leaf and every tear, and love is the only blade that cuts true.

Thus, beloved seeker, are the Vanic Virtues – not cold laws carved in stone, but living songs sung by the green blood of the Earth and the golden hearts of the Vanir. Walk them daily, and the Lady of Love shall lay her soft hand upon thy brow, the Lord of Plenty shall walk thy fields, and Njörðr shall bear thee gently over every wave.

May thy life be beautiful, thy heart passionate, thy steps light upon the land, thy spirit ever open to wonder. May frith surround thee like warm wool, may joy rise in thee like sap in spring. And when at last thou crossest Bifröst or the quiet river to the hel-road, may the Vanir greet thee with open arms and honey-mead, saying, “Welcome home, child of the Earth. Thou hast lived our ways well.”

So speak I, Brynhildr, seiðkona of the deep woods, by the might of Freyja and the mercy of Freyr. Hail the Vanir. Hail those who walk their shining paths.