To quote an old friend: “You have chosen gold and silver over kith and kin.”
Those words tie directly into my earlier reflection, Don’t Cut Off the Roots. A tree may have strong branches. It may have a solid trunk. It may appear healthy from the outside. But if the roots are cut away, starved, ignored, or treated as disposable, the tree will eventually suffer. It may stand for a while. It may even look fine for a season. But the damage has already begun beneath the surface.
Today was a difficult choice day.
The quote I opened with rings more true than I ever thought it would. I never thought I would see the day where it would feel so personally accurate. Yet quite a few folk have reached out to me, and while they may not use those exact words, the sentiment is the same. Something has shifted. Something has been chosen. And what has been chosen does not appear to be kith and kin.
I choose kith and kin over gold and silver any day.
That does not mean gold and silver do not matter. Money keeps a roof over your head. It pays the hydro bill. It keeps the lights on. It pays for food, fuel, repairs, land, tools, buildings, amenities, and all the practical things that life requires. Pretending otherwise would be foolish.
But gold and silver do not sit beside you when the world is falling apart.
Gold and silver do not give you comfort when your spirit is tired.
Gold and silver do not restore your self-worth when you have been made to feel disposable.
Gold and silver do not remember your name around the fire.
Gold and silver do not become community. They do not become kinship. They do not become roots.
In Christian tradition, greed, or avarice, is counted among the seven deadly sins. In pagan language, I would say it another way: greed is what happens when the hoard becomes more sacred than the hearth. It is what happens when the keeping of things matters more than the keeping of bonds.
Words from the Wise One
The Hávamál, the sayings of the High One, has something sharp to say about wealth:
“Wealth is just like the winking of an eye, it’s the most fickle of friends.”
Hávamál, stanza 78
That line cuts cleanly. Wealth is not condemned outright. The old wisdom does not pretend that a person can live on air and good intentions. But wealth is called fickle. It comes and goes. It promises security, but it does not always keep that promise. It can vanish quickly. It can turn people against one another. It can make a person believe they are secure while everything human around them is being weakened.
And elsewhere, the Hávamál reminds us:
“Cattle die and kinsmen die, thyself too soon must die.”
Hávamál, stanza 75
That is not a cheerful line, but it is an honest one. Everything passes. Wealth passes. Status passes. Ownership passes. Even the people we love pass. The question is not whether we can hold everything forever. We cannot. The question is what we chose while we were here.
Did we choose the hoard, or did we choose the hearth?
Did we choose gold and silver, or did we choose kith and kin?
Did we remember the roots, or did we cut them off and then wonder why the forest grew sick?
A community is not made healthy by money alone. A sacred place is not made sacred by buildings alone. A gathering is not made whole by schedules, ticket sales, rules, or polished language. These things may support the structure, but they are not the roots.
The roots are the people.
The roots are the old bonds.
The roots are the ones who showed up before it was profitable, before it was polished, before it was convenient, before it became something that could be packaged and sold.
When those roots are forgotten, something living begins to dry out.
So today, I come back to the same place in my heart. I choose kith and kin. I choose the hearth over the hoard. I choose the roots over the shine of silver. I choose the people who remember what this was supposed to be, even when remembering hurts.
Gold and silver may keep the lights on.
But kith and kin are why we light the fire in the first place.
Godspeed to kith and kin.
Unplugged Pagan 