Declaration 127, Hávamál 127, and the Actual Hearth

Inclusive Heathen ritual emphasizing frith and integrity

There is a danger in letting institutions do all of our thinking for us.

That is not a knock against institutions. Sometimes they are needed. Sometimes they hold the line when loose communities cannot. Sometimes they preserve documents, organize clergy, publish resources, and provide a public answer when the wider world asks, “Where do you stand?”

In modern Heathenry, The Troth is one of those institutions.

It gives an organizational example of inclusive Heathenry. It stands against folkism, racialism, and the use of Germanic religion as a costume for white supremacy. It now also carries formal stewardship of Declaration 127, one of the most important anti-folkish statements in modern Heathen history.

That matters.

But Unplugged Pagan is not The Troth.

Unplugged Pagan is not a clergy program, a committee, a declaration archive, or an institutional hall with bylaws and officers. It is something rougher than that. It is more like a fire at the edge of the woods, where the questions are less polished but sometimes more honest.

So the question for this place is not simply, “What does The Troth say?”

The better question is this:

What does Declaration 127 mean at the actual hearth?

The Line Between Institution and Hearth

The bigger conclusion, at least for Unplugged Pagan, is this:

The Troth gives an organizational example.

Declaration 127 gives the public boundary.

Hávamál 127 gives the old poetic command.

Unplugged Pagan asks what that means at the actual hearth.

That is the angle that matters here.

Not “The Troth says this, therefore we obey.”

That would be too institutional and too neat.

Unplugged Pagan has always been more interested in the place where the clean statement meets the dirty ground. The fire pit. The broken friendship. The old gift-bond. The kinship that failed. The boundary that had to be drawn. The guest who became a threat to the hall. The moment when keeping peace becomes complicity.

That is where Hávamál 127 stops being a quotation and becomes a test.

What Declaration 127 Is

Declaration 127 first appeared in 2016 through Huginn’s Heathen Hof. It was written as a response to the Ásatrú Folk Assembly and the wider problem of folkish rhetoric in Heathenry.

The AFA has been widely criticized because of its folkish and racialized approach to Ásatrú. The Southern Poverty Law Center describes it as a neo-Völkisch hate group, and the Anti-Defamation League describes it as a modern Norse Pagan group with a white supremacist slant.

That is the problem Declaration 127 tried to answer.

Not ancestry itself.

Not remembering the dead.

Not honouring one’s roots.

The problem is when ancestry gets turned into ownership. When roots become border fences. When honouring the ancestors becomes an excuse to lock sincere seekers out of the hall because of race, ethnicity, sexuality, gender, ability, family structure, or bloodline.

That is folkism’s poison.

It takes something sacred and turns it into a gate.

Hávamál 127

Declaration 127 takes its name from stanza 127 of the Hávamál, commonly rendered in this form:

“When you see misdeeds, speak out against them, and give your enemies no frith.”

That line has teeth.

It does not say, “When you see misdeeds, quietly hope the situation improves.”

It does not say, “When you see misdeeds, avoid conflict so everyone stays comfortable.”

It does not say, “When you see misdeeds, keep inviting the poisoner back to the well because hospitality is sacred.”

It says to speak.

It says to name the wrong.

It says not to give frith to enemies.

That is a hard teaching, especially in Pagan spaces where many people are allergic to direct conflict. We often prefer circles, soft language, consensus, healing words, and the illusion that everyone can be included if we just stretch the tent wide enough.

But no tent can remain standing if you invite people in who are cutting the ropes.

Frith Is Not Blind Peace

Frith is often spoken of as peace, safety, right relationship, and the bonds that hold a community together.

That makes it sacred.

But sacred does not mean unlimited.

Frith is not blind peace.

Frith is not conflict avoidance.

Frith is not letting someone remain at the hearth while they deny the humanity, dignity, or belonging of others who sit there.

That is where “no frith with folkism” becomes more than a slogan.

If folkism says only certain blood belongs, then folkism has already broken frith.

If folkism says the gods are racial property, then folkism has already broken frith.

If folkism uses sacred symbols to shelter white supremacy, then folkism has already broken frith.

Refusing it a seat is not the first act of hostility.

It is the recognition that hostility was already brought through the door.

The Actual Hearth

The actual hearth is where this becomes personal.

It is easy to sign a declaration online.

It is harder to live one when the person crossing the line is someone you know.

It is harder when they once shared your fire.

It is harder when they gave you gifts.

It is harder when there is history, memory, laughter, old ritual, old loyalty, or old kinship tangled around the problem.

But that is exactly where Hávamál 127 matters most.

The real test is not whether we can denounce a stranger with a bad logo.

The real test is whether we can name misdeeds when they happen close enough to cost us something.

Unplugged Pagan has circled this fire before. Gift-bonds. Betrayal. Frith. Kinship. Hospitality. Land. Roots. The painful knowledge that some bonds die, and when they die, pretending they still live becomes its own kind of lie.

That is why this subject fits here.

Because Declaration 127 is not only about public statements and organization lists. It is about the moment when a person has to decide whether peace is still peace, or whether peace has become silence.

Remembering Roots Is Not Worshipping Blood

There is also a difference between remembering roots and worshipping blood.

That distinction matters deeply to me.

I can honour where I come from.

I can honour my ancestors.

I can honour the old stories, the land, the dead, the language fragments, the hearth practices, the gods, the spirits, the old roads, and the strange pull that brings a person back toward Pagan soil.

But ancestry is not a weapon.

Ancestry is not a deed to the gods.

Ancestry is not a lock on the hall door.

Ancestry may explain part of the road that brought me here.

It does not give me permission to lock the road behind me.

That is the sentence I keep coming back to.

Because folkism takes the memory of roots and turns it into blood worship. It takes the dead and makes them border guards. It takes heritage and turns it into spiritual property law.

I cannot accept that.

Not as Paganism.

Not as Heathenry.

Not as honour.

The Troth, Declaration 127, and Unplugged Pagan

The Troth matters here because it gives one institutional example of a different road.

It says Heathenry does not have to be folkish.

Declaration 127 matters because it gives a public boundary.

It says discriminatory organizations and exclusionary ideologies do not represent the wider Heathen community.

Hávamál 127 matters because it gives the old poetic command.

It says that when we see misdeeds, we speak against them, and we do not give enemies frith.

But Unplugged Pagan’s work is smaller and closer to the ground.

It asks what that means in the actual living of it.

What does it mean when the person at the hearth is the one poisoning the well?

What does it mean when hospitality becomes a shield for harm?

What does it mean when kinship is used to demand silence?

What does it mean when “keeping the peace” only protects the person breaking it?

Those are not institutional questions.

Those are firekeeper questions.

The Firekeeper’s Answer

A firekeeper does not only feed the flame.

A firekeeper also watches what comes near it.

Too little fuel and the fire dies.

Too much fuel and the fire becomes dangerous.

The wrong thing thrown into it can poison the air.

That is how I understand this issue.

Hospitality is sacred, yes.

But so is protection.

Kinship is sacred, yes.

But so is truth.

Ancestry is sacred, yes.

But so are deeds.

Frith is sacred, yes.

But frith cannot be built with those who deny frith to others.

That is the line at the hearth.

Not hatred.

Not purity.

Not moral performance.

A boundary.

A necessary one.

Closing Thought

The Troth can hold the archive.

Declaration 127 can mark the public boundary.

Hávamál 127 can give the old command.

But each hearth still has to decide what it will allow beside the fire.

For Unplugged Pagan, the answer is simple enough:

Remember your roots.

Honour your dead.

Keep the fire.

Welcome the sincere traveller.

But do not confuse hospitality with surrender.

Do not confuse ancestry with ownership.

Do not confuse silence with peace.

And do not give frith to those who would use the sacred to deny it to others.

The fire is lit.

The road is open.

But folkism does not get a seat by the hearth.

Sources and Further Reading

When the Absent Command the Living

Large ancient tree with multiple glowing ghostly human figures on branches in a misty forest at twilight

There is a strange thought that has been sitting with me:

At some point, the absent began commanding the living.

By absent, I mean the dead first and foremost. The ancestors. The ones no longer sitting at the table. The ones whose boots no longer touch the floor, whose hands no longer open the door, whose voices no longer call down the hallway.

And yet, somehow, they still speak.

Not always as ghosts in the Hollywood sense. Not always as whispers in the dark or footsteps in an empty room. Sometimes the dead speak through habit. Through guilt. Through family sayings. Through inherited land. Through old wounds. Through recipes, tools, songs, photographs, names, graves, and promises made long before we understood the weight of making them.

The dead do not need to be alive to shape the living.

That may be one of the oldest truths mankind ever discovered.

The Human World Is Full of Absence

Animals live close to what is present. Hunger. Weather. Danger. Mating. Offspring. Territory. Pain. Sleep. The immediate world presses against them, and they respond.

Humans do something stranger.

We obey things that are not here.

A dead father’s expectation. A grandmother’s warning. A family name. A god unseen. A vow spoken years ago. A homeland we left. A betrayal we still carry. A grave we still visit. A future child not yet born. A people long gone. A story older than our blood.

That is not weakness. That is part of what makes us human.

But it is also dangerous.

Because once absence gains authority, mankind becomes capable of both reverence and madness.

We build shrines for the dead. We also fight wars over ancient wounds. We honour ancestors. We also inherit their grudges. We keep tradition alive. We also let dead hands steer living lives into the ditch.

So perhaps one of the great pagan questions is not, “Do the dead speak?”

Perhaps the better question is:

Which absent voices deserve obedience?

The Dead as the First Gods

I have often wondered whether the first gods were not gods in the way we later imagined them. Perhaps the first sacred powers were the dead.

The mother who knew the herbs.

The hunter who knew the trail.

The elder who remembered the flood.

The child who died too soon and left a wound in the camp that no one could name.

The founder. The warrior. The midwife. The singer. The one who crossed the river and did not return.

Before temples, before scriptures, before priesthoods, before doctrine, there would have been grief. There would have been memory. There would have been burial. There would have been the terrifying sense that the person was gone, and yet somehow not gone.

The body returns to the earth. The breath leaves. But the name remains.

And the name has power.

Say the name of someone dead and watch what happens inside the living. The room changes. The past steps forward. The absent arrives.

That is sacred territory.

Paganism and the Living Presence of Absence

For a pagan, this idea does not feel foreign.

We already live in a world where the visible and invisible overlap. The tree is a tree, yes, but it is not only lumber. The fire is heat, yes, but it is not only combustion. The river is water, yes, but it is not only a resource. The land is land, yes, but it is not only property.

There is presence in things.

There is memory in places.

There is spirit in land.

There is weight in oath.

There is a difference between walking through a forest and walking through a forest that knows your name.

This is where the modern world often fails. It tries to flatten everything into material use. Land becomes real estate. Fire becomes utility. Water becomes infrastructure. The dead become records. Religion becomes opinion. Memory becomes nostalgia.

But paganism, at its best, refuses that flattening.

It says the world is alive with relationship.

Not everything is human. Not everything is friendly. Not everything is there to serve us. But everything has place. Everything has consequence. Everything belongs to a web older than our convenience.

The absent are part of that web.

The Ancestors Are Not Automatically Wise

Here is where we need to be careful.

Ancestor honour does not mean ancestor worship without judgment.

The dead were human.

That means some were kind, some were cruel, some were broken, some were brave, some were foolish, some were trapped by the limits of their time, and some passed their damage forward like an unwanted inheritance.

Not every ancestor deserves a throne in the soul.

Some deserve honour.

Some deserve understanding.

Some deserve pity.

Some deserve to be laid down.

And some need to be told, firmly and without apology:

Your pain stops here.

That, too, is sacred work.

Breaking a harmful pattern is not betrayal. Sometimes it is the first honest offering ever made to the bloodline.

To honour the dead does not mean becoming their prisoner. It means knowing what they carried, what they gave, what they broke, what they survived, and what must not be repeated.

The Gods as Great Absences

The gods, too, live partly in this mystery of absence.

Brigid is not standing in the room like a neighbour dropping by for tea, and yet her presence can be felt in flame, craft, healing, poetry, and the stubborn will to keep the hearth alive.

Skadi does not need to appear at the door with snow on her shoulders for winter to carry her lesson: endurance, distance, silence, clean judgment, and the hard beauty of survival.

Ratatoskr does not need to chatter from a branch above us for us to understand the sacred danger of messages, gossip, movement, and the words that travel between worlds.

The fir tree does not speak English. It does not have to. It speaks in endurance. In green through winter. In rootedness. In the refusal to become empty simply because the season has turned against it.

The land spirits do not need our permission to exist. They were not born from our belief. At most, belief gives us the humility to notice them.

That is paganism to me: not blind belief, but relationship with a world that does not require human approval to be sacred.

When Memory Becomes Law

The danger comes when the absent stop being honoured and start being weaponized.

A dead founder becomes an excuse.

A tradition becomes a cage.

A god becomes a banner for cruelty.

An old wound becomes a permanent war.

A family name becomes a chain around the neck.

A sacred place becomes private possession.

A memory becomes a tool for control.

This is where humans go wrong again and again. We take the sacred force of absence and turn it into authority without accountability.

“This is what the ancestors wanted.”

“This is how it has always been.”

“This is what God commands.”

“This is what the old ways demand.”

Maybe.

Or maybe the living are hiding behind the dead because the dead cannot correct the quote.

That is why discernment matters.

The absent may command the living, but the living still have responsibility.

The Unborn Are Also Absent

There is another side to this.

The absent are not only behind us.

They are ahead of us.

The unborn also command the living, or they should.

When we care for land we may never fully enjoy, we are obeying the unborn.

When we refuse to poison water for short-term gain, we are obeying the unborn.

When we plant trees under whose shade we may never sit, we are obeying the unborn.

When we preserve stories, skills, rituals, songs, names, tools, and sacred places, we are making offerings forward.

That may be one of the most pagan acts possible: to live as though the future has a claim upon us.

Not because of guilt.

Because of kinship.

Kith and kin do not only stretch backward into graves. They stretch forward into cradles not yet built.

Choosing the Right Ghosts

So maybe the human question is not whether we are ruled by ghosts.

We are.

Every one of us carries absent voices.

The question is whether we know which ones we are obeying.

Are we obeying the dead who loved us, or the dead who wounded us?

Are we honouring tradition, or are we hiding inside it?

Are we listening to the gods, or only to our own fear wearing a divine mask?

Are we serving the land, or using sacred language to justify ownership?

Are we carrying memory, or are we being dragged by it?

Are we making offerings to the future, or stealing from it?

These are not small questions.

They are the questions that decide whether a person becomes rooted or haunted.

A Small Ritual Thought

Perhaps this is worth doing sometime.

Light a candle.

Name the dead who still shape you.

Name the places that still call you.

Name the promises that still bind you.

Name the fears that are not yours but were handed down.

Name the future that deserves better from you.

Then ask, plainly:

Which of these am I willing to obey?

Not every voice gets a seat at the fire.

Not every ghost gets the keys to the house.

Not every ancestor gets to steer the bloodline.

Not every tradition deserves another generation.

But some do.

Some dead are worth feeding.

Some stories are worth carrying.

Some vows are worth keeping.

Some gods are worth kneeling to.

Some fires are worth tending until your hands are ash.

The Living Must Answer

The absent command the living.

That is true.

But the living are not helpless.

We are the hinge between grave and cradle. Between what was done and what may yet be done. Between old wound and new choice. Between inherited story and deliberate action.

The dead hand us memory.

The gods hand us mystery.

The land hands us consequence.

The unborn hand us obligation.

What we do with those things is on us.

That may be the real sacred work of being human.

Not escaping the absent.

Not blindly obeying them.

But learning which unseen powers deserve a place at the hearth, and which ones need to be thanked, named, and finally buried.

Because the dead may speak.

The gods may call.

The land may remember.

The future may wait.

But the living must answer.

Gold, Silver, and the Roots we refuse to cut

Family of two adults and two children hugging happily outdoors with banknotes flying in the background

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.

Don’t Cut Off the Roots

Large tree with roots labeled connection, history, shared values, unity, support, family, growth, resilience, tradition

Don’t Cut Off the Roots

Well, my dear Unplugged Pagans, this one may get a little metaphorical, so walk with me for a moment.

A tree is only as strong as the root system that supports it.

That sounds simple enough, but there is a lot of truth buried in that image. A tree can have a strong trunk. It can have healthy branches. It can stand tall, green, and impressive for everyone passing by to see. But if the roots are damaged, starved, ignored, or cut away, that tree is already in trouble.

It may not fall immediately.

It may not look sick right away.

It may still stand there for a season, maybe even several seasons, pretending by appearance that all is well.

But without its roots, it will weaken.

Without its roots, it will wither.

Without its roots, it will eventually die.

And lately, as I look around at life, community, memory, faith, and the places people build together, I find myself thinking about roots.

Some places seem to forget theirs.

Some places drift from the very people, stories, labour, rituals, memories, and quiet acts of care that made them what they were in the first place. Some places keep the name, the sign, the surface, the public face, and the outward shape, but slowly begin cutting away the roots beneath them.

And when that happens, something changes.

You may still have the trunk.

You may still have the branches.

You may still have the appearance of health.

But the life beneath it has been weakened.

This is not just true of trees. It is true of people. It is true of families. It is true of communities. It is true of spiritual places. It is true of pagan circles, old friendships, shared rituals, and the quiet ecosystems of belonging we often do not notice until they are gone.

Psychology tells us that human beings have a deep need to belong. We are not made only of individual willpower. We are also shaped by attachment, memory, recognition, and relationship. We come to know part of who we are through the people and groups we have stood beside. Sociology says something similar when it speaks of collective memory: communities remember through shared stories, shared places, shared practices, and shared meaning.

In plain language, roots matter.

Roots are not nostalgia.

Roots are not weakness.

Roots are not dead weight.

Roots are the living system that holds the tree in place.

I remember a time when someone decided that the pine needles on a forest floor were a problem. They saw the layer of fallen needles and thought it looked messy. They thought it needed to be cleaned up. Removed. Tidied. Made proper.

But the forest did not see those pine needles as garbage.

The forest knew better.

That layer of needles served a purpose. It held moisture. It slowed the drying of the soil. It sheltered small life. It fed the ground as it broke down. It helped support the fungal life beneath the surface. And that fungal life was part of the larger health of the forest.

Remove enough of that living layer, and the system changes.

The soil dries faster.

The balance shifts.

The small hidden relationships that kept things steady begin to weaken.

And then people stand back surprised when the trees start to suffer.

But the trees were not suffering because of one dramatic act. They were suffering because the quiet supports had been stripped away.

That is the lesson.

Sometimes what looks messy is actually protective.

Sometimes what looks old is actually foundational.

Sometimes what looks unnecessary is doing work you do not understand.

Sometimes the fallen needles are holding the forest together.

And so it is with our roots.

Our roots may be old stories. They may be elders. They may be former volunteers. They may be first fires, first rituals, first songs, first gatherings, first mistakes, first lessons. They may be the people who carried wood, washed dishes, watched gates, cleaned up after everyone went home, tended sacred spaces, held memory, welcomed strangers, and kept something alive before it had polish, structure, or public recognition.

Those people matter.

Those memories matter.

Those early acts of care matter.

And when a place forgets that, it risks becoming all canopy and no soil.

Pretty from a distance.

Weak underneath.

Now, to be clear, roots do not mean we never grow. Roots do not mean we stay frozen in the past. A healthy tree still reaches upward. A healthy forest still changes. Branches break. New shoots rise. Old trees fall and feed the next generation. Change is not the enemy.

But growth without roots is not growth.

It is drift.

It is performance.

It is a tree pretending it can live without soil.

For us as pagans, this should matter deeply.

We speak often of the land. We speak of ancestors. We speak of spirits, seasons, memory, offerings, fire, water, soil, and sacred place. But those words ask something of us. They ask us to pay attention to what holds life together beneath the surface.

They ask us not to confuse neatness with health.

They ask us not to confuse control with care.

They ask us not to confuse cutting away with cleansing.

Sometimes the sacred thing is not the polished altar.

Sometimes the sacred thing is the old layer of pine needles underfoot.

Sometimes the sacred thing is the story someone still remembers.

Sometimes the sacred thing is the person who has been quietly holding part of the root system while everyone else looked up at the branches.

So do not forget your roots.

Do not cut them off just because they are no longer convenient.

Do not dismiss them because they are old, complicated, imperfect, or covered in the debris of time.

Roots are rarely pretty.

Roots are tangled.

Roots are buried.

Roots are hard to show off.

But roots are what keep the tree standing when the weather turns.

And the weather always turns.

A forest is only as strong as its ecosystem. A person is only as steady as the truths they remain connected to. A community is only as healthy as the relationships, memories, and acts of care it refuses to forget.

So tend the roots.

Honour the soil.

Respect the old needles on the forest floor.

Remember what fed you.

Remember who helped build the path before you walked it.

And when you grow, grow upward from something real.

That is it. That is all for now, my Unplugged Pagans.

Godspeed.

Notes Beneath the Roots

This reflection draws on a few grounded ideas: the human need for belonging, social identity, collective memory, and the ecological role of forest-floor material, fungi, soil, and roots. In plain language, both people and forests depend on hidden systems of support.

Life and Reputation

Woman hugging a large circular wooden sculpture decorated with butterflies, phoenix, and tarot cards in a green forest clearing

Daily Reflection: Such Is Life

Today my mind is sitting with a couple of paraphrased verses echoed through Wardruna’s Helvegen, and through the older wisdom behind it: songs sent onward, deep wells, ancestral pledges, cattle dying, kin dying, the self dying, and yet reputation remaining after the body is gone.

There is something blunt and grounding in that.

Seasons change. Plants grow. Plants wither. Plants die back. Then, in their own time, they return. The plant does not ask my permission. The plant does not require my approval. The plant does not need me to stand over it, worrying whether it will become what I think it should become.

And such is life.

Life moves whether I choose it to or not. People change. Places change. Communities change. Some changes are good. Some are not. Some I understand. Some I never will. But the truth remains the same: I do not control the seasons. I do not control the roots. I do not control what grows after I have stepped away.

Maybe that is the lesson sitting in front of me today.

No. Not maybe.

It is the lesson.

I need to let go. I need to let these things become what they are going to become, because I do not have control over them. And if I am honest, I do not want control over them either.

All I can control is how I carry myself, what I say, what I build, what I leave behind, and whether my name is attached to bitterness or to something steadier.

So today, I turn to the cards.

Four-Card Daily Spread

Past — Five of Cups

The Five of Cups speaks to grief, disappointment, and standing too long before what has spilled. This card does not deny loss. It does not say, “get over it.” It says, “yes, something mattered, and yes, something has changed.” But it also reminds me that not everything has been lost. There are still cups standing. There is still a road. There is still something worth carrying forward.

Present — Death

Death is not only an ending. It is the season turning. It is the plant dying back. It is the old form no longer being able to hold the life that is trying to move through it. This card fits today’s reflection almost too well. Something is ending, or has already ended, and the work now is not to keep digging up the roots to see if they are still alive. The work is to accept the turning.

Future — Six of Swords

The Six of Swords is movement away from troubled water. It is not a triumphant march. It is not a dramatic victory. It is the quieter decision to leave the noise behind and move toward something calmer. This card suggests that peace will not come from winning the conversation. Peace will come from no longer needing the conversation to resolve in my favour.

Querent — The Hermit

The Hermit represents me today: solitary, watchful, still carrying a lamp. Not cut off from the world, but no longer demanding that the world gather around the flame. The Hermit does not chase the crowd. The Hermit tends the light. That may be enough. In fact, today, that may be the whole lesson.

Invocation

Brigid, keeper of flame and craft, guide my words so they warm rather than burn.

Skadi, steady one of snow, distance, and hard clarity, help me stand cleanly in my own ground.

Ratatoskr, messenger between worlds, remind me that not every message needs to be carried, answered, or amplified.

Fir Tree, evergreen and enduring, teach me resilience without clinging.

And to the ever-present land spirits, seen and unseen, rooted and wandering, may I walk respectfully upon the ground that holds me.

Closing Reflection

Things change whether I bless the change or curse it.

People move. Places shift. Communities become something other than what they once were. I can grieve that. I can name it. But I do not need to hold it in my hands until it cuts me.

What remains is how I walk.

What remains is what I build.

What remains is the reputation of the one who lived, spoke, stood, released, and kept going.

That is enough for today.

Godspeed.

The Fool Between Chains and Flying Wands

Tarot cards Justice, The Star, The Tower with a scale, candle, and scenic hill view

Good morning, Unplugged Pagans.

How are you this morning?

I am doing well enough. I got a semi-decent sleep last night, which is not nothing. Sometimes that is the whole receipt for the day: I slept, I woke, I am still here, and I can begin again.

Other than that, not much special is happening, except the price of gas is driving me half mad. Yesterday it was $1.88 a litre. I have been wanting to use the other car more, partly to keep the mileage off the newer car, but at these prices, the math changes. Right now, the fuel economy savings alone make it smarter to keep pushing the newer car, even if I do not love watching the mileage climb.

I hope gas prices do not stay like this, because this is getting ridiculous.

Spring is also taking its sweet time. I want the tomatoes and green peppers out, but I am not quite ready to trust the weather yet. The plants may be ready in spirit, but the land has not fully opened the door.

And I am still waiting on the books for my next course. I am hoping they arrive. I am also hoping I did not get scammed on Amazon, because that would be one more foolish little irritation I do not need.

Today’s Moonchild Weather

For today’s Cancer/Moonchild thread, the message I am taking into the reading is this: not everything has to be forced through the task list today. Some things can wait. Some things can be delegated. Some things only feel urgent because the nervous system has decided to make noise.

There is also a second thread here: follow the practical path when it lightens the emotional load. Not every choice has to be deeply processed, justified, decoded, and turned into a life lesson. Sometimes you do the useful thing because it is useful. That does not make it false. That makes it sane.

So today’s Moonchild question becomes:

Where am I making life harder because I am trying to carry every task, every meaning, every worry, and every possible outcome at once?

The Invitation

For this reading, we invite Brigid, keeper of flame, craft, healing, and the words that survive pressure.

We invite Skadi, who knows winter, distance, endurance, and the cold clarity of the mountain path.

We invite Ratatoskr, messenger between worlds, carrier of words, mischief, warning, and necessary movement.

We invite the fir tree, evergreen witness, patient and upright, reminding us that resilience does not always look dramatic.

And we invite the landvættir, the land spirits, the keepers of this place beneath the noise of human worry.

Be welcome in this reading. Let what is useful come forward. Let what is only panic fall away.

The Cards

Past: The Devil

Present: The Fool

Future: Eight of Wands

The Querent: Seven of Swords

Past — The Devil

In the Rider-Waite deck, The Devil stands above two chained figures. The chains are real enough to be seen, but loose enough to suggest they may not be as permanent as they feel.

This is the card of bondage, habit, fear, pressure, appetite, material worry, and the old contracts we keep obeying even after they stop serving us.

In the past position, The Devil speaks clearly to the weight that has been carried: financial pressure, legal pressure, work pressure, identity pressure, and the grinding reality of practical life. Gas prices. Vehicle mileage. Course books. Weather delays. Bills. Waiting. Watching. Wondering.

The Devil does not always mean evil. More often, it points to entanglement.

It asks:

What has been making me feel trapped?

What pressure has been convincing me that I have no options?

Where have I mistaken stress for command?

This card says the recent past has had a chain around it. Not necessarily a locked chain, but a felt one. The kind that makes every decision seem heavier than it should be.

Present — The Fool

And then we come to The Fool.

In the Rider-Waite image, The Fool stands at the edge of a cliff with a small bundle, a white rose, and a little dog at his heels. He is not carrying the whole house. He is not dragging every past mistake behind him. He is stepping into the day with what he can carry.

That matters.

The Fool in the present position does not say, “Be reckless.” That is too easy a reading. The Fool says, “Begin again, but do not overload the beginning.”

This fits the Moonchild message for today. Not everything belongs in today’s pack. Not every task has to be finished before you are allowed to breathe. Not every worry deserves a full committee meeting inside your head.

The Fool says the present moment is asking for a lighter step.

Not denial.

Not stupidity.

Not blind optimism.

A lighter step.

There is a difference.

Today may be less about solving the entire map and more about taking the next clean step without dragging The Devil’s chains into every ordinary decision.

Future — Eight of Wands

The Eight of Wands is movement. In the Rider-Waite deck, eight staffs fly through the air, all heading in the same direction. There are no people in the card. No debate. No committee. No hesitation. Just motion.

In the future position, this suggests that the stuck feeling does not last forever. Something begins to move. Messages arrive. Delays break. Energy shifts. The thing that has felt suspended may begin to travel again.

This could fit the waiting around course books. It could fit the weather finally turning. It could fit news, communication, or a practical update that changes the shape of the next few days.

But the Eight of Wands also gives a warning: when movement starts, it can start quickly.

So today is not the day to burn all your energy trying to force spring to arrive, force the mail to arrive, force prices to make sense, or force the whole future into obedience.

Today may be the day to clear the landing strip.

Do what actually matters. Let the rest wait. Because once the wands start flying, you may be glad you did not spend all your strength fighting with things that were not ready to move yet.

The Querent — Seven of Swords

The Seven of Swords is a complicated card to represent the querent.

In the Rider-Waite image, a figure carries five swords away while two remain behind. Traditionally, this card can speak of secrecy, strategy, avoidance, theft, self-protection, or acting carefully when full openness may not be safe or wise.

But today, I do not read this as simple dishonesty.

I read this as discretion.

The Seven of Swords says the querent is moving through a period where not everything can be said, not everything can be shown, and not every move should be announced before it is secure.

That does not mean sneaking around in a harmful way. It means choosing what to carry, what to leave, and what not to explain to people who have not earned access.

There is a very practical message here:

Be strategic, not scattered.

Be private, not isolated.

Be careful, not paranoid.

The Seven of Swords also asks whether some of the pressure is coming from trying to carry five swords while pretending the other two do not matter. If something has been left behind, name it. If something still needs to be collected later, mark it. But do not break yourself trying to carry the whole armoury in one trip.

The Reading as a Whole

The movement of this spread is very clear:

The Devil shows the pressure and the chains.

The Fool shows the lighter step available now.

The Eight of Wands shows movement coming.

The Seven of Swords shows the need for strategy, privacy, and careful carrying.

So the message for today is not, “Everything is fixed.”

It is this:

You are not as trapped as the pressure says you are. But you are also not required to explain every move, finish every task, or carry every sword in public.

There is a clean, Moonchild kind of wisdom here. Protect the home fire. Protect the nervous system. Protect the next step. Do not confuse urgency with importance. Do not confuse waiting with failure. Do not confuse strategy with dishonesty.

Some things can wait.

Some things are already moving.

Some things need privacy until they are strong enough to stand in the open.

For Today

Today’s practical guidance is simple:

Pick one task that truly matters.

Pick one thing that can wait.

Pick one worry that does not get to run the whole day.

And if the weather still refuses to cooperate, let the tomatoes and peppers wait a little longer. A plant put out too early does not prove courage. Sometimes wisdom looks like holding back until the ground is ready.

May Brigid keep the flame steady.

May Skadi keep the path clear.

May Ratatoskr carry only the messages that need carrying.

May the fir remind us that endurance can be quiet.

And may the landvættir hold the ground beneath us until spring finally decides to stay.

That is it. That is all for now, my dear Unplugged Pagans.

Godspeed.

Eat Where You Stand: A Pagan Argument for Learning the Land

Woman kneeling and planting seedlings in a garden bed

Hey there, Unplugged Pagans.

As I was out on the road today, another thought came to me. One of those thoughts that arrives sideways, out of the corner of the eye.

I noticed someone working a raised flowerbed along the front lawn. Nothing dramatic. Nothing unusual. Just a person tending plants.

But it got me thinking about stewardship of the land.

Not ownership.

Not control.

Not forcing the land to become whatever we want it to be.

Stewardship.

There is a difference.

The Earth Will Outlast Us

Yesterday, I wrote about the hard reality that the Earth does not need saving in the sentimental way people often frame it.

The Earth will survive us.

We may not survive ourselves.

That is the part people do not like to face.

Climate change frightens people for many reasons, but one of the deeper fears is this: it reminds us that we are not outside nature. We are not above the cycle. We are not exempt from consequence.

Human beings may continue. Human beings may change into something we would barely recognize. Human beings may one day disappear completely. I am not saying that with joy. I am saying it because every living thing, every species, every civilization, every empire, every arrangement eventually changes or passes away.

That is not despair.

That is reality.

And paganism, at its best, should be brave enough to face reality.

Raised Beds and the Human Habit of Overriding the Ground

Now, let me be fair before I go any further.

Raised beds have their place.

If the soil is contaminated, if the ground is too compacted, if drainage is terrible, if someone has mobility issues and cannot safely garden at ground level, then yes, a raised bed can be a practical and compassionate tool.

But that is not the part I am questioning.

What I am questioning is the mindset.

There is a way of gardening that looks at the land and says, “What are you? What do you need? What will grow here? How do I improve you over time?”

And there is another way that says, “I do not want to learn you. I will build over you.”

That second one feels like the old human sickness to me.

We do not listen first. We impose first.

We do not learn the soil. We import a solution.

We do not ask what belongs. We ask how to force what we want.

That is not stewardship.

That is domination wearing gardening gloves.

Our Ancestors Had to Learn the Land

Our ancestors did manipulate land. Of course they did. They cleared, planted, burned, terraced, drained, fenced, harvested, and stored.

But the wise ones also learned.

They learned frost dates.

They learned which plants survived in their region.

They learned which trees meant wet ground, which winds meant a storm, which birds meant a season was turning.

They learned what the soil would give and what it would refuse.

That is the difference.

Working with the land is not the same thing as pretending the land has no voice.

You would not grow an orange tree in the Northwest Territories and then blame the land for being wrong.

The land is not wrong.

Your expectation is wrong.

That is a hard lesson for modern people because we have been trained to believe everything should be available everywhere, all the time, in every season.

But nature does not work that way.

The landvættir do not work that way.

The spirits of place do not say, “Yes, import anything, force anything, consume anything, and call it abundance.”

They say, “Learn where you are.”

Eat Where You Stand

This brings me to food.

We have become used to eating as if geography does not matter.

Bananas in winter. Avocados from far away. Mangoes, dragon fruit, specialty foods, tropical fruits, fragile greens, and out-of-season luxuries that have no natural relationship to the place we live.

Now, I am not saying nobody should ever enjoy anything imported. That would be dishonest. Most of us do. I have. You probably have too.

But maybe we need to stop treating faraway food as normal and local food as quaint.

Maybe we need to reverse that.

Maybe the sacred question is not, “Can I buy this?”

Maybe the sacred question is, “What does my land actually provide?”

What grows here?

What stores here?

What can be preserved here?

What did people eat here before the grocery store trained us to expect strawberries in February and tropical fruit in every season?

That is not just an environmental question.

That is a spiritual question.

The Local Does Not Have to Be Perfect to Matter

There is research that complicates this conversation, and it is worth being honest about.

Food miles are not the whole story. Sometimes what you eat matters more than how far it travelled. A local high-impact food can still carry a heavier footprint than a lower-impact food shipped from elsewhere.

So this is not a simple bumper sticker.

But the deeper point remains.

Eating with the land is not only about carbon accounting. It is about relationship.

It is about remembering that food comes from soil, water, weather, labour, season, storage, and death.

It is about remembering that the Earth is not a vending machine.

It is about recovering some humility.

Brigid, Skadi, Ratatoskr, and the Fir Tree

Brigid reminds us that the hearth is sacred. Not the luxury pantry. Not endless choice. The hearth. The simple flame. The meal that nourishes. The practical act of feeding the body with reverence.

Skadi reminds us that climate is real. Winter is real. Harsh land is real. You do not survive the mountain by pretending it is a beach.

Ratatoskr reminds us to be careful of the messages we carry up and down the tree. Modern culture keeps whispering, “You can have everything, everywhere, whenever you want.”

But not every message is wisdom.

The fir tree reminds us of rootedness. It does not chase another climate. It does not try to become a palm tree. It stands where it is and learns endurance from the place that holds it.

And the landvættir, the spirits of the land, remind us that place is not empty.

The land beneath us is not just property.

It is relationship.

Say No to the Avocado, At Least Sometimes

So yes, maybe sometimes the answer is simple.

Say no to the avocado.

Say no to the fantasy that every climate owes you every fruit.

Say no to the idea that abundance means having the whole planet shrink-wrapped and shipped to your table.

Say yes to potatoes.

Say yes to squash.

Say yes to beans, peas, apples, carrots, onions, cabbage, rhubarb, berries in season, herbs that will actually grow where you live, and the humble crops that know your weather better than you do.

Say yes to improving the ground under your own feet.

Say yes to compost.

Say yes to learning your soil.

Say yes to the food that belongs to your place.

Not because imported food is evil.

Because forgetting the land is dangerous.

The Pagan Practice of Staying Rooted

This is where paganism becomes more than candles, cards, gods, and pretty seasonal posts.

It becomes practice.

It becomes the question of how we live.

Do we know the land we claim to honour?

Do we know what grows here?

Do we know what the soil needs?

Do we know what is in season?

Do we know what we are asking the Earth to carry on our behalf?

Because the Earth will carry on after us.

That is not the question.

The question is whether we will learn enough humility to carry ourselves differently while we are still here.

Work with the land.

Eat where you stand.

Learn what belongs.

And remember that stewardship begins when we stop treating the ground as something to conquer.

Godspeed.

The Hearth Kept Alive

Lit yellow candle in glass holder on weathered outdoor wooden table surrounded by stones and dry leaves

End-of-Week Reflection: The Fire That Was Already Burning

Good evening, friends.

As this week comes to a close, I do not feel as though I have been handed some sudden new revelation.

I feel something quieter than that.

I feel confirmed.

When I look back over this week’s readings, prayers, rituals, and reflections, what I see is not a random scatter of moods. I see an old thread still being pulled through. I see a pattern that has been speaking for a while now, and this week simply made it harder to ignore.

The lesson was not new.

The lesson was true.

Long before this week, the path was already pointing in a certain direction. Back in winter, the question was never really, Is everything fixed yet? The question was: What is still winter in me, and what am I willing to tend anyway?

That is still the question now.

This week did not break from that current. It flowed deeper into it.

There was the return to ritual.

There was the admission that some practices had slipped when life became noisy, chaotic, heavy, and overfull. There was the simple truth that I do better when I come back to the cup, the cards, the candle, the quiet, the honest word before the day begins tearing pieces off me.

That is not weakness.

That is remembering where the hearth is.

And the hearth matters.

Brigid has been speaking through that part of the path for a while now, not as spectacle, not as spiritual performance, but as useful flame. The kind that does not ask me to become dazzling. The kind that asks me to become steady. The kind that says: tend what still has life in it. Warm what has gone cold. Do the next real thing.

This week, I could feel that again.

Not as grand inspiration.

As return.

Then there was the fog.

The delay.

The sense that timing is not mine to command, and that process does not move faster just because I am tired of waiting. There are papers not yet filed, answers not yet given, outcomes not yet visible, and roads that still seem half-hidden.

But hidden is not gone.

That matters.

Some roads do not reveal themselves all at once. Some only show enough ground for the next few steps. This week felt like that. Not lost. Not clear. Just partially lit.

And I think that is where Skadi stands.

Not by the warm center of the house, but farther out where the air bites harder and honesty matters more than comfort. Skadi does not flatter. Skadi does not decorate. Skadi asks whether I can remain upright in the cold without inventing false hope and without surrendering to bitterness.

This week, that felt holy too.

Not because it was pleasant.

Because it was clean.

Then came the matter of speech.

Compassion, yes. But not confusion.

Understanding, yes. But not self-erasure.

This week held a reminder that other people’s failures, evasions, or emotional knots may come from their own wounds, fears, and histories. And sometimes that matters deeply. Sometimes compassion is the only thing that keeps us from becoming brutal.

But compassion is not the same thing as becoming a container for everyone else’s disorder.

That is where the message-running spirit comes in.

Ratatosk, in this week’s current, did not feel like mischief for its own sake. He felt like a warning and a wisdom both: do not become a courier for chaos. Do not carry every spark of conflict from one branch to another. Do not mistake urgency for truth. Do not turn yourself into a messenger for panic, resentment, impulse, or noise.

Carry clean messages.

Carry what is true.

Carry only what is yours to carry.

That was part of the week’s medicine too.

And then, maybe the deepest point of all, was the recognition that some cups have gone empty.

Some things can still be familiar and still no longer nourish.

Some roles, some obligations, some identities, some ways of moving through life can continue by habit long after they stop feeding the soul. And part of the spiritual work is admitting that honestly, without theatrics and without waiting for total disaster to justify a change.

That is a hard truth.

But it is a sacred one.

This week did not say to me, “Burn it all down.”

It said something more mature than that.

It said: stop feeding what has gone hollow.

It said: stop making a religion out of exhaustion.

It said: not everything that drains you is a holy burden.

It said: there is a difference between endurance and needless depletion, and wisdom is learning which is which.

I needed that.

Maybe some of you did too.

Because here is what I think the week was really saying, underneath all the cards and all the quiet spiritual weather:

The fire was already burning.

The work was already underway.

The season was already turning.

I just needed to stop asking for a dramatic sign and recognize the sacred pattern that has been present for months.

The winter work was never wasted.

The small rituals were never nothing.

The honest naming was never too small.

The effort to stay rooted, even when tired, even when fogged, even when frustrated, even when angry, even when lonely, even when delayed, was already part of the prayer.

That changes how I see this week.

It was not a week of failure.

It was a week of continuation.

It was a week of being reminded that the path is not lost simply because it is not glamorous.

It was a week of being reminded that growth does not always feel like flowers. Sometimes it feels like boundaries. Sometimes it feels like discipline. Sometimes it feels like putting one sock on, then the other. Sometimes it feels like not sending the message you wanted to send in anger. Sometimes it feels like lighting the candle anyway. Sometimes it feels like refusing to shame what needs tending.

And maybe that is the real blessing here.

Not that I emerged from the week radiant and transformed.

But that I can see the thread.

Brigid for the hearth and the useful flame.

Skadi for the cold truth and the upright spine.

Ratatosk for the living signal in the branches, and for the warning not to become a mouthpiece for every passing storm.

And the Fir standing through all of it, green in hard weather, not because the weather is kind, but because endurance has become part of its nature.

So as this week closes, this is the prayer I want to leave with:

Brigid, keep lit what should not go dark in me.

Skadi, keep me honest where the wind is sharp and the road is bare.

Ratatosk, teach me the difference between carrying wisdom and carrying noise.

Spirit of the evergreen, teach me to remain alive through seasons that do not look generous.

May I stop feeding what empties me.

May I tend what still has life in it.

May I carry clean words.

May I accept the partial light I have been given and walk by it without demanding noon at dawn.

May I remember that return is holy.

May I remember that slow growth is still growth.

May I remember that the sacred does not always arrive as revelation.

Sometimes it arrives as steadiness.

Sometimes it arrives as honesty.

Sometimes it arrives as the quiet refusal to quit.

That feels like this week.

Not a trumpet blast.

Not a grand unveiling.

A hearth kept alive.

A prayer spoken low.

A hand steadying on the next step.

And a fire that, truth be told, was already burning.

Godspeed.

When the Cups Empty

Person standing on lakeshore with arms outstretched during sunrise, mountains and mist in background

Morning Threshold Ritual: Listening for the Call

This morning’s ritual is for days when the heart feels in-between.

Not broken open.
Not fully restored.
Simply standing at the threshold, listening for what comes next.

Today’s cards:

Past: Five of Cups reversed
Present: Eight of Cups
Future: Nine of Wands reversed
Querent: Judgment reversed

Brigid of the hearth-fire,
Keeper of flame, healing, and holy inspiration,
be present here.

Skadi of the mountain and the winter silence,
Lady of cold truth, endurance, and clean distance,
be present here.

Ratatoskr, runner of the World Tree,
Bearer of messages between root and branch,
help me hear what is true and release what is only noise.

Spirits of the Druidic Three—
Waters that feel,
Earth that steadies,
Sky that calls—
be with me now.

Let this reading be clear.
Let this reading be honest.
Let this reading serve wisdom, not fear.

Speaking the Cards

Past — Five of Cups Reversed

I honor what has been spilled.

I honor the grief that narrowed my sight.
I honor the sorrow that made loss feel larger than life itself.

But I also honor what remains.

Not everything was taken.
Not everything was destroyed.
Not everything sacred was lost.

Brigid, help me see the embers that still live beneath the ash.

Waters, help me release what has already begun to loosen.

I do not deny the hurt.
But neither will I let hurt become my only story.

Present — Eight of Cups

I stand before what once held meaning.

I stand before what once nourished me.
I stand before what may still look whole from the outside.

And yet, my spirit knows when something has gone hollow.

Skadi, give me the courage to leave what no longer feeds the soul.

Ratatoskr, teach me which messages are worth carrying and which must be laid down.

I do not need disaster to justify departure.
I do not need collapse to bless a leaving.
I am allowed to walk toward cleaner air.

Future — Nine of Wands Reversed

I acknowledge my weariness.

I acknowledge the strain of always bracing,
always guarding,
always enduring.

Fatigue is not failure.
Exhaustion is not shame.
The body tells the truth when the mind would rather pretend.

Brigid, heal what has been overtaxed.
Skadi, teach me the wisdom of conserving strength.
Earth, remind me that survival mode is shelter, not homeland.

I release the need to prove my strength through depletion.

Querent — Judgment Reversed

I know the call has already sounded.

Some truth in me has already stirred.
Some old chapter in me has already ended.
Some deeper self is already waiting to rise.

And yet I hesitate.

I hesitate before change.
I hesitate before truth.
I hesitate before becoming what I already sense I must become.

Ratatoskr, help me hear the truest message.
Brigid, burn away false judgment.
Skadi, leave only what is clean and real.
Sky, help me answer what I already know.

I do not need perfect certainty to begin.
I need only one honest step.

Reflection

The grief is shifting.
The road is opening.
The body is speaking.
The soul has heard the call.

I will not drag every empty cup into the next chapter.
I will not make a religion of exhaustion.
I will not mistake self-judgment for wisdom.

I will listen.
I will leave what must be left.
I will rest where rest is holy.
I will answer what is true.

Closing Blessing

Brigid, guard the ember.
Skadi, guard the path.
Ratatoskr, guard the message.

Waters, cleanse what clings.
Earth, steady what remains.
Sky, open what is next.

May I walk in truth.
May I rest without guilt.
May I leave without bitterness.
May I answer without fear.

For this morning, one honest step is enough.

Godspeed.