Impromptu Binding or Why You Don’t Fuck With Me

Yesterday as I sat at home by myself, sipping a glass of wine and listening to the steady breathing of the cat asleep next to me I began to think. I began to think about a few people who are in my life who I really wish weren’t and I began to think about how they have manipulated and harmed someone close to me and then, I began to grow angry.

Quite angry, in fact. I was pretty fucking pissed.

I stood up and looked around. I put down my wine glass and clenched my fist and I thought to myself, “Fuck them.”

And then I thought, “I don’t have to put up with this shit.”

I walked to my bedroom, where my altar sits, and while I was walking I began banging on the walls and doors to call my spirits. I sang to them, calling them to me, letting the pounding of my knuckles on the wood and drywall be like a drum leading them home.

Spirits of Blood, Spirits of Bone, Spirits of Shadow, I call you home.

From my altar I took my mother’s pocket knife, my grandmother’s silver thimble, the picture of my great-grandmother, my Freyja blessed cat statue, sage, and my megalodon tooth. I held these sacred things in my hands, still chanting to my spirits, and I took them to my kitchen.

I laid out my supplies on the counter and grabbed a cord and sheet of paper. I lit the sage and inhaled the smoke into my lungs. Filled with righteous fury at those who had wronged me and mine, I began to sing to myself.

Sacred is the bitch, for she is vicious in her power. Sacred is the bitch.

I tied the cord three times and began sharpening my mothers knife, calling on my ancestors for their help. I walked around the kitchen sharpening the knife, honing my intent.

On the paper I wrote the names of those I wanted out of my life and I chanted, demanding they leave my family alone. I sealed their names with a bind rune created from perth (who knows me best), algiz (who understands protection) and tiwaz (who understands violence).

I folded up the paper tightly, chanting to my ancestors, and when the paper was good and folded I took my mothers knife and stabbed it in the middle. Holding the paper down with the knife, I spun the paper counter-clockwise and chanted “Stay away.” until I had worn a hole through the paper. Then I took the thrice knotted cord and I tied the note up, whispering incantations and prayers to my spirits and my ancestors.

I need to bury it, I thought to myself. I need to bury their names so the dead can find them, so my ancestors can do the work. I put the bound paper inside my mouth and wiped my saliva onto it and then I took salt and rubbed it into the paper, then I dipped it all in my wine. An offering, an offering for the dirt of spit, wine, and salt.

I held the bound paper, the bound names, close to my mouth and I whispered, “Send my words to the dead, send my words to the ancestors.”

I went outside into my backyard and dug, continuing my whispered chants.

Send my words to the dead, send my words to the ancestors.

I dug a hole with my bare hands, huddled over the ground on my knees, dirt beneath my nails. I stuffed the paper into the ground and covered it. I saw an old rusty screw next to me and I smiled. I grabbed the screw and pushed it down into the dirt and I whispered.

You have no power here.

And I went inside and I finished my wine.

Ancestor Spirits

My uroma took a drag from the cigarette in her gnarled hand and then pointed its smoldering bud towards me. Evil men come, she said in the same manner as she might tell me to fold laundry, and all you can do is have strength. Evil men. Böse Menschen. The smoke from her cigarette curled around us, twisting like hair caught in the wind. She handed me the cigarette and told me to drink a beer for her later. I inhaled the tobacco into my lungs and returned to Charon’s river.

Böse Menschen. Evil men.

Uroma lived through two world wars and the Russian occupation of Berlin, she survived an alcoholic husband and raised three children. The woman I met in her life was frail and old, broken by a disease that ravaged her mind and body, but the woman I have come to know is a dragon. She is the iron fisted matriarch who ruled my family for years and she is the woman whose guidance I often seek.

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Within our genes and DNA live our ancestors; they are the foundation that built us from the first single celled creatures on our world to our grandparents. They swim through our blood and call to us in our bones and if we listen we can hear their songs. Some like my uroma speak bluntly, while others move around my consciousness as instincts and intuition; communicating to me and to us all in their own way.

I was discussing my ancestors recently and was asked if I was communicating with ghosts. This actually seemed silly. Why would I need to try to reach out to a ghost? I’m talking to the parts of my ancestors that exist inside me. I don’t need to look outside myself and quite frankly neither do you.

When the “evil men” crash through my life I seek guidance from those who have come before me and I have strength. I drink a beer for Uroma and whisper thanks to my disir and they sing to me: do not fear, you have strength within yourself.