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Actionism – How to Become a Responsible Man

Lennart Svensson

Forthcoming – August 2017

actionism svenssonWe all have to act. There is no choice between an active and an inactive life, a “vita activa” versus a “vita contemplativa”. We all have to sustain our body functions, we at least have to breathe – therefore, everybody has to act. Thus, everybody needs a book on “how to act” – and, voilà, here it is, a moral essay and self help guide called Actionism – How to Become a Responsible Man.

Written by renowned author Lennart Svensson, Actionism is footed in perennial metaphysics. Essential reality is immaterial, eternal ideas and patterns rest in the causal sphere where they affect the material world and material man, all “incarnated souls” in the confluence of samsâra. This kind of ontological background makes this into a refined selfhelp guide, the statements and assertions forming the core of the book being founded in the esoteric thought of western and eastern tradition.

As intimated, a prominent place in the book is occupied by responsibility.  The basic of all reality, of God, is will, thought and passion, and the individual human being, having a spark of the divine light, is a being of will, thought and passion. And from will is derived the value of responsibility, a much neglected virtue in the mindless emotionalism of today. Thus the subtitle of the book: “How to Become a Responsible Man”.

Along with will there’s a conceptualization of thought and passion, Actionism thus forming a valid ethic for the mindful operator of today. This is about eternal values, operational in your everyday. This is a serious essay in popular form, a “tight but loose” deliberation on the deathless issue of, How Shall I Act.

The first seven chapters of the book lay the foundation, explaining the Actionist way of life with references to Nietzsche, Castaneda, the Bhagavad-Gîtâ and the Bible, introducing concepts like “action as being” and “movement as a state,” and the need for mental calm and a memento mori mindset. After a look into the role of art – the passion of compassion – the study takes a look at operators like d’Annunzio, Evola and T. H. Lawrence from an Actionist viewpoint. Then Svensson deliberates on operations – how to operate as a hiker, a soldier, a trained chef and such, all within the framework of Actionist ethics. This is an operational pro spilling the beans about “how to act,” not some philosophy professor making abstract examples.

The mid part of the study discusses how contemporary society might be conceived of in Actionist terms. We here read of things like “declining war trend,” “the nature of decadence” and “the society of the future,” Svensson in the latter case giving a structural outlook on how to arrange and re-arrange a modern society.

Finally, part three of the study again focuses on the microcosm, on individual man as an ethical operator, by referencing greats like Poe, Kierkegaard and Neale Donald Walsch. It all results in a veritable “hymn to the active life” – since, as you know by now, we all have to act.

In 2015 author Lennart Svensson published his metaphysical essay Borderline – A Traditional Outlook for Modern Man, a study focusing on holistic metaphysics and epistemology, a perennially footed conceptualization of everything. Now, in Actionism, we finally have Svensson’s magnum opus study of prescriptive ethics and morals, an arousing vision of an active, mindful lifestyle – a clarion call to live the responsible life, to become the first ever Responsible Men in the history of mankind.


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Operative Traditions Vol. I

Miguel A. Fernandez

A Book where Ernst Jünger and Julius Evola meet at last

Available in early August 2017 from Manticore Press

Operative Traditions ArcherOperative Traditions provides a practical and didactic approach to the heritage of the West and the East, focusing on the core values present in traditional craft and art. Through a deep insight into the operative aspects and spiritual character of such disciplines, this book approaches one of the least studied aspects of modern culture: technique and its importance as a key factor for spiritual development.

Operative Traditions uncovers the important ideas of one of the most obscure philosophical works of the 20th century: Julius Evola’s Theory and Phenomenology of the Absolute Individual. Evola’s gnoseological approach draws from the crisis experienced in modern times by Transcendental Idealism (Kant, Hegel, Schelling) and establishes an immanent critique beyond all discursive relativism and speculation. Evola provides the individual with a series of epistemological “tools” that allow the establishment of transcendent immanence: the projection of the core values of Tradition upon the most diverse and complex human realities. The great value of Evola’s philosophy resides in its capacity to be directly applied in the most materialistic, reductionist, and highly technological conditions of the 21st century. Operative Traditions studies these technical conditions, aiming to describe the fundamental framework that influences an individual’s traits and habits.

Operative Traditions also examines The Worker (Der Arbeiter, 1932), one of the most misunderstood works by Ernst Jünger. This serves to provide a new dignity for technique and work, no longer regulating these activities to economic or class-related factors, but instead as opus, a means for forging the diamond brilliance of the spirit.

Operative Traditions presents a more appealing and highly artistic vision shared by these figures than is commonly found the political context, instead revealing a creative path where the individual can attain the absolute, persuading all the stars to revolve around him.

Operative Traditions offers a multidisciplinary exposition that aims to establish a dialogue between readers who are interested in the metaphysical aspects of Traditionalism and Perennial Philosophy with a broader range readers who are involved in the actual operative conditions of our time. Operative Traditions aims to provide new perspectives, approaches, and disciplines for all those who want to follow Evola’s advice of “riding the tiger”, here and now, who are no longer content living as “men among the ruins”, and want to become men who strive to develop new creations.

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Psanky Eggs—The Transcendent Spring Gift

Pysanky Egg

Juleigh Howard-Hobson

With their intricately wrought designs and deepset colors, Ukrainian Psanky eggs are as fascinating as they are lovely. Pronounced “peh-san-keh”, these decorated eggs are considered Easter Eggs these days, and/or seen as examples of Eastern European folk art by collectors and tourists alike. But Psanky (singular Psanka) are far more numinous than that.

Psanky have roots that stretch far back to Ancient European pagan spirituality. Indeed, traces of Trypillian symbology (Neolithic Era) can be still seen in many Psanka designs.

Although best known, Ukraine is not unique in its indigenous European egg decorating. From the Polish pisanka, over to the Hungarian hímestojás, eggs have been decorated with dye and wax every spring since prehistoric times. For brevity sake, I’m going to refer to all of these by their Ukrainian name Psanky.

There are other decorated eggs, but Psanky created with dye and beeswax (it must be beeswax, due to sacred solar associations with bees and flowers) are special. Goose and duck eggs were once preferred, but hen eggs are used now. The egg must be raw, the designs ‘written’ with a “kistka”, a tool that holds flame-melted beeswax (flames bring sacred solar energy). The eggs are dyed and designs applied in succession until the Psanka is finished. Then it is baked, to melt off the wax and set both the egg and the sacred intention it carries.

Traditionally, Psanky are personal to the maker and to the recipients. Older people are given darker dyed eggs with a myriad of decoration, symbolizing their full lives, while younger people are given white eggs with spaces between decorations, representative of lives yet to be ‘filled in’.

Some carry a dual meaning since Christianity replaced the indigenous faith of the European peoples, but traditional Psanka decorations are age-old. As in all artistic endeavors, there are as many designs as there are practitioners, but many meanings remain as they were since the Neolithic. Unbroken lines represent long life, crosses now represent Christ but once represented the sun (the solar cross), the spiral symbolize cycles of life/rebirth, ladders are bridges to the divine, deer symbolize victory, birds symbolize the eternal return of life (hens and roosters symbolize having many children). Triangles represented pagan triads (mother maiden crone, life-death-rebirth, etc.) but now represent the Holy Trinity. Wolves’ teeth, which look like jagged lines, bring loyal energies. Leaves and flowers (poppy and rose are most popular) stand for beauty and life-growth, wheat brings the recipient great abundance (harvest).

Having been given a Psanka, one must never treat the gift lightly. The act of creating Psanky is sacred — from the eternal symbol of life (the egg) to the time in which it is performed (spring, Ostara, Easter) to the flame and wax with which it is made to its transformation from  raw to cooked—the making of each Psanka is a magical rite from start to finish.

Most people have blown out eggs with Psanka designs placed on them, these are not Psanky, these are decoration, or folk art if you will. There is nothing to do with them but to admire what they represent of a folk’s yearning toward the divine.

If you should be gifted with an authentic Psanka, you should admire it, but you should not save it. You should carry it about with you for the first couple of days of Easter/Ostara—or the day of and the day after the Spring Equinox. You can rinse a Psanka in fresh water on the Equinox (or Easter) and rinse yourself with the same water to ritually cleanse yourself for the year.  Psanka shells can be thrown up on the roof to protect your household, or crushed and given to chickens to ensure fertility. Some Psanka are left, whole, on graves of family members, especially children. Psanka are never eaten.

Spring time is glorious, a swift bright time of creation and delight. The Psanka, with its ancient designs and beautiful aspects, captures the holiness of this season as well. A numinous gift that has transcended the ages, renewed in spring, every year.

Photo by Luba Petrusha

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Shedding Light on Candles

Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Most rituals — whether they take place in front of an altar or a harrow, in the middle of a circle or a shrine, or outdoors in a holy spot — incorporate candles. While candles can serve a very specific purpose in certain magical ritual, usually their presence is part of an overall ambiance of an event, burning away warmly in the background, hardly noticed by most. This disregard doesn’t mean they aren’t working, though. Candles are very powerful, and candle magic has a long and illustrious history.

Most candles these days are not white, although white is a profoundly divine color and always right to use, there is an abundance of choices available for us to use now. Every candle color has a meaning which ties into the effect they work on those around them.  Blue candles are used to invoke high spiritual insight and Odinic wisdom, while green can be used to bring about prosperity and growth (in whatever area growing needs to be done). Golden candles should be burned to bring about victory, wealth, and luck. Red, that color of Thor himself, is used when strength is called upon. Pink candles can be burned to attract love.  Black might seem repellent, and it is—but it repels negativity and bad luck so it is a wonderful color to burn.

Carving a symbol into the wax of a candle will bring about extra power as the candle burns. Sigils, runes, letters…the symbol need not be well drawn or well known, it simply needs to harness your intentions. Use an ordinary nail or a knife—although keep away from iron or silver—and be careful not to cut too deeply. It’s easier to do this carving before you decide to dress the candle:

A candle’s unseen power can be enhanced by ‘dressing’ it (the added bonus to doing this is that any residual unwanted energies a candle might have will be cleared off of it by dressing it). Dressing is done by simply coating the candle in an essential oil. Mint oil will boost a green candle, rose oil a pink one…there are as many oils and blends of oils you can use as there as intentions you can have for its energy. To dress: take a candle and mentally divide it in half, then working from the middle up, put a light coating of oil on the top half (I use my fingers, dabbed with the oil); repeat with the lower half, working from the middle down. It is advisable, while you dress the candle, to keep your mind on exactly what you intend the candle to do, even if it’s merely to make a gathering cozier by burning in the background.

Some folks will roll a freshly dressed candle in crushed botanicals to further enhance the magical effects they wish the candles to achieve. Finely crushed dry basil leaves are good for this, as are dried rose petals.

Candles can be used for more than mere background energy ambiance, of course. They can be burned for any reason, from happy birthday wishes (do you really think it was just old fashioned birthday party fun to have a special cake with candles stuck in it that amount to a person’s age (plus one to grow on) upon which a wish can be had if they are all blown out at once?) to stopping people from talking behind your back (for this you need to burn a red candle which has been stuck all over with cloves—as it all burns out, so will the gossip) to ‘inspiring’ water ( burn a white floating tealight, carefully, in a bowl of pure, preferably charged/blessed, water. The combined energies will create water that holds the power of flame—a contradiction, perhaps, but like the Fire and Ice of Norse Creation Myths, a very potent magical liquid to use for any number of creative applications).

It’s been said that a candle must never be blown out (so that it’s magic isn’t dispelled away) and this holds mostly true, with the caveat that sometimes you want the magic to move (as in birthday wishes and love attracting candles). It’s usually best to let a candle burn out by itself, but if you must extinguish one, using a snuffer or just pinching the wick will keep the energy of the candle around the candle.

Finally, remember, bigger isn’t necessarily better when it comes to candles—the smaller tapers work just as well, and much faster than those giant fashion candles so popular on the market. There’s nothing so dreadful as waiting for a candle to go out by itself…and nothing better than watching the last tendril of candle smoke rise and slowly drift, off to the aether, job done.



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The Magical Revery of Clover

four leafed clover

“To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.”
― Emily Dickinson

Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Common garden-variety clover (officially known as trifolium repens, within which we find the shamrock…or, as they say in Gaelic: seamróg) is one of the oldest and widespread of the arcane plants. Used by the Druids and Ancient Celts to pierce the veil between worlds, and regarded from Ireland to Turkey as a source of Apotropaic magic (that is, magic to keep evil away) historical accounts of this plant being a source of magical power go as far back as the ancient Egyptians, who presented newlywed couples with clover to bring blessings to the union.

All shamrocks have three leaves, it is the four-leaved clover which has four; not all clovers are shamrocks but all shamrocks are clover. The three-leaved variety is most commonly found, but clover with two, four, five and upward numbers of leaves have been found the world over. The odds of finding a clover with other than three leaves is a little better than one in ten thousand. But, don’t be daunted—there are tens of thousands of clovers in every acre of clover meadow you may find: surely you can come upon what you seek if you look. (Note: while some say you must find a magical clover by accident for it to work, there is no basis for this. A magical clover is powerful to possess, no matter how it is obtained.)

It is the three-leaved shamrock that is used for most protective magic. With the sacred number three at its core, the leaves can be considered as corresponding to the protective ministrations of The Mother, Maiden, Crone, or the Holy Trinity or the holy power of nine (which is three times three) which is a number protectively sacred to Celtic as well as Norse and Germanic paganry. St. Patrick used this three-leaved clover to illustrate how the Christian god was three in one. The Druids used this same clover to illustrate how our world is three in one: made up of the living, the dead, the unseen one. The three in one nature of clover lends it well to being used for travel over the three worlds in three different ways: it can be burnt along with incense, it can be consumed, it can be worn. Wearing it while traveling between worlds ensures protection. Particularly as clover is well known as a fairy attractant. Fae folk do not adhere to human standards of safety, and may not ‘play well’ unless a person is ‘protected well’.

Leprechauns (a type of fairy) are the most partial to clover, a fact still attested to every March 17th as leprechaun and clovers are used as St. Patrick’s Day decorations just about everywhere you look. Should you fall into the magical sway of a Leprechaun, the wearing of a clover will keep you from being harmed. The best way to wear a clover is to press and dry it and hang it around your neck in a locket, or in a small sachet, you carry with you in your clothing.

Two-leaved clovers are always involved in love—specifically in women finding a husband. For a woman to find one, she will soon come across the man she will marry. Some traditions have it that she must place the clover in her shoe, which will then lead her to her man—others have it that she will marry the first man she meets after finding the clover, if that man is married already, she will marry someone with the same name instead. Please note, the two leaf clover can also be used to simply locate a lover rather than a spouse if so desired.

Clovers with five leaves are sometimes wrongly considered bad luck. Finding a five-leaf clover is wonderful: the abundance of leaves brings with it sympathetic magic in the form of abundance of riches to the finder. And sometimes to the keeper, should one be given to you. If you find one, preserve it carefully and wear it to attract lots of money.

The four leaf clover is the luckiest of all. It does everything the other clovers do, from finding love, to offering protection, to gaining wealth. It does more than just that, though. A four leaf clover, if worn, will enable the wearer to see fairies, to detect witches and other malevolent forces, it will keep the wearer from being pressed into military service and it will keep you from going mad. Additionally, should you find one and split it down the middle and share it with a person you wish to have fall in love with you…you will be rewarded with mutually undying affection.

Not only does clover bring abundance and luck to those humans who find them, reemerging clover is often the first sign of spring in fields just coming back from winter bareness….bringing in their white flowers a source of early food for the bees. That is something magical and powerful enough to keep us all ‘in the clover’ and revery come harvest time or any time.

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The Golden Magic of Eggs

The Golden Magic of Eggs

Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Made up, as it is, of shell and that which is inside the shell, the numinous duality of the humble bird egg has been put to folk magical use for centuries.

Because the egg has the magical ability to either bring forth good energy or to absorb negativity, it is often found in folk ritual used in conjunction with the phases of the moon (waxing moons bring, waning moons take away). As the round bright moon holds the sunny-side of reflected solar light, so the round bright egg holds the ‘sunny side’ of the contained yolk.

I will keep to hens’ eggs for the purposes of this article but be aware that with most magic, the harder or rarer an ingredient is to obtain, the stronger and surer the result will be. If you can get fresh organic “raw” eggs, particularly goose eggs, duck eggs, or peahen eggs …you certainly ought to use them.

To attract abundance into your life, bury a raw fresh egg outside in each corner of your land—or bury the eggs in large pots of dirt arranged in the four corners of your property. Alternatively, you can boil up 3 or 9 eggs, place them outside your front door and simply sweep them over your threshold to bring their ‘good and plenty’ energies into your life. You may eat the eggs after this, or you can simply offer them back to the earth by burying them respectfully (personally, I think it’s better to eat them….to do otherwise might seem ungrateful or wasteful).

If you add FEHU runes (in sets of three) to the eggs before you bury or sweep them, the strength of the abundance-attraction of each egg will be magnified.

The egg-tree or egg branch, decorated with blown-out hollow eggs shells is another effective method of attracting ‘plenty’—these days people use them inside as decorations for Easter, but they were originally designed for attracting springtime fecundity back to the land, which can still be done by hanging blown out eggs on bushes or trees in your yard or homestead. Dyed or not, the eggs shells will attract prosperity and bounty, but if you do decide to dye them—green and yellow are the best colors for attracting maximum abundance and wealth.

For those who do not live in places where whole egg magick can be prudently practiced, just sprinkling small amounts of egg shells into corners of rooms will ensure that a decent measure of prosperity is attracted there. (Note, egg shells have long been considered to be excellent mediums for conveying fertility in humans…so plan accordingly.)

Remember, perform these egg abundance rituals during the waxing phase of the moon for best results.

If you should need to get rid of any negative elements in your life, the best time to use egg magic to absorb the unwanted negativity is during the waning moon.

If you have a toxic person to be dealt with, write that person’s name nine times on an egg (a rotten egg is best, but use with caution) and bury the egg beneath a rock. As the egg decays so will the effect the person has on you.

If you need to break with something that is holding you back, boil three eggs. With a red marker, mark two eggs with the Iwaz Rune and one with the Berkana Rune. Smack the Iwaz eggs into each other, breaking them.  Bury all three eggs together, either under a tree or in a special pot of dirt. The Berkana rune is the rune of rebirth, and the egg marked so will help with your fresh start as the two Iwaz eggs let it absorb all the pent up energies you have cracked open to get rid of. Iwaz is the rune of personal transformation. Do not eat these eggs—if you can’t bury them, dispose of them completely some other way.

And speaking of eating eggs, there are some who hold that if you leave half shells around after you break eggs for cooking, you are inviting trouble. Always crack up the shell halves to prevent them from becoming cup-like vessels for attracting and holding onto bad luck, which could tip onto you if you touch them later.

Finally, should you dream of eggs under any phase of the moon, good luck and prosperity are heading your way. The bigger the egg, the bigger the boon. May you avoid the Lilliputian nests of hummingbirds and always dream of geese and their golden eggs.


Photo by: Nevit Dilmen

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Forthcoming Title – The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia

hindu temple australia

Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, Rev. Dr. Philip Hughes

Since the late 1990s, the Indian community in Australia has grown faster than any other immigrant community. The Indian Diaspora has made substantial contributions to the multi-ethnic and multi-religious diversity within Australia. The growth of Hinduism and Sikhism through gurus, temples, yoga and ritual of many kinds has brought new colours, images, customs and practices to the profile of Australian religion, and the Australian landscape more widely. At the same time, Hinduism and Sikhism have themselves been transformed as Hindus and Sikhs from different parts of India as well as Fiji, Malaysia and other parts of the world have come together to establish a pan-Indian ethos. Hindus and Sikhs here have also interacted with other sectors of the Australian population and with religions from the Western world. This is the theme of this book. The Indian Diaspora covers the theory of diaspora, the historical development of the Indian communities in Australia since the late 19th century to the present times, current practices and statistical profiles of Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, and interactions between Hindus and Sikhs with the wider Australian community. There are case studies of the Indian students and women in the Australian community, of Indian communities in Melbourne and South Australia, and of temple building.

The book has been edited by and contains contributions from Purushottama Bilimoria, an internationally known scholar of philosophy and religion, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, one of Australia’s most senior Hindu priests and a scholar of Hinduism, and Philip Hughes, a leading analyst of the religious profiles of the Australian people. It also contains contributions from several other prominent scholars. Included are special essays on the importance of diaspora by the late Ninian Smart and on the 19th century Afghan cameleers and Indian hawkers.

Purushottama Bilimoria studied Philosophy, Sanskrit and Indian Religions in India, Australia and Oxford. He is the Editor of Sophia Journal of Philosophy and Religion, and the International Journal of Dharma Studies. He teaches, researches and publishes widely in Australia and the United States – on Indian ethics, Gandhi and global civil rights, Indian personal law and justice, diaspora studies and Indian dance in Australia.

Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat is a Hindu community elder and a priest in Australia and holds a doctorate in Organic Chemistry and Sociology. Currently, he is an Adjunct Research Fellow at Monash University Asia Institute and has published widely in Hinduism studies. Dr. Bapat’s research interests include Hindu goddesses, diaspora studies and temple priests and rituals. He has edited two books in this field.

Rev. Dr. Philip Hughes has been the senior research officer for the Christian Research Association in Australia since 1985. His research projects engage cross-cultural and multi-faith discourses. He is editor of Australia’s Religious Communities: A Multimedia Exploration. Dr Hughes is an honorary research fellow at Edith Cowan University and the University of Divinity, as well as a minister with the Uniting Church in Australia.

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Coming in on a Wing and a Paw: the Odd Survival of the Mythic Griffin


Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Hatched from an agate, instead of an egg, the Griffin (alternatively called Gryphon, Griffen, Griffon, Grýps, Gryphus, or if you prefer an ancient term: γρύφων) is a particularly numinous being. Having the head, front talons and wings of an eagle and the body and tail of a lion, it is part earthly and part astral.

Which suits this creature well. Legends after legends have it that it was the Griffin which pulled the chariot of such divine beings as Apollo (the sun god), Nemesis, the Egyptian Pharoahs, Dionysus, and Alexander the Great. The mighty power of the lion, teamed with the aerial strength of the eagle, make the Griffin able to easily traverse between the sky and the world. Indeed, this ability to conquer both heaven and earth helped the Griffin conquer the incursions on ancient mythos that the Christians brought down upon so many pagan creatures.

By the 1300’s the Italian poet, Dante Alighieri, could freely and –importantly— unheretically see in the Griffin’s heaven/ earth duality, a harkening to the god/human duality of Jesus Christ. In his epic work, Purgatorio, Dante had a Griffin pull Beatrice’s chariot. Not only is the eagle half of Dante’s Griffin symbolic of the astral plane, but it can also be seen as a representation of Rome, or rather, the Roman Catholic Church, which was built upon a rock…which is symbolic of the earth, which is embodied in the lion half of the Griffin.

This Christian fondness for an ancient pagan beast is rather unique. 9th century European Christianity (which was Catholic) took the Griffin’s devotion to its mate as a fierce symbol against the practice of remarriage.  It was long held by legend that Griffins mated for life; when one of the pair died, the other Griffin remained alone, until it too died. It would never even look at another potential mate. The Church made great use of the Griffin’s legendary devotion to underscore its own position on marriage… and remarriage.

In the twelfth century, a German nun, St. Hildegard of Bingen, wrote accounts of how the monogamous Griffins were wonderful parents—the mothers seeking out very specific caverns to lay their eggs in. Griffin eggs were always laid in threes, a number considered sacred in most Pagan religions, and also akin to the Holy Trinity of the Christian Church. These eggs, by the way, were not the yolk, white and shell of mundane land-bound birds, they were miraculous agates, recalling again the merger of the heavens and earth—the church and the state—the sky (where the heaven the Church worshipped was located) and the rock (upon which the Church was built)…the eagle and the lion.

Griffins, due to this rather particular patronization of the Church, which was the ruling religious body of western civilization, were never considered evil or shunned as were most of their counterparts (the unicorn: left behind by the ark, the dragon: denizen of the underworld, the pixies, elves, gnomes, fairies, mermaids etc: denounced and demonized… as were entire Pantheons of antiquity)—and so, to this day, Griffins are still one of the most popular positive symbols in European history.

From the National Coat of Arms of Latvia (which has two Griffins) to at least 3 dozen nations and cities and upwards of that amount of school and universities, across Europe and over to the new world (from Bjarkøy, Norwegian to Reed College in Portland, Oregon) the Griffin is incorporated in coats of arms, mascots, and symbols. In industry, Vauxhall and Saab have Griffins in their automotive trademarks/logos.

But why? Why the Griffin? Perhaps because it is associated with the sun, indeed pulling the chariot of Apollo (the Sun God) and Nemesis (goddess of cyclic retribution) put it firmly in that symbolic area which warms the heavens. Or perhaps because it is likewise legendarily associated with gold (which can be another symbol of the sun, and thus heaven)? Perhaps because it came from the north: Pliny the Elder claimed it came from an area we know now as Northern Russia, after the ice age, bringing with it order from chaos (Griffins were known to be excellent guards)?

We will never know, and the Griffin—which once was so deeply venerated across Europe–seems to have taken wing (or foot) these days, leaving us nothing but an iconic memory of this most majestic and mythical King of the Beasts and the Air.



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It’s Elementary: Spring Cleaning for Crystals

quartz, crystal

Juleigh Howard-Hobson


Crystals absorb all sorts of energies over a year’s time—particularly in the winter months when we tend to keep everything closed in—so a spring cleaning to make sure that they are cleansed of negative or overpowering vibrations is one way to keep your crystals clear and potent.

 The basic elements of earth, air, fire, and water are perfect for simply and completely ‘spring-cleaning’ any and all of your crystals, making them clear, pure and ready for another year’s workings.

 Burying crystals, carefully, in the dirt for at least an hour allows the earth to draw away and absorb old energies contained in the crystals. You can use a pot of dirt, making sure that you don’t re-use that dirt for growing or clearing purposes later, or you can bury the crystals directly into the earth (mark it well). Burying under a waxing moon will help positively recharge your crystals while they are being cleared.

 Using the earth energy of crystals themselves is another good method.  Placing crystals inside a geode or a circle of amethyst or smoky quartz for 24 hours is very effective, clearing wise, as the amethyst and quartz will not only absorb negative energies but will give positive ones back.

 Incense smoke, made from white sage, lavender, sweet grass or cedar wood, contains fire and element qualities that combine to create an atmosphere which drives away negative energies. Simply place your crystals where this smoke can touch them, either by holding them in it or by gently wafting it over them. In less than a minute the crystals will be cleared.

 Using the element of air is probably the easiest: blow on your un-cleared crystals, visualizing white light replacing darkness inside of them your breath moves across them. When you feel they have released all their darkness to the moving air, they are clear. Alternatively, you can leave them outside in a brisk wind, using the same visualization.

 This element is just as easily used by placing your crystals in the open air under the light of the moon (note—there are those who say you can do this by the light of the sun, but some crystals will be damaged by exposure to such strong light, beware). A full moon is best for this springtime overall clearing up, while a waning moon is particularly useful for removing big negative energies a crystal might have absorbed. Exposure to a waxing moon will restore positive powers to any crystal that feels a little ‘blank’, so don’t worry about over clearing.

 While water can be used to literally wash away negative energies, if using it with crystals you have to be very careful not to literally wash away what you are working with– not all crystals are impervious to water and will be damaged, or even dissolved by it. It’s much wiser, and easier, to keep the crystals dry and wet your finger instead. Using charged water, holy water, running water from a natural source or rain water (from a downpour, not a puddle), moisten your finger, and ‘draw’ a sigil or bindrune (I find the runes Laguz and Gebo very fitting for this) with that watered finger above them to magically wash away the crystals’ negative energies and exchange positive ones in their places.

 Crystals are organic and vital; their ability to affect the world is a permeable one—as they work, so the world works on them. Ritually spring cleaning them, even if you regularly clear them or recharge them, is a good opportunity to make sure your crystals are fully able to operate as they were meant to—effectively, purely and numinously—for the long year ahead.



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Of Wolves and Men: The Berserker and the Vrātya

wolf, berserker, vedic, norse, mythology, vratya

Gwendolyn Taunton


Lupine symbolism is said to be one of the defining points of the Indo-European Traditions, and it is hard to cite an Indo-European civilization in which the wolf did not occupy a role of prominence. From the birth of Romulus and Remus and the foundation of Rome through to modern times, the wolf has always occupied an eminent position of privilege in the mind of the Indo-European. This is still evident today – even Hollywood cannot bypass the lonely figure of the wolf at night, for the werewolf has survived on in popular myth to this day. A number of important deities, ranging from Óðin to the Greek Apollo, can be found with a wolf by their side. That the wolf, and occasionally its canine cousin the dog, were important ritual animals cannot be doubted. At times though the important role of these animals crossed over from the natural world of the wilderness into the civilized world of man, where the boundaries between human and animal became blurred. One such occupant of this transitional space is the werewolf, another figure is that of the Nordic or Teutonic Berserker. Even older still, there is the tale of the Vrātya, dating back to the most archaic elements of Vedic society, almost completely buried by the past. The Berserker and the Vrātya together constitute what is perhaps one of the oldest Traditions, for both share a number of significant features in common, which can be found dispersed amongst other Indo-European peoples also; martial brotherhoods existed among the Greeks, Scythians, Persians, Dacians, Celts, and Germans in which initiates magically assumed lupine features.[1] Known partly for their fury in combat, partly for the use of magical means to subdue the enemy, these myths persist today in the popular myth of the werewolf. Whilst the literal rendition of the berserker is ‘warriors in shirts (sekr) of bear’, the berserkers were thought to be also able to shift their form into that of a wolf. [2] For the purpose of this writing, we will concentrate only on the symbolism of the wolf.

The fact that the Berserker was strongly connected to wolves as well as possessing the aforementioned association with bears is illustrated by the use of their alternative title ‘wolf-coat’.[3] It is probable that this name was used in connection with the wearing of some symbol of the wolf such as a wolfskin belt, for popular tradition in Norway records that ‘shape-changers’, were men who turned into beasts at night and would don a belt of wolfskin before they left the house.[4] The traditional garb of the wolf-skin coat is also attested to by the Hrafnsmál, a poem composed c. 900 CE, in which the Berserkers are described as the privileged warriors of Harald Fairhair of Vesthold in Norway; they are described as receiving rich gifts from the king because of their fierce fighting qualities, and also referred to as ‘wolf-coats’:[5]

          Wolf-coats are they called, those who bear swords

Stained with blood in the battle.

They redden spears when they come to the slaughter,

Acting together like one.[6]

The connection between the Berserker and lupine/canine symbolism can also be seen in the Icelandic Eddas which name Hundingr as the king of Hundland, “Dog-land”.[7] Similarly, the pre-tenth-century Anglo-Saxon Widsith mentions the Hundingar as a dog-headed people; while the “werewolf” (ulfhednar) military brotherhoods of the Germanic tribes elsewhere fought alongside “half-dogs” (halfhundingas).[8]

One of the prime roles of the Berserker was obviously predominantly connected to warfare, in which they were recorded as terrifying opponents in battle, fighting as neither man nor animal, but a creature that shared characteristics of both. The Ynglingasaga describes the Berserker as follows: “They went without shields, and were mad as dogs or wolves, and bit on their shields, and were as strong as bears or bulls; men they slew, and neither fire nor steel would deal them, and this called the fury of the berserker.”[9] This is also referred to as “to run berserk” (berserkgangr).[10] There is no doubt as to the fact that the Berserker was a fierce and frightening adversary – the questions remain in the significance of the wolf and the nature of the transformation itself – was it purely a tactical device to shock the enemy or was there a deeper reasoning behind this transformation that bordered on being one of spiritual essence? Georges Dumézil sees the process as a blend of the two, both tactical and spiritual.

The Ynglingasaga text above says much, but not enough: the connection the Óðin’s berserker had with wolves, bears, etc., was not only a resemblance in matters of force and ferocity; in a certain sense they were these animals themselves. Their furor exteriorized a second being which lived within themselves. The artifices of costume (cf. the tincta corpora of the Harii), the disguises to which the name berserker and its parallel ulf hednar (“men with wolf’s skin”) seem to allude, serve only to aid, to affirm this metamorphosis, to impress it upon friends and frightened enemies (again, cf. Tacitus, Germania, 38.4, in connection with the efforts of the Suebi to inspire terror).[11]  Another aspect of the Berserker, here named as Harji and described by Tacitus, provides a further citation in support of the use tactics to terrify the enemy.

They black their shields and dye their bodies black, and choose pitch nights for their battles. The terrifying shadow of such a fiendish army inspires a mortal panic, for no enemy can stand so strange and devilish sight.[12]

Not only does this paint a horrifying visage, it also attests to the vision of a demonic or magical attack, which takes place at night. The night, of course, is a time of sorcery and magic, which is also part of the imagery of the Berserker. The uses of animal motifs are a common feature of shamanic Traditions, with which the Nordic Tradition shares a number of features. In such a society, it was considered problematic to ascribe more than one ‘soul’ to a person. The “exterior form” however, was considered the most distinctive feature of the personality.[13] Dumézil elaborates on this by examining the linguistics of the root ‘hamr’ and examining its contextual usage in the imagery of the Berserker.

One Nordic word – with equivalents in Old English and Old German – immediately introduces the essential in these representations: hamr designates (1) a garment; (2) the “exterior form”; (3) (more often the derivative hamingja) “a spirit attached to an individual” (actually one of his souls; cf. hamingja, “chance”). There are some men, with little going for them, who are declared to be einhamr: they have only a single hamr; then some, aside from their heim-hamr (“own, fundamental exterior”), can take on other hamr through an action designated by the reflexive verb hama-sk; they are able to go about transformed (ham-hleypa). Now, the berserkr is the exemplary eigi einhamr, “the man who is not of a single hamr.”[14]

The meaning here is clear – two souls inhabit the one body. One is the spirit of a human, the other that of a wolf. The Berserker is thus not wholly man nor wholly animal – like his descendant the werewolf he is a liminal creature that exists in a twilight world where the boundaries between man and beast are ill-defined – yet both paths are closed to him, for the Berserker can never truly belong in either realm. Like the patron deity of the Berserker, Óðin, they are shamanic creatures associated with the extremities of normal modes of behavior, creating altered mind states. This aspect of the God Óðin is portrayed by the origins of his name itself, for the Germanic Wōðanaz comes from the Indo-European root ‘wat-’.[15] Not only is Óðin associated with the more cerebral modes of shamanism, the God is described in the Ynglingasaga as possessing the art of metamorphosis.[16] Óðin is there described as possessing the power to change appearance and form at will.[17] Though this skill is found to a lesser degree in the portrayal of the Berserker, it seems they have gained the ability to possess two souls within one body, and consequentially the ability to fluctuate between them, as a reflex of their association with Óðin who is the patron deity of the Berserker. The Old Norse Berserker stands clearly in an ancient tradition of warriors who were shape-changers, capable of transforming themselves into raging wolves in battle.[18]

It has previously been surmised by authors that the Berserker is unique to the Germanic and Nordic Traditions. This is, however, an incorrect assumption for an analogous cognate to the figure of the Berserker can found in an extremely archaic component of the Vedic religion. This obscure entity, of whom many facets of their rituals and existence remains unknown, is the called by the title of Vrātya. Until recent times so little has been known about the history of the Vrātya that they were assumed to be little more than a collection of outcasts from Vedic culture, dwelling in the forests and on the other fringes of acceptable society and that they were both revered and reviled. It was even once assumed that the Vrātya were non-Indo-European in origin. Whilst this statement can now be presumed false, it is certainly true that both elements of Tantrism and Yoga can be found in the practices of the Vrātya, who may well have represented a shamanic or proto-yogic contingency of the Kṣatriya caste. Evidence of a connection between the practices of the Vrātya and those found in Tantrism and Yoga can be seen in the fact that an entire book of the Atharva Veda (XV) is devoted to them, and within it statements can be found saying that the Vrātya were practitioners of asceticism, were familiar with a discipline of breaths and used to homologise their bodies with the macrocosm.[19] Eliade even goes so far as to state that is permissible to suppose that the Vrātyas represented a mysterious brotherhood belonging to the advance guard of the Āryans.[20] In 1962 new evidence was also brought to light by Jan Heesterman describing the Vrātya as an extremely archaic component of Vedic sacrificial society whose role was gradually phased out with the rise of the Brahmin varṇa as sacrificial specialists.[21] In this article, Heesterman submits the hypothesis that the Vrātyas were then degraded in the later literature and cast in an antinomian, anti-Brahmanic mold, with their sattra rites surviving in Vedic initiation rites and in the vrata, or vow of the brahmacārin, the Vedic student.[22] Likewise in the Indra Śunaḥsakha, there is a reference to the Vrātyas, which claims that their socio-religious status was once as lofty as that of the Brahmins.[23] With the rise of the Brahmin caste, the Vrātyas role in ritual was lessened, eventually, to such a point that term itself became degraded and the Vrātya themselves were judged to be ritually impure. This decline is attested to by the fact that there is a ritual that is specifically performed to restore the members of the Vrātya back to Brahmanic society, removing the impurity from their former actions.

Like the Berserkers, the Vrātyas are sometimes referred to as dogs in a number of passages. The most striking of these is a passage in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad. The passage is entitled the “[Samavedic] Chant of the Dogs.”[24] The Vrātya are not only strongly associated with canine imagery (the texts repeatedly refer to them as ‘Dogs’) they are also strongly connected with the Vedic god Rudra, who acts not only as the God of the forest but also as the deity connected with shamanism and storm – much like the gods Nordic equivalent Óðin. Falk goes one step further in the comparison of the two deities, stating that the twelve-day sacrifices of the Vedic Vrātyas were the ritual cognate of other Indo-European phenomena, including the Roman Lupercalia and the twelve nights of Christmas, in which the wild hunter Wode-Wodin roared through the forests of northern Europe.[25] Furthermore, when the Vrātyas slay a cow on Rudra’s behalf, they are said to be his “dogs” or “wolves”, and lupine or canine symbolism is nearly as abundant in the Vedic Rudra’s case as it is in that of Indra.[26] Parallels between the cults of Rudra, the wild hunter of the forest, and those of the Germanic Óðin/Wodin, as well as the Iranian Aešma and a number of other Indo-European gods associated with the twelve nights of midwinter, are also significant here.[27]

 There is a common element in the symbolism of what we have examined thus far – the Berserker, the Vrātya are both a type of people who do not fit into the roles of normal civilians. Both the Berserker and the Vrātya were simultaneously feared and revered by the community. As strong figures skilled in magic and warfare, the public admired them; but there was also a sentiment of fear aroused by these figures. Firstly they feared their power, which was not always completely under the control of the Berserker. There was always danger associating with them, for their animal nature, like that of the wolf is unpredictable, and unlike its canine cousin, the wolf has not been domesticated. It is, therefore, dangerous. This attitude of ambiguity towards the Berserker and the Vrātya also extended into other areas – it seems that both figures existed in a boundary line between clearly defined caste roles. They are a synthesis between members of the warrior caste and the priest caste, in both the Hindu and Nordic caste systems. Given that the Vrātya is a particularly archaic figure, this suggests that the original legacy of both the Vrātya and the Berserker may have its roots in a time prior to the separation (and consequential antagonism) of the two primary castes. They seemed to operate under a dual role of being a warrior that is also a magician – this is especially clear in the Nordic mythos in which the Berserker are depicted as the comrades of Óðin, and in the case of the Vrāyta it is also clearly stated by Heesterman that they were early figure of the Vedic priesthood that came to be replaced by the rise of the Brāhmaṇa caste. Also, in the symbol of the hamr or outer garment, we see a dual symbolism taking place – two souls inhabit one body, one wolf, one human. The Vrātya and the Berserker are rightly classified as never being one or the other, but a dangerous synthesis of the two. All three of these issues can be expressed by a simple concept – the symbolism of the Vrātya and the Berserker is always liminal. The word liminal signifies a ‘between state’ and was coined by Arnold van Gennep to explain states which are ‘in-between’ or ambiguous.

The attributes of liminality or of liminal personae (“threshold people”) are necessarily ambiguous since this condition and these persons elude or slip through the network of classifications that normally locate states and positions in cultural space. Liminal entities are neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremonial.[28]

Such states, furthermore, are not only broadly characteristic of the character of individuals; liminality can be seen in terms of times and events. Anything transitory can be a liminal moment – examples of this can be the transition periods of the day to night (dawn and/or dusk) or specifically in the case of the Vrātya and the Berserker during the times when it is indistinguishable as to whether they are human or lupine in nature. One such example of the transition between day and night being connected with the metamorphosis of the Berserker can be seen in Egil’s Saga which records the life of a “retired” Berserker named Úlfr:

After many glorious campaigns, he married, enhanced his welfare, kept himself busy with his fields, his animals, his workshops, and won wide esteem for the good counsel that he distributed so liberally. “But sometimes when evening fell, he became umbrageous (styggr) and few men could converse with him then; he dozed through the evening (var hann kveldsvaefr); the rumor spread that he was hamrammr (that is, that he was metamorphosed and going about in the night); he received the name Kveldúlfr, Wolf of the Evening.”[29]

In this extract it is amply illustrated that the Berserker was dangerous even when he no longer occupied the role of being a Berserker; even in ‘retirement’, the Berserker remains in a liminal role, separated from the normal modes of civilization. The transformation itself, being of the period from day to night may have also had echoes with the Vrātya whose secret rituals in the forest were replicas of the solar year, performed in winter to restore the power of the sun. In the above extract, however, a clear difference between the Berserker and the Vrātya can be seen – the Berserker, though “retired” has not completely returned to normal society, whereas a former member of the Vrātya is ceremonially restored and purified before reentering Brahmanic society. It is the liminal nature of their being that makes them dangerous; paradoxically it is also the liminal nature of their being that empowers them. Another illustration of a liminal period can be seen in psychological states – for example, an initiate prior to the performance of an initiation ritual is thought to be a normal person, after the ritual, a change of some kind is presumed to have taken place in the psyche of the initiate. Although little is known of the initiatory practices of the Vrātya, the Volsunga Saga describes what Eliade believes to be an initiation process for the Berserker.

The initiatory themes here are obvious: the test of courage, resistance to physical suffering, followed by magical transformation into a wolf. But the compiler of the Volsunga Saga was no longer aware of the original meaning of the transformation. Sigmund and Sinfjotli find the skins by chance and do not know how to take them off. Now transformation into a wolf- that is, the ritual donning of a wolfskin – constituted the essential moment of initiation into a secret men’s society. By putting on the skin, the initiate assimilated the behavior of a wolf; in other words, he became a wild beast warrior, irresistible and invulnerable. ‘Wolf’ was the appellation of the members of the Indo-European military societies.[30]

The event here that Eliade is relating to, and consequentially perceiving as an initiatory rite occurs early in the Saga, and can be found in the tale in which Sigmund and Sinfjotli dress in wolf-skins.

 One time, they went again to the forest to get themselves some riches, and they found a house. Inside it was two sleeping men, with thick gold rings. A spell had been cast upon them: wolfskins hung over them in the house and only every tenth day could they shed the skins. They were the sons of kings. Sigmund and Sinfjotli put the skins on and could not get them off. And the weird power was there as before: they howled like wolves, both understanding the sounds.[31]

The fact that the transformation is not purely physical is alluded to by the fact that once they wore the wolfskins, they no longer communicated as men, but instead “howled like wolves”. Furthermore, they understood the meaning behind the sounds, which means that it was not simply mimicry of the wolves howling; it was being used as a form of communication. This indicates that during the process Sigmund and Sinfjotli were not just imitating the form of the wolf – a psychological change had also taken place, allowing them to think like a wolf. The fact that the two men described sleeping here have thick gold rings may also be of significance –however, the translation of the Volsunga Saga cited does not describe the location of the two rings. In another description of the Berserker, we find a clear mention of rings, not gold but iron, and they are also connected with the initiatory rites of the Berserker. In a passage on the Chatti, a Germanic tribe described by Tacitus in the first century, the following quote can be found.

They wore iron rings around their necks, and could only discard these after they had killed an enemy. Some indeed chose to wear them all their life, as long as they could go on fighting, and ‘to such old warriors it always rests to begin battle’.[32]

Thus the rings around the necks of the sleeping may not be purely ornamental, but rather an indication of status. As the translation consulted did not mention the location of the rings nothing definite can be concluded, however. It is not specified in the text as to whether these rings in the Volsunga Saga were worn around the neck or upon the hand. It seems likely, however, that in the context of the Saga, these would have been neck rings, which are worn by the Berserker to show their bondage to the God Óðin. Without a description of the location of the rings, however, nothing definite can be concluded in this regard.

The danger of the wolfskins and their ambiguous role in society is also related in the tale of Sinfjotli and Sigmund. The animal nature of the wolf is not always fully under control, and this can be seen in the extract from the Volsunga Saga in which Sigmund attacks Sinfjotli.

“You accepted help to kill seven men. I am a child in age next to you, but I did not ask for helping in killing eleven men.” Sigmund leapt at him so fiercely the Sinfjotli staggered and fell. Sigmund bit him in the windpipe. That day they were not able to come out of the wolfskins. Sigmund laid Sinfjotli over his shoulder, carried him home to the hut, and sat over him. He cursed the wolfskins, bidding the trolls to take them.[33]

The nature of the man is at times, in contrast with the nature of the wolf. The wolf nature in combat is extremely valuable, it is a great power. If it is not fully controlled, however, it can become a great curse, as was seen from the tale of Úlfr, the retired Berserker. Here we also see the wolf skins being cursed, and indeed, once Sinfjotli and Sigmund succeed in removing the wolfskins, they burn them in the fire.

Then they went to the underground dwelling and stayed there until they were to take off the wolfskins. They took the skins and burned them in the fire, hoping that these objects would cause no further harm.[34]

To conclude, there seems to be little room for doubt that there is a justified case for a comparison between the Berserker and the figure of the Vrātya – both occupy a similar dual role, as warrior and priest or shaman. Both were not only respected by the populace at large but were also feared by them. They also share the canine and/or lupine symbolism, and both are associated with similar deities, for Rudra and Óðin also share a number of common features. Perhaps the main difference between the two figures lies in the contrast between their roles over an extended period of time (bearing in mind the Vrātya existed at the most basic level of the Vedic substratum, making them extremely archaic). The Berserker did not suffer from the same social stigma as the figure of the Vrātya. A retired Berserker was feared, lest he continues to transform against his will, but he was not regarded as an object of ‘impurity’ as the Vrātya came to be regarded. The Vrātya, perhaps due to the nature of some of their rituals, probably clashed directly with the rise of the Brahmin caste, for some early textual references afford the Vrātya an extremely high social status – in subsequent texts from the later Vedic period, the Vrātya is regarded to be almost totally impure and not much better regarded than the average outcast from society. The Berserker seems to have been spared this degradation in regards to his social position. In terms of direct comparison between the two, the most important factor, other than the obvious link to the wolf, is the liminal nature of their role. As previously stated, they predate the Vedic separation of the primary castes and thus occupy a position which is neither priest nor warrior. Similarly, the Berserker contains two souls; one wolf and one human – again his nature is liminal, for he cannot be said to be either fully beast nor fully man. Though it cannot be stated at this point whether or not the Vrātya also used a form of shape-shifting in battle, they are also recorded as wolves or dogs and utilized the wilderness of the forest for ritual performance. Although this form of liminality cannot be verified for certain, what is certain is that they also occupied a dualistic role, being both pure and impure. Thus they can also be said to occupy a liminal role, of dangerous unpredictable ambiguity.

This article is featured in Primordial Traditions.



[1] White, D. G., Myths of the Dog-Man (US: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 27.

[2] Eliade, M., Essential Sacred Writings From Around the World (US: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992), 294.

[3] Ellis Davidson, H. R., Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe: Early Scandinavian and Celtic Religions (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1988), 79.

[4] Ibid., 79.

[5] Ibid., 79.

[6] Ibid., 79.

[7] White, D. G., Myths of the Dog-Man (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1991), 61.

[8] Ibid., 61.

[9] Eliade, M., Essential Sacred Writings From Around the World, 294.

[10] Ellis Davidson, H. R, Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe: Early Scandinavian and Celtic Religions, 80.

[11] Dumézil, G., The Destiny of the Warrior (US: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 141.

[12] Ellis Davidson, H. R., Gods and Myths of Northern Europe (UK: Penguin Books, 1964), 67.

[13] Dumézil, G., The Destiny of the Warrior, 141.

[14] Ibid., 141-142.

[15] Gerstein, M. R., The Germanic Warg: The Outlaw as Werewolf in ed. Larson, G.J., Myth in Indo-European Antiquity (UK: University of California Press, 1974), 143.

[16] Dumézil, G., The Destiny of the Warrior, 142.

[17] Ibid., 143.

[18] Gerstein, M. R., The Germanic Warg: The Outlaw as Werewolf in Myth in Indo-European Antiquity, 156.

[19] Eliade, M, trans. Trask, W. R., Yoga: Immortality and Freedom (US: Princeton University Press, 1990), 103.

[20] Ibid., 105.

[21] White, D. G., Myths of the Dog-Man (US: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 96.

[22] Ibid., 96.

[23] Ibid., 100.

[24] Ibid., 96.

[25] Ibid., 98.

[26] Ibid., 101.

[27] Ibid., 101.

[28] Turner, V. W., The Ritual Process (US: Aldine Publishing Company, 1995), 95.

[29] Dumézil, G., The Destiny of the Warrior (US: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 142.

[30] Eliade, M., Essential Sacred Writings From Around the World (US: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992), 296.

[31] Byock, L. J., trans., The Saga of the Volsungs (UK: Penguin Books, 1990), 44.

[32] Ellis Davidson, H. R, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe (UK: Penguin Books, 1964), 66.

[33] Byock, L. J., trans., The Saga of the Volsungs (UK: Penguin Books, 1990), 45.

[34] Ibid., 45.