I know I said that there would be no more posts. However, today is the first day of Yule, and I worked on this earlier in the year, so I felt it would be appropriate to share it. Yule blessings to you all. What follows is a play I wrote for young children to enact, in a similar way to a nativity would be for Christians. So, enjoy!

—

Title: The First Yule

Characters:

Narrator – Guides the story.

Eira – A curious child of the village.

Bjorn – Eira’s older brother.

Mother Alva – Village elder.

Sunne – Bright, warm character.

Mōna – Calm, silvery character.

Wōden – Playful, mysterious, chilly.

Deer, Bear, Owl, Fox – Forest animals.

Villagers – Group ensemble.

—

Scene 1 – The Longest Night

(Stage: dim lighting, fake snow falling, villagers huddled by a small fire.)

Narrator:
Long ago, in a land of frost and forests, came a night longer than all the others. Sunne had gone to rest, and the people waited for her return.

Eira:
Bjorn, do you think Sunne will ever come back?

Bjorn:
She always has… but this night feels colder.

Mother Alva:
Children, gather close. The longest night is here. We must keep the fire alive until dawn, so that Sunne knows we are waiting.

—

Song 1 – “Keep the Fire Bright” (Gentle, swaying rhythm)

Verse 1:
Keep the fire bright tonight,
In the darkness, hold the light.
Round the circle, hearts will glow,
Through the falling, silent snow.

Verse 2:
When the wind is cold and near,
Hold each other, banish fear.
Every spark that warms the air
Sends a message: we still care.

Chorus:
Keep the fire bright, keep the fire warm,
Through the longest night, through the winter storm.
Every flame we guard will show the way,
Until golden Sunne returns one day.

—

Narrator:
And so they kept watch. But the night seemed endless… until a voice called from the shadows.

—

Scene 2 – The Visitors

(Wōden enters, swirling in white scarves with a bushy white beard and a white eye-patch.)

Wōden:
Why do you wait, little ones? Sunne has traveled far away. She may not return unless you call her.

Eira:
How do we call Sunne?

Wōden:
You must remind her why the world needs light — with gifts, songs, and joy.

(Mōna enters, silver light follows.)

Mōna:
I can help you travel to find my sister, Sunne. But you must bring something from your world to show her she is loved.

—

Song 2 – “Bring a Gift for Sunne” (Bright, bouncy tune)

Verse 1:
Bring Sunne a gift for her to keep,
Through the nights when days are deep.
Something warm and something true,
To guide the morning’s golden hue.

Verse 2:
Gifts of love and gifts of cheer,
Things to keep the sunlight near.
Carry hope through frosty skies,
Till the golden dawn will rise.

Chorus:
Bring Sunne a gift, sing it loud and clear,
Let the warmth return, let the day be near.
With a song and smile, we will make her stay,
Till the winter night turns to golden day.

—

Narrator:
The villagers agreed. Eira and Bjorn would go, guided by Mōna and Wōden.

—

Scene 3 – The Journey

Narrator: Mōna shone his silvery light upon the dark forest and Eira and Bjorn saw an entrance through the trees leading into the heart of the forest. Wōden blew hard, shaking the frost free of the leaves and made the path safe to travel.

(Forest backdrop. Deer, Bear, Owl, and Fox enter.)

Eira:
We need gifts to bring Sunne back to us. Can you help us?

Deer:
Take my antler bell — it will ring with joy.

Bear:
Take my honeycomb — it will taste of summer.

Owl:
Take my feather — it will remind Sunne of wisdom.

Fox:
Take my berries — red as fire.

Bjorn:
Thank you, friends. These will show Sunne why the world misses her so.

—

Scene 4 – Meeting Sunne

Narrator:
As the children collect their gifts, they travel deep into the forest, finding themselves at the very heart of winter. As snow swirls about them, they call out to Sunne in desperation!

All: Sunne! Sunne! (Invite the audience to join in)

(Golden light fills the stage. Sunne enters. The snow and wind recedes.)

Sunne:
Who comes to my resting place?

Eira:
We are from the village. The night is long and cold. We bring gifts so you’ll know how much you are needed.

(They present the gifts.)

Sunne:
A bell for joy, honey for summer, a feather for wisdom, berries for fire! Your gifts warm me! But what warms me most… is your love.

—

Song 3 – “Come Back, Sunne” (Cheerful, hopeful tune)

Verse 1:
Come back, Sunne, across the sky,
Wake the streams and fields nearby.
Shine on forests, warm the snow,
Help the sleeping seedlings grow.

Verse 2:
Every heart is waiting here,
Through the frost, we keep you near.
We will sing until you rise,
Golden reflections in our eyes.

Chorus:
Come back, Sunne, come back and stay,
Chase the longest night away.
Fill the earth with warmth and cheer,
Till we greet another year.

—

Sunne:
I will return, but only if you promise to remember this night each year with fire, feasting, and songs.

Bjorn:
We promise.

(Bjorn and Eira return through the forest as Sunne smiles happily, feeling loved)

—

Scene 5 – The First Yule

(Stage returns to the village. Fire large, villagers dancing.)

Narrator:
And so Sunne rose the next morning, and the people named the night before it Yule, the night they welcomed the light back into the world. All around their homes they found small gifts in twinkling, brightly wrapped boxes.

Wōden, now dressed in greens and browns as Father Yule:
I bring you all gifts to remind you to remember to seek out the light in the deepest of winter, for light brings hope and that may never be defeated!

Mother Alva:
From this day, every year, we will light the Yule fire, sing the Yule songs, and share food and joy, to call Sunne home.

—

Song 4 – “Yule is Here” (Festive, clapping beat)

Verse 1:
Yule is here, the fire’s aglow,
Laughter rings through frost and snow.
Friends and family gather near,
Sharing warmth through all the year.

Verse 2:
Tables full and hearts so light,
Candles dancing through the night.
Voices join in songs so clear,
Welcoming the sunlight here.

Chorus:
Yule is here, oh Yule is here,
The season’s joy is bright and clear.
Raise your voices, all will cheer,
For golden Sunne and the turning year!

—

Narrator:
And that is how Yule began — not just as a festival of light, but as a promise to keep hope alive through the darkest night.

All Together:
Happy Yule!

(Lights fade, firelight glows, soft snow falls.)

— End —

This blog will shortly become dormant and no new posts will be made. Thanks for all the support over the years. It will be left up for perpetuity as I recognise that there are some who may still use it as a resource. May the ways of Wyrd take you, ever as it shall.

In the alleys where silence festers,
in the corners where light does not reach,
the repressed, the scorned, the uncounted ones
gather with voices hoarse from exile.

They know the cruel geometry of power,
how some are pressed beneath the weight
of doors never opened, of ears never bent.
And so they bend their prayers
toward the figures who laugh in ruin,
who promise no justice, only fire,
and the sweet, terrible taste of recognition.

Chaos listens where we have not.
The misunderstood find their mirror
in its broken glass,
and the reviled taste welcome
in the mouths of the monstrous.

Yet what grows there is not freedom,
but teeth sharpened on despair,
and the world itself reels
when such altars blaze unchecked.

If we, who dwell in higher halls,
would loosen our grip on gates and thrones,
if we would widen the table,
extend the bread, the breath, the belonging,
then the weary would not need
to drink from poisoned chalices.

Inclusion is not charity but safeguard,
a weaving of bonds against the storm.
For every soul given dignity
is one less voice in the chorus of shadows,
and every hand welcomed into the circle
is one less fist raised to ash the earth.

Many people trying to live an ancestral or reconstructed path (like Fyrnsidu) face challenges when community and private time are limited. Praxis doesn’t have to be big or public because it can live in the smallest rhythms of your day. Here are some approaches that may help:


Start with the mindset

Fyrnsidu at its root is about living in frið (peace, right relation) with gods, ancestors, wīhta, and your community (human and other-than-human). Even if you lack outward ritual space, your daily orientation toward these beings is already a form of praxis.

– A silent greeting in the morning to the wīhta, Sunne or Dæg.

– A whispered thanks to your ancestors before eating.

– Keeping truth, loyalty, and hospitality alive in your interactions.

Micro-rituals woven into daily life

When you don’t have solitude or time for full ceremonies, small consistent acts can substitute:

– Water & flame offerings: a candle or even a cup of water set aside on a windowsill as a gesture to the holy powers.

– Food portioning: before meals, silently set aside a crumb or drop in honour of the gods or ancestors (dispose respectfully later outdoors if possible).

– Breath-prayer: choose a short phrase like “Hail to the gods, hail to the wights, hail to my kin” and repeat mentally when washing hands, walking, or doing chores.

Household devotion

Even if your family doesn’t share your faith, you can honour the household wights quietly:

– Keep the home clean as a sacred duty.

– Offer the first sip of a drink or bite of bread discreetly at the table.

– Tend a plant or tree as a “shrine in plain sight.”

Ancestor connection without obvious ritual

Carry a photo, heirloom, or even a written name in your wallet.

Mentally “update” them about your day in spare moments.

Light a small tealight in their honour while doing something mundane, like washing dishes.

Community when you have none nearby

Look for online Fyrnsidu or Heathen groups (Discord servers, forums, or BlueSky groups) for learning and virtual kinship.

Build a personal calendar of holy tides (e.g., Eostre, Midsomer, Winterfylleð) and mark them quietly, even if you can’t celebrate outwardly.

Read Old English poetry (like The Exeter Book or Beowulf) as devotion. This connects you with the cultural spirit of the path.

Sacred habits as offerings

Even if invisible to others, everyday practices can be devotional:

– Speaking truth, avoiding unnecessary harm.

– Cooking meals with mindfulness as an offering to household spirits.

– Walking outside and acknowledging the land’s spirit silently.

In conclusion

The key is: praxis doesn’t require elaborate ritual, space, or visible symbols. It thrives in intention, repetition, and living in right relationship. Your practice can be entirely inward and still be authentic.

I made an oath with hope,
not for power,
not for pride,
but to steady a trembling hand,
to ease a fearful night,
to turn wrong into right
or at least try.

Yet now my steps echo irony.
I enter a room and hesitate,
not from danger,
but from the wary eyes that measure me,
seeing not my heart,
but the headlines,
the shadows of uniforms not mine.

I wanted to be a bridge.
Instead, I find myself
an unchosen symbol,
a story already written
before I speak.

And so I bite back words,
polish my silence smooth,
lest honesty offend,
lest the mere shape of my profession
be mistaken for arrogance.

Still, beneath it all,
the reason remains
to help,
to shield,
to serve in ways that matter.

If only hope
were not so easily tarred,
if only a badge
could shine without
carrying the weight
of every wound it never caused.

So I walk the thin line,
between what I meant
and what they see,
between wanting to heal
and being feared,
still holding fast
to the stubborn belief
that light is worth carrying
even when it burns

Beneath the streetlamps’ patient glow,
I walk where shadows gather slow.
The town still hums, its heart at rest,
Yet I must guard at law’s behest.

For every call, each watchful round,
I tread on unconsecrated ground.
Not temples high, nor mead-hall’s floors,
But tarmacked lanes and darkened moors.

Still, Justice speaks in ancient breath,
From ages carved in runes of death.
Tīw, whose hand upheld the scale,
Whose honour stood when courage failed.

He binds my oath as once he bound
The wolf with faith, though fate unwound.
His gift was truth, his pledge was clear:
To face the dark and master fear.

So I, in steel and woven thread,
Bear shield unseen against faceless dread.
Each siren’s wail, each whispered plea,
A vow renewed to guard the free.

I do not judge, I do not reign,
But walk the line ‘twixt peace and pain.
Through weary nights, through dawn’s first flame,
I serve the law in Tīw’s great name.

Beneath the storm-crowned sky he stands,
Hammer in hand, the friend of man.
Not bound by blood, nor tribe, nor name,
His oath is shield, his fire the same.

When tyrants rise with iron bands,
When shadows clutch at hopeful hands,
He thunders forth, a clarion call:
No chain shall bind, no soul shall fall.

His lightning speaks in tongues of flame,
Not marking difference, not laying blame.
Each heart that dares, each voice that cries,
He lifts toward unbroken skies.

Children of earth, both far and near,
Of every colour, faith, and sphere
Stand tall, take courage, do not yield,
For Þunor walks the battlefield.

He is the storm that clears the air,
The vow that all may rise and dare,
A god, a guide, a timeless friend,
Whose strength is yours until the end.

Beneath the spinning loom of night,
she weaves with hands both fierce and light,
a mother’s heart, a sovereign’s mind,
threads of fate through all mankind.

She holds the hearth, the guarded flame,
yet whispers storms that none can tame,
her softness shelters, calm and deep,
where children rest, where warriors sleep.

No crown of steel, no sharpened blade,
but strength in vows that will not fade,
her power dwells in quiet things
a word, a glance, the web she sings.

Through mist and silence, future hides,
but Frīg alone the veil divides,
she sees the path, yet will not tell,
the secret kept within her spell.

Oh goddess vast, both stern and mild,
protector, prophet, mother, wild
you teach the world what women bear:
a tender strength beyond compare.

Oh Sunne, golden goddess, rising flame,
your chariot wheels sing the morning’s name.
Through cloud and shadow your fire breaks free,
a gift of warmth to land and sea.

You touch the fields, and seeds awake,
you paint the sky for the dawn to take.
The coldest stone, the darkest night,
all yield before your steadfast light.

No border binds your radiant gaze,
no tongue can limit your endless praise.
From desert sands to the northern snows,
wherever we wander, your blessing goes.

In every heart you plant a spark,
a quiet flame to guide through dark.
Hope is the harvest your presence sows,
the promise that life forever grows.

So let us lift our eyes above,
to greet your warmth, your gift, your love.
For Sunne shines in every breath we live,
and asks only this: receive, and give.