Saga

Welcome to saga craft myths, fairytales, legends stories, comfort us, inspire us and heal us. Please join us. As we share our stories, both old and new, more than anything, we are open to the story and it's unfolding at times. It may be one story told by one person at times it's the same story told through three different voices.

In the end, we go where the story takes us and we invite you to follow. I'm Sea a writer, artist, and storyteller. I'm Betsy, a medium and teacher of mystery traditions. I'm Gabriella, an artist and practitioner of folk magic. We are magical fairy godmothers in training. Today, we are talking about our namesake Saga. This is the story that Saga gave me about herself while I was standing in a clearing in the presence of very large trees.

Everywhere you look there is a story. It can be a story brought by the North wind. Stories from the North come from the land of the dead and the ancestors. It can be a story of trees, the story of the wins or a story of those who carry the wins, the great spirits themselves. These stories are mysterious, friendly, improbable, and even impossible.

Somewhere, every story is true. Start with stories of trees, how they support each other with the roots sharing nutrients and what they have trying to keep each other alive and thriving trees are amazing. Examples of currents, how are power and energies that rise up and draw down or. These currents of power are everywhere in this world.

And in all the worlds in the cold worlds, it's the power of ice and frost in the hot worlds. It's the power of fire and heat in those worlds. If there's something that can burn, it will burn. So in these worlds powers are emotional in the world. The veneer, it is the pulse, the heartbeat and life force of the mother and the thrusting thriving energy of the father that creates transformation and fosters life.

It is the magic of the earth and of the green. The world's won't thrive without the DC here, who are the mothers of continuing life. We serve in all the worlds before us. We're the vets here, the earth mothers holding all of these worlds is the great three . This tree still stands because of the Norns, the shapers of destiny who water the roots from the well of origin and apply the glowing white silk that strengthens the tree of life.

The dragon buried in the earth below the tree. Choose the tree roots. This dragon Nidhogg. Align the follows its instincts in the dark as we would, if we never opened our eyes, see what the possibilities are. He is the powerful father of the dragon sickness, which is greed the DC near the nor near the editors.

And grandmothers know that this blind greed is the dragon story. He who is below Electra. Silver will never open his eyes to see new possibilities. In other worlds, dragons have other possibilities, the possibilities of transforming desire into higher qualities. In other worlds, trees have other stories.

They can be life givers and life takers. They require respect, which they are not always given. They perpetuate life. Odin is like that. Odin is like a great tree, a walking tree, a wandering tree Odin can shelter. Odin can give life. Odin can lengthen life and he can take life. Odin is the father tree. It found the life that's trees on the shore and saw in them humans who had nothing who had another life, no breath, no dreams, no context.

His intervention brought them out of nowhere and into somewhere. He gave then as trees can now give so much to us. Ax handles for the ax stuffs for walking or walking between worlds Spears that allow us to hunt man or beast walls and roof to support life with shelter. Furniture to provide comfort for the body and coffins to hold the body.

When that time is right and necessary fuel for the fire. Remember wood without life is fuel for the fire. If you don't become infused with life, you are fuel for the fire. My name is saga. I'm one of the DC here before that, a land vet here and now a friend of Odin at night, I sit with Odin at soak for back by the streaming waterfall.

He tells a story. I tell a story, we create a story together. We drink need. And infuse life in stories. We perpetuate life in this way, in all the worlds some nights, this is so joyful. Our evening conversations might go like this Odin. What are you in need of tonight? The need of poetry. Of ecstasy water from the well of origin or remembrance some nights, he knows exactly what he wants.

Sunlight's I must cook sin because he is so unsettled. It is bound up in his own nature. He's the tree holding up the worlds at heart. He's a wonder Walker of the worlds. He can travel with his spirit, but not with his body because he is bound. He holds up the lives of all the worlds saga. I feel tonight that Nidhogg, the dragon has almost chewed through the roots of the tree.

He has own those freed me. Does he drink from the Wells that are down there with him? Does he remember the other worlds that he will never see? What will he be doing at Ragnar rock? Does he break free? Does he free me? Does he not drink? I wait until the worlds and to walk free Odin, what story? Right. Shall it be of dwarves of elves? Of giants? Of your Ravens ? Or of the Norns, Saga, who shaped the world as much as I did, who laid upon me a desire to be free? We can tell stories of the world shapers or Odin. We could tell a story of a competition. Of poets, Norse Icelander Dane or sphere, which other poetic specialty be mythic, heroic, spiritual.

All right. Saga Norse. And Icelander a poetic competition about a great voyage. The story must begin with the tree in order for them to it'd be a great voyage. There must be shifts in order for there to be ships, the trees must be chosen and asked. Are you willing to become a wanderer? If they are, then those planks will be alive with purpose and with the life force of the tree, those that say no, may still be taken and they become the planks of death.

Trees that say yes are born again into a new life. This will shape the voyage. We tell stories of desire of loss, of heartbreak, of discovery, of heroism. What we don't talk about is creating new worlds for these worlds bind. After the binding is the long, long wait for the unravel, or that is what we do each night.

We wait and we tell stories, our stories shape the worlds world shaping and making is binding. It binds the maker to the world. Saga. What have I done? My freedom? Yes, I would in unusual have it, but not yet. Not tonight. Tonight is another story, which will it be a secret? Is that every world has an avatar of Odin.

It's the only way he can survive being a creator of the worlds. But that is another story. The end. Thank you, Betsy. That was absolutely beautiful. My story is not only about saga, but it's about you and B and all of us. You would think the story is about me saga, but it's more about you and always will be about you and her.

And so many others. It's about our stories and dreams together and how they intercept and flow further down to stream to branch out, to make more dreams and stories for you are the fire. You are the storm. You are the dream that is weighted to be born. Where do you want to go next to my dear saga? That all father asks playfully though, here he is not the all father, but who would be the enjoyer of a fine meat and an even finer story, which I just finished sharing with him.

Is it that time again, I laugh fully aware that it is always time for a new chapter and what part I might play in it. He knows my fondness for me and spirits, as he gazes into the well and search of my new destination, I can feel the water stir and swirl pulling me under their influence as my own desires, arise to the surface and flow together with the waves as petition for something becoming clear.

I don't just want to work at a bar this time. I want to own one. I request as I search my own earnings and part I am to play. And this next story induced by the swishing sounds of the water. Oh, that's a new and interesting ask. Why is that Odin inquires so I can have more control over the drink menu. Of course I reply knowing somehow that is not the only reason I wouldn't lift an eyebrow.

It will be harder to find, but surely something must be available as long as you are not too picky about the name I chuckle. He is right though. Some names simply will not do he gazes deeper into the moving waters? Has I beginning to focus in on something intently? I hear a deep wave in the water and my heart quickens.

He has found it. Uh, the Misty Inn an in and a bar it's on a rainy side of the Northern part of the Appalachian mountains, small town, the bar owners retiring and has wanted to sell for some time, lots of rain, middle of nowhere. I close my eyes as the place he describes, begins to drift into my vision and I can get a sense of it more clearly.

It's perfect. And since it's in the middle of nowhere, I will not go without a horse. Odin winks as you wish. My lady, the clouds begin to shift and swirl, and just like that, my journey down begins. My horse is allowed golden colored motorcycle fast and fear is as good as any horse I've ever had. The pleasure of writing Odin.

Wasn't kidding about the rain. The night of my arrival was as wet as the bottom of the sea and windy too. I, of course didn't mind as it made for a more dramatic entrance worthy of my rank, my thick cloak, like a cloud itself, shielding my now human body from the cold and rain. I was the only overnight guest at the mysteries.

In that night. I slept hard and deep in a soft bed as the rain dance across my window. Quieting steadily. As I drifted into dreams told me what I needed to know about the town, the Inn and the land itself. In the morning I met Misty, the owner or of the bar. She was a hard, but not unkind woman who looked me straight in the eye.

Why would you want to buy a bar here? Pretty young thing. Like you ha if only she knew how old I was. You would do much better somewhere in a bigger city, more customers, better looking customers and even better tips. She went on and on almost trying to talk me out of it, testing my intentions. I am looking to start a new chapter and I don't want lots of customers or tips.

I just want something to call my own for now. And I don't mind the rain I told her and most of those things were true. She looks at me, steadily her wrinkled face, looking into mine, reading my features. I will do right by you. Trust me. I let her hear my thoughts. As I gazed back, she didn't ask any more questions and her mind was made up.

She is yours. Then be good to her. As she has been to me, she said, and sold me the place. The patrons of mysteries in were drifters. Mostly people traveling between one town to another. Their stories mingled together. Like the lines of old wild roads that ran between the mountain ranges. Some of them were running from something or someone, others by some coincidence stuff, shopping by tired of traveling through the bad weather needing to ride.

I listened to their stories intently if they shared them. And there are the regulars to those who lived in town comforted by the familiar setting of miss in old wooden bar and soft lighting caught between longing for a future that is not likely to come. And the past that holds a much brighter hue, the longer it's behind them, their tails, as strong as their favorite drinks, which I craft with as much care and attentiveness that I give to their stories.

No matter how many times I hear them amused by the embellishments and colors added to them at each turn. But then I have something to do with that. Their story slide up differently when they share them with me. I wonder sometimes what they must think about me. If they look deeper, my red hair woven into a long braid, my strange pale blue eyes or my voice with an accent, they can never place, but then they don't really ask.

They feel comfortable at my table. They enjoy the company and the meat, which is the best of its kind of course. Sometimes they do inquire as they cherish the taste of it on their tongue as if trying to recall a long forgotten dream. So familiar. What's the name of the bar you came from again and where you brought the meat from?

I smile slowly knowing that they will not be able to pronounce or remember. So Rebecca that's right. The soggy beard, it's the best meat I've ever had. The soggy beard. Must've been a fine place. They repeat. And I don't correct them. Soggy beard. It is the Misty. Erin is not the fanciest of places, but I cherish these people and their stories as much as any days and months go by.

I grew up comfortable and used to displace, blending more and more with my surroundings as if I was always part of them. And that is when her story begins. I wish I could say there was something special about that day or that I knew she would be arriving, but the truth is it was not the best of days.

For many reasons. Some of them less mundane than others. For one, it rained, which wasn't unusual for this part of the mountain for it was often raining Misty or so overcast that you could pretty much grab the low sweeping clouds, but this rain was relentless with purpose, causing a lot more people to stop in and stay.

The night. The bar was unusually packed that evening earlier in the week, the cook moved out of town and I was left with only the bar back to help with all the work. That morning, the bar back, quit out of nowhere and happy with the extra shifts you had to manage by my side, the front kitchen sink overflowed again and shorthanded.

I had no time to attempt to repair it. Thankfully there was another sink on the other side of the building, which I could only get to by leaving the bar. It was a hassle, but better than not having a sink at all. Just as I was walking towards the front door with a tub of dirty glasses, the door swung open and caught by the wind knocked me off balance enough to send a tub of dirty mugs and glasses flying across the floor.

Swearing under my breath, I bent down to grab some of them are obvious broken pieces away from the clumsy feet of my intoxicated Patriots. When my hand was met by another. Small, but strong hand that intercepted my mood. Wait, watch out. You'll cut yourself. Where do you keep the broom? I looked up to meet the gaze, my cautious new friend, same one who had swung the door open that caught me off balance green eyes, small features, dark hair, dripping with rain.

It's on the other side of the bar. I replied and watched her skip and glide gracefully and quickly through the crowded space. She was back in a flash and proceeded to clean up the glass and spills off the floor. You are very good at cleaning up messes. I noticed good at making them to what my grandma always said.

She replied, I liked her right away, just like that. She caught me off guard, which meant I was able to really notice her, see her before she told me anything about herself. It was a refreshing way to meet someone. You're looking for a bar back. She pointed to the sign and the window trying to hide the desperation in her voice.

And you're looking for a job. I responded not exactly a question. I knew she needed a job and not just any job, but this one, the one I posted about earlier in the window, you're hired. If you can start tonight, what's your name? She told me her name was Finley, but I know that's not the name she had before.

I know it because of how new, the name sounded to her, as she said it out loud and how it lit up her eyes, how she was able to reclaim herself with it. I didn't mind at all. And the name suited her and she was the best bar back I've ever hired. She was strong, hardworking, never complained about the job or the sometimes cranky customers and always ready to listen.

Unlike many other humans I have known, she didn't really say much about her life or herself and certainly not her past. So I didn't pry. I just watched, I knew she held so much more under the surface that wasn't yet meant to be revealed. Even to me, she had a soft spot for young women and kids who are looking for a place to stay for the night and might be short on payment.

She would petition to let them stay and would offer her own pay towards their room fee. I never took her money and I let the women stay for free. It didn't happen often, but enough to let me see that she had a kind heart and a willingness to share what little she had with others. The soft ends me to her more than to any other humans I've ever worked with in the past.

And she became very dear to me. One night. I asked her what her plans were for the future. Surely she didn't want to work at mysteries in most of her youth. There must be other places she'd wished to explore other cities, places, people surely she longed for a new adventure, but surprisingly she didn't being here has been the best part of my life.

I've never felt safer and happier anywhere else. She said, as she reached for my hand, then continued. I always knew that one day my life would change that one day something exceptional would happen and I could be the person I really longed for and nobody would hold me back. Thank you saga for freeing me from the past and giving me the present and the future.

I know now that you are that something exceptional and I owe you so much, you never asked anything of me, but trusted me more than anybody else did. And that saved my life. I wish to be like you someday able to help others. Like you helped me. And I wish to stay here for as long as I can. Sweet child would happen to you.

I asked, moved by her sudden openness and honesty, and by her trust that I could hold her story, which after all this time she was ready to share. She told me about her family, her mother and grandmother, and those that came before them. She told me of their struggles, their sorrows, the hidden secrets and shame that darken their family name and memory, the details blur, the people blur, but she Finley remains a light.

And that tail, a light that long to break out of a pattern and abandon all that she knew to forge a new path for herself. And your destiny that was already waiting for her. And I know now there are sadly many stories like hers of sorrow and heart Blake and Ross, but in this moment only her story mattered for it intercepted with mine.

And she was the reason the wealth stirred and parted to reveal my next destination at the ms. Deason. That night I dreamt of Oden's. Well, I could feel the wave stirring above and whirling wind's whistling at my window. The whispers of the neurons have began as my story fully connected with Finley's. I saw Finley's deepest, longing and dreams woven by her Donte setting all into place, making the necessary adjustments.

I sum my part in the story and my inevitable departure as everything was clear now. I knew I didn't have to leave right away, but my time was soon approaching in the morning. I made the necessary arrangements, not knowing how much more time I had at the besties. And so I wanted to make sure everything was in place.

I will be going away for a while. I said, where, how long will you be gone? Findlay looked surprised as I've never left for more than an evening of riding on a windy day. See an old friend it's long overdue. I told her, will you be able to keep things going without me? Of course, I'd be happy to, but don't stay away too long or I will miss you.

I will not be far. I promise this was partly true. But before I go, I will show you where the meat is. Her eyes lit up. This was the first time I shared with her, the location of the barrels that held our most intoxicating drink. Brought a long ways away from the soggy beer. The next...