In follow-up to my previous entry (Oskapt - Fire and Ice), after posting that entry, my nightly rune drawing before retiring to bed was Hagalaz (my birth rune). The previous night's rune drawing had been Thurisaz. Both were drawn using my apple wood Elder Futhark runes.
This is an interesting synchronicity with the question I pondered in last night's post (a question contemplated between Thurisaz and Hagalaz rune drawings).
Kveldulf Gundarsson writes in Teutonic Magic:
Hagalaz represents the unchanging structure or set pattern of the Nine Worlds in the tree Yggdrasill through which all living wights move and through which energies the runic energies flow - the unity of "organic" and "inorganic" ...
Hagalaz is the great controller and focuser of energies, as written forth in Havamal, where it is spoken of as a rune with which to control the wild might of fire - raw active power ...
The main effect of Hagalaz on the individual life is to bring you into unity with the universal pattern , which often appears as a mighty and seemingly woe-working breakage of everyday life ...
Above all, Hagalaz is the rune of completion and bringing into being. It may be seen as the passive form of Thurisaz, and in another sense its antithesis. Thurisaz melds fire and ice to create force which breaks down form; Hagalaz use ice and fire to create that form which holds and guides force ...
Thurisaz is more active, more in the way of fire; Hagalaz is unmoving, more in the way of ice.
Amazing synchronicity with my life, both within the past two nights, and in this old poem I wrote (about 15 years ago describing one of my preincarnate memories) and have posted before on my blog and websites (lastly here):
first rhythms ever plunge, eternal hosts driven into life
drawing through a field of topographic brilliance
where judgment lovingly flows, churning out whole stones
resting against asymmetries trying, like diamonds in chaos
proto-perception foams, over annihilating operations
and from it, dark bursts of lucidity finely entwine
coarse grains of almost something, almost yet sufficient
the silent rush of yet nothing slides, wildly as percolating pivots
diligently thread through it, casting clarity
upon myriads, hard pauses startle into vision
projecting arrays without mass, strings of confluency
impressing discovery, a shadowy tail-end lingers
between depths of opposite observation
iterating embraces of many meanings like quasi-quanta
gathering functions about the head and, and
spinning spectra, pushing forward, yearning toward home
not knowing, yet only knowing
as some featureless reach edging edges stretches out
the magnetic sweet dance
where divisions collapse like crystal caves
softly sprinkling the belly of the night divine
with bytes of thoughtbare kisses
extending the glorious field of apprehension