Reflections

Reflections on Ostara in the South, 2019.

Some moments remain with us long after the years have passed. They settle into memory with remarkable clarity, becoming landmarks in our own personal saga. Ostara in the South, held in Kannapolis, North Carolina, in 2019, was one of those moments for me.

It was my first national gathering, my first opportunity to stand among Ásatrúar from across the country whose names I had known only through correspondence and reputation. It was there that I first met Cliff Erickson and his then fiancée, Catie Reid. It was there that I met the Herul family, Lawspeaker Allen Turnage, and the Flavels—our Allsherjargoði, Matt, and his bride, Mandy.

Looking back, what strikes me most is not grandeur but simplicity.

Our camp overlooked a quiet lake. A great fire pit stood nearby, its warmth pushing back the lingering chill of the Carolina spring evening. The arrangement of stones around it struck me as resembling Mjölnir itself, as though the place had been waiting for us long before we arrived.

We welcomed the Æsir together. We shared lunch, supper, conversation, and fellowship throughout the day. Frith was built around tables, campfires, and laughter long before the evening’s great Blót began. it.

Among all those present, Mr. Flavel was remarkably quiet and unassuming. We exchanged introductions and the usual pleasantries, nothing more. There was no spectacle, only a man preparing himself for sacred work.

As dusk approached, I found him standing alone on the broad porch of the dining hall, gazing into the distance in silent contemplation. I asked him how he was doing.

Without hesitation, he replied:

“I’m thinking about our Óðinn Blót coming up.”

The words were simple, yet they carried unmistakable gravity. This was not performance or ceremony for its own sake. He was mentally and spiritually preparing himself for what was about to take place.

I remember thinking to myself:

I’ve waited years to be a part of this.

That year my son joined us as well. He was twenty years old, still searching for his own path, and I remain grateful that he stood beside me that evening.

As darkness settled over the camp, we gathered in a great circle around the towering need-fire. The flames reached into the Carolina sky, illuminating faces that seemed suspended somewhere between the modern world and the ancient one.

The Allsherjargoði, who had carried himself with quiet reserve throughout the day, stepped into the center of the gathering. The transformation was immediate. Silence gave way to presence.

The Galdr was raised, and then the invocation began. His voice rolled across the fire and over the still waters like distant thunder.

“Look into our hearts! And may You see a reflection of Yourself when You do!”

Those words have never left me.

Then the chant began.

Herjarfather, Herjarfather, Allfather Óðinn.

Herjarfather, Herjarfather, Allfather Óðinn.

Herjarfather, Herjarfather, Herjarfather.

Sig Týr!

Again.

And again.

And again.

Heart to hand to horn, our voices rose together into the cool Carolina night.

Even now, years later, I can still hear them echoing across that little lake.

When the offering had been made, it was time for the blessing. The Allsherjargoði took up the horn of mead and, with an evergreen sprig, asperged the gathered Folk. His arm traced the shape of Gebo—the Gift Rune—as blessings were cast over those assembled.

Again and again, he cried into the darkness:

“Hail Óðinn!”

And from every corner of the circle came the answer with equal force:

“Hail Óðinn!”

The call and response rolled across the water and into the trees.

There were small children, the Bethea’s boys hoisting their sippy cups over the heads shouting right along with rest of us “Hail Óðinn!” 

Then came the final libation.

Standing before the roaring need-fire, the Allsherjargoði poured the remaining mead into the flames. The fire answered with a brilliant eruption, surging skyward as if embracing the offering. Then, with every ounce of conviction he possessed, he drove the emptied horn against the stones of the fire pit and cried once more into the night:

“Hail Óðinn!”

Over and over again.

We were not watching a performance.

We were witnessing a man wholly given over to sacred purpose. Every word sprang from the deepest part of him. His breath hung visible in the cool night air as his voice carried across the lake. There was no separation between belief and action. What he proclaimed with his mouth was matched by what was written upon his heart.

As the rite drew to its close, the Allsherjargoði addressed the gathered Folk one final time. His voice, worn rough from invocation and chant, carried the same conviction that had filled the circle all evening.

He looked out across the assembly and declared:

“I want you to win!”

Then, extending his arm toward those gathered, he urged us:

“I want you to reach out and grab Victory!”

Whether he was pointing directly at me or simply addressing the Folk as a whole has never mattered in my mind. In that moment, he was pointing at me.

The words struck with the force of a hammer blow. I felt as though I had been punched square in the chest. They cut through every doubt and hesitation, lodging themselves somewhere deeper than memory. They became a charge—a call to strive relentlessly, to reject complacency, and to seize the victories that life places within our reach.

Only then did the ceremony give way to silence.

The Allsherjargoði, now speaking softly with a voice still hoarse from ritual, encouraged us to find a quiet place to process what we had experienced.

My son and I looked at one another.

Both of us were trembling.

Both of us had tears in our eyes.

Without saying much, we walked away from the fire and found a tree beneath which to stand, needing only silence to absorb the weight of what had just taken place.

The man I admired from across that fire that evening has, over the years, become part of my family. He has become one of my closest friends—perhaps my very best friend. That is one of the many gifts that came from that weekend in Kannapolis.

But something else happened there.

That night, Ásatrú ceased to be merely a topic of interest. It ceased to be something to study from a distance or to debate in the abstract. Standing in that circle, hearing those voices rise into the Carolina night, feeling the warmth of the need-fire on my face and the cool air in my lungs, it became undeniably real.

It has remained real to me ever since.

When people ask what the most powerful Blót I have ever attended was, my answer has never changed.

It was Ostara in the South, 2019.

Even now I can close my eyes and hear the chant rolling across the lake. I can still see the sparks climbing into the darkness. I can still hear Matt’s voice invoking the Alföðr and urging us to reach out and seize Victory. I can still feel my hands trembling and see the tears in my son’s eyes as we sought out a quiet tree to gather ourselves.

I still have photographs from that remarkable weekend. They capture smiling faces, shared meals, campfires, and fellowship. But the greatest treasures from those days cannot be contained in photographs. They live in memory, in friendship, and in the quiet certainty that something profound happened there.

Many of the people I met that weekend have since become among my closest and dearest friends.

This July, just a few ago, we celebrated the birthday of our Allsherjargoði. It seems only fitting to honour him by sharing a memory that helped shape my own path so deeply. Through his leadership, his sincerity, and his unwavering devotion, an evening around a Carolina fire became one of the defining moments of my life.

Some memories fade.

Others become part of who we are.

For me, that night has never ended.

My only regret about that first experience is that I’ll never have another first experience like this. 

Happy Birthday, Matt.

And with gratitude for that unforgettable evening beneath the stars, with voices echoing across the lake, the need-fire roaring into the heavens, and the call to Victory still ringing in my ears—

Hail Óðinn!

Spekingr Daniel Young

dyoung@runestone.org

~ From The Runestone, July 2026 ~