There is a moment where the seeker is suspended.
Between root and branch.
Between knowing and not knowing.
***
Hávamál(138-139)
–
I ween that I hung on the windy tree,
Hung there for nights full nine;
With the spear I was wounded, and offered I was,
To Odin, myself to myself,
On the tree that none may know
What root beneath it runs.
–
None made me happy with loaf or horn,
And there below I looked;
I took up the runes, shrieking I took them,
And forthwith back I fell.
*
transed by Henry Adams Bellows
***
No one can give you the runes.
You take them — and carry the cost.
