The sun is shining, melting the snow and turning the exposed sections of the path to mud as we trek to the clifftop overlooking the pond in the park where we always gather for blót, carrying ritual objects and offerings with us to the spot. The snow that is left is crumbly and somewhat slippery, making the short hike much harder than in the more clement part of the year. The air smells like thaw, and waterlogged earth, as well as the green, earthy scent of mosses just off the path, mixed with the sweet aroma of rotting leaves. It’s definitely more like spring than winter.

Geese are honking overhead, and will continue to do so for the duration of ritual. A red-winged blackbird trills in the reed-like fronds along the edge of the pond at the bottom of the rock face.

It’s a small clearing, surrounded by thorny hawthorn, among other bushes, the ground is usually rocky, but still mostly covered with more of that crumbly and slippery snow, and the spot overlooks a natural pond. We’re in a public park, so we keep our voices conversational, since, due to the pandemic, there are more people than previous years wandering on the paths. We brought no candles, incense or idols, since the last two gatherings were plagued with curious eyes trying to see what we were doing, and we fear discovery. Pagan worship is not illegal, but the provincial laws frown upon religious services being held in public spaces or on private property; a holdover from a previous government attempting to outlaw Jehovah’s Witness worship.

The altar is a slab of concrete teenagers likely use as a seat, when going into the woods at night to do whatever teenagers will do – we’ve found beer bottle caps, remnants of a fire, and other litter on-site in the past. It’s where we usually put the ritual items, idols, candles, offering dishes, incense, flowers and so on. But today, we are keeping it bare.

We begin worship, giving offerings to the gods, the land spirits and the ancestors, both literal and cultural. We hail Sunna, the Norse solar goddess, Jorðr, the personification of the Earth, and her son Þór, the Thunderer. The offerings are the usual grain and liquor, in this case, coffee-flavoured whiskey, and, as we have recently started including, animal flesh or organs. At Yule, it was half a moose heart, but this time, it’s a rabbit, with liver still attached and dangling from its body. We aren’t hunters, so money was spent on purchasing the rabbit at the store.

It was originally supposed to be cooked for feast, but the gythia didn’t have time to cook it, and so it ended up as sacrifice. There were also supposed to be pysanky on the altar, but they were forgotten. Shit happens, we move on.

More offerings are given, to the Norns, before taking the omen. I draw three runes, done up in glittery purple paint on bunny-shaped wood chips. The package of wood chips had exactly 24 in it, one for each rune, and our gythia thought this was synchronicity and couldn’t pass it up. I draw Wunjo, Dagaz and Suwelo. Joy, Awakening and Success. The omen is Good. We cheer, as the last two were bad. The light is at the end of the tunnel. We hope the nightmare we have been navigating for a year now, is nearly over, with the advancing vaccinations. Our gythia and myself both work at the same hospital, and have seen the exhaustion and despair on everyone from patients to doctors.

We take personal omens. I get Ehwaz.

We pour out the communion drink; some more of the coffee whiskey. It’s only a couple of sips, but it warms the heart.

We close ritual, thanking all the deities and spirits we called upon at the start of ritual. A cardinal can be heard singing nearby, and crows caw in the distance.

Concerns are raised about how creepy it would be for hikers to stumble upon the rabbit carcass, while walking in the woods. Should it get tossed in the bushes or down the cliff? The gythia puts the rubber gloves she used to handle it, earlier, back on.

« Either way, I’m sure the crows will find it and eat it sooner than later, » I quip.

Everyone agrees on tossing it down the cliff. It disappears from sight. The gythia takes off her gloves, we finish packing up and make our way back to the cars.

It’s finally spring.