Henrik Lind describes an encounter with the spirit of paganism while caught in a spring storm.
This winter was dry, almost without snow. The water level in the creek is low, and a recently fallen tree can make do as a bridge. At the uprooted end of it, liverleaf and violet are already in full bloom. I go there, dry-shod.
After leaving the lee of the gully, I let the storm fill my lungs. I can lean against the gusts. As usual, it blows from the west, and spring comes along with it. It is intoxicating.
It would be unwise to go into the forest. A falling branch could easily crush my skull. Well, there are worse places to die in, and worse days.
Above me, a black raven is also struggling against the wind. Somehow it holds its course by finding gaps in the airstreams. Why west, right now? Maybe the raven asks the same question about me.
In the middle of the forest is a ruined mound, built for a Bronze Age king. I sit down on a stone to ease my mind. The storm roars through the treetops and I can hear branches cracking. That’s fine. Sooner or later they have to fall.
The city cathedrals also contain tombs of stone, but no wind will reach them – and hardly any people either, nowadays. They are empty. They are far away.
Right here and now, I am a pagan. Slowly, the Sun sets and there is a chill in the air.
Spring is here.