Seiðr craft - Chapter 2: Virðing - Respect
The First Law of the Staff
All seiðr begins here. Before the chants are spoken, before visions are sought, before the threads of wyrd can be touched, there must first be virðing - respect. Without it, the path collapses. With it, every other law stands firm.
Virðing is more than courtesy or politeness. It is a deep recognition of worth - the understanding that all things have their own spirit, power and place. It is the act of honouring that truth through thought, word and deed. When you walk the path of seiðr, you walk within a living web of connection: gods, ancestors, land, and kin. To practise virðing is to move through that web carefully, aware of the balance that holds it together.
To respect is to know your place in the pattern, not as master but as participant. The seid worker does not command the unseen; they enter into relationship with it. They do not demand; they request. They do not take; they exchange. This humility is not weakness but strength - it aligns the soul with the order known as frith, the sacred peace and harmony that binds the worlds.
Virðing is therefore not an outward gesture alone. It is not the bow of the head, nor the ritual pouring of mead that makes it real. It is a quality of the heart, a steady awareness carried into every action. It is found in how you approach your altar, how you speak to the spirits of place, how you treat those around you and how you honour yourself.
Without virðing, magic becomes arrogance - an attempt to bend what should be joined. With virðing, the staff stands upright and the powers of the worlds may flow through it safely.
So before the staff is lifted, before the song begins, before the veil thins - pause. Breathe. Acknowledge the life around you. Honour what is greater than you, what sustains you and what moves through you. This is the first law of the staff, the root from which all true seiðr grows.
Virðing in the Lore
The sagas and poems show us again and again what happens when reverence is withheld. In the Norse world, respect was not simply good manners - it was a sacred duty, a force that maintained balance between the human and the divine. When this respect (virðing) was broken, the consequences reached far beyond the act itself. Misfortune, illness, and chaos were seen as the natural result of disrupting the sacred order.
In Eyrbyggja saga, there is a telling story of a man who desecrates a sacred bull belonging to Thor’s temple. His act is not simply seen as cruelty, but as a direct insult to the god himself. The result is swift and unmistakable: his community begins to suffer. Crops fail, tempers rise and strange misfortunes strike the people. The story makes it clear that disrespect to what is holy sends out ripples that affect everyone. The Norse saw the world as tightly woven - pull too harshly at one thread and the entire fabric trembles.
The same truth echoes in the writings of Adam of Bremen, who described the great temple at Uppsala in Sweden. He spoke of a sacred tree that was always green, even in winter and a holy well beside it. Offerings (both animal and human) were made there, not out of cruelty but out of understanding. The people knew that even the gods required proper honour and that relationship demanded mutual respect. Reverence was the bridge between worlds, a way of keeping the living, the dead and the divine in harmony.
We see this sense of honour again in Eiríks saga rauða. The seeress Þorbjörg Lítilvölva (Thorbjörg the Little Prophetess) arrives in a settlement to perform seiðr. Her arrival is met with ceremony and hospitality: she is given a special seat raised high, fine food and gifts before her work begins. Only after being honoured in this way does she enter trance and speak her prophecies. This respect was not flattery; it was recognition of her role as a vessel for sacred power. Without that reverence, her craft could not begin.
Across these stories, one message repeats itself like a heartbeat: what is holy must be treated as holy. To forget this is to disturb the balance that holds the worlds together. The Norse understood that reverence was not only owed to gods and spirits, but also to ancestors, to the land, to the tools of magic and even to one’s own inner self. To fail in respect was to close the door between realms - to lose the protection of the unseen forces that sustain life.
Virðing, then, is more than an idea. It is a living principle that keeps order where chaos might otherwise reign. When we honour the sacred, we keep our own place within the web of being. When we neglect it, the web begins to fray. In the old tales, that loss is never merely personal - it spreads outward, touching family, home and land. Reverence was the first duty of those who walked the path of seiðr, and remains so today.
Respect for the Gods
To walk the path of seiðr is to understand that the gods are not servants. The Æsir and Vanir are not beings to be ordered about or treated as wish granters. They are ancient powers - mighty, complex, and bound by oaths, stories, and ages of struggle. To honour them is to enter into a relationship with forces older and greater than yourself.
In the old world, the relationship between humans and gods was built on reciprocity and respect. The Norse did not pray in the way later faiths often do - they offered. Gifts were given to open channels of connection, not to demand reward. Every offering, whether mead, bread, blood, or song, was part of a sacred exchange. This was not a transaction, like handing over coins in return for goods, but a weaving of relationship, a strengthening of the bonds between realms.
When you pour mead for Óðinn, you are not attempting to buy his favour. You are acknowledging his endless sacrifice - the pain of the spear, the long hanging on Yggdrasil, the loss of an eye for wisdom. You raise the cup not to persuade him, but to recognise him, to honour the path he walked and the knowledge he offers. In doing so, you create frith - a state of peace and right relationship that allows his presence to move through your life.
When you burn incense for Freyja, it is not a summons. You do not call her as a servant might ring a bell. Instead, you offer her beauty and sweetness as she once offered seiðr to the Æsir - as a gift freely given, with grace and power. The scent rising into the air is a gesture of kinship, a reminder that she taught humankind to see with the heart and weave with the spirit.
To approach the gods properly is to approach them as elders and kin, not masters or slaves. They are teachers, allies, and forces of nature - wild, vast, and often beyond easy understanding. They are beings with their own will and their own ways. True reverence means recognising their independence and their mystery, allowing them to meet you where they will, not where you command.
The unwise treat the divine as a vending machine for desire, expecting results in exchange for ritual. The wise know better. To honour the gods is to build trust slowly, through time and sincerity. It is to speak with respect, to give without demand, and to listen more than you ask.
This is the essence of virðing toward the divine: a mutual recognition of worth, a respectful distance joined with genuine closeness. You stand before them not as a beggar, but as a child of the same creation - aware of your limits, but unafraid to meet their gaze. Only through that balance can the power of seiðr flow cleanly and the blessings of the gods rest upon you.
Respect for the Landvættir
The land is never empty. Every hill, river, and grove carries its own spirit - the landvættir, or “spirits of place.” These are the unseen keepers of the land, beings who dwell in stone and soil, in the whisper of streams and in the roots of ancient trees. To the Norse, the earth was not dead matter but alive with presence. Every region had its guardians, and to live in harmony with them was to live rightly within the world.
The old texts remind us how seriously our ancestors took this truth. The Icelandic law code Landnámabók tells that when ships approached the coast, their carved figureheads had to be removed, lest they frighten or anger the landvættir watching from shore. To sail in proudly with dragon heads raised was to bring warlike energy into a place of peace - a challenge to the spirits of that land. To do so was not simply impolite; it was dangerous. To offend the landvættir was to invite misfortune, sickness and ruin.
These spirits were seen as both protective and reactive. They guarded their land fiercely but responded in kind to how they were treated. A person who showed respect (who offered thanks, left gifts or simply moved with care) would find peace, good luck and safe passage. But one who mocked, polluted or disturbed their dwelling places might soon face strange accidents, a sudden change of weather or the sense of being unwelcome.
When you practise seiðr outdoors, remember that you are walking on their ground. Begin always with an act of honour: pour out a libation of clean water, offer a few grains of barley or sing a short song of greeting. Even a quiet bow or a spoken word of thanks is enough. What matters is not grand ceremony but sincerity - a true recognition that the space you enter is shared.
The landvættir are not servants to be commanded, but allies to be respected. They are guardians of the threshold between the seen and unseen worlds. If you ignore them, they may close their doors, leaving your workings empty and your senses dull. If you offend them, they may drive you out altogether. But if you honour them, if you move gently and give back as you take, they will keep the way open. The air will feel different, the work will flow more easily, and the land itself will seem to breathe with you.
To work with the landvættir is to remember that every act of seiðr is a conversation with the world. The stones listen. The trees watch. The earth feels every step. Show reverence and the land will answer.
Respect for the Ancestors
You are not self-made. Every strand of your being - your blood, your spirit, even the shape of your thoughts - comes from those who walked before you. Your ancestors live within you, whether you honour them or not. They are the roots beneath the soil of your life, the unseen foundation on which everything stands.
Even if your lineage holds pain or imperfection, it remains your source. The Norse understood that ancestry was not about perfection but continuity. Every family carried both wisdom and wound. To remember your ancestors is not to excuse their faults, but to recognise the truth that you exist because of them. To reject them entirely is to cut yourself from the living stream of being; to honour them is to drink from its strength.
The sagas speak constantly of kinship and inheritance - of ættir (family lines) and frændr (relations). A person without kin was vulnerable, unmoored. Their deeds reflected not only on themselves but on all their forebears. Likewise, to act honourably in life was to bring glory and healing back through the ancestral line. In this way, the Norse saw time not as a straight line but as a circle of reciprocity, where the living and the dead continuously affect one another.
The völva, drew her power from this lineage. Without her dead, she was like a tree torn from the earth - tall perhaps, but already dying. Her staff, her song, her sight - all were nourished by the memory of those who had gone before. The strength of her seiðr came from that deep connection with the ancestors, who whispered guidance from beyond the veil.
To honour your ancestors, you do not need grand rituals or long genealogies. Begin simply. Speak their names if you know them. Light a candle. Pour out a cup of mead or water. If their names are lost, speak instead to the unknown line behind you - the countless generations who shaped your existence. Their spirits will hear. The act of remembrance itself opens the door.
When you walk the path of seiðr, your ancestors are your first allies. They stand behind you, lending their strength to your words, steadying your spirit as you travel between worlds. They know the road - they have walked it before. When you honour them, you walk it with them, not alone.
To practise seiðr without them is to cast your voice into the dark with no echo to answer. But when you call upon your forebears with respect and sincerity, the darkness replies. You feel their presence (quiet, vast, familiar) and through that connection, the roots of your power take hold once more.
Respect for the Self
Virðing is not only something we show to gods, spirits, or the dead. It must also be directed inward. The one who practises seiðr is both worker and tool, vessel and bridge. To neglect or dishonour yourself is to weaken that vessel and disturb the flow of your craft.
If your body is exhausted, your mind clouded, or your spirit dulled by resentment and excess, how can you expect the unseen to meet you with respect? The landvættir, the ancestors and the gods all respond to the state of the heart. If you treat yourself carelessly, they see it. If you approach your work from self loathing, imbalance, or constant depletion, the harmony that sustains seiðr falters. You do not have to be perfect - only present and whole enough to stand upright in your own worth.
To hold virðing for yourself means to maintain balance. It means eating when you need strength, resting when you are weary, cleansing when your spirit feels heavy. It means not using intoxication to escape, but using stillness to listen. There is no virtue in driving yourself into the ground in the name of devotion; the spirits do not praise burnout. They ask for clarity, sincerity and respect - and that begins with how you treat your own life force.
Your body is the staff you hold; your mind, the song you sing; your spirit, the breath that carries the words. To neglect one is to weaken all three. When you care for yourself (washing, feeding, sleeping, grounding) you are performing small acts of magic. Each moment of self care affirms your place in the web of being and strengthens your connection to the powers that move through it.
This is not about purity in the moral sense. The old Norse ways did not demand spotless hearts or ascetic lives. They demanded integrity - that your inner state match your outer action. To speak honourably, you must live honourably; to call for truth, you must be truthful within yourself. In this way, self respect becomes both shield and offering.
Approach your work as one who is worthy to stand before the gods and spirits. Speak to yourself as you would to them - with patience, with honesty, with dignity. You are a thread in the web, no lesser than any other. When you honour that truth, the power of seiðr flows through you cleanly, as through a clear stream that reflects the sky.
What Happens Without Virðing
To ignore this law is to invite imbalance. Virðing is the thread that holds harmony together - once it frays, everything begins to unravel. Disrespect does not simply offend the gods or spirits; it distorts the web of connection that allows your craft to flow cleanly. Without reverence, power still moves, but it moves crooked.
When virðing is absent, luck begins to sour. What once came easily starts to resist. The land grows cold beneath your feet, the wind turns against your words and the unseen grows restless. The landvættir (the spirits of place) no longer welcome you; they whisper, they hide or they lead you astray. The ancestors grow silent, their guidance fading to echoes. Even the gods, who see deeper than words, turn their faces away, for why should they listen to one who has forgotten respect?
Disrespect poisons hamingja - the personal luck and spiritual strength that sustains a practitioner. You may still see visions, but they twist and deceive. You may still chant, but your song becomes tangled, its rhythm broken, its purpose lost. What once carried meaning becomes hollow, and what once brought insight brings confusion.
Without virðing, the forces you call do not stop answering - they simply answer in their own way. What you draw to yourself is no longer balanced or benevolent. A seid worker who walks without respect becomes a hollow reed and through that hollow the winds of chaos blow freely. The craft itself turns unpredictable, wild and unmoored.
In the sagas, those who act without respect meet ruin not through punishment, but through consequence. The order of things corrects itself. Seiðr without honour is like a fire without a hearth - it burns, but it burns everything around it. The gods need no wrath to humble such a person; the loss of luck, peace and clarity is punishment enough.
Remember: virðing is not a moral command but a law of nature. The worlds are held together by right relationship - with gods, with land, with kin and with the self. To break that relationship is to fall out of tune with creation. Without virðing, your craft may still make noise, but it will never make music.
Practices for Virðing
Virðing is not only an idea; it is a practice, a way of living that builds and maintains harmony between you and the seen and unseen worlds. These small acts of respect anchor the spirit, cleanse the heart and strengthen every act of magic or devotion. Consistency matters more than complexity - sincerity more than splendour.
Daily Offering -
Begin each morning with a moment of gratitude. Pour out a small libation of clean water to the earth, the gods or simply to life itself. Speak your thanks aloud. It need not be elaborate - the power lies in the intention and the regularity of the act.
Example:
“To the land that holds me, to the gods who shape me, to the dead who root me - my gratitude.”
This simple gesture keeps the thread of connection strong. Each day you acknowledge your place in the great web of being and the world responds in kind.
Weekly Ancestor Connection -
Set aside one quiet time each week to honour your ancestors. Light a candle and speak a name or, if their names are lost, address them as a whole.
Example:
“To those whose blood and bone I carry, I remember you.”
You might offer a small portion of food or a sip of drink before you eat, placing it aside with a few words of respect. This act is a bridge between generations. As you remember them, they draw nearer and the line between living and dead grows thinner, filled with warmth and recognition.
Respect in Space -
When working or walking outdoors, take a moment before you begin. Pause. Feel the ground beneath your feet and the breath of the air around you. Lay your hand on the earth or a nearby stone and speak quietly:
Example:
“Spirits of this place, I honour you. May my work here cause no offence.”
This small greeting opens the way. It reminds the landvættir that you come in peace, and it reminds you that the world you move through is alive and aware. Such gestures, humble though they seem, keep harmony between the human and the land.
Self Respect Ritual -
Before you practise seiðr or any spiritual work, bring yourself into balance. Wash your hands and face in clean water - a symbolic and physical act of renewal. Eat lightly so that your body feels steady but not heavy. Sit upright and breathe.
Then speak inwardly or aloud:
“I am worthy of this work, and I hold it with honour.”
This is not vanity; it is affirmation. By grounding in respect for yourself, you become a clear vessel through which sacred power can move. You remind your spirit that it, too, deserves care and dignity.
Each of these practices strengthens the bond between you and the greater whole - gods, spirits, ancestors, and the living land. Over time, they become second nature, a rhythm of reverence woven into daily life. Through virðing, your craft gains depth and clarity, and the unseen begins to meet you halfway.
Reflection
Pause for a moment. Breathe. Let your thoughts settle like leaves sinking slowly to the forest floor.
Ask yourself - where in your life have you failed to honour what sustains you?
Have you rushed through your days without gratitude for the breath that fills your lungs, the land beneath your feet, or the ancestors who shaped your path?
Have you demanded from the world without giving back? Recognition is the first step toward balance.
Consider what it might mean to show daily virðing - not only in ritual, but in the way you live.
How would it feel to greet the gods not with fear or need, but with steady respect?
To walk the land as guest, not owner? To speak to your ancestors as kin, not ghosts? To treat yourself as a vessel of worth rather than an afterthought?
Reverence need not be grand or formal. It can live in a whispered “thank you,” in a moment of stillness, in the way you pour water or light a candle. Virðing is a rhythm, not a rule. It is built slowly, day by day, until it becomes the natural pulse of your life.
When you next sit to practise, take time before beginning. Be still. Feel the space around you, and the presence of all that watches. Begin with reverence - even if only for a heartbeat. Notice how it changes the air, the weight of your words and the depth of your silence. That subtle shift is the power of virðing: a quiet remembering that you are part of something vast, alive, and listening.
Virðing is the ground beneath your feet - the soil from which all seiðr grows. Without it, the staff trembles, the high seat collapses, and the vision falters into shadow. But with it, your roots sink deep. You are steady. You are aligned with frith, the sacred harmony that holds the worlds together, and you are carried within the flow of wyrd, the great weaving of fate.
Respect is not a decoration or a courtesy. It is the foundation of the craft. Before you lift the staff, before you breathe the chant, before you gaze beyond the veil - there must first be reverence. It is the first act, the first breath, the first bow before the wells of memory and power.
Those who walk the path of seiðr without virðing may gain knowledge, but never wisdom; they may touch power, but never harmony. True craft does not grow from will alone, but from relationship - with the gods, the spirits, the ancestors, the land and the self.
Learn respect well, and every other law will follow it naturally. Your words will ring true, your visions will clear, and your path will hold firm beneath you. For as the roots honour the earth, so too must the seeker honour all that sustains them.
Virðing is not the end of learning, but its beginning - the quiet heartbeat that steadies the hand, opens the eye, and calls the unseen to meet you in peace.