What is Seiðr?
Among the many mysteries of the Norse world, few are as powerful, complex or as often misunderstood as seiðr. To speak of seiðr is to speak of a form of magic that reached deep into the roots of existence itself - a craft that touched the threads of fate, summoned spirits from beyond and allowed the practitioner to move between worlds unseen.
It was the magic of gods and wise women, of wanderers, prophets and those who dared to listen to what others feared to hear. Seiðr was not a single spell or ritual but a living form of art - part shamanic trance, part sorcerous craft, and part sacred communion with the divine. Through it, one might see what had not yet come to pass, heal what was wounded or weave subtle changes into the web of destiny.
To understand seiðr is to step into the heart of Norse spirituality, where the boundaries between religion, magic, and myth dissolve. It was not a separate practice from faith; it was faith made active.. the living dialogue between humans and the unseen. Those who worked seiðr did not simply believe in the gods or spirits; they spoke with them, bargained with them and sometimes became vessels for their will.
Yet even in the old stories, seiðr carries a shadow. It is both revered and feared, a gift and a danger. To practise it was to hold extraordinary power, but also to cross boundaries that society guarded closely - boundaries of gender, of social expectation, of sanctity, and of the visible world itself.
In the sagas, the seid worker often walks a lonely road: honoured for their wisdom, yet whispered about for their strangeness. They stand at the edge of the village and at the edge of the cosmos, where ordinary order blurs into mystery. For to weave wyrd is to touch what lies beyond human control and that, in every age, is both a sacred calling and a dangerous one.
What Is Seiðr?
The Old Norse word seiðr is ancient and layered, coming from a root that means “to seethe, to boil, or to bind.” These words are more than poetic metaphors they carry insight into how our Norse ancestors understood magic itself.
To “seethe” evokes heat, movement, and transformation - the way water changes form as it boils, the way unseen pressure builds beneath a calm surface. To “bind” speaks of connection, of weaving and unweaving, of the ability to tie threads together or pull them apart. Combined, these meanings suggest that seiðr was a living energy, something in constant motion that could be guided, stirred, or reshaped by will and wisdom.
Seiðr, then, was the art of working with the unseen currents that flow through the world - those invisible rivers of intent and destiny that shape all things. It was not a matter of illusion or superstition, but a deep participation in the forces that underpin reality. The seid worker did not stand apart from these powers; they stepped into them, becoming both vessel and weaver, joining their own fate to the movement of wyrd itself.
For the Norse people, the world was not a dead or empty place. Every stone, river, and gust of wind was alive with spirit and purpose. To them, the unseen was not separate from the seen - it was the deeper layer beneath it. Seiðr was the act of reaching into that living undercurrent, of stirring what lay hidden and drawing it to the surface.
When we read the old sagas and poems, we find that seiðr was not viewed as imagination or metaphor, but as a real force capable of changing minds, weather and events. The practitioner could shift perception, alter emotion, or redirect the flow of luck. In a world where honour, harvests and war were all matters of fate, the one who could touch fate’s fabric was both sought and feared.
Unlike many later forms of magic, seiðr was not simply about command or control. It was relational, a dialogue between human and spirit, between will and wyrd. A seid worker entered trance, called upon helping spirits, sang sacred chants and let power move through them - not as a master over forces, but as a participant within them.
The Many Faces of Seiðr -
Seiðr was not a single act or one set of rites; it was a broad and flexible magical tradition, a craft of many uses and forms. Depending on the intention and the practitioner, it could be used for healing or for harm, for prophecy or for manipulation, for the good of the clan or the revenge of one heart.
Its methods varied by region and time, but its aims were always to see, influence, or mend the unseen threads of the world. Among its many purposes were:
Divination -
To look ahead, to glimpse the pattern before it unfolded. A seid worker might use seiðr to interpret omens, dreams and portents; to foresee the fate of families, voyages or battles; or to seek the will of the gods. The future was not fixed, but woven and through seiðr, one could sometimes see the weave before the shuttle passed.
wyrd Weaving -
To work seiðr was to touch the web of wyrd, the great web that binds all beings and events. The seid worker could tighten or loosen the threads strengthening one’s luck, breaking another’s curse or turning the tide of destiny in subtle ways. In a sense, seiðr was the act of participating consciously in the creation of wyrd (fate).
Spirit Communication -
The world of the Norse was full of other beings - ancestors, land spirits, elves, and countless unseen presences. Through seiðr, one could speak to them, seek their help or offer respect. The seid worker became a bridge between realms, mediating between the living and the dead, the mortal and the divine.
Healing and Harming -
Power does not come with morality attached. The same force that heals can also wound. Seiðr could be used to restore strength, bring fertility, and mend what was broken - or, in darker hands, to spread disease, confusion, or sorrow. The sagas tell of practitioner who could still a man’s courage or rob a warrior of his will to fight, just as others could restore vitality and hope.
Weather and Battle Magic -
The boundaries of seiðr reached even into the sky. Some seid workers could call storms or winds, shaping the weather for voyage or war. Others used trance and song to confuse enemy armies, turning battle into chaos. These acts reveal seiðr’s reach a magic that touched not only the spirit but the elements themselves.
In every form, seiðr was a practice of connection. It united the visible and invisible worlds, the living and the dead, the human and the divine. To work seiðr was to stand at the meeting point of these realms, to listen deeply to what lies beyond speech and to act with care upon the web of life.
While later ages would divide faith, magic and nature into separate things, the Norse saw them as one and the same. Seiðr was not a rejection of religion; it was religion in motion, the act of aligning oneself with the powers that shape creation.
Where galdr, the chanting magic of words, sought to shape reality through sound and runes carried power through symbol, seiðr worked through presence and spirit. It was the felt magic of trance, vision and surrender - the quiet art of entering harmony with the unseen, and through that harmony, bringing change into being.
But such work was never without danger. To stir the unseen was to risk being stirred by it. Those who practised seiðr often stood apart from society - respected for their wisdom, yet feared for their power. To open oneself to other realms was to blur the line between self and spirit, between what is human and what is more-than-human.
This is why the sagas so often depict the seid worker as a liminal figure - part priest, part outcast, dwelling at the edge of the village or the edge of the world. Theirs was a power that crossed boundaries and crossing boundaries always carried a price.
Yet it was precisely in this tension (between reverence and fear, creation and destruction, human and divine) that the mystery of seiðr lived.
The roots of seiðr reach deep into prehistoric northern Europe. Long before the ‘Viking Age’, northern peoples practised forms of trance, spirit journeying, and shamanic ritual. These early forms likely evolved into what the Norse later called seiðr.
By the ‘Viking Age’ seiðr was a recognised (though controversial) form of magic, woven into religion and social life. It was especially associated with the Vanir gods, a more ancient divine tribe linked to fertility and nature who were later absorbed into the pantheon of the Æsir.
The goddess Freyja of the Vanir is said to have been the first to teach seiðr to the Æsir. Through her, the god Óðinn learned its ways, becoming its greatest master - though not without scandal.
How Seiðr Was Practised
The surviving Norse texts (the sagas, Eddas, and later historical sources) offer us only fragments of how seiðr was truly performed, but those fragments are vivid. They reveal a living, sensory practice filled with sound, movement and atmosphere - something that existed not only in the mind but in the body and the land itself.
At the centre of seiðr stood the völva, the seeress or prophetess, who carried the authority to bridge the worlds. Her title comes from vǫlr, meaning “staff,” the sacred tool she always carried - part symbol, part instrument and part weapon. The völva’s role was not only to see what others could not, but to mediate between the human community and the unseen forces shaping their lives.
In Eiríks saga rauða (The Saga of Erik the Red), we are given one of the most complete accounts of a seiðr ritual in Norse literature. The tale describes how a völva named Þorbjörg Lítilvölva (Thorbjörg the Little Prophetess) visited a settlement suffering from famine and uncertainty.
Her arrival was treated with ceremony. A special high seat, the seiðhjallr, was prepared for her - raised up so that she could symbolically and spiritually stand between the worlds. Her clothing was described in great detail:
“She wore a blue cloak, fastened at the throat with straps, and decorated with stones down the front. Upon her head was a black lambskin hood lined with white catskin. She carried a staff with a knob at its head, set with brass and inlaid with stones. Around her waist was a pouch of charms, and she wore calfskin boots lined with fur.”
These are not merely decorative details; they tell us about her function. The blue cloak marks her connection to the spiritual realm - blue being the colour of depth, sky and water. The catskin links her to Freyja, the goddess of magic and mistress of seiðr. Her staff, polished and ornate, symbolised the axis between worlds (Yggdrasil) - a portable world tree through which she could ascend and descend in trance.
When Þorbjörg was seated, women gathered around her to sing the varðlokkur - “warding songs” or “spirit-calling songs.” These chants were designed to attract and soothe the spirits, preparing the space for vision. The saga even notes that no one in the settlement knew these songs until a woman named Guðríð offered to sing them, having learned them in her youth from her foster mother.
As the voices rose and fell, the völva entered trance. The words of the saga describe her slipping into a state of deep stillness and otherworldly awareness. In that space between waking and dream, she spoke with spirits, saw the shape of what was to come, and delivered her prophecy: the famine would soon end, and prosperity would return.
This passage, brief as it is, gives us a powerful glimpse into the structure of seiðr ritual - one that blends song, rhythm, sacred tools, and altered consciousness. It is a kind of shamanic theatre: communal, sensory and profoundly spiritual.
Not all seiðr was performed publicly. Many forms of the craft were private and personal, performed by individuals seeking to heal, curse or gain knowledge. The methods of these more secret rites varied, but they often included:
Chanting (Galdrar): Magical songs and verbal formulae used to raise energy or command spirits. The voice was a primary tool of power - breath and sound shaping intention into reality.
Runes and Sigils: Some seid workers inscribed runes onto wood, stone or bone to focus their will. Each rune carried both symbolic and energetic weight, acting as a key to specific forces.
Herbal Mixtures: Plants with psychoactive or purifying properties may have been used to induce trance or cleanse space - though precise recipes are lost to time.
Gestures and Movement: Seiðr was a living, embodied practice. Practitioners may have swayed, rocked or drummed to enter trance - physical motion mirroring the rhythm of breath and the heartbeat of the earth.
Silence and Stillness: At the deepest point of seiðr, words would cease. The seid worker would rest in pure awareness, open to what the unseen revealed.
Some seid workers specialised in healing seiðr, drawing sickness out like pulling a knot from thread. Others practised love seiðr, sending desire or attraction. Still others wielded war seiðr, summoning confusion among enemies or turning storms against ships.
The craft was broad and adaptable, yet always governed by one essential truth: to work seiðr was to engage with the living fabric of the cosmos. The seid worker was not separate from what they shaped; they were part of the same pattern, tugging gently at the strands of wyrd with careful, reverent fingers.
At its heart, seiðr was a practice of ecstasy - not in the modern sense of pleasure, but of ek-stasis, “standing outside oneself.” Through trance and ritual, the seid worker loosened the boundaries of ordinary identity, allowing their spirit to move freely between realms.
In this state, they could send their consciousness forth - what the Norse called hamfarir a “spirit journey” or “shape travel.” The soul might fly as an animal, a wind, or a flickering light, seeking knowledge or delivering magical influence.
Such ecstatic practices appear across the world (from the Siberian tundra to the Saami noaidi and beyond) yet in the Norse context, seiðr retained its own character: grounded in the web of wyrd, rooted in honour and exchange. The seid worker did not claim the world; they conversed with it.
Through all these forms, seiðr emerges not as superstition but as spiritual technology - a way of listening, connecting, and shaping the currents of existence. It was a craft of sound and silence, of motion and stillness, of surrender and intention.
To perform seiðr was to walk between worlds: one foot in Midgard, one in the realm of spirit. The völva was the axis - her body the staff, her voice the song, her will the bridge.
Even now, in the echoes of her chant, we can still feel the rhythm of the old North - the pulse of magic beneath the surface of the world, waiting to be stirred again.
Why Seiðr Was Seen as a Female Art
Seiðr was closely tied to feminine power, and this connection is one of its most defining (and controversial) features.
Seiðr was intimately bound to feminine power, and that connection remains one of its most defining (and most debated) features. In the Norse world, women were often seen as the vessels of creation, the givers of life, and the weavers of lineage. They embodied the mysteries of birth, blood and transformation - forces that mirrored the very essence of seiðr itself.
Seiðr was about stirring, shaping, and weaving the unseen - much as the womb stirs, shapes and brings forth life. This symbolic link between magic and motherhood, between the earth’s fertility and the woman’s creative power, made the practice feel naturally feminine in the Norse imagination. The woman’s body, in this view, was not only physical but cosmic, a living reflection of the cycles of life, death, and rebirth that seiðr sought to navigate.
At the centre of this tradition stood the völva (plural völur) - the wandering seeress and prophetess who carried both awe and unease wherever she went. She was the keeper of ancient songs, the bearer of hidden wisdom and the bridge between the visible and invisible worlds.
To the Norse, the völva embodied sacred feminine authority, an authority not based on strength or dominance, but on intuition, insight and communion with the unseen. She could command spirits, shape fate, and interpret the will of gods and ancestors. In her, the creative and destructive powers of life met in perfect balance.
Yet, while seiðr was deeply respected, it also carried danger not of magic itself but of social boundary crossing. Men could and did practise seiðr, but doing so placed them in peril of public shame. Men who practised seiðr did exist, but unlike their female counterparts they didn’t have a clearly defined or widely honoured title. Instead, they were often referred to simply as seidmenn or seiðmaðr, literally meaning “seiðr man” or “man of seiðr.”
The word seiðmaðr appears in several medieval Icelandic sources, describing men who practised forms of seiðr - usually for prophecy, cursing or spiritual manipulation. While the völva was typically revered (though sometimes feared), the seiðmaðr was treated with suspicion, even contempt.
Practising seiðr placed a man outside the expected social and gender norms of Norse society. The Viking Age idealised the warrior - active, dominant, and outwardly strong. Seiðr by contrast, required passivity, trance, and receptivity - states the Norse associated with femininity.
This tension didn’t mean men couldn’t perform seiðr - many did. It simply meant that doing so risked a reputation for ergi - a term implying unmanliness, moral corruption or sexual deviance. The ‘Viking Age’ idealised traits such as assertiveness, aggression, and control - qualities considered masculine virtues.
Seiðr, by contrast, required receptivity, surrender, and emotional openness. It demanded that the practitioner yield to the flow of energy, to allow themselves to be moved by forces greater than personal will. These were traits the Norse culture associated with the feminine. Thus, the act of a man entering trance, speaking with spirits or receiving visions placed him (in the eyes of society) on uncertain ground.
This was not about ability or capacity; it was about social perception. There was nothing to suggest that men were less capable of working seiðr. The taboo arose from fear - fear of blurred identity, of vulnerability, of moving beyond the boundaries of what a man “should” be.
Even the gods were not immune to this stigma. Óðinn, chief of the Æsir and god of wisdom, war and death, was said to have learned seiðr from Freyja, the Vanir goddess who first brought the art to Asgard. Yet this act (a male god mastering a feminine craft) was deeply transgressive.
In Lokasenna, the trickster Loki mocks him, saying:
“You beat on the drum as witches do,
and travelled among men as a seeress.”
Loki’s insult was sharp, for it accused Óðinn of stepping beyond the limits of masculinity. But Óðinn did not deny it. He accepted the cost of shame to gain the power of sight, of prophecy and of influence over fate. His example shows that true mastery in the Norse worldview often required crossing boundaries, even those set by culture or gender.
Through Óðinn, we see that seiðr was not inherently feminine by law of nature, but feminine by the social mirror - the world’s way of categorising what it could not control. In truth, the spirits did not distinguish between male and female, only between those who honoured them and those who did not.
It is often said (and not without reason) that women held a special power in seiðr because they were seen as closer to the mystery of creation itself. Just as the land gives life and receives death, so too does the woman’s body hold the cycles of growth, decay and renewal. In the Norse worldview, this was not weakness but sacred strength - the power of transformation, of making and unmaking.
Women were the weavers - of fabric, of lineage, of destiny. The Norns, those primal beings who sit at the roots of Yggdrasil, weave the threads of all life, determining the fates of gods and mortals alike. The völva, standing in their image, echoed that cosmic role in her own craft. She did not dominate fate; she conversed with it.
This association between women, weaving and the shaping of destiny was not metaphorical to the Norse mind. It was literal. The act of spinning thread, of drawing something from nothing, mirrored the act of summoning magic from the unseen. Through that sacred work, the woman became an extension of the creative power that underlies all existence.
In truth, seiðr was never limited by gender - only interpreted through it. The gods practised it. Women excelled in it. Men feared and desired it. The lines drawn around it were cultural boundaries, not cosmic ones.
To the spirits, seiðr was not male or female, but a current - an energy that anyone could enter if they possessed courage, patience, and respect. The social world of the ‘Vikings’ made that current a feminine domain, but the spiritual world knew no such limits.
Thus, seiðr became both a feminine art and a transgressive one: a craft that crossed social lines, blurred the borders between self and spirit, and transformed all who practised it - whether völva, god, or outlaw.
Other Forms of Norse Magic
While seiðr is the most famous and complex form of Norse magic, it was far from the only one. The spiritual world of the North was vast and multifaceted, filled with overlapping traditions and regional practices that reflected different aspects of power, speech and spirit.
Magic, or fjǫlkynngi (“great knowledge”), was woven through every layer of Norse life - from the warrior’s battlefield to the healer’s hut, from the poet’s song to the storm at sea. Seiðr may have been the art of weaving and spirit travel, but other paths existed beside it, each with its own methods, dangers, and divine patrons.
Galdr, The Magic of Word and Song -
The word galdr comes from the Old Norse gala, meaning “to sing, to call, or to enchant.” Galdr was the magic of sound, of spoken spells, sung charms, and rhythmic incantations. The practitioner of galdr was known as a galdramaðr (man of song) or galdrkona (woman of song).
In Norse belief, sound was not merely symbolic - it was creative force. Words carried mægen (power), and when spoken with intention, they could shape the fabric of reality. The god Óðinn himself was said to have discovered the runes through song, hanging on the World Tree for nine nights, chanting until wisdom revealed itself.
Galdr was used to:
Bless and protect, through chants of warding and victory.
Curse and bind, to confuse enemies or weaken their courage.
Heal, through rhythmic invocation of divine power.
Invoke spirits or gods, through praise songs and invocation.
It was often paired with the use of runes, carved symbols that held specific vibrational energy. The runes were spoken or sung aloud to awaken their force - a union of sound and symbol.
Unlike seiðr, galdr was considered more masculine and honourable, fitting within the warrior’s and poet’s world. It did not require surrender or trance, but mastery of voice, rhythm, and will. Where seiðr was the magic of weaving, galdr was the magic of command.
Runic Magic, The Power of Symbols -
The runes were more than an alphabet. Each rune carried a sound, a name, and a mystery - a doorway to a specific aspect of existence. Together, they formed both a writing system and a spiritual technology.
Runic magic was one of the most widespread forms of Norse ‘sorcery’. Practitioners carved runes into wood, bone or stone to focus intention, seal power or connect with divine energies. Each rune had its own field of influence - Fehu for wealth, Uruz for strength, Algiz for protection, and so on.
Runes were used for:
Protection – on weapons, amulets, and doorways.
Healing – carved on cups, bandages, or invoked in chants.
Cursing – scratched secretly onto belongings or thresholds.
Divination – drawn or cast to interpret the will of the Norns.
In Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, the warrior poet Egill Skallagrímsson uses runes to cure a woman of sickness caused by poorly carved symbols - a warning that knowledge was essential, for misuse could backfire.
Runic magic often overlapped with galdr and seiðr, forming a triad of sound, sign, and spirit.
Spá, Prophetic Sight -
Spá (or spádomr) was the art of foresight and divination, akin to second sight or prophecy. The word derives from spáa, “to prophesy.”
Spá could involve dreams, vision or intuitive knowing. Some practitioners entered trance; others simply “saw” through heightened awareness. It was often performed by spákona (prophetesses) or spámenn (prophets).
In some contexts, spá and seiðr overlap (both deal with perception beyond the senses) but spá was generally less ritualistic. It required no singing or ceremony only attunement to wyrd, the living web of fate.
A spákona might predict the outcome of a battle, the health of a family or the destiny of a newborn. The sagas frequently record such women visiting households to speak prophecies, often given payment or gifts in return.
Hamfarir, The Journey of the Spirit -
Hamfarir literally means “shape journeys.” It describes the act of sending one’s spirit beyond the body - a form of soul travel or astral projection. This was a dangerous and advanced form of seiðr, requiring the ability to separate one’s hamr (spiritual form) from the flesh.
In this state, the seid worker could travel vast distances, spy on others or influence events remotely. The spirit might appear as an animal, mist, or light - forms known as hamrammr (shape strong).
The sagas tell of both men and women who mastered this art. Þórbjǫrg Lítilvölva, the seeress of Eiríks saga rauða, likely used this technique when sending her sight outward. Egil’s saga and Vatnsdæla saga both contain hints of warriors and ‘witches’ who “go forth in other form” while their bodies sleep.
Hamfarir reflects the Norse understanding of the self as a multi-layered being - part physical, part spiritual, all bound by wyrd.
Fylgjur, The Spirit Companions -
Closely tied to hamfarir were the fylgjur (“followers” or “attendants”), guardian spirits that accompanied each person through life. These could appear as animals, people, or shadows, often reflecting one’s inner nature or fate.
A person with a wolf fylgja, for instance, might be fierce, loyal or prone to rage. To see one’s own fylgja could be an omen of death - the spirit revealing itself before departing.
Fylgjur also acted as messengers and protectors, linking the human soul to ancestral and natural powers. They often appeared in dreams or visions, guiding seid workers through the Otherworld.
Utiseta, Sitting Out Under the Sky -
Another practice often connected with seiðr and spá was útiseta (sitting out). The practitioner would sit alone outdoors at night, often on burial mounds, crossroads or sacred hills, in silence and meditation.
The goal was to commune with spirits (ancestors, landvættir, or the dead) to seek visions or guidance. The Eddas hint that Óðinn himself practised forms of útiseta when seeking wisdom from the dead in Baldrs draumar.
Utiseta was a practice of humility and courage: sitting exposed to the elements and the unknown, trusting the silence to speak.
Other Magical Arts of the North -
The Norse world also knew of other specialised magical forms and beliefs, many of which overlapped or blended with seiðr:
Lyfseiðr – Healing magic involving herbs, charms, and runes.
Hamingja – The personal luck or life force one could strengthen or damage through deeds or ritual.
Varðlokkur – The “warding songs” used to call spirits or awaken power during seiðr rites.
Blót and Offerings – Ritual sacrifice and gift exchange with the gods, maintaining right relationship (frith) with the divine.
Niðstang – The “curse-pole,” a carved and consecrated stake raised to shame or curse an enemy.
All of these reveal a worldview where magic and religion were one and the same - both acts of engaging with the living cosmos, where every word, symbol, and gesture could ripple across the worlds.
Each form of Norse magic (seiðr, galdr, runes, spá, hamfarir, and more) was a thread in the great web of wyrd. They were not separate disciplines, but different expressions of a single truth: that all things are alive, all things are bound, and the skilled hand can pluck those threads to shape reality.
The seid worker, the rune-master, the singer and the prophet all drew from the same source - the sacred energy that seethes beneath the surface of the Nine Worlds. Their arts were tools of alignment, not domination; of listening, not conquest.
In the Norse imagination, magic was not a rebellion against nature, but a conversation with it - an act of remembering that the worlds themselves are alive, and that to speak, carve or weave with reverence is to take part in the eternal act of creation.
Seiðr in Mythology
Seiðr was not merely the craft of mortals. It reached into the highest realms of the Norse cosmos, where even the gods themselves practised its art. The myths make it clear: seiðr was divine knowledge - a sacred, dangerous power that could alter the course of worlds.
Far from being superstition, seiðr was a cosmic force the magic through which destiny was felt, shaped and sustained. To understand how it was viewed by the Norse, we must look to the gods who embodied and wielded it: Freyja, Óðinn, and Frigg - each a master of the unseen in their own right.
Freyja, The First Mistress of Seiðr -
At the heart of all seiðr stands Freyja, goddess of love, desire, fertility and death. She is the Vanir goddess who first brought the art to the Æsir after the great war between the two divine tribes. In the Ynglinga saga, it is written:
“Freyja was the first to teach the Æsir seiðr, as it was practised among the Vanir.”
Her power was not bound by morality - she was a goddess of life and death alike, of pleasure and pain, of beauty and the grave. She ruled over Fólkvangr the field where half the honoured dead went after battle, the other half going to Óðinn’s Valhalla. This dual rulership itself reflects the essence of seiðr - the art that unites opposites and moves between realms.
Freyja’s mastery of seiðr was rooted in her connection to creation itself. As goddess of fertility and passion, she embodied the sacred flow of energy that animates all life. Her magic was not coercive but erotic in the deepest sense - a union of will and spirit, weaving the living pattern of the world.
Through Freyja, seiðr entered Asgard and changed the very nature of divine power. She represents the feminine current of magic: intuitive, emotional, relational - the energy that listens, feels, and transforms. To call upon Freyja was to invite beauty, passion, and the courage to face death with open eyes.
Óðinn, The Seiðr Father -
If Freyja was the first mistress of seiðr, Óðinn became its greatest master. Ever hungry for wisdom, Óðinn sought out every form of knowledge - no matter the cost. He hung from Yggdrasil, the World Tree, for nine nights to gain the runes. He drank from Mímir’s well, sacrificing an eye for insight. And from Freyja, he learned the art of seiðr - though it meant crossing the deepest taboos of his culture.
Seiðr gave Óðinn the power to:
Control minds and emotions, bending will through subtle influence.
See across time, perceiving what was, what is, and what might yet come.
Speak with the dead, summoning shades for counsel.
Shape fate, weaving the threads of destiny according to his will.
The Ynglinga saga says:
“With seiðr he could know the fate of men, bring death or misfortune, take away people’s wit or strength, and give these to others.”
For this, Óðinn was both revered and mocked. Loki taunted him in Lokasenna, calling him unmanly for practising a woman’s art. Yet Óðinn’s power shows that true mastery lies in transcending boundaries - even those of gender and honour.
Óðinn’s seiðr is willful and sacrificial. Where Freyja’s is sensual and creative, Óðinn’s is ruthless and visionary. He does not merely weave wyrd - he tears it apart and rebinds it, risking madness for understanding.
Through him, we see that seiðr is not soft magic. It is the deepest form of power: the willingness to change the self in order to touch the infinite.
Frigg, The Silent Seer -
If Freyja and Óðinn embody the active and passionate sides of seiðr, Frigg represents its still and inward aspect. She is the queen of Asgard, goddess of marriage, motherhood, and foresight. Like her husband, she knows the fates of all beings - yet, unlike him, she chooses silence.
In the Eddas, it is said that Frigg “knows all fate, though she speaks it not.” Her power is quiet wisdom, the deep seeing that does not need to act. Where Óðinn seeks to manipulate, Frigg accepts and understands.
Her restraint is itself a kind of seiðr - the magic of knowing when not to weave, when to let wyrd unfold as it must. In her silence lies trust in the greater pattern, the humility that balances the restless hunger of Óðinn. Together, they show the two poles of seiðr: the active weaving and the peaceful witnessing.
These three (Freyja, Óðinn, and Frigg) form the trinity of seiðr’s divine expression:
Freyja, the heart - creation, desire, and the power of life.
Óðinn, the mind - will, sacrifice, and the quest for understanding.
Frigg, the soul - wisdom, acceptance, and silence before mystery.
Through them, we see that seiðr was not considered ‘black magic’ or mere ‘witchcraft’. It was a sacred technology of consciousness, a way of perceiving and interacting with fate itself. It demanded respect, courage and balance - for to misuse it was to invite madness, but to master it was to stand beside the gods.
In the myths, seiðr becomes a mirror of the cosmos:
Creative as Freyja’s love,
Destructive as Óðinn’s fury,
Enduring as Frigg’s patience.
It was the thread that bound gods and mortals alike to the web of wyrd - the eternal pattern that holds all things together.
Seiðr in the Modern World
Though the last historical völva may have fallen silent over a thousand years ago, seiðr has never truly died. Like the whisper of wind in the trees or the hum of energy beneath the soil, its presence endures - waiting for those who learn how to listen.
In the 20th and 21st centuries, seiðr has awakened anew, revived by those who seek to walk in the old ways of the North. Among Heathen, Ásatrú, and Norse Pagan communities, practitioners have turned once more to the sagas, archaeological evidence and comparative studies of shamanic and ecstatic traditions to reconstruct and reimagine this ancient craft.
While the sources are fragmentary, the spirit of seiðr is unmistakable: a way of entering sacred relationship with the world - of honouring the gods, ancestors, and spirits through lived experience rather than belief alone.
Modern seiðr began its quiet return in the late 20th century, paralleling the broader revival of Norse Paganism. Early pioneers (scholars, visionaries and practitioners alike) began piecing together the old fragments: the sagas’ vivid accounts of trance, the staffs found in ‘Viking’ graves and parallels to circumpolar shamanism and Saami noaidi practices.
Groups across Scandinavia, Britain, North America and beyond began holding ritual seiðr circles, experimenting with reconstructed chants (varðlokkur), drumming and breathwork. These ceremonies often involve a designated seiðkona or seiðmaðr who enters trance while others sing rhythmic songs to help open the way between worlds.
Through such rites, communities seek guidance, healing, or direct experience of the sacred - continuing the ancient dialogue between human and spirit that defined the practice in the ‘Viking Age’.
Though each practitioner’s approach differs, certain core practices and themes have emerged within modern seiðr:
Trance Journeying -
Practitioners enter altered states of awareness through breathing, chanting, drumming, or silent meditation. In these states, consciousness loosens from the body, allowing the spirit to travel - to meet gods, ancestors, or landwights, or to see visions that speak in symbols and mythic language.
Spirit Communication and Ancestor Work -
Seiðr places strong emphasis on relationship - with the dead, the land, and the divine. Many practitioners maintain ancestor altars or sacred spaces, pouring offerings and speaking with those who came before. Ancestors are seen as allies, guides, and participants in one’s spiritual path.
Ritual Seiðr Circles -
Communal seiðr circles are perhaps the most recognisable modern adaptation. Participants gather to sing or chant varðlokkur traditional or intuitive spirit songs - creating a rhythm that lifts the seer into vision. Once in trance, the seer speaks what they perceive: messages, guidance, or glimpses of wyrd. The group then closes the rite with gratitude and grounding.
Healing and Energy Work -
Some modern seid workers use the craft for healing, drawing on Norse cosmology as a framework for energy balancing. By aligning with the forces of the Nine Worlds or invoking specific deities, they seek to restore harmony within body and spirit - echoing the old notion of seiðr as both medicine and mystery.
Personal Seiðr and Daily Practice -
Beyond ritual, many see seiðr as a living awareness - a way of perceiving the interconnectedness of all things. Daily offerings, meditations with nature or acts of mindfulness become threads in the wider weave. To practise seiðr in this sense is to live consciously within wyrd - to recognise how each choice, word and action ripples through the web of being.
Balancing Reconstruction and Inspiration
Modern seiðr exists on a continuum between historical reconstruction and personal revelation. Some groups strive for historical accuracy, relying strictly on sources such as Eiríks saga rauða and Ynglinga saga. Others view seiðr as a living tradition, one that evolves as it moves through time and culture.
Both approaches hold value. What unites them is the same spirit that moved the völva of old - a reverence for mystery, a willingness to listen, and a recognition that seiðr is less about “magic tricks” and more about relationship, alignment, and transformation.
The old Norse never separated religion from magic or life from spirit. In the same way, modern seid workers blur the lines between ancient practice and contemporary spirituality. To them, the past is not dead but dreaming and through seiðr, they help it dream onward.
As with the old ways, modern practitioners emphasise virðing (respect) as the foundation of all work. Seiðr is approached not as a tool of dominance but as a conversation with sacred forces.
Ethical seiðr involves:
Honouring the gods, ancestors, and land before seeking their help.
Asking permission before working with a place or spirit.
Maintaining humility, knowing that not all visions are meant to be acted upon.
Avoiding harm, manipulation, or ego driven use of power.
This respect based approach restores the craft to its rightful context - not as superstition or spectacle, but as sacred relationship.
In the modern world, seiðr is less about reconstructing the exact rites of the past and more about rekindling the awareness behind them. It invites practitioners to move beyond dogma and enter direct communion with the sacred - to know the gods not as distant myths, but as living presences within and around them.
Through this, seiðr becomes not just a magical art but a path of spiritual ecology - one that teaches reverence for the land, connection with ancestors, and mindfulness of the threads that bind all life.
Though its outer forms may change with the centuries, the inner truth of seiðr remains the same:
To live in harmony with wyrd.
To walk between the worlds with honour.
And to remember that all things are connected.
Seiðr is not only a remnant of an old faith - it is a philosophy of relationship and reverence. It teaches that everything is connected through wyrd, the great web of being and that power flows not from domination but from harmony.
To practise seiðr is to listen - to the land, to the ancestors, to the gods and to the quiet voice within. It reminds us that magic is not a trick or command, but a dialogue.
In the end, seiðr is not just about prophecy or spellcraft. It is about living with awareness, honouring the sacred in all things and weaving your life with intention into the ever-living pattern of the world.
Seiðr is the heartbeat of the old North - ancient, fluid and ever-changing. It is not a relic buried in saga or song, but a living current that still flows beneath the skin of the world. It moves through wind and water, through dream and silence, through every moment where intention meets mystery.
To walk the path of seiðr is to stand upon the threshold between will and wyrd, between the human and the divine. It is to learn that power does not lie in control, but in relationship - in listening as much as in acting, in surrender as much as in strength. Those who take up this path do not command the unseen; they converse with it, honouring its rhythms and its will.
The art of seiðr teaches that reverence is power, and that humility is not weakness, but the wisdom to know one’s place within the vast web of life. It reminds us that all magic (true magic) begins with respect: for the gods, the land, the dead, and the self.
When the seid-worker sits beneath the night sky, staff in hand, breath slowing to the rhythm of the earth, they do not reach outward to seize the world - they reach inward, to awaken the world already within them.
For seiðr is not a craft of command. It is a conversation with the cosmos - an exchange of breath and will, of silence and song. It is the whisper beneath the northern wind, the murmur of the sea against stone, the quiet pulse of the world remembering itself.
Those who hear that whisper and answer it with respect, humility, and heart will find that the old power is not lost at all. It waits - patient as the stars - for the brave and the reverent to listen once more.