The 9th Day of Yuletide

The Norns
The Tomte
Rosemary-Butter Toasted Pumpkin Seeds

The Tomte

Oh my gosh! The Tomten was my favorite book to read to my kids at Christmastime, or in the Wintertime in general. The story of a tiny house elf, who is grumpy and shy but who loves the animals and the animals love him…well, it was irresistible.

Santa’s elves are part of the magic woven into the Yuletide season and the Tomte is a small fellow, with a pointed hat, much like those elves at the North Pole. Much like gnomes, as well. The Tomte is different, though, as he is a farm worker, a husbandry expert, a quiet hand around the home and barn. I think the Tomte is the perfect meeting of small, elemental being and caretaker of animals in this season of the Divine Child born in a stable.

It can be really hard to find magic in the world these days and I really feel that children need magic more than ever. They need it to grow their imaginations, which are linked to critical thinking, and they need magic in order for their bodies to develop because magic allows the nervous system to decompress, the tight parts to open up, and more than anything Magic fills us with hope and possibility.

The Tomten didn’t have to be friendly in order to be good. He very quietly, and with no fanfare, just took care of things. Much like most of us adults, doing the needful things, day in and day out. Carrying forth. Tally ho!

For a thank you the Tomte likes a bowl of porridge and a glass of milk left out on Christmas Eve.

At the bottom of this page is a poem about the Tomten by Viktor Rydberg, a most famous poem which includes much of what is known about these quiet beings.

There’s a great article here if you want to know more about this guy.

The Norns

The Norns are the Norse weavers of the fates of humans. They are three sisters, sitting by Urds Well at the roots of Ygdrassil.

I often think that they and Wyrds and the witches from MacBeth are all the same.

The Norns, weaving the threads of our lives. Snipping them off. Braiding them together. Merciless. Crafty. Cailleachs.

Their names are Urd, Verdandi, and Skul. Urd means ‘The Past’. Verdandi means, ‘What is currently coming into being’, and Skul means, ‘What shall be’. Essentially their names are Past, Present, and Future.

Like many female deities in Western European literature, the Norns use the tools of daily life to work their craft. Usually they are viewed as weavers, weaving threads together, pulling them apart, snipping one off here or there, adding in new threads. An apt metaphor for the workings of fate.

Other times they may be pictures scribing runes into wooden slabs or tablets, writing down the words that manifest the course of fate.

As we lean into the energy of a new calendar year, the Norns and the weavings of our futures are on most of our minds. What are we asking for in the coming year? What threads do we wish to snip? What new threads do we want to weave into the tapestry of our life?

If you believe that you have self-determination, which the Norse did not—they though everything was predestined—how will you work with the weaving in the times to come?

Rosemary-Butter Toasted Pumpkin Seeds

1 Tbsp unsalted butter
1 cup raw pumpkin seeds
1 6” spring of rosemary, leaves stripped and finely diced
salt to taste

Melt the butter over med heat in a heavy frying pan, add rosemary and pumpkin seeds and stir with a spatula. Allow to toast until slightly browned on one side then stir again. Toast until all seeds are very slightly browned, fragrant, and toasty.

Pour into a bowl and sprinkle with salt while hot. Toss to distribute the salt. Enjoy while warm or put into a lidded container and enjoy whenever. These will keep, unrefrigerated, for several days.

I sometimes make these with kitcheri spices—mustard seeds; cumin; corriander; cayenne; black pepper; turmeric; asafetida. Delish!

Here is a story about the Norns, linked at the end.

“On one side stood the Palace of the Norns, which was so bright that it almost blinded them to look at it, and on the other the Urda fountain plashed its cool waters—rising, falling, glittering, as nothing ever glitters on this side the clouds. Two ancient swans swam under the fount, and around it sat Three. Ah! how shall I describe them—Urd, Verdandi, Skuld. They were mighty, they were wilful, and one was veiled. Sitting upon the Doomstead, they watched the water as it rose and fell, and passed golden threads from one to another. Verdandi plucked them with busy fingers from Skuld's reluctant hand, and wove them in and out quickly, almost carelessly; for some she tore and blemished, and some she cruelly spoiled. Then Urd took the woof away from her, smoothed its rough places, and covered up some of the torn, gaping holes; but she hid away many of the bright parts, too, and then rolled it all round her great roller, Oblivion, which grew thicker and heavier every moment. And so they went on, Verdandi drawing from Skuld, and Urd from Verdandi; but whence Skuld drew her separate bright threads no one could see. She never seemed to reach the end of them, and neither of the sisters ever stopped or grew weary of her work.

The Æsir stood apart watching, and it was a great sight. They looked in the face of Urd, and fed on wisdom; they studied the countenance of Verdandi, and drank bitter strength; they glanced through the veil of Skuld, and tasted hope. At length, with full hearts, they stole away silently, one by one, out by the pale, open door, re-crossed the bridge, and stood once more by the side of Heimdall on the heavenly hills; then they went home again. Nobody spoke as they went; but ever afterwards it was an understood thing that the Æsir should fare to the Doomstead of the Nornir once in every day.” From The Heroes of Asgard, story Bifrost, Urda, and the Norns, by A. and E. Keary.

The Tomten

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold
The stars glitter and sparkle.
All are asleep on this lonely farm,
Deep in the winter night.
The pale white moon is a wanderer,
snow gleams white on pine and fir,
snow gleams white on the roofs.
Only tomten is awake.

Gray, he stands by the low barn door,
Gray by the drifted snow,
Gazing, as many winters he’s gazed,
Up at the moon’s chill glow,
Then at the forest where fir and pine
Circle the farm in a dusky line,
Mulling relentlessly
A riddle that has no key.

Rubs his hand through his beard and hair,
Shakes his head and his cap.
“No, that question is much too deep,
I cannot fathom that.”
Then making his mind up in a hurry,
He shrugs away the annoying worry;
Turns at his own command,
Turns to the task at hand.

Goes to the storehouse and toolshop doors,
Checking the locks of all,
While the cows dream on in the cold moon’s light,
Summer dreams in each stall.
And free of harness and whip and rein,
Even Old Pålle dreams again.
The manger he’s drowsing over
Brims with fragrant clover.

The tomte glances at sheep and lambs
Cuddled in quiet rest.
The chickens are next, where the rooster roosts
High above straw filled nests.
Burrowed in straw, hearty and hale,
Karo wakens and wags his tail
As if to say, “Old friend, “Partners we are to the end.”

At last the tomte tiptoes in
To see how the housefolk fare.
He knows full well the strong esteem
They feel for his faithful care.
He tiptoes into the children’s beds,
Silently peers at their tousled heads.
There is no mistaking his pleasure:
These are his greatest treasure.

Long generations has he watched
Father to son to son
Sleeping as babes. But where, he asks,
From where, from where have they come?
Families came, families went,
Blossomed and aged, a lifetime spent,
Then-Where? That riddle again
Unanswered in his brain!

Slowly he turns to the barnyard loft,
His fortress, his home and rest,
High in the mow, in the fragrant hay
Near to the swallow’s nest.
The nest is empty, but in the spring
When birds mid leaves and blossoms sing,
And come with her tiny mate.

Then will she talk of the journey tell.
Twittering to all who hear it,
But nary a hint for the question old
That stirs in the tomte’s spirit.
Now through cracks in the haymow wall
The moon lights tomte and hay and all,
Lights his beard through the chinks,
The tomte ponders and thinks.

Still is the forest and all the land,
Locked in this wintry year.
Only the distant waterfall
Whispers and sighs in his ear.
The tomte listens and, half in dream,
Thinks that he hears Time’s endless stream,
And wonders, where is it bound?
Where is its source to be found?

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold,
The stars glitter and sparkle.
All are asleep on this lonely farm,
Late in this winter night.
The pale white moon is a wanderer,
snow gleams white on pine and fir,
snow gleams white on the roofs.
Only tomten is awake.

From tomtenposter.com