“Önd gaf Óðinn”: Awen, Önd, and a Waterfall

Yesterday I watched a video by the Welsh scholar Dr Gwilym Morus-Baird about the concept of ‘awen’. Unsurprisingly, it’s a far deeper concept than how it is typically taken by most English-speakers who encounter the term. This is no surprise - it’s very difficult to understand words and concepts when those things are divorced from their cultural and linguistic contexts. So to have an in-depth examination by a native speaker who is also a scholar in the field, is invaluable. Especially when your own Welsh doesn’t stretch much beyond greetings, asking how someone is, basic introductions, and staying you like certain foods.

According to Dr Morus-Baird, the modern Welsh 'awen' is typically used to refer to 'poetic genius'. However, in the past, 'awen' also carried supernatural or magical connotations. Poetic genius was associated with spiritual enlightenment or wisdom. There was also a correspondence with a kind of "supernatural" wind or "divine breath", and Dr Morus-Baird notes that both 'awen' and 'awel' (breeze or wind) are thought to derive from the Indo-European '*-uel', or 'breath'. He then goes on to detail instances in older Welsh and Irish poetry in which people engaging in what might be thought of awen-filled acts are accompanied by winds that suddenly rise up. For example, a wind gets up while the legendary poet Taliesin recounts his former lives in a long, boasting poem. This association between 'wind', 'breath, 'spirit', and 'inspiration', is not limited to Welsh culture either, and is reflected in the Ancient Greek 'pneuma', and even the roots of the English term "inspiration" (from 'inspiratus', or "to breathe within").

Dr Morus-Baird then goes on to explain that unlike other Indo-European cultures, the Welsh 'awen' is also associated with Annwfn, or the Welsh Otherworld. Annwfn (according to some scholars) is "the very deep world", or "the world within the world", and according to some medieval Welsh poems, the very source of awen and the judgement thought to come with it.

Finally, he explains that it wasn't enough to simply be filled with awen though, one must also have been properly trained in order to put it to best use.

There's a whole lot more in the video, so I advise you to check it out via the link above (and check out Dr Gwilym Morus-Baird's other work here and here).

Musings on Önd

While this blog is ostensibly the place where I put my Brythonic writings, unsurprisingly (given the shared IE nature of the concept) Gwilym Morus-Baird’s exploration of ‘awen’ reminded me somewhat of the Old Norse term “önd”. This too is breath and soul, and as Norwegian scholar Eldar Heide argues, a kind of ‘spirit wind’ in which a magician might send part of oneself faring forth. It should be noted that there are also parallels here to the Buddhist Tantric view of breath/prana-as-horse (lung or prana), and more specifically the "pervasive" kind of prana that when developed, supports not only a sharp intellect, but the ability to consciously move into a chosen incarnation while between lives, be present in more than one place and time, and clairvoyant ability.

"I have been with skilful men, With Matheu and Govannon, With Eunydd and Elestron, In company with Achwyson, For a year in Caer Gofannon. I am old. I am young. I am Gwion, I am universal, I am possessed of penetrating wit."
                                                   - The First Address of Taliesin

Unlike the Welsh term 'awen' though, the Old Norse term 'önd' doesn't seem to carry the same associations with inspiration - at least not directly - although I believe it might be inferred.

In stanzas 17 and 18 of Völuspá, we are told that the first humans - an ash log and an elm log originally - were enlivened and made human by Óðinn and two others. 

“17. Then from the throng | did three come forth,

From the home of the gods, | the mighty and gracious;

Two without fate | on the land they found,

Ask and Embla, | empty of might.

18. Soul they had not, | sense they had not,

Heat nor motion, | nor goodly hue;

Soul gave Othin, | sense gave Hönir,

Heat gave Lothur | and goodly hue."

Here, Henry Adams Bellows translates 'önd' as 'soul', a translation  supported by both Zoega and Cleasby-Vigfusson dictionaries. Equally acceptable would have been 'breath', however, neither dictionary supports a translation of 'inspiration' here. Instead, the faculty of 'inspiration' is conferred by 'óðr', a word that Bellows translates as 'sense'.
However, 'óðr' is far more complex than mere 'sense' or 'inspiration'. It can carry connotations of 'soul', 'spirit', 'poetry', or 'song', and in some contexts even 'madness' or 'fury'. In Völuspá it is Óðinn, the god of poets and poetry who gives breath/spirit, but a mostly unknown Hönir who gives the faculty for poetry and wisdom that might so easily become madness.


Hönir is not wholly unknown though as he may be the same as 'Hone' from the Ynglinga Saga. A man who was so incapable of making decisions without the counsel of 'Mime' or 'Mimir', that he avoided answering questions. Eventually, Ynglinga Mime shares the fate of his Eddic counterpart, Mimir, and is beheaded. His head is then preserved with herbs and magic so he might continue to whisper his knowledge of hidden and forgotten things into Óðinn's ear. It would seem the poet is nothing without connection to the hidden and forgotten here too.

Breathing in Iceland

Here's where I get to why I'm so up in my feelings on this.

Last year, I co-hosted a tour of Iceland with Morgan Daimler for the incredible Pagan pilgrimage company Land Sea Sky Travel. The whole of the tour was an absolute privilege to work on. Our group was intelligent and curious - just all round lovely humans. There was much I enjoyed about Iceland too, it has a wildness about it that is hard to find elsewhere nowadays.

On one of our last days before returning to Reyjkavik, we went to the indescribable Goðafoss waterfall, a deeply meaningful place both in terms of the historical context, and the meta-story of a tour that began at Thingvellir - the place where the Icelanders made the decision to convert to Christianity. Goðafoss is the place where legend has it the lawspeaker of that fateful assembly discarded his Heathen godposts. Gwilym Morus-Baird's discussion of awen reminded me of an experience I had over those rushing waters that for me was something of a teaching experience.

(I know, that's a whole lot of preface for a poem.)

Goðafoss 

I stand above the roar

Of countless gallons of water falling 

Crashing against rocks

And crashing against itself 

The waters churn white below

Before rushing out impossibly blue

To cut the valley in half 

I hear the beat of heavy wings

It should be impossible over the din

I feel a tug at the arm

And time stands still as I follow

The dark, black feathers of raven flight

Two in number

I watch them as they soar

Gliding with effortless grace 

Above the expanse of crashing waters

And along the rocky face 

That rises up from the blue

The wind, once harsh, holds the whisper of words:

“See me” it says

“Know me as I am” it commands

My breath becomes one with the wind

And my breath-soul mingles with the god

It ends as quickly as it began

But somehow held all the time in the world

The raven-Black wings disappear from sight

And the world crashes in

I stand at the waterfall of the gods 

After meeting He Who Rides The Winds

I breathe again 
But this time it is only air