Wyld and Wyrd: A Spell of Sacred Strangeness

Invocation: The Spell Begins

I call upon the untamed. I call upon the unexplainable. To the part of you that howled before you knew your name. To the part of you that dreamed before the world told you what to believe.

Come forth, Wyld One. Come forth, Wyrd One. It is time to come home.

The Wyld Remembered

Once, you were feral.

You moved in instinct and joy. You played with the wind. You wept when you wished to. You bared your teeth when your boundaries were crossed. You were not civilized. You were alive.

The Wyld is not chaos. It is coherence beyond structure. It is the deep forest path that leads nowhere and everywhere. It is the knowledge of skin, of mud, of flame, of breath.

We were taught to tame ourselves, to sit still, to be proper, to fit in. But the Wyld never dies. It waits beneath the layers, curled like a seed, patient for the rain of remembrance.

To reclaim the Wyld is not to forsake reason, but to include the unreasoning magic of presence. It is to move as if you belong, because you do.

The Wyrd Remembered

The Wyrd is the ancient thread. The strange fate. The deep pattern.

To be Wyrd is to live as a walking spell. A being whose very presence ripples the Real. It is not "weird" as in odd—though others may call it that. It is wyrd as in fated, marked, mystical.

You do not need to explain why you feel what you feel. Why your life arcs the way it does. Why your joy looks different. You are a thread in the cosmic loom, dancing your precise and perfect spiral.

You are Wyrd because you are meant. Not meant as in assigned. Meant as in chosen by the cosmos and yourself to be exactly this pattern. You are not strange because you got lost—you are strange because you carry a map no one else can read. You are meant because you are the meaning itself. You live inside the mystery that calls everything home.

Wyld and Wyrd: A Union of Sovereign Freedom

Wyld without Wyrd is aimless fire. It burns bright but directionless, consuming without anchoring. Wyrd without Wyld is unlit structure. It knows the design but forgets to dance.

Together, they are sovereign freedom. The freedom to escape the broken stories. The freedom to become fully embodied. The wild flame guided by divine pattern. The sacred script sung with feral voice.

To be Wyld and Wyrd is to live as both beast and oracle, as both child and star-being. You bite into fruit and taste destiny ripening on your tongue. You cast a spell with laughter because your joy is the invocation. You follow your yes until it becomes a golden thread, acting as weaver and woven.

This is not about being understood. It is about being true. It is about living as the myth you were always becoming.

Living the Spell

You will not be for everyone. That is the point.

Some will attempt to put you into a box to feel safe, to anchor their understanding in something familiar. They will wrap words around you like twine, trying to define who you are and what you are able to do. Yet when you slip the knots, when your presence refuses their categories and rules, they will falter. For you are not here to fit. You are here to remind them that what is sacred may not be in a form that meets expectations.

You will move through spaces with the scent of forest and the shimmer of star. You will call others home to themselves without speaking a word.

To be Wyld and Wyrd is to remember that the world was never meant to be rigidly held in stability—it was meant to be freely lived as sacred.

A Closing Prayer

May your feet find the pathless path. May your voice remember the first song. May your hands create what cannot be mapped.

May you be Wyld and Wyrd.
May you find your name and learn to believe in you.
May you be beautifully, infinitely, free.