My Mjollnir is an ordinary thing; a small piece of silver, a simple design, hung on a thin chain. It’s so popular with heathens that in the UK we often wear it as a mark of identity, a symbol of heathenry as a whole. There’s a moment, when you see one on a stranger, and they see yours, of recognition and embarrassment and awkward friendly nodding, when you remember that this little thing is an advertisement for something bigger and older than you are, a badge of eccentricity, spirituality, tradition, and culture.
I forget it’s there, and feel odd when it isn’t.
They say that in Northern Europe the hammer was used to bless marriages, the short handle-shape apparently some kind of innuendo; It’s the mojo of the thunder god. It’s the lightning in the storm, wielded by the earth’s son. It’s growth in summer fields. It’s nature, awesome and thriving and generous, full of strength and movement, the rain clashing and drumming on your tent as you snuggle down deep into blankets, safe, half- asleep, listening to the battle in the clouds.