π•Ώπ–π–Š π•Ώπ–π–—π–Šπ–†π–‰π–œπ–Šπ–†π–›π–Šπ–—

π–’π–Šπ–˜π–˜π–†π–Œπ–Šπ–˜ π–œπ–”π–›π–Šπ–“ π–‡π–Šπ–™π–œπ–Šπ–Šπ–“ π–œπ–”π–—π–‘π–‰π–˜ | automatic writing | channeling | divination | energy work | metaphysical counseling | Tarot | runecasting | somatic therapy

πŸ•ΈοΈ π•Ίπ–—π–Žπ–Œπ–Žπ–“ π•Ύπ–™π–”π–—π–ž πŸ•ΈοΈ

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt the pull of threads. My ancestors in Edsbyn, Sweden cultivated flax and wove intricate textiles, including the Unnes Ovanåker Lace, now preserved in a museum [pictured in the banner at the top of this page]. My great-grandmother and grandmother passed down the skill of sewing and mending, and I carry their quiet magic in my own hands. We were the weavers. The ones who created softness and warmth from bushels of reeds. Who cultivated and tended flax to alchemize it into linen.

 

My grandmother showed me how to cross-stitch and make simple clothing repairs - something that not many seem to know how to do anymore: how to fix and gently repair what π’Šπ’” rather than throw it all away to the abyss. And in particular, my great-grandmother taught me something that I don’t know was ever verbally stated, but maybe ancestrally inherited starting from π‘Žπ‘™π‘™π‘™π‘™π‘™π‘™π‘™π‘™ the way back to our beginnings around Uppsala…π’‰π’π’˜ 𝒕𝒐 π’˜π’†π’‚π’—π’† π’†π’π’†π’“π’ˆπ’†π’•π’Šπ’„ 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒔.
 
Something always said about my great-grandmother was that she was a good listener. She could hear what you were really saying even if you were trying to skirt around it. She could pick up on tone and language and see what was really going on before anyone else had noticed something was amiss. But more than that, she was apparently very good at making π’„π’π’π’π’†π’„π’•π’Šπ’π’π’” between what you were saying, what you were going through, and perhaps gentle guidance on what direction to go in.
 
π‘Ύπ’†π’‚π’—π’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 π’‡π’“π’‚π’šπ’†π’… 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 π’šπ’π’–π’“ 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 π’šπ’π’– π’Šπ’π’•π’ π’”π’π’Žπ’†π’•π’‰π’Šπ’π’ˆ π’•π’‚π’π’ˆπ’Šπ’ƒπ’π’†. π‘Ίπ’π’Žπ’†π’•π’‰π’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍. π‘Ίπ’π’Žπ’†π’•π’‰π’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍.
It wasn’t a dictation. It wasn’t a prediction. It wasn’t a manipulation or coercion into a certain direction.
 
It was a warm blanket wrapped around your soul in a time of cold or darkness, woven with her hands from the threads you gave her.
 
It’s my turn to continue the role of the π•Ώπ–π–—π–Šπ–†π–‰π–œπ–Šπ–†π–›π–Šπ–—.
 

Spiritually speaking, my celestial mother Frigga, the Norse goddess of the loom, the holders of my own fate, the Norns, and my totem animal, Spider, guide me. I do not always “see” the unseen in pictures. Instead, I feel it as threads of knowing, impressions, and words that weave themselves into patterns.

 

When you sit with me, you step into a weaving room of sorts: a space where Tarot, automatic writing, claircognizant impressions, and energy work combine into a one-of-a-kind creation just for you.

 

These offerings are not about certainties or predictions. They are threads — glimpses and patterns woven between you, spirit, and the unseen. What emerges is meant to guide, affirm, and spark your own wisdom.

π•Ώπ–π–—π–Šπ–†π–‰π–œπ–Šπ–†π–›π–Šπ–— π•Ίπ–‹π–‹π–Šπ–—π–Žπ–“π–Œπ–˜