Author: akumedia_lhgk38

Every turn of the calendar snags us on the same bramble: become someone else, quickly. We tug, we tear, and call it progress. Tonight we trade the makeover for a tree’s wisdom. A new year is not a costume change; it’s a branching—a living extension of the trunk you’ve grown ring by ring. Branches don’t erupt from air; they emerge where the wood is ready, where sap already flows. That is mercy: you do not start from zero, and you do not have to rip free of yourself to grow.

The north keeps this picture close. Yggdrasil stands scarred and steadfast—roots in mystery, crown in weather, trunk bearing the marks of seasons survived. New growth doesn’t erase old rings; it depends on them. In that light, a “hangup” at the new year is not failure; it’s friction—the bark reminding you where strength lives and where reach would split the grain. The question shifts from “How do I reinvent?” to “Where can I honestly extend?” Some years ask for leaves; some ask for thicker bark. Both are growth.

We’ll name the temptations plainly. Frenzy masquerades as commitment. Comparison dresses up as inspiration. Shame pretends to be a coach. None of these feed a branch. What does? Warmth (kept promises, however small), water (the ordinary care you stop apologizing for), and light (truth told without embroidery). Boundaries are not fences around your life; they are the crotches that keep a limb from shearing under weight. Hospitality is not performance; it is the shade you offer while you grow.

If you feel caught on last year’s thorn, stop pulling. Feel the snag, free it gently, and face the sun you can actually see. The old ways don’t demand a different soul each January. They ask for fidelity to the one you carry—stronger trunk, truer reach, one living branch sized to the season. New year, same roots—new green, when it’s time.

Today’s show sponsored by Zeal Pet Foods.

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— Be well my friends,

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Care is not softness that melts at the first hard word. In the old north, care is craft and courage: the hall kept warm through winter, guest-right upheld at the threshold, the road made safe by those who stand their watch. Tonight we speak of care as a brave stance—not a mood. It is choosing to keep a small flame, to tell the truth kindly, to set boundaries before the storm, and to carry one another without breaking our own backs.

The sagas remember warriors; they also remember fire-keepers, healers, wayfinders—the ones who protected heat, water, and words. That is care. It looks like presence over performance, precision over frenzy, and promises sized to be kept. It honors consent: help that is requested, touch that is invited, counsel that waits for an opening. It respects edges: Þórr’s steadiness when a line must hold, Freyja’s discernment when love needs clarity, Ullr’s winter skill when conditions are bright and unforgiving.

Care is also for the self, or it collapses. A hall burns out when the hearth is misused. The body that carries others must be fed, watered, and allowed to rest without shame. To refuse exploitation is not a failure of kindness; it is fidelity to the work continuing tomorrow. The courage of care says, “I will be here again,” and shapes life accordingly.

We will name what care is not. It is not martyrdom, not rescue that steals dignity, not silence where harm is normal. It does not trade away truth to keep a fragile peace. Real care tells the weather, gathers the kin, makes the table, and lets each person bring what they can carry.

If you have been told your care is weakness, let tonight answer: care is the strength that outlasts noise. Keep the flame. Guard the threshold. Offer what is yours to give—and only that. The world is remade by such courage, one warm room at a time.

Today’s show sponsored by Trinity Road Websites.

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— Be well my friends,

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At the year’s hinge the halls grow quiet and the loom grows loud. The Norns lean over the warp; ravens shuttle through the rafters with small, bright truths. This is not an hour for reinvention, but for recognition. Beneath the names we trade in market light—roles, titles, masks—there is an older name, the one your ancestors used when they spoke of you without sound. It is the tone of your breath when you are not performing, the color of your courage when no one looks. The old north teaches that a person is not a statue but a thread—pliant, strong, meant to be woven. Fate is not a cage; it is a pattern asking for your consent.

To remember yourself, you don’t chase omens or grind at mirrors. You sit in the hall of your being and honor guest-right with what arrives: the child you once were, the keeper you are, the elder you are becoming. You pour them each a cup and listen. What repeats is not a flaw to be sanded off; it is a clue to the craft you carry. Even your scars have a grammar—knotwork that shows where you held under weather. The mead of poetry is not only for skalds; it lives wherever honesty and beauty share a table. Drink it and your speech becomes clean: fewer words, truer weight.

Yggdrasil stands as witness: roots deep in mystery, crown bright with news, trunk scarred yet living. So are you. You are allowed to be multiple and still be whole, to mourn and to desire, to guard your heat and to share it. The gods of the north do not demand perfection; they demand presence. Let the new year be less a command to become and more a permission to become visible—to yourself first. When you remember your oldest name, the world does not change at once; it simply comes into focus, and the path ahead looks back as if it has been waiting for you all along.

Today’s show sponsored by EBookers Ireland.

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— Be well my friends,

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