kylec | Slow Havamal: 2

In the second verse, the host hears a man greet him from the threshold, and sees him waiting impatiently to come in. He wonders where to seat him.

We start with an interesting shift of perspective. In the first verse, it’s the guest outside who is addressed. Now, we see the same guest from the host’s point of view as he is hailed, and wonders what to do with the man who waits at the threshold—possibly, “on the firewood,” according to a difficult translation of the word “brondum,” which Crawford notes probably refers to someone sitting outside on the woodpile waiting to be noticed. I’m not sure if this shift is an artifact of the original Norse, or the translation. The first verse could be seen as the host mulling over advice to a real or imagined second person, then speaking of a specific man in the third. But Crawford’s translation reminds me to see things from both perspectives: the seeker and the receiver.

It’s easy to forget these days that hospitality was practically sacred to many ancient cultures. Travel was arduous, and travelers depended on the kindness of strangers to find food and shelter. There was usually a god who acted as the patron of hospitality, and a well-defined set of practices, whether they were formally stated or implicit. In a literal reading, we open Havamal with Odin’s advice on hospitality for both guest and host. There’s a polite greeting from a man who waits to be invited in. The host doesn’t wonder whether he should accommodate the guest, but goes straight to thinking of the seating arrangement. People usually had just enough for themselves, if that, so sacrifices would have to be made. And a wealthier party who was hosting many others at the same time would need to consider the status of all of his guests relative to his own.

The man on the threshold is impatient, probably tired and hungry and unenthusiastic about moving on. The host shouldn’t keep him waiting, but the guest might also be advised to conceal his impatience out of politeness. He clearly has certain expectations.

Of course, I’m more interested in the non-literal layers. If I read this poem as advice from Odin, and continue with the notion I had in verse on that Odin is the host, receiving us into his wisdom, then we get a glimpse of his famous sense of humor when he starts the verse, “Hail to a good host!” Odin hails Odin! Another way of seeing this poem is that the threshold we are crossing is the one into the deeper levels of self-knowledge, and it’s the nobler version of myself that receives me—that beyond the ego.

There’s a difficult contradiction between these first two verses. The guest is warned to mark his enemies before entering, but now we see that the host has the right to choose where he sits. Though the enemies are known, he may still be sat among them. They’re unavoidable—those personal shortcomings that confront us as we enter the hall of wisdom. Because I haven’t changed my habits yet, I’ll encounter them at any threshold. In a sense, I travel with them, and they must be faced with tact, because though they’re enemies, they’re also fellow guests, and it isn’t as straightforward as meeting them on a field of battle.

For example, if I enter a familiar living room full of family, I come with certain habits of thought and action. I may always come through the door in the same manner, greet or not greet in the same way, and head to my favorite cushion. I have firm notions of exactly who these people are and how they will behave, and what this gathering will be like. Much of this is based on past experience, but is it accurate? Probably to a degree, since they also carry their habits with them. In this scenario, though I walk into a familiar room with familiar people, the hall I enter is one in my mind, filled with creations of my mind that may or may not have anything to do with the actual people in front of me and how they will behave. The enemies are things like my expectation of Aunt Maude to hijack the conversation, yapping on and on about some crazy story, and of Grandma to have some sort of delicious snack for me to enjoy while we wait for supper to cook. Or my sour mood, thinking of the event as something I just have to endure. Respecting my host and letting him seat me means to allow the context and the actual behaviors before me to dictate what I think of these people and the situation, and to allow it to unfold in an unexpected manner, free from the yoke of habit.

The host will seat me according to my status. The better the man who enters, the better his starting position. Past victories are acknowledged and have a positive effect on future circumstances. These aren’t external victories, but hard-won experience. The fact that a man often has to fill whatever seat is empty means the guest should come expecting to contribute something that the host needs. To read the context, and fill a void with whatever is missing. I may want others to think of me in high regard, but the reality might dictate that I humble myself, pay my dues, and demonstrate my value—maybe in a way I didn’t expect to be challenged. This might mean developing abilities to suit the circumstances, instead of insisting that the circumstances suit my strengths and my notion of my self.

The man on the threshold is “impatient” and “ready to try his luck.” So nothing is guaranteed. Some men don’t get what they wanted when they ask to be seated in this hall. Or they get turned away altogether. What I bring to the table matters, but there’s an element beyond my control. The first time I got my hands on The Wanderer’s Havamal, I blazed through it in a single sitting. I also got as much out of it as I put in. Rushing into the hall uninvited and ransacking the place is poor hospitality. By deferring to the direction of the host, my experience is catered by one who knows more than I do, whether I’m welcomed by Grandma at her house, Odin, or the vast territory of the unexplored self. I move at a pace, and into a seat, chosen by another. This breaks me free of the dint of habit and allows for a novel experience in which I actually need to pay attention to what’s going on around me, rather than imprinting my prejudices on the situation.

Being forced to slow down, sit among enemies, and observe certain customs may feel stifling, but by encountering what I prefer to avoid I could have a real educational experience. Children are often accustomed to being received and provided for, or entertained, at every waking moment. But the rules of hospitality work both ways. As an adult, I need to enter into a reciprocal relationship with my host, and provide as much effort and value as I can in return, even if all I have to offer is good manners and an ear eager to learn.

Naturally, I enter into any hall—Havamal, included—with some idea of what I hope or expect to get out of it. To the extent that I can put that aside and open myself to the wisdom of the host, even when I don’t understand the reason for some arcane rule of hospitality, I’ll benefit. To drift through in a cloud of habits will get me what I’ve always gotten, or worse. We will all have opportunities to play both roles in our lives. The host should remember when hosts treated him generously, and the guest how his guests showed him respect.

That means I should be patient and helpful with others who are still learning things that I long ago got a handle on, and be the kind of student that I would like others to be. The old rules of hospitality worked because, though the relationship wasn’t symmetrical, it was reciprocal, and you could expect that in giving to a wanderer, you would also be provided for in your wanderings. That what goes around, comes around. Before I can be a good host, I have to enter into the work with patience, deal tactfully with what confronts me, and expect to be lead where I least expect.