The air smelled different today. Not quite spring yet, but close. That in-between time when the earth stirs just beneath the surface, waking up, stretching. I was outside, hands in the dirt, clearing away the remnants of winter from the garden. The wind picked up suddenly, not harsh, not cold, just there. And in it, a sound. A whisper, almost.
It reminded me of something old, something familiar but distant. Not a memory exactly, more like a presence. The kind that makes you stop what you're doing and just listen. I don’t know why, but in that moment, I thought of Vikings. Not the versions from TV, not the stories of raiders and longships, but the real ones: the ones who stood at the edge of the world, looking out at the sea, knowing they were part of something bigger.
And then, just as quickly, my thoughts shifted to bhakti. The path of devotion. Of surrender. Two worlds, seemingly so different, but suddenly feeling the same.
The warrior’s devotion
Bhakti yoga isn’t about bowing down or losing yourself. It’s about love, but not the kind most people think of. It’s fierce. It’s raw. It’s choosing to give yourself fully, not because you have to, but because something in you knows it’s right. And in that way, it’s not so different from the Vikings. They weren’t just warriors—they were devoted. They swore oaths, made offerings, trusted their gods to guide them, not out of fear, but because they had relationship.
The Hávamál—one of the old Norse texts—says:
**A man must stand by his word. No burden is heavier than a soul without honor.
**
That sounds like bhakti to me. Not rules, not dogma, but a way of being. Showing up. Offering yourself. Trusting. The same way I trust that the seasons will shift, that the seeds I plant will break through the soil, even if I don’t see them yet.
Sacrifice & surrender
There’s this idea that surrender is weak. That letting go means giving up. But the Vikings knew better. Before battle, they made offerings—not as a desperate plea, but as a declaration. A knowing. The gods are with me. I do my part, and they do theirs. That’s bhakti too. You don’t sit back and wait. You show up, heart open, ready for whatever comes.
And I get it. Because out here, hands deep in the earth, I feel that same connection. The wind carries more than air. It carries stories, whispers, reminders that we are never as alone as we think we are. Bhakti isn’t just about chanting in a temple, just like Viking devotion wasn’t just about rituals. It’s about living it. Feeling the presence of something greater, whether in a storm at sea, or in the quiet rustling of new leaves.
The strongest warrior fights for love
The wind died down, and I got back to work. But something had shifted. It’s funny how these moments sneak up on you, when the ordinary becomes something else, something deeper.
I think the Vikings and the bhaktas understood the same truth: The strongest warriors aren’t the ones who fight the hardest, but the ones who know what they stand for. Devotion isn’t a weakness: it’s power. The kind that roots you, steadies you, and gives you the courage to walk forward, whether into battle, into the unknown, or simply into the next season.
Spring is coming. The earth knows it. The wind knows it. And for a moment, standing there in the garden, I knew it too.
