I want to take a moment to share with all of you, whether you’re part of BNG or simply watching our journey unfold.
When BNG was first forming, three of us came together to shape what we hoped would be a living spiritual path rooted in Gaulish polytheism. At that time, we didn’t have a shared framework. Each of us brought our own cosmology, our own devotions, and our own understandings of the Deuoi. We came together with Sucellos, Taranos, Artio—gods who had long stood at the centers of our individual worship. It was a challenge just getting into the same spiritual rhythm.
And then something unexpected happened.
We didn’t summon Ogmios. We weren’t studying him. In fact, none of us had given him much attention at all. But like a quiet figure at the edge of a firelight, he stepped forward. Not loudly. Not in a flash. Just… undeniably. At first, it was disorienting. Ogmios pulled us out of our comfort zones. He demanded precision in speech, integrity in action, and courage in communication. He wasn’t interested in idle devotion or vague platitudes. He wanted us to speak clearly, to live virtuously, and to teach with purpose. And so, without ever formally choosing him, he became the guiding force of BNG. Our symbol became based on him. Our foundational teachings were shaped around his example. And over time, as our prayers took form and our doctrines unfolded, the presence of Ogmios wove itself into every part of what we were becoming. Eventually, the other founders stepped away, each for their own reasons, and I became the last of the original three still walking this path. Others came in to take up the work of the Delgaunoi, the Keepers of the Bessus, but Ogmios remained constant. And somewhere along the way, something even more unexpected happened: he stopped being just the guide of BNG and became the god who reshaped me.
You see, I never loved writing. Language, grammar, the art of shaping thoughts into words—it all felt like a burden to me. I stumbled through it. I avoided it. I didn’t think it mattered as much as action or devotion or feeling. But Ogmios thought otherwise. He became a teacher to me, in the truest sense of the word. Not one who scolded or demanded, but one who held up a mirror and asked, “What do you really mean?” He walked beside me as I tried, failed, rewrote, and slowly—painfully—learned how to find my voice. He didn’t just help me write better. He taught me how to think better. To refine my thoughts, to examine them, and to take responsibility for what I said. Every sentence became an offering. Every carefully chosen word, an act of devotion. Through Ogmios, I came to understand that language is a spiritual tool. It can heal. It can destroy. It can liberate or bind. And the ethics of language—truthfulness, clarity, restraint, kindness—became virtues I had to cultivate. Not just as a writer or a teacher, but as a Druid, as a human being.
In time, Ogmios taught me that the power of speech isn’t about sounding wise or being persuasive. It’s about alignment. It’s about having your words, your actions, and your soul all point in the same direction. He helped me recognize that virtue isn’t just what we do—it’s how we speak, how we teach, how we build and share meaning. And so now, Ogmios stands at the center of BNG—not just as a divine presence, but as the architect of its soul. He shapes our devotion, but also our structure, our ethics, and our discipline. He is the god of the tethered tongue and the unshakable virtue. And he is, without question, my god. I didn’t expect to be his devotee. I didn’t expect him to be mine. But that’s the nature of the gods. We may set out looking for them, but sometimes, they’re the ones who find us.
Through BNG, Ogmios has made me a speaker. Through Ogmios, BNG has become a tradition of voice, virtue, and vision. And through all of it, I have come to realize that we are not just followers of the gods—we are their students.
Bessus Nouiogalation 