I take my Preseli Bluestone skull up to Knowlton to do some preparatory work before Terrie Birch arrives for the astrological solstice tomorrow. We plan to set out a vast Celtic Golden Healer Quartz
spiral to activate the world-wise healing that the Quartz has asked to be used for (more about that in a blog and post to come).
I have to avoid the yew tree grove. Once a portal to another world, it was a timeless, sacred spirit place. Now it’s festooned with so-called votive offerings. Will someone please explain how a piece of plastic torn from a carrier bag and a scrappy bit of wool can be thankful? It’s more like a vast litter bin. I’ve lived here for 30 years and it’s a very recent practice. The trees are screaming. ‘Please stop’. The pile of fresh doggie-dooh buzzing with flies doesn’t help either. Why can’t people take responsibility for cleaning up their own shit? Or their dogs, in this case. If they don’t, no one else will.
Visitors are calling the two yews ‘prayer trees’, speaking with awe. With difficulty I zip my Sagittarian mouth shut. Am I being curmudgeonly? It could be the influence of Horace, my Smoky Quartz Earth Healer who is coming out to play with us tomorrow. He takes a dim view of the word ‘play’, he takes these things very seriously indeed. Does the comfort these offerings and prayers bring outweigh my, and his, outraged sensibilities? I hope so. I’d better remind Horace of what his namesake the Roman lyrical poet had to say a couple of millennia ago:
Mix a little foolishness with your serious plans. It is lovely to be silly at the right moment.
Well you have to learn to laugh with a name like Quintus Horatius Flaccus don’t you? And here’s what another Horace had to say:
As an author I rather like these Horaces. How about this one:
And this is a Horace I really should pay heed to:
I have to get off my soapbox, put aside my angst and start the healing. The trees aren’t the only thing crying out. The land needs nourishing too. I place the skull on the stone local dowsers excitedly heralded as one of the lost standing stones. It may well be, they were set into the church to seed and harness the sacrality of this ancient henge into the new religion. Before English Heritage ‘renovated’ the ruins some years ago now, this particular stone was an upright in one of the arches. (It was repaired with out-of-keeping redbrick so the spot can easily be identified). Now the stone makes a perfect resting place for my Bluestone skull. He faces towards the end of the Dorset Cursus, where last night I had watched a potent conjunction hang in the sky. The rebirthed, waxing moon was topped by Venus and Jupiter, in the spot where, a little while earlier, the dying sun had entered the underworld for the night. At a standstill before it moves back to its midwinter rising point once more. This is a sign of things to come, a new birth, an opportunity… we shall see.
As always, the Preseli stone freight-trains me back to its mountain home and I see Gaia’s energy grid spread out before me. Merlin steps forward staff in hand, behind him a long line of hallowed shamans. I am directed to ‘my cave’. A niche in the rocks that faces back towards Knowlton. I see Avebury, Stonehenge, and the Dorset Cursus glowing. Sacred sites everywhere lighting up ready for tomorrow.
A whirl pool of energy is rising from the skull and then settling into the sun and moon lines that radiate around the henge. From here the Earth is shot through with electric currents, recharging the land. They flash through the sea lighting the way as the grid fuses together ready to fire up the next day. This is a pivotal moment in the Earth’s tilting cycle. A standstill for the sun before it slowly moves back to hits midwinter rising point.
It’s a moment of introspection. Time to look to the past. To leave there what needs to be moved on from. But bringing forward the gifts and learning as the piece of Ancestralite in my pocket reminds me. Funnily enough, next to me, two women sit discussing their experiences of giving birth. They go on to share their ancestry, birthsigns, and the foibles of their families. In a loving rather than blaming way. I wonder if they know how appropriate that is.
Reluctantly I fly back to my body. Tomorrow we will lay out a gleaming golden spiral, taking the energy out into the future. But for now it’s time to return home. Tomorrow will be another day. It’s hot and sultry, just right for a thunderstorm and sure enough, as I reach home, there is a torrential downpour. The land is washed clean, ready for the new energies.
As I picked him up to leave Knowlton, my Preseli skull finally told me his name. I’ve been waiting for this moment. ‘Gawain’ he says clearly. ‘I have Arthurian connections.’ How exciting. This is what Wikipedia says about King Arthur’s nephew.
‘Gawain is often portrayed as a formidable, courteous, and also a compassionate warrior, fiercely loyal to his king and family. He is a friend to young knights, a defender of the poor, and as “the Maidens’ Knight”, a defender of women as well. In some works, his strength waxes and wanes with the sun; in the most common form of this motif, his might triples by noon, but fades as the sun sets. His knowledge of herbs makes him a great healer.’
His power waning with the sun is interesting. It is noon. He is at his peak. I am honoured to be his keeper.
When I reach home, I’m delighted to find ‘my’ Preseli Bluestone dragon on the internet. Another moment I’ve been waiting for. She tells me her name is Morganna. I wonder what it augers. That’s going to be interesting!
Who says the sky doesn’t dream? If you want to communicate with friendly dragons, come along to the College of Psychic Studies in the autumn term. There’ll be plenty on offer. They are waiting to meet you. Booking details will be up soon.
I would be delighted to welcome you to the new members' community section of my website and to have the opportunity of sharing my many passions with you.