Some years ago, after the extraordinary series of events and angelic communications which led to my writing Dolphins * Extraterrestrials * Angels (Knoll Publishing 1984) I was guided back to Europe for what I thought at the time was a last swing through the Old Ways. I had emerged from one Phase of the revelation I’d been given and now was to embark on the second wave, spreading the good news of the final reconciliation of the systemwide rebellion which has caused so much darkness and difficulty on our planet these last two hundred thousand years.
This reconciliation amounted largely to what could be seen as a political or
social act on the capital planet within whose aegis we reside.
The problem faced by the Universe authorities, if they can be seen as such,
was to find ways in which the good tidings could be introduced into contemporary
planetside thinking. My book and this subsequent journey were just some of their
ways of introducing people to this profoundly effecting change in Universe affairs.
For me, the previous few months of revelation had been among the most powerful
in my life; an unforgettable confirmation of cooperation and involvement from
levels of Being to which I’d hitherto given little credence.
Now it was all very real. I was starting to know with full reality at last that
we are all guided and nurtured by angelic beings; that the universe is marvelously
organized, huge beyond words and vastly populated; that love is the law, love
and life itself; and that, indeed, we are all doomed to become perfect.
This was quite evidently not to be a planetary realization that was going to
emerge overnight, but it was for me one of complete and lasting optimism. From
the worry and concern of the 1960s and ‘70s, I was made aware of what
perhaps I might have known all along, but didn’t, that we are all held
in the deepest love by a benevolent universe, and truly we cannot be harmed
if we but hold firm to that faith.
Glastonbury, the ancient Abbey, Chalice Well, and the great Tor, to many English
people represents the heart chakra of the country--perhaps, some will even tell
you, of the world. It is certainly at the central point of one of the most powerful
ley lines in Europe, ley lines that carry the subtle earth energies in much
the same way that meridians carry subtle energy through our human bodies. Over
the last twenty years much information has emerged confirming what most of us
know in our hearts, that the earth, our dear Mother Earth, is also very much
a living being.
Gaia is becoming know again as she once was, a magnificent, beautiful, bountiful
pearl of a planet, set in the velvet curve of space. Like all living beings,
Gaia has her organs...and her circulatory systems. Mankind has always known
this in deep ways and has sought to build its sacred places over such convergences
of subtle earth energies, in order to work with Nature and natural cycles.
Glastonbury is one such place and, as I was to find out later, due to the nature
of just these telluric energies, it can also act as a vast broadcast center.
Messages of cosmic verity can be superimposed on the earth currents much in
the same way as information is modulated onto an FM radio band.
With earth energies however, the information is designed to enter the wisdom
of the heart, to be heard and felt with our more subtle senses.
All of this I had been shown by our angels and guides. In addition, it seemed
necessary to go to Glastonbury in person--after all, it is a highly personal
universe--for the full impact of the message which had been entrusted to me
to be broadcast in this way.
It was thus that we found ourselves driving fast through winding one-car lanes,
my cousin Christopher, companion for this adventure, happily playing his clarinet
sitting cross-legged on the front seat next to me. A vitality and clarity peculiar
to this part of the world lifted our spirits.
This is King Arthur’s country, history packed, freeze-dried into every
square foot of the landscape. After the storms of the previous day a vivid sunset
broke under the clouds unveiling a new and fresh vision, the bright red and
huge sun sliced in through the bare trees creating rhythmic flickering patterns
on the inside of my half-closed eyes.
Rounding a bend we both saw at the same time the great Tor rising above the
gentle hills and vales luring us on as it had done to pilgrims from the earliest
of times. It was still miles away, yet the 14th century tower set on top of
what seems a most improbably elegant natural hill acted as a focus and a magnet,
appearing, disappearing and reappearing in the gathering darkness as we veered
round tight corners and topped soft rises.
The adventure was about to begin.
One of the quirks of traveling on guidance and faith is never quite knowing
where we are going to be at the end of each evening. We’d left the accommodation
to our angelic guide for the trip, although, with the insecurity of mortals,
we checked first at the local guesthouse lying at the base of the Tor. Predictably,
it was full--no vacancies.
Two friends and patrons of my cousin, an artist in the earth mysteries movement,
lived close by, so off we went again, along darkened lanes to root them out
of a quiet evening at home.
Anthony Roberts and his wife were more than welcoming and we found them a truly magnificent couple who have been together for years and dance a fine dance.
The talk sped through an update on a wide variety of subjects and then centered
on the Glastonbury Zodiac itself. For those who have not come across the Zodiac,
it is one of the marvels of this ancient land. First spotted by Katherine Maltwood
in 1935, it purports to be the twelve mythic figures of the classic zodiac which,
together with the thirteenth figure, the great dog of Langport, are formed in
the landscape itself, delineated by streams, hills, tracks and boundaries.
It is also called the Temple of the Stars because, if a map of the stars is
placed over the massive circle of energies, the stars and their respective constellations
correspond. In spite of all the mystery surrounding it, and whether you accept
the curious findings of the geo-mythologists or not, you only have to travel
in the hills and wooded valleys to feel the presence of these vast and ancient
sculpted forms.
We all know there is a key in Glastonbury. Part of the Supreme puzzle lies here,
the uncoding of which will move towards drawing us all together, each with our
own unique part of the grand mosaic, finding as we close in, piece-by-piece,
that we all fit together to make a wondrous whole. The co-creation of a New
Reality. The Age of God. The cooperation of men, angels, elves and extraterrestrials.
We all nod, silently, as rapture-quiet music fills the space between the sounds.
The vision we see together. Consciousness group-soul swells happily, bursts
in on two more, felt through the end and into a new safe space beyond.
Tony and Jan, somewhere in the midst of our inspired encounter, had referred
to a new discovery in the Gemini figure. Twin streams of clear water had been
found spurting from a rock.
Within a few inches of where they emerge, both come together in one budding
rivulet. In the symbolic life, this intertwining of human and divine is also
represented by the Christ figure, clearly outlined within the form of the Gemini
twins.
This was the goal we had in mind as we set out under the damp, overhung sky
of winter’s day. Rapidly scudding clouds, heavy with water, soon broke
into gusty showers, darkening and mystifying still further the deep greens of
the trees and hillocks. We could feel the earth herself as alive and we were
perceiving in her an endlessly still moment in her own, far-longer cycles. Geophysical
montage or not, something overwhelmingly powerful claims this place.
Although we had set out for the twin springs, our invisible and angelic guides
quite obviously had different plans for us. The Church of St. Andrew in Compton
Dundon loomed out of the squalling rain, compact and beckoning, standing in
a felt-green graveyard. Next to its stone-stiffness grows a majestically yielding
Yew tree which must be well over a thousand years old.
The door to the church unlatches easily, opening into a simple, whitewashed
space. We make our way up over uneven flagstones to the altar, our voices echoing
from the high, barrel-vaulted roof, rumbling back to us, now entwined with the
sounds of the storm building up all around.
Staring up at the stained glass panels, showing a liberated Christ bestowing
peace upon a world, while watched over by a benign Trinity and yet a fourth
representation of the emerging Supreme Deity, my cousin and I have the same
idea at the same time. The acoustics are perfect. Turning, we dash back out
into the storm to our car for our instruments.
Then, sitting cross-legged in front of the stern altar, we play for the Spirit.
Starting slow and tentative, finding each other among the slashing of the driven
leaves and the drumming of rain of venerable stones. We coil and entwine, building
in tension, slackening into melodic relaxation while the storm outside responds
in her own sweet way.
In my heart’s eyes, I behold the angels of the church, entranced as we
are by the soaring cadences pitching and dipping in a revelry of their own.
Such music, the sounds of imagination and freedom, have seldom, if ever, been
hear in this somber place. Clarinet lifting high, reedy parabolas over the thrumming
patterns of the guitar. The Pipes of Pan accepted at last, no, welcomed by the
stultifying rigidity of old and hardened ways.
We play for a long time, making sure the deed is done, the place empowered by
our presence in ways our minds cannot fathom but which our spirits tell us is
so.
After peaking among the dark rafters, the music dies into the long silence.
The storm, held in abeyance, is stilled by the once-blasphemous joy of free,
unfettered sound. Then, after a long and seemingly appreciative moment, all
nature joins in a leaf-slapping, wind-roaring howl of applause.
I fell into a deep reverie, images coursing and flickering all around me. A
series of hints and clues, I felt, to the destiny which will raise us all, in
company with our small and gifted planet, into the presence of the unseen God.
With revelatory clarity I knew that in these sculpted hills lies a vital link
in the unfolding saga of the cosmic drama overtaking every one of us.
I saw Leviathan devouring everything so that it can be made anew. I saw Ouroboros,
encircling the planet, trapping the stench of a polluted noosphere, ever recycling,
reshaping and renewing; now opening its great mouth, itself reforming into an
ever widening new spiral of Universe potential.
I saw the Plumed Serpent, the wisest of beasts and bearer of Godly knowledge,
now redeemed and seeing its most treasured hopes lived out. I saw dragons, fearsome
and misunderstood, loving and protective to Woman, who befriends them.
I sensed in my heart a connection between these visions, a trail starting in
the inconceivable past and floating, like a snail’s trace, down through
time. I caught a flickering glimpse of an entity, a ‘something,’
a singularity even, from which this great line extended down into the present.
But most of all, it was in the sense of ‘presence,’ a quality of
being that I am now learning to associate with this unknown entity. A certain
laissez-faire wisdom, a permissiveness and casual humor, the intuitive understanding
of an ancient and telepathic species; expedient perhaps, but always benevolent,
ever aware that the greatest goodness is for the best of all.
The impressions faded, leaving me feeling extraordinarily charged, my consciousness
vastly accelerated by this macrocosmic hit. I had opened myself to contact with
other intelligences when I first started this trail in Florida in 1981. Now,
after spiraling up through dolphins, extraterrestrials and then angels, here
I was in Glastonbury being touched by the oldest and most palpable telepathic
presence I’d yet experienced. I was led to see that this entity stretches
in some way through history itself, to enliven the hearts and souls of our generation,
the first to be born into the Age of Space.
Later, with the elements settling somewhat, we stood either side of the remarkable
monumental column, built in memory of Admiral Samuel Hood, which stand alone,
high on a hill overlooking Glastonbury plain. The 70 or 90 foot erection is
clearly in some magical rapprochement with the Tor, which rises like a soft,
green beast from the marshes five miles away.
The supernatural surroundings started to cavort with our creative imaginations.
We looked across the plain, through the mists and vapors, and saw with a startling
clarity, that these physical landmarks are nodal points in a vast geological
matrix. The landscape became for us visually one integrated whole, threaded
with natural lines and places of power. Our coming here in this widely open
state of consciousness was having its effects. A reciprocal relationship was
developing. We both felt a new charge from the telluric powers present in the
matrix, while at the same time we knew intuitively that we were ourselves acting
as human terminals for some far wider-ranging angelic jiggery-pokery.
In open confirmation of celestial cooperation, our prayer for a clear sunset
in which to climb the Tor itself was answered in the most direct and dramatic
way. From the moment we put the prayer out, as we stood with squalls gusting
all around us, the stormy skies started to clear. Blue spots appeared, small
and wispy at first, then gaining hold and filling the sky until the grey monsters
hung leering at us from over the hilly horizon. Running back to our car, we
drove laughing at all the unexpected turns of events through sparkling fresh-washed
lanes, purified by our interaction with the elementals and determined to complete
our earth magic at the Tor itself.
We picked up a third person in a synchronous encounter. It was in the village
of Street’s old marketing place, Crispin Hall, and he was standing quietly
reading the notice board when, drawn by an intuition, I approached him. Tall,
loose, with a long, thin bony face, Lifus introduced himself as an artist and
a musician.
Lifus magicked up the key to the Great Hall while we fetched our instruments
from the car and settled down to share some music in among the ghosts of generations
of town elders. I had the impression of stepping briefly into someone else’s
dream as it became apparent we had arrived at a key moment in Lifus’ life.
As a consequence of doing a man a good turn, he had missed his connection and
was, when we arrived, musing on the general advisability of doing favors at
all. Then we had shown up with money for gas and some good music for his head
and he was mumbling on in happy disbelief at all the coincidences.
The three of us arrived at Glastonbury Tor an hour before sunset, parking at
the foot of its surprisingly steep, green slopes. Like many of England’s
Places of Power, it has the good fortune to have been left largely unspoiled
by fences and commercial considerations.
As we started up the wet incline, a small figure some 50 feet above us turned
to wave and beckon us on. There was something indefinably odd about him. Him?
I could not be sure and, when he turned to resume his own climbing, it was with
a curious, rolling, almost monkey-like gait.
I dismissed the sight momentarily, thinking it must be the way to climb a Tor.
then, halfway up, the figure appeared again ahead and above us, short and squat,
dark against the blue sky with the sun well down now and behind the other side
of the hill.
Climbing the Tor seemed astonishly easy. No cramps or still limbs slowed us
down and I thought of the angels swirling around us, uplifting, perhaps levitating
us in their enthusiasm.
I was the first over the top, breath-taken by the sight of the old tower limned
against the low sun, beams scintillating through the open-pointed arches of
the lower section. We looked around at the 360-degree panorama. The great Zodiac
spread out for us, outlined in the hedgerows and hills, in ancient watercourses
and the stands of trees. I looked for the form who’d beckoned us on up
to the Tor. We were alone.
We climbed inside the tower itself, open at the top some 80 feet above our heads,
a square hole of azure blue with a hint of stars glistening through. The, settling
down in the last beams of light, we once again played our music to the gathered
invisible multitudes, soaring around each other in a braided helix, up, around
and out of the top of the tower. Each of us was supremely happy to be alive
and of service to a cause so vast that we knew in our hearts we saw but one
veiled fraction of its full implications. We fell silent with the falling of
the sun.
Lifus was the first to speak. “One of the Templar secrets of the Tor is
that it is built on the remains of a far older stone circle. And that’s
where the power comes from...” I saw my cousin, with drawings and paintings
of many of the megalithic sites of Northern Europe under his belt, nodding in
agreement.
“The Templars also say--and this is another closely guarded secret--that
King Arthur would come here, spreading out his prayer mat to meditate in the
evening sun.”
The impact of the historical patterns, the archetypal templates into which our
fates were lulling us, briefly overlit the three of us standing triangulated,
in in the center of this most central of spots. The consensual moment passed.
The magic had been worked.
As we came back into reality, we saw that our lens--the grouping chosen for
this affair--had been enlarged by 10 or 12 others who had silently joined us
on the hilltop.
A young couple wandered up to the tower, climbing over the rail to join us in
looking up. The five of us stood forming a pentagon in the center of the square
tower. It was so elusive, this magic! It was there, I could feel it in the very
ground of my being. I knew the Master’s Presence fell over us in that
moment of transmutation, subtle and gentle.
This was not the magic of dry, tradition-bound rhetoric, or the manipulations
of power-oriented sorcerers; this was the passionate cooperation of men and
angels in the formation of a brand new adventure. The superstitions and fears
that have clung to traditional religion and shamanic magic-working can be lifted.
The Way is becoming clear.
Transmission completed, we glided down the still wet grass, invoking amid our
laughter and wonderment angelic guidance for our sliding feet.
We were off to the Healing Stones. Lifus knew where they were, and although
my cousin had certainly heard about their powerful healing associations, Lifus
added in his best and most authoritative mystical manner, “...they say
when the right person comes along the stones can be lifted by mental power alone.”
The prize, as is usual in this brand of legend, lies underneath.
At the bottom of the hill we stopped to drink the spring water bubbling from
a small pipe in the rock face. Blood Spring--where Joseph of Arimathea is said
to have hidden the cup from the Last Supper--it tasted of minerals and the flat
tang of metal. Behind us was an opening in the rock on the other side of the
lane and in it was a small reservoir built near Chalice Hill Well and cut deep
into the earth. It is a structure of unknown antiquity. Sacrifices were said
to have been carried out here in this dark sodden chamber. Victims to the dark
side of this holy place, they were locked inside at the time of the Summer Solstice.
The sluices opened and they were quickly drowned.
Although I found out about this unpleasant detail later, I sensed something
of the sort from the solemnity of the chants the small underground reservoir
brought forth from us as we clustered together down into the dripping damp of
the heart of the hill. A long dirge in a minor key seemed to gather the disparate
emanations of the water dungeon together, while the subsequent more joyful singing
elevated the energies into an echoing crescendo.
We found the Healing Stones as light was failing. Lifus indicated the arrowed
benchmark carved into the surface of one of the stones. The twin stones (twins
again!) were deeply buried and remnant of the far older stone circle. Miracles
are reported to have frequently taken place here, as they had in Chalice Hill
Well, healings still attributed by the locals to the old gods.
In the gathering darkness, we sat around the twin stones, silent and staring
out at the plain beneath us. Long moments passed. Three rocks flew slowly and
evenly, out and a little above us, to circle and settle into a nearby copse
of trees. The wind dropped with the falling darkness. It seemed as if a great
silence grew around us, spilling down from the grassy slopes of the Tor to wash
over the curved haunches of the surrounding hills.
Possibly on some diner level of vibration the angels were using us for their
own energy transmissions. They’d been a powerful presence throughout our
magical interlude in Glastonbury. This time however, it was not the angels that
I felt, but something yet deeper. It was the presence that had come to me so
strongly in the church of St. Andrew. I was being gently coaxed into a yet fuller
perception of this ancient and mysterious intelligence, first in the release
and gratitude I had experienced in the little church, and now in the winter
gloaming of this intense sacred place of power.
For there before me, covered in the green fur of the English countryside, its
massive head, body, and elongated tail formed from the hills and vales, lay
an enormous beast. Its head was carved from Wearyall Hill, its torso from Chalice
Hill, and the rest of its body curved around beneath us. It was a form I’d
seen and felt before in my adventures in Peru; at Nazca and Pachacamac and at
the top of Huayna Picchu.
It is a part of the living earth, an immense dragon-like body that still emanates,
after all these millions of years, the deep underlying vibrations I had experienced
in the small church. I felt the rising excitement of the new encounters to come,
new explorations of yet another spiritual intelligence, this one so ancient
that it feels as if it lies in some way beneath the planetary history of conscious
intelligence itself.
It is five years later and I am back at Glastonbury. I sit in St. Mary’s
Chapel in the heart of the ancient Abbey. I am only feet above the precise spot
that Joseph of Arimathea chose to pitch the first wattle church ever built in
England. With him he brought a faith imbued with the immediate experience of
the man Joshua ben Joseph, who came to be know as Jesus Christ. So sincere and
spirit-filled were Joseph of Arimathea and his twelve companions that the Druids
themselves, bold spiritual innovators, knew exactly who they were. And loved
them. And gave them hallowed land.
It is 5:30, on a misty, cool and mysterious summer morning. The Tor has called
me out of sleep and I have already climbed to its summit to greet the rising
of the sun. I stand in the ancient tower dedicated to St. Michael.
Purified by the creative power of the Tor, I make my descent down through sleepy
sheep, noticing with amusement that it is the sheep who are a mixture of black
and white that are the least frightened of human contact. Down the old roads
with stone walls sparkling with the small explosions of flowers of every color;
into the Abbey through a rear way known only to the boldest, to sit now, quiet
in this tiny chapel. The scent of flowers falls around me. I reach for my recording
book knowing that one of my invisible guides is about to address me directly.
His name, too, is Joseph!
“Beloved, I am here. This is my center. I bring blessings from the Company
of Avalon--they are among those who seek the Great Transformation for the town
of Glaston...”
I begin to see the images. All the synchronistic meetings that Alma, my partner,
and I are having throughout our stay here are weaving a pattern of possibilities.
I see Glastonbury becoming what it truly is: a sacred place of pilgrimage for
all those who can sense the new energies coursing through the body of the planet:
a gathering place for those spiritually attuned, as it certainly once was.
I write Joseph’s words again:
“Beloved, I am here. This is my center. Quietly spread word among the
faithful that the convocation of men and angels once again moves at hand. Any
who would participate in the quietness of the heart and with the vision of our
Beloved, will be drawn here in this wonderful time. Have no concerns about the
material well-being of those involved because new resources will be made available
from the treasures which have been set aside to await this time. All is in place
and ready. We are here with you.”
And I know he means all of us.
His next message is encouragement that for me stretches over all my visits to
Glastonbury during these last few years; a timely reminder of those I have encountered
under all sorts of weird and magical circumstances. This, after all, is sacred
ground, and the acceleration of personal process and transformation is pronounced
and formidable. For everybody.
Here is Joseph again:
“Trust all those whom you have met and worked with, they will be guided
to what they need, just as surely as you have been.” And guided I have
been, ever since that first wonderful introduction in the stormy winter of 1981.
Glastonbury, in the way of sacred places worldwide, can typify the extremes
of the duality within all of us. Where this duality can be brought into balance
and creative harmony there inevitably lies the potential for great alchemical
transformations. This is true primarily in individuals but it can also be true
for groups of people where aims and intentions are sharply contrasted.
For this reason, sacred and holy places have very often had there share of brutality
and thoroughly negative energies. Glastonbury is no exception. Only 500 years
ago, Bishop Whiting of Glastonbury Abbey was hung, drawn and quartered on the
Tor at the order of Henry VIII. These currents of dis-ease can still run deeply
in such a place, and can be tapped by those looking to manipulate for power
and gain.
Many people we are meeting in our travels through the sacred places of the world
are working to restore a balance. The great teachings of the past, so long occluded
and distorted by priestly manipulation, are once again being revealed. The fruits
of our race’s many thousands of years of wisdom and creative expression
are rising to the surface. Those who are able to work with the spirit of reconciliation
in their hearts are finding a pearl of inestimable value lies beneath the apparent
dualities. For, as Joseph is telling me, as I sit in the tiny underground chapel,
there is a profound linkup taking place.
“Wherever there is reconciliation to be done, the rewards will be rich.
Look for the healing, look for any situation in which two or more parties are
in conflict with each other, and in the linking thereof will be the next step
you need to take.”
He ends with a statement intended personally for each of us who is awakening
on this planet:
“Remember,” he says, “you are all love. You are all mortal
vessels of our Father/Mother God, the Supreme One, whom we all revere.”
© 1990 Timothy Wyllie
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