The Glastonbury Portal

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.”

 

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© 1990 Timothy Wyllie

 

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