There are almost as many names for faeries in these parts as there are stories about them, courtesy of the exiled Irish and Welsh whose memories still remain like holographic movies hovering in the morphogenic fields of the land they left behind.
To the Irish, the faeries are known as the Tuatha da Danaan, and also the Daoine Sidhe (pronounced shay) who are pivotal in shamanic work with the ancestors in the Underworld. They are like pilots who guide the shaman in trance along the Rivers of Blood or DNA, to help him in redeeming his family line.
In the days of old, far back into the mists of time, roaming storytellers would turn up at villages with rolled up mats which they would unfurl and spread under a huge and rambling tree, as if to announce their arrival. Long before cinema, television and even writing, let alone the printing press, news that the storyteller had set up his mat would spread fast and wide, and a ripple of excitement would be on the breeze in anticipation of rivetting entertainment to come. Continue reading
I’ve been thinking deeply about the mind programming which created the mystique around the Californian Continue readingas part of psychedelic era of the Sixties which had the aim of creating the New Age movement (as it was named by the Scottish Rite of Freemasons) and to where it’s led us to now.
Since its starring role in Danny Boyle’s Olympic opening ceremony, friends have been asking me about the magical significance of Glastonbury Tor. Well, I don’t profess to know everything about the Tor. I doubt there are many that do. But I do live here in Glastonbury and, as a shaman, when I walk these lands, they reveal to me some of their secrets. And so I can share with you what I know, and also the thoughts of those more expert than me.
There was a wonderful day, a while back now, when I went to sit with the Holy Thorn. He’s just a stump now, after he was attacked and destroyed more than a year ago now. But He’s still ‘in there’, so to speak. It wouldn’t take much for Him to revive. He just needs some tender loving care … and a bit of a chat, from time to time. Continue reading
On a cold November’s day in 1539, Henry VIII’s soldiers dragged the last abbot of Glastonbury, Richard Whiting, up through the High Street on a horse-drawn hurdle and then up to the summit of the Tor, where he was hung on a gibbet with two monks hanging either side of him, like two thieves, in a pastiche of the scene at Calvary. Continue reading