The Goddess & the Moon - by Wendy Davies

I spent the night of Midsummer Eve on the top of the hill at Arthur’s Stone dreaming and watching.

The picture is by an artist friend, Wendy Davies. She based it around Pentre Ifan in Pembrokeshire. Arthur’s Stone is similar. I go there a lot, it’s only about 9 miles from me, on a crossing of ley lines some of which are now footpaths and on a long hilltop path from Merback Hill, along Moccas Hill, part of the Herefordshire Way.

I set up my bivi, drank some elderflower cordial and ate some raspberry-apple cake, and gave some for the earth, then sat waiting, watching. The quiet held me, deep below the plaints of the lambs newly weaned from the sheep; owls called; bats sparked out of the darkness, effortlessly missing me by inches as they went after insects. There were rustlings in the grass too, small beasts come to see who I was, what I did, scurrying on their nightly business; under and over all the soughing of the wind.

Slowly, so slowly I almost failed to notice, the light grew. I’d arrived just on moonrise, just before midnight on Midsummer’s Eve. Now time had passed into the new day, the solstice, the day the sun begins to stand still. The moon had veiled herself in clouds, allowing her light to spill around the edges, spin its way through the darkness, lightening it.

Roots spun down from me into the tump, down through the ground to the heart of the Earth. Threads spun up through me reaching to the moon above the clouds.

The landscape gestalted around me, what had been dark became light, light became dark, like a negative, like the pre-image that must then be developed into a picture.

I sat still, waiting, watching …

There were points of light. At first I thought they were stars, despite the clouds, then I realised they were close, very close. They were very 3D, almost a geometric design, reaching between me and the horizon. Between the points the threads spun. Not all the threads, if all had been there then I’d have seen nothing because the threads fill everything. Einstein knew them although he didn’t call them as I do. String theory grew itself around me in reality.

In Moon Song I wrote of threads. Isoldé is creating sacred space with the help of the earth spirits …

‘You are the spirits that inhabit the things of the Earth,’ she said, yet another revelation piling on top of the rest of the morning.

‘We are indeed, my lover,’ they chorused back to her. ‘We are indeed.’

They began to dance, circling the grove. They would each dance into the middle, to the head-stone, touch it and then dance back out again. As she watched, Isoldé saw lines forming as they did this, like weaving, a pattern of light-threads forming in the grove, made of all the colours of the rainbow. The threads pulsed, it was a living web.

She saw it then. This was the web, the wyrd the little demon had told her of, this was the web that Nial meant in biodynamics, even if it might not be quite as he thought, this was the web of life, all interconnected. She saw the threads touching herself, the trees in the grove, Mark, Tristan. If she peered hard enough she could see the threads reaching to every blade of grass. She blinked and shook her head. Seen like that it would make you think you couldn’t actually move because you were totally caught up in a bundle of threads. She looked down at herself now, in fact she was a bundle of threads. Her clothes, her body, her form seemed to have almost disappeared, wavered in and out of existence but what was strong in this new sight she had suddenly got was the interweaving threads. All the new age stuff about all life being interconnected was true, she could actually see it, all the threads interwove with each other. She watched a blade of grass grow, it was like a natural history film of speeded up slow-motion. As it grew so threads reached out to join with it as the threads it came from extended and grew to become the new grass.

Her mind boggled. She blinked, shook her head and shut her eyes.

‘Can’t do it anymore!’ she gasped. ‘How do I turn it off?’

It was gone, immediately, just like that.

‘Just ask,’ said the pixie.

Isoldé sat in the grass, taking big, long breaths, eyes shut at first, hands hanging onto grass stems, fingernails digging into the earth.

‘Whoof! Ooof!’ she gasped. ‘That was big! Huge!’

Gradually her breathing slowed along with her heartbeat. She dared to open her eyes. Things were back to the normal she was used to, trees, grass, herself, her own body, no threads visible.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered. Then a thought struck her. ‘Eliot was right, you know, TS Eliot the poet. He said “Humankind cannot bear very much reality” and he was absolutely right. If everyone could see that they’d go nuts.’

The pixie was sat beside her now. He chuckled. ‘Mmmmm! We know. But there’s the problem … as long as human beings think everything is separate they make a total cock-up of everything because they try to work it all as separate things. Something has to be done about that and that’s what Tristan’s songs are about and why we need the Moon Song to bring it all together.’

‘You aren’t proposing that everyone sees what I just saw, are you?’

‘No. Well not at first, not until they can. You couldn’t have done it, seen it, if you hadn’t wanted to, if your soul hadn’t known it already, if your self hadn’t wanted to see it.’

Isoldé cocked an eyebrow at him.

‘It’s self-limiting,’ he said. ‘You can’t see until you can see. That’s what things being occult is about. They’re hidden, occluded, by the person’s own ability to see until that person is able to see.’

It was like that …