The Mists that Wax and Wane
A Pilgrimage to Glastonbury
Last month I took a trip. I went on a pilgrimage to Glastonbury, perhaps England’s most sacred spot. It was not my first visit there and it probably won’t be my last. But it differed from almost all my other pilgrimages in that, this time, I did not journey alone. Instead, I went with a friend, a fellow seeker, whom I shall refer to as R. And what makes R an unusual choice for a pilgrimage partner is that she isn’t Christian.
Glastonbury is full of holy hotspots. Christ is said to have visited there as a child (“And did those feet in ancient times…”) along with Mary and Joseph and his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea who was said to be a merchant who traded tin with the ancient Britons. And, after the Resurrection, Joseph of Arimathea is said to have returned, along with Mary, to found one of the first Christian communities outside of the Holy Land. Legend tells us that he thrust his staff into the ground and from it sprouted the Glastonbury Thorn, a holy tree whose descendants still thrive today and from one of which a sprig is cut every Christmas for the king. His foundation became Glastonbury Abbey which later attracted such luminaries as St. David and St. Patrick. The town is also said to be the home of the Holy Grail, the chalice bearing Christ’s blood. That was buried in the earth at the foot of the Tor whereupon a spring gushed forth that turns the rocks red. It still flows today. And then, at the Reformation, the Abbot and some of his monks, bravely became martyrs for the Catholic cause, being hanged on the Tor for all to see.
But Glastonbury’s spiritual history actually flows far deeper than all of this. Prior to the arrival of the boy Jesus, it was a major centre of Druidic worship. The springs were dedicated to the Goddess and the Tor was said to be a portal into the Underworld. Then an island in an inland sea, the legends claim that Glastonbury — then named Avalon — was visited by King Arthur, Guinevere, Merlin, and Morgan le Faye. It was the place where the mists between the worlds are at their thinnest.
The idea of thin places has long fascinated me, and I have written about them before. The belief exists in many traditions, but it is perhaps the Pagans who explain it best:
“Ancient pagan Celtics believed the eternal and the earthly were three feet apart, they thought the eternal was always within arm’s reach, but they thought there were certain places where the boundary between the eternal and the earthly were especially thin, they called these spots, thin places. A thin place is a place where we can sense the divine more readily. A thin place is a border between the earthly and the holy.”[1]
That Glastonbury is a thin place is beyond doubt. You can just feel it. The powerful energy that I encountered when I first visited was what drew me back. R was no different, and we are not alone; thousands of others are drawn to the town annually. That’s why the High Street is a cacophony of crystal sellers, vegan cafés, spiritual bookshops, tarot readers and numerous purveyors of oracle cards, runes, incense and other, assorted, devotional items. It is English Paganism’s Jerusalem. On my previous pilgrimage, it was the Christian shrines and history that I had focussed upon. This time I, like R, wanted to delve into the other.
R is particularly into crystals. She entered every shop, weighing them up, assessing the energy. She bought a few as well as some runes, a new direction for her. My explorations were far less focussed. I went in to see what I could find and came out with a nice painting of the Tor. Over the past decade or so, I’d become more and more influenced by and interested in the feminine aspect of the Divine and so I sought items connected with that. And in one shop I found something that resonated.
It was a set of oracle cards based on Mary Magdalene. Ever since the discovery of papyri of her lost gospel in 1896 and their translation in 1955, the traditional portrayal of her as a repentant prostitute — something which has no Biblical basis and was only posited as an idea by Pope Gregory in 591 — has been challenged more and more. Mary was the first witness to the Resurrection, and she was far more than just a hanger on. The gospel written in her name claims that Jesus imparted special wisdom to her and called her his beloved. And there is a tradition which states that the kiss on the lips which he gives her in the gospel was far from being the only one. It is said that they were lovers, perhaps married, and that after His Ascension into heaven, she fled to Egypt and thence to France on “a boat without sails” where she lived out her days in a cave in the mountains. And with her was a girl, her daughter. Their daughter. These cards celebrate this story and, like with tarot, provide archetypal examples that can help people in their lives. Now, whether or not all of those Magdalenian narratives are literally true or not, I cannot say, but I like the approach: a Christianity which embraces the feminine.
I had not come to Glastonbury however, primarily to purchase. Spiritual succour is not found in shops, not matter how helpful their wares may be. Instead, I needed to meditate and worship and the place I felt drawn towards was the only, so far as I know, temple in British Paganism dedicated to a female deity.
The Glastonbury Goddess Temple claims to be the first formally-recognised British Goddess temple in Europe for a millennium and a half. It began in 2000 as a pop-up stall and the current building was opened at Imbolc in 2002, being formally recognised on the 18th of June 2003. In a spiritual world skewed towards the masculine, it was an attempt to redress the balance somewhat.
This was my first visit to the temple though. I also popped in back in 2013, though then it was more as a curious tourist than a pilgrim. As I said earlier, my 2013 trip had been far more traditionally Christian and my encounters with the Divine Feminine just beginning. This is how I recorded my reactions at the time:
“Inside it was quiet and dark and, after removing my shoes, I was led through a curtain to the main sanctuary where devotees sat in silence on cushions whilst candles flickered on the altar and ambient devotional music played. I sat with them awhile and meditated, trying to make sense of it all. Here was a religion that was radically different to my own yet, unlike all other different religions, was wholly English in character. However, whilst it was in so many ways culturally familiar in one crucial aspect it was alien: this was a feminine faith, based on women and designed for and by women. Being a man, it was a well-spring that I could never fully tap into. However, encountering it, the common criticism by women that the Abrahamic religions are too male became a little more comprehensible.”
The question now is, would my feelings have changed?
I had to wait until twelve when the temple opened before going in. One takes off one’s shoes and then chooses where the worship. There was an area somewhat akin to a wigwam which had not been there before when it was all an open-plan room. It was put aside for those with special petitions they wished to make, a little like a side-chapel in a Catholic cathedral. I entered and sat down on the cushions and immediately felt something. It was a powerful feminine space. All around the pilgrim, nine life-sized wicker figures stood, women who cocooned, protected, and embraced. They were the Nine Morgens of Avalon and praying in their care felt so powerful that I began to tear up. It was as if I were back in the womb, loved and looked over by a sisterhood of love. I had special petitions to make for a close friend of mine in need and I pleaded earnestly that they might extend their sisterhood and care to her.
Then I moved onto the main part of the temple where I reclined on cushions before the altar blessed with goddess statues and images and tried to meditate. But try as I might, it did not work. My mind was crashing about, a chaotic jumble of thoughts, energies, and emotions. I’d had a busy few months at work, a huge event which I’d planned and delivered the day before and then the long drive down last night and my brain was still bouncing about from it all. There were a million and one things in there and I could not get it to slow down. The chaos would not subside but, more than that, I needed to rest and sleep.
I stayed there for some time, trying to relax whilst not dropping off, before taking my leave and heading outwards feeling refreshing but like I needed to return to complete the job. It was only in the café afterwards that R told me with a smile that I had in fact fallen asleep in the temple and had been snoring rather loudly!
We continued on our way. More shops and also the parish church where a descendant of the original Glastonbury Thorn grows in the churchyard. Then, we returned to the hotel as R was tired and I took the car out to the Tor which I wanted to climb to witness the sunset from the summit. Looking for a parking place, I came across a site that I’d hitherto not encountered. The White Spring is one of the two which gush forth from under the Tor. The other, the iron-rich Red Spring, I have mentioned already with regards to the Holy Grail legends. That comes up in a garden and is called the Chalice Well. The White Spring is located nearby, housed in a rather nondescript stone building.
Yet the doors were open and inside there were people praying and scores of candles flickering in the comforting darkness whilst the burbling of the spring provided a soothing soundtrack.
“Please enter,” said the lady by the door.
“I want to,” I replied, feeling drawn towards the place, “but I have come to witness the sunset from the Tor. I shall return afterwards.”
“Oh, I’m sorry but we’ll be closed by then. However, you can come back on Thursday.”
“Not tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry but we’re shut on Wednesdays.”
So, I entered briefly. It was a wonderful space, otherworldly yet vibrant. Devotees wandered around in the water barefoot, lighting candles, meditating. There was something indescribable about it all. I longed to stay but the Tor called. It was a wrench to leave.
I’ve climbed the Tor twice before and it never disappoints. An ancient holy hill, its sides are carved into an elaborate labyrinth whilst it is capped by a solitary tower, all that remains of a mediaeval church dedicated to St. Michael. That was one of my main reasons for ensuring that I climbed up for a third time. My friend Pierluigi has a fascination with the Archangel, and I wanted to pray there on his behalf. He is currently visiting all the sites on the Sword of St. Michael, a line that runs from Skellig Michael off the coast of Ireland all the way to Mt. Carmel in Israel. It takes in sites like Mont St. Michel and Mon San Angelo, but at St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, it is bisected by another line of Michaelian sites in Britain of which the Tor is one.
The climb is tough but worth it. The views all around are unsurpassed and, with half-closed eyes, one can almost imagine Glastonbury as it once was, an island set within an inland sea. I prayed, tried unsuccessfully to light incense (it’s windy up there!) and chatted with some musicians who were jamming in the tower. There is an energy on the Tor and it is potent, but it is different to that which I had encountered in the goddess temple. If the temple is the feminine, then the Tor is its masculine counterpart. Windswept, hardy, open to the elements in stark contrast to the warm, enclosed, embracing womb.
I descended and, on the walk down, met a who had given up normal life and was living in a camper van for a year and visiting pilgrimage sites. I recommended a few to him that he promised to check out and then we went on our separate ways.
That evening R and I went out for a meal and, afterwards, she did me a tarot reading. I’d had a very powerful and disturbing dream the previous night. In it, we had a parrot, a beautiful blue one that I’d bought for the kids because they’d wanted one. But we’d all been so busy that we’d completely forgotten about it and had not fed it for weeks. Suddenly, I recalled it and went to check on him. There he was on his perch, wide-eyed in pain, almost skeletal, on the verge of death. I admonished the kids and tried to feed him some seeds, anything to save his life. However, I awoke before I could learn whether my late efforts had worked, or we had simply been too late.
The cards and the dream told the same message. “There’s something in your life, perhaps more than one thing, that you’ve been neglecting,” said R. “Fix it now before it is too late.”
This was not the revelation that I wanted. I wanted to know about my spiritual journey, about love and about the fun things in life. Not a message about chasing up renegotiating my work contract, doing my expenses, and sorting out my house. But life is both Martha and Mary; we need to be active as well as contemplative. R was right: parts of my daily life needed a deep clean.
There was also one other thing that I was curious about. Goddess worship, tarot cards, crystals, runes, and dream interpretation. All of that does not go down too well in many Christian circles where even the mention of Halloween can get hackles raised. So, how did R square them with her religious life? After all, whilst not a Christian, she is devout and no Neo-Pagan either.
“It’s no issue,” she replied with a smile. “In Sikhism it’s just seen as another way of tapping into the Divine Energy. I do readings for my dad and my brother, and I’ve even discussed my practices in the gurdwara.”
If only all faiths could be so open!
On the final day of the pilgrimage, we returned to complete our unfinished business before travelling home. Firstly, I headed off before breakfast to pay homage to the Glastonbury Thorn. Reaching it was treacherous as the path was muddy and when I got there, a surprise: it had disappeared. I later learnt that the old thorn had been attacked and wasn’t recovering so the owner had removed it and was nursing it back to health and had replaced it with a cutting which now takes its place on the hillside overlooking the town.
I returned to the hotel, had my breakfast with R and then we headed to the beautiful Chalice Well Garden where we paid our respects and drank from the Red Spring. And then it was back into the town. R wanted to shop for more crystals and runes, and I needed to return to the goddess temple which I did via a prayer in the Catholic church.
This time, almost the moment I settled myself onto the cushions in that feminine space, the fruits of my spiritual labours became apparent. For the chaos and confusion of the previous day was gone and within a minute or so I began to have what Julian of Norwich might have described as a “shewing”, indistinct at first but getting clearer as it progressed.
I was a bird flying over a vast desert, looking down on the landscape below. There was a settlement of mud brick houses and tents and I dived down towards it, entering the largest building through the open door.
I was in a room surrounded by women, older women, a sisterhood like the Nine Morgens in the temple. I too was a woman but much younger, barely teenaged. I was part of their group, and they were welcoming me and protecting me. And I was bleeding, my first period I think, the blood soaking into the sand as they encircled and blessed me.
What was it? A flashback to a past life? A metaphorical spiritual message? Or just my active imagination?
What did it all mean?
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” said R when I told her in the car home afterwards. “Just accept it for what it is, work with it, and be thankful for it.”
So, I have. I still don’t know what it signifies, if anything, but it has inspired a poem and a short story. And perhaps that is enough.
And what of Glastonbury as a whole? Well, I am deep cleaning my everyday life at the moment, and it is long overdue. That was a message that I needed to hear.
But aside from that, the pilgrimage also taught me something else very important. As the Buddha once said:
“Nothing is permanent.”
Not me, not you, and not even thin places. The mists between this world and the eternal wax and wane continually. I have been exploring past lives recently, but do I actually need to? The me that visited Glastonbury only a decade earlier was a different person indeed to the man I am today. Then it was the Tor that was my thin place inspiring stories and prayer. The goddess temple did not speak to me at all. Today though, the mists have moved, and the temple provided me with a vision whilst the Tor was simply a nice walk. And next time, which will it be? Back to the Tor or still with the goddess temple? Or possibly somewhere else entirely, like the White Spring. Who can say? I believe that I shall return and I believe that I shall go back there with my goddaughter. I’m not sure why, that’s just the feeling I have. All that I know for sure is this: If you keep your mind open, whichever thin place you need most, the Divine will make sure the mists part for you there.
There is a video accompanying this article on my YouTube channel.
Written 03–04/12/2023, Stoke-on-Trent to Kelvedon, and the Stavropegic Monastery of St. John the Baptist, UK
Copyright © 2023, Matthew E. Pointon