Part 2 of 3: Sketching a Landscape of Consciousness
chapter five excerpt from An Irish Tale of a Modern Mystic
Why I am including this here is as we approach the completion of our journey, we will be in the threads of the wildness of this ancient land gathering them within us for when we walk the spiral on Anne’s land and then again in Glastonbury and then again in Damanhur. Weaving ourselves into the fabric of life is our journey now. Tantra Maat
Glendalough PART II: The Faery
Though a strong overbearing energy held me to the ground, I tried to get to my knees. Dizzy, I put my hands on the ground. I made it halfway up, head hanging, fearing I would vomit.
I could hear Mod kindly asking the people to leave us now. The world was still spinning. As where I was in real time returned, the sounds around me were still mixed with screams and the smell of blood and feces, from the terror and fear of the dying monks and villagers. The force of the experience bore weight over everything around me.
Mod changed again. Shifting from her attention on the people, she turned her full attention on me. Sitting down beside me, she rolled me over on my side and held my head in her lap. She stroked my head as I wept. I remember thinking, “I had no idea how gruesome life could be.” But, mostly, I was relieved that I was getting a break from the images that had been assaulting my mind, threatening to fragment my sanity. I realized that Mod’s crooning and rocking was pushing the images out of my mind. As she cuddled me like a small child, the images, sounds, and smells suddenly stopped.
The few people that were left around us helped me to sit up. New people who had heard about what had happened had gathered. There was such generous concern and caring on all the faces. One little boy about four years old with a blue short pantsuit on came up and leaned over and stroked my face. That did it! I started sobbing all over again.
I heard Mod saying, “She is from America. She is a well-known mystic who is experiencing what happened on this land.”
Over the years, I have realized that when you are called to be what you have come to be, you don’t think about how people might perceive you. I did not realize when I came to Ireland that I carried the reputation of a fairly famous psychic from the United States of America.
I appreciated Mod’s words. I realized that I was very self-conscious sitting on the ground, my nose running with my eyes swollen. I expected me to at least have my s___ together. I felt publicly embarrassed, and yet no one but me seemed to care. This public embarrassment would persist throughout the years I came to Ireland until finally all semblance of concern for how I appeared, disappeared. I could simply be present to what I was present to and share that with whoever else was there.
Mod, donning her wisdom hat again, explained to our new visitors that in the 1400’s, the monks and the villagers who lived around the monasteries to worship were fair game for the Vikings. They would wait until areas were developed and then come in and rape, pillage, and destroy. People lived in constant fear.
I sat up while Mod was talking and was listening to her explain what I had seen. I remember thinking how strange it was that I could at one moment be in a totally different experience and the next minute be back in the present. I was listening to a history lesson that Mod had shared before like a teacher with her students.
Later, I would learn that this is the way of it when you begin to open up to the great landscape of creation. One minute you are in the presence of something horrible or something sublime. The next minute, it is over, and you shift into dishes and shopping. Without the emotional realm of a human being mature and strong, one small mystical event can set you off for a week. This was far more than a small event.
People helped me to my feet and, with the reverence that is ingrained in the Irish soul, left to let us be.
Mod took my hand and, without a word, began walking toward the path by the lake where the Vikings had entered. When I stood up and looked out on the lake, trying to avoid the sight of the monastery ruins on the left, I saw the waterfalls that fed the lake at the far end. Whitewater slivered the black rock into five or six streams that slid over each other, tumbled with each other, beckoning the sun to join them. Responding, the sunlight hit the glistening rock sending streaks of light out over the lake. Tall swaying evergreens stood majestically on either side, silent witnesses.
Mod and I started our trek toward the modern concrete path that led by the lake. Before we got to the path that lead to the waterfalls, she stopped and so did I, still not too sure-footed after my ordeal.
I began to hear singing. Soft singing that had a high pitched almost birdlike sound to it. The sound was clearly, however, the voice of a young woman. A very small young woman, I would discover! Mod watched as I followed the sound. It was coming from a hole in the bank of the lake. Ferns and moss partially hid the hole. A tiny rivulet ran out into the lake.
Then I saw her. A small winged girl was singing with joy and love. Her hands reverently reached out toward a small twig with an infinitesimally tiny leaf on it. Her small body was covered with a water-made translucent film. She was no more than 3 inches tall. She was a faery.
Then she was no more. I was simply looking at a small strip of clear water coming out of a hole in the bank. No glistening ferns or inviting moss. No small creature delicately bringing all of her tiny voice to bear in celebrating the news of the new leaf on the small twig before me. The leaf had returned to its insignificant status in the human world. I stood there a long time.
I never said a word to Mod. But… I knew she was pleased. Humbled before such mystery, I took Mod’s hand, and we started on the path toward the waterfall.