Sacred Breath

By Jhenah Telyndru

 “Sacred breath, sacred step… sacred breath, sacred step...”

So went my internal litany as I struggled against gravity and my body’s own grudging resistance as I climbed the steep slopes of Glastonbury Tor in the spring of 2000. I had traveled a great many miles, meeting with Sisters from all over the globe to renew the Pilgrim’s pathway up that spiraled hill so very sacred to those of Avalon. I had been on this path before in this life, nine years earlier in 1991, a very different woman in a much stronger body.

 The Path up the Tor (Photo: J. Telyndru)

“Sacred breath, sacred step… sacred breath, sacred step...” I hoped signs of my exertion were not terribly noticeable as I labored to keep my breath even and to calm the pounding of my heart - but its accelerated rhythm could be attributed to more than just the physical demands of my increasingly measured ascent. Simply being here in Glastonbury again -- united in sacred purpose and connecting with the many-layered legacy of this ancient and hallowed landscape -- was enough to take my breath away, and rekindle a fire in my chest.

Indeed, even as I doggedly continued my climb, breathing in time with my own internal measure, I could feel my inner-self disengage from my belabored body and become in tune with the energetic enigma that is Glastonbury Tor. It is not for the first time that I appreciated the insightful ingenuity of the Priestesses of old, using the three-hour climb through this three-dimensional labyrinth as a tool of focus and discipline. I understood first hand how the strenuous and sinuous ascent could indeed pierce the veil between the worlds and serve as a gateway to Annwn - the Otherworld.

“Sacred breath, sacred step… sacred breath, sacred step...”

For me, part of the dichotomy of the Tor has always been its seemingly opposing energies - the deep magnetic pull of the Earth meeting the eddying waves of the sometimes playful, oft-times powerful Wind. My experience with working on the Tor is that it is immensely female in energy - it draws you down and into itself, even as you climb higher and higher up to its crest. Each step up seems to send you further down into the hill - and as I trudged, momentarily brought back into awareness of my body’s efforts, I snorted to myself in bemused agreement. And yet, one could not deny the power of the Wind, at times so strong I could lean back into it and feel my body supported by its might.

The feeling transports me back nine years to my last night in Glastonbury, the jewel in the crown of my five-week stay. We had climbed the Tor one last time, alternately suspended in place and chased up the path by insistent September gusts. Remarkably, we had the Tor to ourselves on that clear crisp night and our attempts at chanting were all swept away by the over-zealous wind. I don’t know how long it took for us to notice it, but finally we stood, slack-jawed with eyes skyward, gaping at a swath of shimmering light across the velvet firmament. We were filled by that luminous dance of pale colors, silenced by the symbolism, the omen, the blessing that was the Aurora Borealis - the Northern Lights. When at last I could find my voice, I leaned into the ear of our friend - a British native who resided in Glastonbury - and in my best awed shout, I asked, “How often does this happen?”

“Never…” came the humbled reply.

I smiled up in grateful remembrance at the over-cast sky, returning my attention from reminiscence to reality, deeply moved by the sense that with my feet once again on this very sacred ground, I had indeed come full-circle.  So many dualities here! The past and the present …  the Earth and the Wind … the Tor and the sky … the Otherworld and this world… the Goddess of Avalon and the God of Christianity … the Chalice Well and the White Spring … Of course! I was feeling the energies of the converging ley lines - the Mary and Michael lines -- the Red and White Dragons which spiral up the terraces of the Tor. It was no accident that the Temple of Avalon was founded in this place. A geomantic power-spot, Glastonbury has drawn spiritual seekers to itself from time immemorial.

I remember reading someplace that Glastonbury was like a deck of Tarot cards come to life; there is no question in my mind of the dead-on accuracy of this statement. Where else in the world can you meet a man with a Great Horned Owl on his shoulder in the middle of High Street, hear a twilight duet of a bodhran and a didgeridoo in the tower on the Tor, find a Christian vestment shop sandwiched between a crystal seller and a Pagan bookstore, and encounter seekers from around the globe in every manner of speech, dress and hair color? Formal English gardens contrast with tent encampments. Pilgrimages to Glastonbury Abbey coincide with alternative rock festivals on the Fairgrounds. Druidic ritual on the Tor is punctuated by the tolling of bells from the churches below. What a tarot spread indeed!

High Street in Glastonbury (Photo: J. Telyndru)

“Sacred breath, sacred step… sacred breath, sacred step...”

I was nearing the top of the hill; more and more of the tower entered into my line of sight as I worked to complete the last leg of the journey. I recall evenings spent in its stone shell -- yet another symbol of the liminal quality of this tiny English town. Neither outdoors nor indoors, the tower was not much of a shelter - it had no roof, and the two arched doorways served more as a plaything for the winds howling through them than any harbor from the elements. And yet, if you stood in one of the four corners or laid on the parallel stone benches which adorned two of its walls, you could escape the raging gusts racing through passage ways, and achieve a measure of stillness at the center of the storm.

Four intrepid souls spent the night with me in that tower on my first visit to Glastonbury, emboldened by our desire to bridge the Worlds there at the Gateway to Annwn. Celtic lore is filled with stories of those who have slept on faerie mounds, hoping to glimpse into the fantastic realms and come away changed by the experience. We five seekers hoped to do the same, to enter the Shining Realms in our dreamtime and to return with a gift of Awen to point us further down our inner paths. I remember lugging my sleeping bag and all of my warm clothes up the Tor that evening, and spending much of the night standing in one of the corners of the tower, chanting with my sisters. The sound bounced against the centuries-old walls and was magnified as it spiraled up the stone shaft and out into the darkness.

 Doorway Into the Mysteries: Looking out of St. Michael’s Tower (Photo: J. Telyndru)

It was a long and frigid night, and the vision-imbued sleep we sought wound up being long in coming. I shared one of the unmercifully cold stone benches with a sister; we had both of our sleeping bags down on the slab in hopes of insulating ourselves from below, while covering ourselves with our wool cloaks as we huddled together for warmth. Our discomfort only grew as the night progressed, and I spent a great deal of time concentrating on my rhythmic breath while counting the stars framed by the missing roof of the tower, praying for sleep to come. At last, my bench-mate could take it no more. Opting for warmth and sleep back in our flat, she left me her cloak and made her way down the darkened path, silent save for the sounds of sheep grazing peacefully on the Tor.

At long last I found the sleep I was seeking, and received the holy vision I had hoped for. The blessings which came to me that early Autumn morning still resonate strongly in my work and my life, not the least of which came a scant two hours after slipping into elusive sleep. The first rays of sunlight awakened all of us who had braved the elements and remained in the tower; we wrapped ourselves in our bedding, and walked out onto the crest of the hill.

The sight took our breath away.

It was as if we had been transported back through the ages to old Avalon. The mists were rising with the pale light of the new day’s sun, outlining Glastonbury until it was once more an island.  We could say nothing, but rather drank in the experience with all of our senses, imprinting it in our memories, and connecting with the feeling of timelessness. I recall thinking that we were looking at the curtain of eternity surrounding this holy land - protecting it and renewing it each day, as it is kissed by the bounty of the sun and as it is nourished by promise of the moon. Mysteries are difficult to share …

I am grateful that I worked through the discomfort of the moment to reap the lasting abundance of my encounter with the Spirit of the land. The thought helped me as my straining muscles again brought my attention back to my climb, each step forward adding to my body’s fatigue. “Sacred breath, sacred step… sacred breath, sacred step...” It was all I could do not to gasp for air, yet I wryly watched British climbers take the steepness of the hill in stride. Not for the first time, I recognized the differences in our cultures, and the disadvantages to my body of my comfortable suburban automobile-dependant existence.

There were other sisters ahead of me on the path - some walking with confident strides, some adapting a more deliberate gait, still others having great difficulty and being assisted by the women around them. Slow as I was, I knew there were a few more sisters behind me, and I was struck again by how nothing in Glastonbury seemed to exist only in the mundane. Everything appeared to take on a greater depth of color - was multifaceted, symbolically meaningful and universally metaphoric. Our foremothers blazed this path for us, which we now struggle to regain that we may pass the torch to our daughters. Standing there, not above nor below, not in front nor behind, not alone nor with others, I stopped to breathe in the importance of this moment which seemed to tickle at the periphery of my senses.

Strange as it may seem, I became aware of some future time, feeling myself thinking back to this very instant from a vastly different vantage point. I was a student of the Ways when first I came to Glastonbury, and nine years later, I returned - ever a student - but now in service as a teacher. An image appears of me in glorious Crone-dom - once more returned to the Isle. I see myself sitting alone in Chalice Well Gardens, my breathing labored by nothing more taxing than the headiness of the lavender in bloom, gazing at the Tor as it rears up from the horizon. I came to Glastonbury first to receive. As teacher, I returned to give. At last, in my rest, I will come to simply BE.

Ahh, rest! I at last made it to the top of the hill, welcomed by the smiling faces of my sisters. The wind was in full force, knotting my dark hair with its fingers. My eyes began to tear for more reasons than the buffeting currents that had turned my cheeks red and made my nose run. Leaning up against the tower, I paused to center myself and catch my breath. To my surprise, I found myself more energized than exhausted, and in a fit of silliness, engaged the dancing wind by swirling around in my woolen wrap, laughing and delighting in the wondrous now. Sobering suddenly, I felt the Earth take precedence over the Air, and I moved to stand apart from the gathering pilgrims. Alone, I surveyed the extraordinary view of Glastonbury and gave deeply felt thanks to the Goddess for granting me the privilege of standing with sisters once more on her breast. 

Somehow, I felt my future self smiling up at the undulating curves of Glastonbury Tor, climbing it only in memory, cherishing the person she had once been. She reaches back to me, our breathing becoming synchronized, as I too reached back to that woman of nine years ago, standing in the blossoming daybreak surrounded by the Avalonian mists. We were part of a greater whole… a link in the chain connecting sisters past, sisters present and sisters future. With a deep cleansing breath and a slow, contented smile, I twirled one last time for the woman I had been and the woman I hoped I would become, and returned to the women awaiting me, to create the circle anew

All graphic and written content on the Ynys Afallon website are © 2003, 2005 Jhenah Telyndru except where otherwise noted. None of the material found on these pages may be copied or duplicated except with express written consent from the author.