I’m craving Avalon.
Over the last few weeks, the Glastonbury Longing has hit home. Don’t care about the shops, or the festivals – I’ve been pining for a windswept walk up the tor, stumbling through the faerie woodlands, blissing out in Chalice Well Gardens and meditating in the incense-scented Goddess Temple.
Glastonbury tends to be thought of as the geographical location for Avalon (though I’ve read it as being out west in the Irish sea and the Atlantic Ocean), though often it’s thought of a state of mind, a place in your heart, a kind of spiritual heartbeat pulsing throughout the world.
The idea of Avalon being everywhere has really called out to me in the past few weeks as I leave my house in the mornings to catch my bus. I walk out of my home, catch a glimpse of the lavender morning and gasp – this is just like Avalon, this is just like Glastonbury.
Probably because whenever I stay in Glastonbury I am also staying in a housing estate.
To me, Avalon is a sacred undercurrent to our landscape. It’s a wavelength just a teeny tiny fraction of a shift away from the wavelength we live in, so close, but not super obvious. I consider the Avalon Undercurrent to be the spiritual soul of Britain, it’s spiritual essence and I can feel it in the mornings I venture outside into the world. (Any morning where I am concious and outside and ungrumpy is a sacred morning, Avalon or not.) It’s an undercurrent I can feel strongly even here in the east of England, which is probably the least geographically inspiring place in the whole of the British Isles.
Whenever I leave Glastonbury, the centre of so many myths and faery stories (which excites me no end), I am always sad. But I know that the whole world is beautiful and spiritual and connected, not just these historically special places like Glastonbury and Avebury. I think that’s perhaps what the Avalon is Everywhere theory is all about.