Amazon and I are trudging through the frost. It’s Mayday morning. Beltane, the festival that marks the mid-point between Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice. As we descend the slope that will take us out onto the plain, a skylark unseen in the fog greets the new day, even before the sun has risen. Frost has encrusted each strand of barbed wire and each thread of spider web with crystals of ice. Her touch makes no distinction between the natural and the human-made.
There are between thirty and forty of us walking the path. Mostly young frontline activists: road protesters, folks opposing HS2 a high speed rail system that will shave 12 minutes off the journey from London to Birmingham at the cost of over 100 ancient woodlands. Then there are half a dozen of us from Extinction Rebellion who have come to offer weekend support as would-be Elders. In another twenty minutes or so we’ll commit an unplanned act of mass trespass, but let’s come to that in a moment.
“Was there ever another time it was as coherent as this?” Amazon asks me a little out of the blue. I’m not sure exactly what he means. He talks in fragments, like there’s much more going on in his head than he vocalises, so I find myself trying to track his train of thought backwards. I think back over my years as an activist and take a stab: “No, I don’t think so. Going back to the 70s or 80s it was always a single issue: apartheid, nuclear arms. Or solidarity campaigns: Palestine or Nicaragua. But this is different. It’s about caring for the planet… and about human liberation.” He nods “Yeah, it’s all connected. It’s one thing. And it’s global. Everywhere. Joining together.”
We reach our destination. The fog has thinned some and the monolithic bluestones are visible across the field. Outside the fence a lone local has turned to face the rising sun. He’s set a small fire and is chanting quietly to himself.
“Let’s go.” One of the youngsters calls. “Wait!” It’s Anna, the keeper of the Goddess School at Glastonbury. “We can’t just go rushing in. This is a sacred site. What we do here matters. We need to be in a grounded state. Not hot-headed or anti anything. The sacred does not recognise anti. It only recognises positive intent. We need to know why we’re doing this, what we want to manifest.”
A discussion ensues and we decide to ground ourselves first then to head to the middle of the stone circle. Behind us the sun finally crosses the horizon; the lone figure calls aloud raising his hands to the sky and our crowd let’s out a cheer of approval. One of the young adults spontaneously jumps the fence, then another and soon we’re all across, heading for the centre of Stonehenge.
We’re met by three security guards who soon realise they’re out-numbered and retreat to the outer rim. We take up positions in a circle within the heart of the structure. It feels held. Contained by the power of eons. We move into the ritual we practiced just minutes before – six qi gong exercises from the ancient Wudang school, each with a sound, each for the health of a critical organ system:
Xu for the liver, the wood element representing all the trees and forests of the world.
Hē for the heart – fire, the molten core of the Earth, the sun that fuels all life, and for the beating heart in every animal being.
Hu, the spleen, the earth element for the soil that feeds us and the plants and trees that grow from it.
Si, the lungs, metal; for all the precious elements in the earth, for the electromagnetic field around the planet, its own life-force chi energy.
Chui, the kidneys, water. For all the rivers, lakes, oceans and for rain, ice, morning dew. The kiss of life to all living things.
And finally Xi for the Triple Burner, the space that holds the solid organs. This for the biosphere and the interconnection of ecosystems that sustain Earth as a living thing.
We move with purpose through the exercises, thirty bodies and souls in unison calling from deep in our bellies, moving with soft power to wake the stones from their slumber. Our intent? It’s difficult to put into words. It’s something like solidarity. To show our support, our empathy for each planetary organ – to lend support, some energy.
In First School I was taught to dance the Maypole. Out in the Oxfordshire countryside this was how we celebrated Mayday. The girls would wear flower crowns, weave in and out of each other with coloured ribbons until the pole was dressed in a weave from head to foot. In my final school years we’d walk the seven miles into town to jump from Magdalen Bridge into the river Cherwell, before heading back, soaked to the bone, to fall asleep in class. In these parts Mayday has always felt like a time to celebrate the abundance of life, its joys and pleasures. Now here we are, coming to understand the deeper significance of this and other festivals, seeing them as a rhythm throughout the year to acknowledge the course of nature, to take time to celebrate our connection with Mother Earth. It’s something like rediscovering our innate indigenous nature, drawing on the deep traditions of these parts, combining them with wisdom from around the world and bringing it to bare on the challenges of these times.
Security are starting to get twitchy; they don’t like the rescue dogs that have come along with us. Our job is done so we leave with the same sense of order that brought us in. As I turn from the centre of the circle I spot the lone figure who had welcomed the sunrise. He’s used us as cover to jump the fence and is darting around the circle to commune with each stone in turn before skipping away and back over the fence.
We return to camp – a small coppice beside a busy road where there are plans to dig a tunnel to bypass Stonehenge. Last night’s fire ceremony had launched our weekend camp. This morning’s impromptu trespass feels like it has anchored it in ancient bloodlines. The rest of our time together will unfold at leisured pace: workshops on gender and fluidity, the Dos and Don’ts of White People as allies, a Liberation Space for People From the Global Majority. And plenty of time around the fire: cooking, browsing books that hold the folklore of road protests, tree protection, sacred earth activism.
At the end of my time at camp I search out Indra who has pulled all of this together. Our eyes lock as I express my deepest admiration for what she has created. “Where next?” I ask. “This is going deeper and wider.” she replies. We hold each other’s gaze, knowing that we both have no idea of the what or where of this and at the same time understanding deeply the truth in it. “It’s everywhere. It’s an ecosystem” one or other of us says. Yes, I think. This is unstoppable. It has taken on a life of its own now.
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Chris Taylor is author of The Tao of Revolution.