Gog and Magog

So... I’ve been cleansing.  Fasting for a week, which is always interesting.  Often we eat (or rather over-eat or eat crap) stuff to dampen down our emotions, to distract ourselves from what’s really going on in our lives, our selves. Well, some of us do – others may use alcohol, or work, or drugs or cigarettes or whatever.  Others, of course, may be totally conscious.  *smile*

Anyhow.  It was good.  I had my own little cottage; simple, almost monk-like, yet comfortable, warm, serene.  A candle over the fire.  Flowers on the table. A snugly throw.  Instead of eating, I meditated, did some gentle Zen yoga and walked, in the aura of the Tor at Glastonbury. 

I didn’t talk that much but I listened, and I heard some things I needed to hear.  I met some very beautiful people but the encounter that touched me most deeply was with a tree.  Or, rather, two trees, but one wasn’t listening, or indeed talking, so much.

Gog and Magog.  Ancient oaks.  How old?  Some say 500 years, some go as far as 2,000.  Once they had companions, many of them, an avenue of oaks that led to the Tor and beyond.  There is even a legend that the oaks once linked the Tor to Arthur’s castle in South Cadbury, many many miles away.  Sadly, most were cut down to clear land about a hundred years ago, and just these two remain.  They say they are Druid trees, ‘wishing trees’ – with the ability to help you manifest your deepest desires.  I wonder.

Gog...grumpy old sod.

Gog is male, Magog female.  They stand close, their branches stretch out but cannot touch yet their roots are surely entwining.  Hollowed (hallowed?) out, the centre cannot hold.  They say that Gog is dead but I’m not so sure.  He felt, to me, as if he had sunk deep into himself, as if he could barely be concerned with the world (whirled?) any more.  But Magog kept watch and she was still listening.  Old, for sure, lightning-blasted, twisted, hunched, ancient of days (daze?) but still there, keeping a toe on Gog. 

Magog

I touched her skin and found, to my surprise, smoothness, softness, suppleness and something so deep and serene and loving, it took me by surprise.  And I talked to her and she smiled. I could barely bear to leave.  But, as I did, I noticed something daubed on the fence.  One word. 

That night I dreamed of Gog and Magog. Gog’s branches were growing, stretching down into the ground around, as if to prop him up.  And from those branches new saplings were springing up (and yes, I know, oaks don’t do that, but hey, it’s a dream, okay?) and their leaves were spring green and pure. Does anything truly (true lie) die?