Susan Hale
from: Susan Hale
Category: Voicework

Singing the Michael and Mary Lines in Avebury

All over the earth, like stars mirrored on the land, sacred sites resonate cosmic powers, forces that call us to enter into a deeper relationship with ourselves and the world around us.There are ley lines, Rose lines, pilgrimage routes that beckon us to follow.The Michael and Mary lines of southern England sent such a call to me. I heard about them at a Voice Conference at Findhorn from a singer Michael Deason Barrow. He asked me if I knew about the Michael and Mary lines and told me how they led to sacred sites, churches,towers and hills dedicated to St. Michael, the archangel with his fiery sword.The Mary lines he told me led to chapels and wells dedicated to Mary. I knew then I had to go to England but didn’t have time on this trip. The lines intersect at many places including Avebury, Glastonbury,St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall,and Royston Cave where the Knights Templar carved images into the stone walls. 


The image of the Michael and Mary lines running parallel to each other and connecting at certain power spots spoke to my soul’s longing of wanting to marry these different energies into my body, heart and spirit. A song came to me one day as I was driving from Taos to Santa Fe. The melody belonged to places I’d never been, to a land I hadn’t walked. It was not a song born from the weathered sandstone and Sangre de Cristo Mountains I was driving past but a song from the green shores of England.


It would be five years before I would sing in Britain, first standing on the Michael and Mary lines in Avebury after I had witnessed a pagan wedding ceremony. The groom sang The Roseto his bride. I had wanted to offer a song myself but stayed at a distance. When they left, alone in the dusk, I sang, stood on the green grass feeling my feet tingle and felt my song  come home.


That night at the Red Lion Inn the wedding party reveled with music. I walked up to the bride dressed in purple velvet, her black hair circled in a golden crown, and told her I had a gift of song. To my surprise the wedding guests, which included a snaggle toothed old woman whose ample breasts were about to fall like ripe fruit from her low-cut dress, sang with me on the chorus as if they had known it all along. My song was christened by their voices, by the bride’s bright eyes and the groom’s gaze. Something was married in me, the warm glow of an English pub, the stones standing still in the night, Michael and Mary intertwined like a lover’s knot.


 



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