The Eternal Journey of Water
Today’s journey begins in the ancient land of Somerset, but my existence stretches far beyond the boundaries of time. I have flowed through countless landscapes, touched by the hands of seekers, molded by the rhythms of the earth. My journey is endless, my origins lost in the great expanse of the waters that came before land itself.
Where I first emerged remains a mystery, hidden in the eternal body of water. Yet now, I find myself here, where the Red and White Springs of Glastonbury have flowed for centuries, carrying with them the essence of the earth. Beneath the watchful presence of Glastonbury Tor, I emerge from deep underground.
The White Spring: A Sanctuary of Stillness
The White Spring, rich with calcium, emerges cool and clear, nourishing the moss-covered stones of the well house that enshrines me. This is a sanctuary. The well house, dimly lit and hushed, embraces those who step inside, inviting reflection and reverence. Phones and cameras are forbidden, ensuring that those who enter do so with full presence, free from distraction. The air is thick with incense, and candlelight flickers across the sacred pools, illuminating the offerings placed with care—tokens of gratitude, requests for healing, and symbols of devotion. Shrines line the chamber, honoring different spiritual paths, weaving together traditions and beliefs into a sacred space where Divinity manifests in many forms. Among them stands a shrine in honor of Brigid, the Celtic Fire Goddess and guardian of sacred springs, where the Brigid Flame perpetually burns. Nearby, a shrine venerates The Lady of Avalon, watching over the healing pools, while another honors the King of the World of Faerie, marking the portal to the Otherworld. The powerful ley-line known as the Michael Line runs through this sacred space, connecting the energy of Michael, forever linked to Glastonbury Tor, to the flow of these waters.
The Red Spring: The Blood of the Earth
Just a few steps away, the Red Spring seeps through iron-rich earth, its hue reminiscent of lifeblood, revered by those who seek renewal. I have absorbed the whispered stories and murmured prayers of those who believe in my power to cleanse, restore, and strengthen, carrying their hopes in my endless flow. The iron that tints my waters is not just an earthly element—it is my essence, my vitality, long believed to rejuvenate the weary and mend the broken, infusing those who immerse themselves in my depths with renewed energy and strength.
The Waters and Energy of Avalon
For centuries, people have bathed in my embrace, believing in my ability to heal not just the body, but the spirit. The contrast of my twin sources—one flowing pure and clear, the other tinged red with life’s force—embodies the dual nature of existence: the balance of strength and surrender, of the seen and unseen. Scientists speak of the minerals within me, their effects on circulation and well-being, while mystics claim that I hold the very pulse of the land, channeling energies that awaken and transform those who come seeking something more. Whether through chemistry or divinity, I am a source of healing, and I have watched as those who arrive burdened with sorrow leave lighter, renewed, as if they have been reborn within my waters.
I have borne witness to seekers, and druids, and pilgrims who have journeyed to my waters in search of peace and wisdom, as well as the wild creatures who once roamed freely, their presence leaving ripples upon my surface long before human footsteps arrived. Deer bent their slender necks to drink from me, their breath rippling across my surface, while birds skimmed the water’s edge, their songs merging with the whisper of my current. The ancient roots of towering trees reached deep into the earth, drawing my essence upward so they may grow. Through it all, I have felt the reverence of those who have come after—the trembling hands that cup my waters to drink, the bowed bodies that submerge in my embrace, seeking something beyond the physical, something timeless and true. I have listened to chants that echo through the chamber, prayers murmured to the rhythm of flowing water, voices seeking clarity, healing, and renewal. I have felt their wounds ease, their burdens lighten as they listen to the whispers I carry from the deep earth. I have seen the mourning of knights, the prayers of mystics, and the silent hopes of those who come in search of something unseen. I have been present at Avalon’s heart, where legends and spirits intertwine. Legends whisper of the Grail hidden here—but ah, who am I to spill the secrets I may or may not hold? I simply flow, carrying the determined whispers of divine resolution between the past and future in my current as I watch seekers seek what is already found. I swirl with the echoes of Joseph of Arimathea’s presence, and Arthurian lore drifts within me, woven like mist upon the surface of my waters.
Flowing Toward the Bristol Channel
My journey must go on. Seeping through the bedrock of Glastonbury, I emerge into a stream that feeds the River Brue. Winding through the Avalon Marshes, I flow past the remnants of what is now known as Glastonbury Lake Village, a testament to those who once thrived in harmony with these wetlands. Here, where water has always been both friend and master, I have seen lives unfold and histories take shape. Reeds and willows bow to my passage, egrets lift effortlessly into the sky, and dragonflies trace delicate patterns upon my surface. I carry with me the whispers of the marsh, the secrets of those who built upon my banks, and the endless rhythm of life sustained by my touch. Merging with the River Parrett, I am drawn inevitably toward the Bristol Channel.
As I approach the sea, the tide pushes against me, resisting my flow, holding me in a delicate balance where fresh and saltwater meet. In the essence of flow, I rise, lifted into mist and carried by a breath of life as a storm gathers over the Welsh hills, drawing me into the embrace of the clouds. Suspended in the sky, as more of me gathers, the heavens swell with my presence, both seen and felt. Then, with great exhale, I bless the land below, pouring life upon the thirsty land, carrying within me the essence of every sacred place I have touched, descending upon the rugged peaks of Snowdonia.
Rising to the Clouds and Returning as Rain
Among these ancient mountains, I find my way into a spring that feeds St. Winefride’s Well in Holywell, North Wales. For centuries, I have been sought by the faithful, my waters a source of devotion, a refuge for the weary, a sacred current carrying the hopes and burdens of those who come seeking cleansing and healing. I remember the legend of St. Winefride, whose severed head, cast upon the earth, gave birth to me—a moment of divine grace, where death was met not with an ending, but with restoration. The faithful have gathered here ever since, their hands trembling as they reach for me, their prayers of hope merging with my waters. Some seek my touch for the healing of body and spirit, others come burdened with prayers they dare not speak aloud but rather to let them dissolve into my depths. I carry the wisdom of all dilemmas when waters flow where the mind cannot. I have carried these offerings for centuries, bearing silent witness to the unbroken pilgrimage of belief. And whether the legend is woven from truth or something else, I do not say. I have been flowing since time beyond memory, knowing all that has come before, yet I do not seek to shape the understanding of those who walk their own path of discovery. I receive devotion, cradle secrets, and offer my embrace to all who seek me. From that place of rebirth, I never ceased to flow. Pilgrims dip their hands, splash their faces, and fill their flasks with my sacred essence, carrying a piece of me forward into the world beyond…
One such traveler, an elderly woman, with a lined face and kind eyes, fills her bottle and sets off eastward toward England’s heartlands. As she crosses into the ancient kingdom of Mercia, she pauses at the banks of the River Trent, emptying the last drops of her flask into my flowing waters. I become part of a greater current, carried northward, past the spires of Nottingham, where I have witnessed the march of Romans, the rise and fall of kings, and the silent prayers of monks long gone.
Merging with the Great Currents of England
I merge with the River Ouse, a name that simply means ‘Water’ in its ancient origins, as if to remind the world that I am what I am. For centuries, I have borne witness to the tides of history, an ever-present stream through time. Before the longships arrived, Benedictine monks had settled upon these lands, their chants rising softly with the mist upon my surface, their devotion carried upon my currents for I am the medium, the vessel, the bringer of news. Then came the Viking raiders, their ships slicing through my waters, warriors wading ashore, their voices as rough as the northern winds. They carved their presence into the tides of time, leaving behind echoes that still linger along my banks. Long after their war cries faded, the monks remained, seeking solace in my embrace, their prayers weaving into the fabric of flow, a quiet contrast to the clashes that once disturbed my surface. I have known conquest and quiet contemplation alike, bearing witness without interference, ever-moving, ever-knowing, ever-being and seeking stillness without rest.
Leaving behind the echoes of ancient prayers and Viking longships, I surrender to the pull of the tides, drawn into the embrace of the Atlantic Ocean, where currents weave stories between distant lands. I drift with these currents, carried past craggy cliffs where seabirds wheel above, until the sky darkens, and the cold northern winds gather me into their grasp. Suspended within the mist, I fall once more, descending upon the rugged Scottish Highlands, where the air is crisp, and the mountains cradle deep, mysterious lochs. Here, in the shifting waters of legend and time, I am called toward an island shrouded in mist, where sacred wells and hidden lochs guard the wisdom of ages—the Isle of Skye.
Drifting Northward: The Sacred Waters of Scotland
I flow into a land of untamed beauty and deep spiritual resonance, where sacred waters have long been revered for their healing and mystical properties. Among these, I find Loch Shianta, meaning “Holy Loch,” a place of pilgrimage and folklore, where my waters carry blessings of renewal and protection. Tucked away in a secluded glen, I have been visited for centuries by those seeking cures for ailments, their offerings left at the nearby well in quiet reverence. Infused with the spirit of the land and its ancient traditions, I am not just a body of water—I am a living vessel of reconciliation, holding the messages of the past and the energies of the present. I am deeply intertwined with Celtic beliefs in the sanctity of nature, where springs, lochs, and wells are seen as portals to the divine. Even today, I awaken a sense of connection to something greater, drawing seekers and wanderers who come to drink, to cleanse, and to listen to the echoes of harmony carried in each ripple.
The Final Sanctuary: St. Nectan’s Kieve
Drawn once more toward the endless rhythm of movement, I surrender to the pull of the waters that weave through this ancient land. I follow the rivulets trickling from mossy stones, merging with mountain streams rushing towards the vast embrace of the Atlantic. Carried southward by unseen forces that tend me toward balance, I become one with rolling tides, drifting along the western edge of the isles, where the ocean cradles the mysteries of myth and memory. The winds rise, guiding me ever onward, until I am drawn toward a land where the echoes of the past still dance upon cascading waters—a sacred glen hidden in the Cornish landscape, where St. Nectan’s Kieve awaits my return.
St Nectan’s Glen is a place where the veil between worlds feels thin, a final resting place on this journey where the echoes of my path still ripple through time. Drawn here by unseen currents, I have traveled through sacred wells, rushing rivers, and boundless seas to reach this sanctuary, where water has long been revered as a force of transformation and renewal. Nestled within Cornwall’s lush woodlands, this sacred site is home to St Nectan’s Kieve, a breathtaking waterfall that cascades through a naturally carved rock arch into a crystal-clear basin below, standing at an impressive 18 meters high. Long considered a place of spiritual cleansing and renewal, the glen is steeped in Celtic legend, pagan traditions, and Christian mysticism. Pilgrims and seekers have visited for centuries, leaving offerings of ribbons, crystals, and heartfelt prayers, drawn to the site’s powerful aura of healing and transformation. The legend of St Nectan, a 6th-century hermit said to have lived in a cell above the falls, adds a layer of divine presence, as does the belief that knights once blessed themselves here before embarking on quests. The glen is not just a place of beauty—it is a living sanctuary, where the sound of rushing water and the chants of the forest weave together, calling those who seek connection, guidance, and an experience of the sacred.
Suspended within the vast embrace of the waters, I wait, lingering in the endless rhythm of ebb and flow, listening to the murmurs of journeys yet to come. I have carried the wisdom of ancient wells, the prayers of pilgrims, the essence of sacred rivers—and still, I move, seeking, becoming, forever entwined with the great cycle of existence. But even as I drift, I invite you to pause, to listen, to immerse yourself in the sacred flow that has carried me through time.
The waters do not merely touch the land—they whisper secrets, they guide, they call. Those who listen find themselves drawn deeper, moving beyond the surface, feeling the pulse of something ancient stirring beneath. If you wish to follow the current, to explore the depths of water’s wisdom, let me carry you toward greater understanding. Journey with me through several sacred waters on my “Since the Beginning – Water Announces Life” reflection and hear the first whispers of this path. Sink into the stillness of Meditation, where the waters within reflect the waters without, or flow into the teachings of the Compassionate Water Module and allow its currents to reshape and renew you. If you feel called to guard these waters, to walk the path of the apprentice, the gateway awaits within Apprentice Gatekeeper Training.
A Call to the Seekers
Throughout the world, people of the Way of Water—across continents, from east to west, north to south—priests, goddesses, shamans, and druids have given their human voices over to Water Speaking Water. In this eternal conversation, wisdom flows freely, carried by those who listen. Among them, Ekan Nangaku, an initiated Elder and Shaman in the ancient West African lineage of the Dagara (the Wild People), shares the teachings received through compassionate transmissions from Water itself. His mentorship and teachings illuminate the path for those called to the waters, those who seek to listen, to learn, and to carry forward the voice of the unseen.
The flow continues, and the invitation remains. Come, listen to the water’s voice, and let it guide you toward the next part of your path.
The waters are calling—will you answer?