The pretty girls are back. I recognize some who had caught my attention in the clusters that I had inspected a few hours previous, but there is nothing to draw my suspicions to them. A few male faces are familiar, too – the stern ones that seemed rather out of place in the festivities. But, again, there is nothing to link them to my search. I wonder, too, whether I am right in assuming that the inhumanity of their actions would be evident in aging lines or in hollow eyes. I have never known anyone who has applied violence in defense of a cause deemed worthy of such actions. It is difficult for me to conceive that any resultant beauty could obliterate the ugliness of destroying human life. And, from what I could tell, if one is guilty then they are all guilty. Derra, too, if she had resigned herself to the cause for which she had expressed such distaste, had her share of responsibility. The thought of that, however, runs contrary to the generally blissful mood in which I find myself – surrounded by revelers on such a happy occasion, and in such a sacred place.
The highlight of the day for me, however, has little to do with the events, or even the specific sites. It takes place once “the yardarm is up” (as my father used to say), and I land in a rather charming little pub for the one dining occasion for which the British have actually gained a positive reputation. I opt for the ploughman’s lunch (more for its name than for any Epicurean reasons), which consists mostly of cheese. I suspect that the fame of the British pub lunches is as much a factor of the beverages served as any food item listed on the menu. In testing that theory, I am willing to concede that the beverages are as good a measure as anything else, and that the British likely have an edge on the competition on that count. It is a long break for me and a valuable one. My head has been too crammed for too long both in preparation for this visit, and in exploring the myriad of sites and events that are packed within the magical boundaries of Glastonbury. I need time to reflect. My senses are all ready to explode, and the mellowing effect of the town’s finest bitter is the best medicine imaginable. When I finally emerge from the pub, my perspective is pleasantly altered. No longer does a kaleidoscope of contrasting traditions overwhelm me. Instead, there is a collection of ordinary people simply enjoying a rather wonderful day. This is the perspective that I need if I hope to accomplish my mission.
I cannot say that much was accomplished before twilight brought most of the special events to an end, but I had moved comfortably through the crowds that afternoon, and I had felt a part of the divine plan even as it unfolding on that holy ground. It was not, however, a mystical experience. It was something more real – a realization that, while we are all merely human, we are all truly spiritual. This is as true for the cynic who has merely stumbled across the curious rituals of the site as it is for the devout practitioner who is trying desperately to express a reverence for the occasion at hand. Thus it is necessary for me to detach myself, and to absorb the scene from the divine perspective, and to lose myself in the wonder of it all. The magic, after all, is not really indigenous to this locale; it is simply a product of human existence. Those who seek to disrupt this magic in the name of higher forces cannot be overcome on their own turf. They have to be met on the same plain on which we have all been distributed. If I can maintain my perspective, I will see them. Better still, they will see me.
