A Meditation on Memory and Earth
by In The Darkness
This account was posted to alt.religion.wicca.moderated in July 2003 by a practitioner known as "In The Darkness." What begins as an ordinary afternoon of yard work — replacing rotting garden borders with stones salvaged from a neighbor's demolished wall — becomes something else entirely: a spontaneous shift into meditative awareness, a vision of past-life memory in Ireland, and a direct encounter with what the author calls "the ancient power in rock circles." The writing moves between the physical and the numinous with unusual ease, grounding its spiritual insights in the specific weight and click of stone against stone.
The author's experience belongs to a long tradition within earth-based spirituality: the understanding that certain configurations of stone, built with intention and labor, carry an accumulated charge that can reach across time. The stone circles of Ireland and Scotland — Newgrange, the Callanish Stones, the hundreds of lesser-known rings scattered across the British Isles — were not merely astronomical tools or burial markers. They were, in this tradition, instruments of memory, tuned to the frequencies of place and ancestry. Whether through "far sight," past life recall, or some subtler resonance, the practitioner here arrives at the same discovery their Irish ancestors may have made.
Preserved here as a record of living practice: that the sacred is not always found in ceremony but sometimes in a long afternoon of hot work, sweat on the forehead, rocks clicking into place, and a sunbeam choosing exactly that moment to break through the clouds.
The other day I decided to do a little decorating in my back yard. My back yard is basically a large grove of trees with grass growing in the empty space surrounded by the circle of trees.
A real challenge for the grass, as it is within the canopy of shade most of the day, offered by these older, natural majestic large trees, spiring up into the sky.
There is a large deck overlooking this area, with a pool, and cats, and all sorts of wee creatures have decided to form a feral colony, living under the deck and around the property.
At any given moment, there are more feral creatures running around in my back yard than most zoos. Cats walking and doing a balancing act along rails of the deck, while raccoons sneak out for a snack, and sneak back, awaiting sunset. Occasionally, even a possum comes running by — but it doesn't like humans. It is a fading vision by the time you turn your head.
My neighbor had decided to tear down the walls of his house, made out of old fashioned rocks and mortar — a sad thing for me to see torn down. Alas, his wife wants brick, modern and cold in my humble opinion. Having extra rocks he couldn't give away, he offered them to me, should I want them.
The center ring of the grove is surrounded by shade gardens, that are mulched, and harbor unusual blooming shade plants — Astilbe, Bleeding Hearts, Hostas, and a plethora of Lilies. Palettes of bright yet gentle pastels, to warm the dark green and shade of the forest edge.
However, the wooden blocks that were put there years ago to mark the edge of the garden zones were beginning to rot with age — the way of all things.
I decided to replace them with the rocks left over from my neighbor's house.
One by one, I hand selected rocks to pile upon the borders of the gardens — each one, adding layer upon layer to the rows offered by their predecessor, like an ordered chaotic puzzle solving itself in reverse.
As I worked, even the raccoons snuck out to take a peek at what I was building, peering around the corner of the deck, to not attract too much attention.
The "click" of the rock, as I put it in place, brought me home to earth. Grounding me.
Solid, and strong, not a hollow "tink" of brick, or "clunk" of cheap mortar imitations, but a subdued but understated "click."
Solid. A sense of permanence.
There is nothing like the feel of a rock, and that "click," to bring you back to the home you've always known. It is an ageless experience.
I had allowed the grass to go to seed, to better allow it to adapt to the partially shaded region it was in. The grass is about two feet tall, but looks more like wheat at that height, and isn't overly dense. Little bundles of seeds waving on the end of a long thin green stalk — bobbing and nodding their heads in the passing breeze.
As I neared completion of the surrounding gardens, I realized I still had some rock left over, and decided to build circles of rock around a sundial in the center of the grove.
Again, one by one, I hand selected the rock, lugging it, stacking each one in its place. The heat of the day was sweltering and sweat trickled down my face as I worked. As the ring closed, once again I was taken back to a time and place that simply wasn't "here and now."
Each "click," a faint remembrance — tickling the back of the mind, like a lover's gentle kiss stolen while you sleep.
Upon completion, I stepped back.
A sunbeam chose that moment to stream down through an opening in the clouds. It highlighted, and illuminated, the center of the grove, as though Mother Nature herself was admiring the work, or perhaps lending her stamp of approval.
In that moment, the distinct shaft of light lighting the circle, sweat pouring from my forehead from a day of good solid work, the mind adrift from the endorphins flooding my bloodstream from the exertion — the moment went timeless.
A breeze kicked up, rustling the grass in bands of waves, one after the other, like the tides of the sea. And a feeling of déjà vu, of another time and another place, came upon me, like waves of euphoria and nostalgia sweeping through me at the same time — and a sensation of a long forgotten memory.
I stood transfixed in the moment, feeling it pass through me, as fleeting sensations of some time, and some place, long long ago stirred in the bowels of my soul. A moment of transcendence.
It was as though I was standing there, and yet stood at the same time at "other theres" — lost somewhere in antiquity. Reflections of themselves, one overlaid upon another, down through eternity.
As the wind rustled the grass, the shaft of light streaming down into the circle as if on command, the birds singing, and the rustle of the wee creatures to my back — I knew I had experienced this before, in another place, another time. Something the soul remembers, not the body.
I stood transfixed as this sensation rippled through me, like a pleasant warm spider web I had accidentally brushed through, gracing the fringes of my inner self. I followed the sensation further into my mind, shifting slightly into a meditative state.
Then, it was as if I stood in two places at once. I stood there, and also at a field of tall grass as green as an emerald, and a circle of rocks similar to the one I had just piled.
When the wind whispered here, the wind swept through the grass there. I allowed my mind to drift with the sensation, wondering from where I could be conjuring this vision, as it is not like anything I had actually visited in this life.
And then the sensation of "there" became stronger than "here," and I realized I was looking at a past life experience — perhaps my own, or perhaps an ancestor's, perhaps even "far sight." But an inner knowledge that this wasn't just a daydream.
As the vision grew stronger, and more real, till it was as real as the "real here" — I knew, and have no way of explaining that knowing other than it is as natural as knowing your own name — that the other place was Ireland. A long time ago. I was transported by the incredible sensation of being in two places at once. Another circle I had built, in much the same fashion, somehow reflecting its reality to here and now, connected in some inexorable fashion, a reflection through time, paralleling this life and this moment.
I concluded: there is ancient power in rock circles.
While I was reasonably aware of my Scottish Heritage, as Freemasonry traces its heritage to Scotland, I had never really paid much attention to the Irish portion of my heritage, or Ireland for that matter. I went over to the bookstore, and picked up a book on Ireland, with lots of pictures.
As I perused the book, I realized that indeed, Ireland was as green as an emerald — and that much of Ireland has outcrops of stone, similar to the ones I had been decorating with.
As I read further, I encountered the stone circles that had been built by ancient dwellers of the land — laid out in a similar fashion to my stone circles, piled chaotically and yet with obvious form and intent, into concentric circles. Often in languid fields of beautiful green, surrounded by groves of tall trees reaching out to the heavens, circling an emerald field of tall, wavy grass. It was as though I had bought the book, and decorated that yard in these circles, as opposed to the other way around.
I was really caught off guard, as I hadn't paid much attention to the imagery of Ireland, as opposed to Scotland, a much browner and craggy place. I am somewhat amazed that I had known it was "Ireland" — it only lent credence to the idea that I had indeed experienced this in a past life, another age.
I just thought I would share the moment with you, hoping perhaps to induce the same sense of profound mystery that I experienced in that moment. It is something one shouldn't pass through life without experiencing, at least once.
Colophon
Written by a practitioner known as "In The Darkness" and posted to alt.religion.wicca.moderated on 8 July 2003. The author describes themselves as being of Scottish and Irish heritage with a connection to Freemasonry. This account captures a spontaneous visionary experience arising from manual, devotional labor — the laying of stone in a backyard grove.
Preserved from the Usenet archive for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Original Message-ID: [email protected].
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