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When I was 9, my family came to Salisbury and Stonehenge. It was 1967 and you could wander freely amongst the stones, touching, breathing, being there. 23 years later my mother and I saw Mont St. Michel in a smear of Atlantic haze and I got the same feeling--that I was approaching a place of such old energy and awareness the air seemed electric with it. 2 days later we were searching for Carnac in the dusk of a Breton spring evening--all the directions given us by the locals were leading us nowhere. There was mist, and the road turned upland. I said "Let's just try going this way, and then if we don't find it tonight we'll head back out in the morning." Suddenly a small sign that said merely "les Alignments" appeared by the road and we were there, in the middle of the stones, the rows and rows stalking away into the gloom. The hair on my neck stood up, I became giddy, almost hysterical. Next day in the rain they, the stones, were no less alive. Children climbed them lovingly, as if being dandled by a grandfather. An elderly woman sat thoughtfully as the fleeting sun pointed to the stones one at a time. Even a tiny chapel was sanctified by their presence. In these places, time slows and stops for us as we move among the elements of our wonder, be they stones, trees, crashing waves or sounding whales. The world outside the threshhold recedes--we are in a magic circle where everything we left behind is forgotten, meaningless. Our spirits open wide, like raw bookpaper, and the place writes on us the thinnest tendrils of a song-spell meant only for us. Only later do we realize we may be there with others and it is then that time starts to slowly move again. We step out over the threshhold and go back to sleep in the ''real world'' while the circle, faintly shining behind us, leaves its light in our minds.
Something is not right. This message is just to keep things from messing up down the road