SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 2024
This morning, eight lucky lottery winners - out of some 20,000 - each dressed in their finest winter garb, climbed single-file into a tiny stone cave. Hundreds cheered them on, but perhaps felt a pang of jealousy that they could not shuffle into the cramped passage themselves. Morning light already suffused the landscape to reveal verdant checkers of forest and farmland, but the sun itself remained elusive behind the low-hanging clouds of an Irish dawn. Painfully anachronistic electricity illuminated the lucky few as they swirled into a circular chamber at the heart of this stone chapel. They could see etchings of all kinds, some jagged, some curved, some morphological, adorning the walls of three small transepts. They looked up to admire a vaulted ceiling of interlocking stone leaves, evocative of ancient earthen fingers clasped in a circle as one might hold a butterfly. Then came the exciting part: the lights were shut off. They stood in the darkness. They waited.
Only when you wait for the sun do you begin to understand its mercy. Humanity has calculated its trajectory across the firmament with remarkable accuracy for at least as long as our first literate societies have known how to write, and probably for much longer, and yet the anticipation for its miraculous arrival still retains its potency amid stone and morning dew. This small band of strangers looked back at the corridor through which they had come, and surely felt the stirring of dust-covered sensations: nostalgia, or perhaps mysticism, or some other chthonic emotion. In hindsight, it was clear that this passageway was constructed on a slope to ensure that the entrance itself is not visible from the central chamber; however, a small window above the door now began to glow. Then: the miracle. As God is often accused of saying, "Let there be light."
However, these analogies to Christian symbolism are anachronous. This temple is a passage tomb called Newgrange, and its builders lived and died in what is now called Ireland thousands of years before the Bronze Age Canaanites whose beliefs coalesced into Judaism, let alone Christianity. Yet it remains unimaginably intact: after all these eons, its vault is still completely watertight. How many other buildings can say the same?
In June I had the privilege of visiting Newgrange, as well as Knowth, one of its spectacular sisters in the Brú na Bóinne complex north of Dublin. Newgrange itself is over 5,000 years old, and predates not only Stonehenge but the Great Pyramids of Giza; it is not hundreds but thousands of years older than Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. While much archaeological, anthropological, and geographical work has been done to understand the Neolithic cultures which built countless stone circles, monuments, patterns, tombs, and other sites across the European archipelago, they are so unfathomably old that our comprehension will probably always be as speculative as it is certain. This is a large part of the appeal, at least for me.
During my visit to Newgrange, a guide led my tour group into the chamber, a miraculous experience on its own. She was a great storyteller and came equipped with a magic trick: she could turn off the house lights and activate a special flashlight installed near the window, simulating the winter solstice experience. She reminded us that while both burned and unburned human remains have been found in the site, its exact purpose remains a mystery. As she dimmed the lights, though, she asked us to imagine ourselves proceeding into the chamber as a Neolithic person all those millennia ago. The winter was the harshest time of the year, but perhaps it was also the most spiritually potent, when the veil between the living and the dead might be lifted. It is easy to conceptualize the walk into the unlit passage as a step into the underworld, or perhaps a return to a primordial void.
Then - like a miracle - a point of light appears. Slowly, it expands into a pillar of illumination. At this point, are the human sacrifices - dead or perhaps even living - put to the flame, an indication of the sun's power? Or could this light be a symbol of rebirth, guiding us back through the canal and once again into the world as newborns? Could this place be telling us not to fear death, that we will be reunited with our cremated dead just as the sun once again rises in the sky? I could not help but be overcome with the possible meanings of this experience, their apparent resonance with ideas both modern and ancient. Of course, all of these interpretations could be wrong. But the precision and dedication of these ritualized neolithic spaces is impossible to dismiss. Perhaps in that moment, even as a simulacra of a simulacra, I could still be reborn.
TRANSIENT RETURNS
This solo journey was a gift to myself in celebration of finally completing my undergraduate degree in History, and a kind of rite of passage as I entered into graduate school for Literature this fall. It was also a pilgrimage of sorts to places in Ireland and the UK which had so inspired much of the literature and culture that has already shaped me. I celebrated Bloomsday with a performance of "Telemachus" at Joyce Tower, and enjoyed a play (or two) at the Globe; these too can be considered rituals on sacred space, connecting me with a mythic past. I climbed Pendle Hill, where George Fox experienced a revelation of all the people gathering beneath as the birth of the Quaker movement; I looked out and saw fields and hamlets, bisected by asphalt roads and stone fences, beneath a swelling sky.
Exactly six months ago I stood inside the legendary circle at Stonehenge; only on the solstices are ordinary folk permitted to encounter the stones up close, and as such they have continued to be hugely important dates for people of all kinds to gather at the sacred site. I had already visited Newgrange, and was so impressed by the experience that I wondered if Stonehenge could match it. Luckily these two sites are complementary: the former is an experience of intimate interiority, a linear journey through dense stone and an encounter with ornate and infinitely evocative carvings; the latter is open and cyclical, the stones gesturing outwards towards a vast land-and-skyscape, their surfaces are so worn that, except for some pictoral and orthographic graffiti from more recent millennia, they seemed essentially unadorned.
At Stonehenge, the summer solstice is a massive and motley affair, and this year some 15,000 people descended upon the site. These included religious pilgrims of all kinds; of course Europagans of all varieties but also a notable contingency of Hare Krishna, which somehow managed to circumvent strict security protocols to bring a massive palanquin or portable shrine of some kind (unfortunately I didn't get a close look). Some arrived with clear intentions to take psychoactive drugs for ritual or pleasure. Many of these folks wore colorful garbs, white robes, or fantasy costumes which would be right at home at Burning Man. As many or more people wore ordinary contemporary clothing, and outwardly seemed to have no particular agenda other than to enjoy the experience.
The most notable group were, of course, the Druids: a modern religious movement, sometimes categorized as neo-Druidism or neo-Paganism, seeking to recreate the mysterious practices of the Iron Age peoples who are their namesake. While the earliest references to the original Druids surface thousands of years after the construction of Stonehenge and other Neolithic sites, and what little extant written or archaeological records remain of those peoples bear no evidence that they adhered to the solstices or used stone circles of any kind, both are now important to both internal and external conceptions of today's Druids.
And why not? The original builders, and the original Druids, are so far lost to time that it would be folly to ascribe direct cultural or even genetic lineage to any particular individual or group. This distance, which suffuses people and cultures across time and space, is a fatal injury to ethnic and theological nationalism; it is also an opening of the way for other conceptions of convergence and divergence with the past. More than any other group, today's Druids seek to preserve Stonehenge not only as an irreplaceable record of ancient history, but also a vital and living center of human activity in the present and into the future.
On June 20th, I journeyed from London by train to Salisbury, and boarded the first double-decker tour bus to Stonehenge proper. My first glimpse of the stones was from the congested A303 highway, which is laid scarcely 500 feet from the site itself. The traffic from 15,000 tourists was deadlocked at the Stonehenge junction, and those of us on the upper deck were getting cooked badly enough that we desperately persuaded the driver to let us evacuate and continue the rest of the way on foot. The massive visitor's center is far from the stones and tucked behind a hill to render it invisible from the circle, which meant I had to walk well over a mile. I didn't expect the flatness of the Wiltshire countryside, a flush plane of grassy fields broken only by distant trees and the occasional agricultural building, all gilded by the light of late afternoon. The wide blue canvas of sky was half-emptied with sharp strokes of cirrus.
The day before, clouds descended on three of the stones not in white but in orange. A cornstarch compound had been tossed by two climate change activists associated with Just Stop Oil, a British activist group seeking to increase pressure on the fossil fuel industry through nonviolent protests and targeted damage to the frames or protective glass coverings of famous artworks. While the group has been careful to never cause any harm to famous artworks or artifacts themselves, the damage to their casings themselves can be expensive, and they have been heavily prosecuted for their actions. Many of us on the bus were chattering about the incident, which had received enough international attention that many people also reached out to me with the news. I was worried this action might derail public access to the stones, but thankfully not; no more than 24 hours later, any trace of the compound had been removed from the site.
My first reaction, seemingly in line with the consensus of both the media and the public, was of disgust. Of course I support climate change activism, but what did Stonehenge ever do to deserve this? Aren't some sites too sacred for this sort of thing? To this day, these activists seem to be thoroughly vilified or dismissed, which certainly validates the question of the effectiveness of this kind of strategy. On the other hand, what I experienced just one day later completely reoriented my view of the stones - not in space but in time.
THE SHORT NIGHT
Already upon my arrival, a group had gathered in the center of the circle. Thankfully no speakers and few instruments were permitted, but an improvisational group of drummers and one man with a blowing horn were grooving out while others danced, clapped, and blew puffs of smoke. Several people had climbed atop the central altar stone and swayed precariously to the drumbeats. While most of the iconic Sarsen stones are too tall to climb, virtually every accessible surface was touched, rubbed, and ascended. Of course I touched many of the stones and marveled - who could resist? I saw some people rub crystals and other rocks against the stones, perhaps to imbue them with some form of spiritual energy. Undoubtedly drinks and sneezes were splattered against every stone. While the Druids revered the site, and led rituals associated with the four cardinal directions at the sunset and just before sunrise, they also permitted - or at least could not prevent - the heavy petting of Stonehenge.
Somehow, without direct communication, I found in the haystack of thousands an experienced Stonehenger I had arranged to meet, and I immensely enjoyed sharing this event with him and his friends. He had already visited for the winter solstice and was impressed enough by the Druids to commit again. I was lucky to have him as a guide, leading me to the Druids and pointing out Arthur Uther Pendragon, a Druid activist and leader of the Loyal Arthurian Warband who claims to be the reincarnation of his eponymous King. Pendragon participated in many of the direct actions which led to the reopening of Stonehenge to the public on the solstices in 2000.
I learned later that access to the site had been blocked in 1984 following several years of unregulated festivals which had ballooned to some 100,000 attendees and caused probably much more substantial erosion and destruction than contemporary, regulated activities. Pendragon and his comrades identify strongly with libertarianism and, as their website makes clear, advocate for unrestricted access to the site at all times. This seems unlikely to happen any time soon; Stonehenge has been managed since 1985 by English Heritage, a charity significantly funded by the British government but which is nonetheless a private entity dependent on revenue from tourism, merchandise, and financial investments. While admission is free and unlimited on the solstices, it is highly regulated and commercialized.
After the sun set, a cold quickly descended upon the open plain. Giant anachronistic floodlights kept the stones illuminated, but this artificial light carried no warmth. Unfortunately, security guards confiscated all sleeping bags - including the one my friend had brought along for me - and tents were not permitted, meaning I had no shelter or warmth except for my own clothing. Despite the season, the ground was damp and freezing, and though we tried to get some rest on the ground outside the stones, I felt a grave chill pulling at me from the earth. My only salvation was a single overcrowded bonfire; I was desperate enough that I had to activate my latent American tourist instincts and push into the shadowy morass of bodies. Even after what felt like an hour of warming, I felt the kind of cold that creeps into the forgotten lair of my lizard brain.
This was the shortest night of the year, but as I was unable to sleep, it seemed to stretch endlessly. Yet despite the deprivation I was still thrilled to wander the assembly. The drumming continued throughout the night, and twinkles of light - stars, a brilliant low moon, neon glowsticks, cell phone flashlights - danced across the land-and-skyscape. I wondered if part of the power of Neolithic sites, exemplified by Stonehenge, is found exactly in their epistemological gaps. Is there any other place where such diverse people, with such divergent purposes, could nevertheless converge and enjoy their separate meanings - simultaneously?
STANDING SUNS
The question "what was Stonehenge originally built for?" is probably ill-conceived. Archaeological work in and around Stonehenge continues to reveal a seemingly endless, almost mycorrhizal network of interconnected and evolving structures, postholes, stones, paths, and burial sites which invalidates even the possibility of a Platonic conception of "Stonehenge." Just as the landscape and its human inhabitants evolved, so too did the size, nature, and probable purposes of this special site.
First occupied by humans at least 8,000 years ago, the circular structure likely originated 5,000 years ago as little more than a ditch; its naturally-formed Avenue aligns perfectly with the sun's arc on the solstices and may be why the location was chosen originally. Over its first centuries, cremated and uncremated human remains were deposited at the site, as well as the bones of deer and oxen. Its earliest constructions were probably timber, and only centuries after its original formation do we have evidence of large stones being used. These stones were often transported for hundreds of miles away, probably for their unique properties but maybe for some cultural reason. Archaeological remains continue to be discovered in virtually every direction for miles, indicating - of course - that Stonehenge was just one part of complexes, settlements, communities, and civilizations.
Stonehenge could have been a place of scientific and astronomical inquiry; it could have been a place of convalescence or miracle healing; it could have been a temple for the dying or the dead, or it may have been a temple for life and rebirth; it may have been a musical ampitheater; in all likelihood, it is all of these things and more. As I watched revelers enjoy the site, I also wondered why archaeologists and historians are so hesitant to speculate about ancient sites as destinations for casual conversation, festivities, or bacchanalia. My first reaction to some of the more intoxicated visitors was disgust: how could you disrespect such a sacred and important monument? But now I realized - it may not be a monument at all. Perhaps they, more than any of us, are using the stones as they were first intended?
Certainly, anyone who condemns climate activists for throwing seemingly harmless powder on some stones that have endured the elements for 5,000 years must rage with infinitely greater fury at English Heritage for allowing thousands of oily humans to stop and smear the stones for 24 hours two times every single year. If historic preservation is the paramount concern, and we understand that the entire land around Stonehenge is fertile with the past, our anger must fall not on two activists raging against petromodernity, but on anyone who would allow the public to step foot in the area, close enough to view the stones with their naked eyes.
As an acolyte of history, libraries, and academia, of course I have a strong impulse towards preservation. I am deeply embedded in a culture that captures spaces and encloses them only to those deemed experts (and whoever is paying their salaries). I'm also not completely dismissive of that instinct, and could hardly be called a libertarian in any sense. However, I'm intrigued by the Druids' philosophy, as it professes to hold Stonehenge in the highest regard above all others, while also demanding that the masses be allowed to see it, touch it, explore it, and inevitably alter its surface. If we want to preserve something, what are we preserving it for? The people who built it, any part of it, are long gone and will never return. The henge itself is an accretion, constantly evolving as layers of time slowly settle on its surface. Yet it is here and so are we. We must do something with it. Why not, at least on these two potent days of the year, use it?
As we experienced that long pre-dawn luminescence, just as those lucky few did at Newgrange this morning, the Druids gathered by the Heel Stone for their morning ritual. They prayed to the cardinal directions, and begged for three wishes: to free Julian Assange, to stop the insane Douglas Adams-esque highway tunnel proposed to be built under Stonehenge, and to end the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza. Their first two wishes were granted in scarcely a month; unfortunately, their third wish has not yet been fulfilled.
By the time this moment had come around, I was shivering with chilly anticipation as I faced the strange mists covering the horizon. Even the shortest night of the year, the first of summer, was challenging to endure in these elements. For whatever reasons these circles and stones were built, and rebuilt, and rebuilt, against all odds and other reasons, I found myself in a field in England, in harmony with thousands of others from all walks of life. More than any other day, I felt euphoric joy at long last to see the greatest miracle of my life: the triumphant resurrection of the sun.
