The bedrock of the soul
Updated: 2 days ago
How the land makes us feel
They say stones hold the residue of human experience, that places hold memories, just as ancient battle sites preserve the energetic imprint of what occurred upon them. Granite, with its high quartz content, has an extraordinary capacity for these echoes, and stepping upon it can trigger an immediate, profound shift in perception.
Recently, standing inside an ancient roundhouse at Bellever, on Dartmoor, while a drum began to beat, I experienced this doorway through time firsthand. Closing my eyes, I watched a figure walk towards me, welcoming me into a vibrant, living community. I felt warmth and smelled the smoke of a wood fire burning in the central hearth, wrapped in the sounds of ancient songs and deep conversation shared around the flames. When I opened my eyes, the shift was staggering. The fire and the ancient folk faded, leaving me standing in a circle of modern companions. It was a vivid reminder of how thin the veil is on this bedrock and how the energy of ancient community remains held within the granite, waiting for us to tune in.
When I explore this landscape, I am stepping directly into the same ongoing conversation. The ancestors used granite to build their roundhouses, raise stone circles, lay out long stone rows and construct sacred burial cairns, because they understood the stone's power to hold and transmit terrestrial currents. Dowsing around these ancient structures, the energy is immediate and vibrant, an unbroken thread of human life and spiritual intention embedded in the rock.
Yet over time, a subtle and profound shift has taken place within my own practice; as my connection to this bedrock has deepened, my reliance on physical tools like dowsing rods has naturally waned. The quartz in the granite seems to have fine-tuned my internal antennae, sharpening my intuition to a point where I simply feel the land directly through my body. It arrives as a gentle, rhythmic pulse rising through the soles of my feet, a steady living heartbeat beneath the soil.
With this heightened sense comes something far deeper than mere perception, a profound, heartfelt connection of truly coming home to where my soul belongs. For years, my shamanic journeying required deliberate focus and conscious effort to cross over, but living on this bedrock has thinned the veil completely. The boundaries between realms have softened, allowing my perception to slip between the worlds so effortlessly. The Munay Ki rites I carry are no longer just energetic transmissions from the past; they have become a living, breathing reality in this landscape. They have opened a sacred doorway to true reciprocity, where my gratitude flows into the granite and the land answers with an overwhelming sense of love and belonging.
I have always possessed the ability to weave narratives from these expanded states, translating experiences that might seem otherworldly to others into tangible stories. But now, here on the moor, those glimpses happen constantly, almost seamlessly woven into daily life. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by how the veil opens, I feel deeply honoured and humbled to witness, holding space as a storyteller for the unseen realms that move through this ancient rock.
That deep recognition of place touched me long before I ever made the official move up to the edge of Dartmoor. I remember leaning over a wooden gate, looking out across a field bathed in the warm, low light of a setting sun gently brushing the hillside. Standing in the middle of the grass was an old granite rubbing post. Looking out at the stone, an overwhelming feeling washed through me, I had returned home. I hadn't moved here yet, but my whole body knew this was where I needed to be. It felt as though I had lived on this very land before, perhaps in another lifetime, or maybe it was the ancient granite calling directly to the foundation I carried inside me from childhood. It was not a logical thought; it was a deep, unshakeable truth.
I believe we carry the geology of our lives deep within our cells. Throughout my life, I have moved across a tapestry of different landscapes, born on river clay and gravel, raised on ancient granite and living across gentle limestone, pine heathlands and long stretches on warm red sandstone. Every rock type has its own feel and purpose. Red sandstone held me when I was unwell, offering a soft, porous and absorbing sanctuary when I needed to rest, heal, and realign myself. Its gentle, grounding energy allowed my whole system to soften and recover, and I hold immense gratitude for that land.
Yet granite called me back to stand tall. Moving onto granite bedrock is not just a simple relocation; it is a profound, cellular homecoming that takes time to absorb. For the first few weeks after moving here, I felt unwell as my body, my nervous system and my energetic aura recalibrated to the raw intensity of the land. Coming from the soft, cushioning embrace of sandstone, the jump in frequency was immense. While softer sedimentary rocks absorb and cushion, granite conducts. Rich in quartz crystal, granite holds an ancient, solid and intensely clear charge that vibrates right up through the soles of the feet.
As my system adjusted, that initial period of feeling unwell gave way to deep alignment. Granite does not yield; it holds firm, demanding presence and providing a crisp, steady foundation that instantly anchors energy. Once my body settled, my nervous system remembered this frequency from early life, feeling like a key turning in the lock, a sudden clear recognition of home. You can renovate a house, alter a room or change every detail of a physical building, but none changes how the underlying land makes you feel. The bedrock always has the final say.
Now, as October settles over the moor, the landscape is shifting again. We have moved through an intense summer of heatwave after heatwave and a declared drought, marked by the celestial rhythms of a partial solar eclipse and a lunar eclipse.
Living through those extremes on granite was a constant lesson in endurance, for both the land and its creatures. Through the hottest weeks, the semi-feral ponies found their sanctuary where they could, seeking refuge amongst the gravestones and under tall, shady trees of the churchyard, or standing quietly in the deep shadows cast by the moorland town buildings. They step through modern housing estates, unbothered by human structures, weaving our built environment seamlessly into their ancient maps. To my eyes, seeing them tucked into the cool shade of church-tree trees highlights how temporary our buildings really are. The ponies walk where their bloodlines have always roamed, where generations passed, grazed long before tarmac was ever laid.
Observing the wildlife through this changing season brings a quiet, unshakeable reverence. Seeing deer step slightly through the mist, watching foxes navigate the boundaries with quiet grace, and catching glimpses of badgers emerging into the twilight connects me deeply to the quiet rhythm of the moor. On nights when the tawny owl graces us with its presence, perched silently, watching over the dampening ground, its soft call feels like a direct invitation to slow down and sit in the stillness.
And now, finally, the long-awaited rain showers have arrived. In a short space of time, that cool downfall has coaxed a tender surge of green back to the scorched earth, washing over the stone and setting embedded quartz sparkling with the moisture. Releasing the rich, unmistakable scent of rain-soaked granite and soil, the land drinks it in, and I feel an overwhelming connection to Mother Nature grounded directly into the enduring strength of these rocks as the great circles of life move all around me. Standing here as autumn deepens across the moor, watching the stone glint in the soft light, I know that this ancient granite is no longer just the ground beneath my feet. It has become the bedrock of my soul.
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About the Author
Jane Taylor is a Writer, Therapist, and Wellbeing Educator. Her work is shaped by her own journey and a deep understanding of how the body carries history at a cellular level, helping others unblock their natural flow toward wholeness.
Her new project, Wild Edge Dartmoor, is an invitation to let the words rest. In honour of the Munay-Ki rites and the wisdom of Ayni, there are no captions, no explanations, no marketing, and no noise. Just the tors, the rivers, the villages, the light of the moor and its inhabitants. She provides the image and leaves the rest for you.
You are invited to visit this digital sanctuary as a wanderer at @wildedgedartmoor
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