A Week in Asia Minor

Else you think I'm lost somewhere in Anatolia, the Asian part of Turkey, I'm posting some extremely superficial informatiopn about my whereabouts. My head is still spinning!
--Cappadocia is truly a fairyland, full of surreal sandstone towers with homes carved into them. People lived in them until 1953 when it was declared a UN World Heritage Site. I tried to check in with the families of the Cappadocian Fathers--and St. Macrina-- but to no avail! (Pictures to follow. )
--Undergound cities abound there. One is large enough to support 3,000 people for three months at a stretch. Early Christians used them to elude the Romans, and Turks used them to escape the invading Arabs. They are complete with stables and the necessary equipment for making wine!
--7th to 12th century chapels carved out of rock, complete with frescoes
-- A visit to a restored caravansaray (a public building for travelers on the Silk Road to stay overnight and receive hospitality for themselves and their camels)
-- A performance by some Whirling Dervishes, brought to us by a coalition of modern tour companies
-- A surprisingly holy visit to the tomb of the poet/Sufi Rumi, known here as the Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi. His resting place is exquisite, though I found town of Konya to be very different from what I expected. It's ythe home of Rumi's form of Sufism, one that speaks of joy and wide-open arms; instead I found a place that takes its conservative Islam very, very seriously.
-- Visit to the Theatre of Aspendos, a very complete Roman theatre, where the entrance for visitors is through the very gates used for wild animals, gladiators ands Christians.
--Visit to the Anatalya Museum, complete with stautes in the halls of gods, emporers, burial culture.
-- A tour of the excavated Temple of Aphrodite and a much longer tour of the city of Ephesus where the former Temple of Artemis was recycled into the Basilica of St. John
-- A fascinating lecture on graffiti in antiquity
-- A demonstration of Turkish carpet weaving and another on Turkish cuisine
-- A visit to the immense Temple of Apollo, and today a visit to Troy, a poorly excavated site, unfortunately.

Tonight I write from a hotel on the Dardenelles. We will take the 8:00 ferry tomorrow morning, drive 5 hours to Istanbul, and visit the Hippodrome and the Blue Mosque before finding our next hotel. Sound like a full day? That's how they've all been--and wonderfully full to overflowing of new expereinces in ancient places, connections that continue to surprise me, and interactions with hospitable and warm people.

Traffic in the Capital

I was told that there are no "traffic rules" in Turkey, only "traffic suggestions." I am now a believer.

We came back from Ataturk's Mausoleum (and his was an unbelievable visionary, leader and activist, if you call mounting a revolution being "activist"). The driver, Mentin, was able to avoid pedestrians that sprang out of nowhere, and taxi (taksi) cabs that are ubiquitous. All was well and good till we mounted the last hill to the hotel. It is a one-way, narrow street that is clearly marked "No Parking". If I could understand that after being here 24 hours, you'd think locals drivers could. But no. They choose to park half on the sidewalk and half on the street, leaving a narrow passage. But the bus is BIG. Mentin made it halfway up and could go no farther. Take a look at that second photo!

Mentin sought help. He went to some strong men on the street, and they walked to the car and tried to lift it onto the sidewalk. Not much luck! And the driver still hadn't shown his face. We literally inched by with the help of some people on the ground.

Adventures! That's what Elderhostel is all about!

Arriving in Ankara

This is going to be an amazing grace, being in Turkey!

Actually, it feels quite amazing to be here after leaving my friend's apartment in NYC at 1 pm on Wednesday and arriving here at the hotel on Thursday at 4:30 pm. Yes, there's a 7 hour difference, but still.... I'm on an Elderhostel with 30 other folks, and am glad to have a guide to get us around and university faculty to give us lectures.

Ankara is the capital, and it gets its name from the goats that used to be here in abudance--Angora goats. It's in the central region, about 3,000 feet above sea level, and it's in the ancient Hittite Empire. (We go the the Hittite capital Hattusas tomorrow on our way to Cappadocia.)

This area has been ruled by Phyrygians and Lydians, too, before the Greeks and then the Romans got here. Doesn't it sound like the Pentecost Sunday reading? Now I know where these real people lived, and today we got to see some of their art and artifacts. It's truly amazing stuff. At the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations this afternoon, we saw things thayt have great detail and personality. I got postcards with the pictures of the Mother Goddesses, and they are as varied as women are today.

I thought Scotland's Neolithic age was old, but Turkey's Neolithic age was 8,000-5,500 years BCE (before the common era)! Again, I have to pinch myself to see if I am actually here.

And why am I here? Because of two reasons: personally, because of my daughter-in-law's having been born here, and professionally to look at Sufi Islam. I read the New York Times world edition yesterday (at SOME airport!) and Sufism was mentioned on the front page. They were looking at a town in Afghanistan where people learn this tradition, and the paper called it a gentle Islam. More later.

Off to the Republic of Turkey

I've just started to digest the first journey of this wonderful sabbatical, and I'm off again. The trip to Scotland had a personal and a professional purpose, and this journey to Turkey has both elements, too.

Personally, my grandchildren a half Turkish. My daughter-in-law was born there, and has opened my eyes to the beauty and the history of this vast country. It's twice the size of California.

Professionally, I want to explore a piece of Islam. It's impossible for me to understand this religion if I depend on the media. Reading about Islam adds to my head knowledge, but not to my heart knowledge. So I want to keep an eye out for Sufism, the mystical part of Islam. If you've read Rumi or seen the Whirling Dervishes, you have encountered mystical Islam.

Last December's Smithsonian magazine (thank you, Frank and Sandy!) had as its lead article "The Sufi Question: Can the joyous Muslim movement counter the forces of radical extremism?" Sufis are not trying to counter anything; they are simply seeking a direct and personal communion with Allah. I will have the opportunity to visit Konya where Rumi did so much of his writing. I'm reading through The Compete Idiot's Guide to Rumi Meditations. (Yes, it really exists; got it at Half-Price Books, and it's quite good!) And I will have an opportunity to witness again the mesmerizing dancing of the Whirling Dervishes. When I saw them at the University of Indianapolis a few years ago, my heart was deeply touched. It was like a profound group meditation in movement and sound.

There's more to see in Turkey, of course, and I am psyched for it! I'll blog if I have better internet connection that I did in Scotland! Do stay posted!

Celtic

I'm not sure what I expected to find when I looked for things Celtic in Scotland. Maybe men with long hair walking through the oak forests looking for misletoe, as in the Druid stories. Maybe the values of ancient Celtic Christianity being lived out in modern Scottish life. But all that I could find of Celtic writ large is what you see in the photos!

Celtic Christianity has a rather complicated history. This sketchis way too short, but here goes. Roman Christianity never did make its way up to the Highlands or to Ireland. When Rome was sacked in 413 and all the troops were called back to the continent to help, Roman Christianity pretty much went with them.

What remained in the western fringes was a Christianity that grew up in isolation. St. Columba brought the Celtic version of Christianity to the Isle of Iona from Ireland in the 500's. He set up a monastery there on what might have already been a sacred site. His approach to missionary work was like St. Patrick's. Neither saw benefit in trying to erase all they found in the communities they "discovered." Rather, they found what was compatible with their truth and incorporated it. St. Patrick said, "Christ is my Druid," kind of like St. Paul when he found the temple to the Unknown God and said to the worshippers, "Ah! I see you have been worshipping the true God all along. Jesus is the name!"

The Celtic branch of Christianity valued creation, seeing God in all things. It called all creation "good." They understood God to be with them in the dailyness of life, the visible and the invisible being inseparable. Women were allowed to use their leadership skills. They were not hierarchical. The focus was not a city or cathedral but rather a monastery that interacted with a rural community. They "listened to the heartbeat of God" in daily life, following St. John the Beloved Disciple.

Rome tended to follow St. Peter, and the church, having become the official religion, was concerned about order, structure, and not too many heresies. The church was an urban one, and the bishops were socially at a level with other high ranking city dwellers who were close to power.

When I asked the Dean of St. Mary's Cathedral about what he saw as the impact of Celtic Christianity on the church today, he could find no impact. "Celtic is 'airy-fairy' and you are more likely to find a book of Celtic spells in the bookstore than of Celtic prayers."

As we conversed, we agreed that the 21st century church has woven together many threads to create the fabic she is today. The values of the Celtic Christians of so long ago are addessed by others. Praying without ceasing, slowing down to listen to the heartbeat of God in creation and in one another, using the gifts each brings, integrating worship into daily life as opposed to leaving it for Sunday--these are a few of the gifts of a Celtic approach to us moderns.

What do you think?

Visiting My Husband

It's an odd thing to say, isn't it--"Visiting my husband." Most husbands don't need visiting and, I'm afraid, get taken for granted. But my Love, all 6' 2" and 190 lbs of his handsome self, has advanced Alzheimer's Disease at age 65. He is totally incapacitated now and doesn't know me. That's really what made it emotionally possible for me to go to Scotland; he responds to me no differently now than before I left. For a few seconds during each visit he seems to focus on my face, that's all. A friend said I am "neither wife nor widow," and that feels right on. Being away from him for three weeks, during which time he did just fine, made that feel real. (The photo is of Tom four years ago with one of his wonderful nurse-friends at the Indiana University Medical Center's Alzheimer Clinic. She's also a sometimes Parish Nurse.)


Anyway, I was massaging his feet last evening at the Friends (Quaker) Fellowship Community, a.k.a. nursing home. There's no obvious way to connect with him, so I try touch. Everybody deserves loving touch. I noticed that he now has no callouses on his feet. That seems like a little thing, almost silly. But it says a lot to me. I think of how hard he--and we--work at developing callouses: wearing the right (or right-looking) shoes, standing, walking, running, generally banging around life and paying no particular attention to those appendages down there that support us all the day long. Tom doesn't use them anymore. They just are.

And I wonder what would happen to us if we did less using and less callous-building in our lives, and more being. I wonder if our souls would become soft and innocent again.

Here's a poem by a Hoosier who made her way to Vancouver Island in British Columbia:

"Feet to Head" by Susan McCaslin

Hey, dude, give us some space and turf,

you, rumbling up there

in your bright, abstract buzz.

You could go off, incapacitated

without us down here to keep you real,

you in you bulbous, bloodless dome.

Remember, we are your contact with ground zero.

Bathe us with myrrh and balm,

massage us once in a while

and maybe we will remember you

when the two of us lie tip to toe

partnered for the long journey home.

Grandpa Robertson

Glasgow has a Medieval District. It's where you find the Glasgow Cathedral, part of which was built in the 13th century. I was told that when they were doing refurbishing in the last century, the only part that needed to be fixed were those sections that had been reworked in the 18th and 19th century; the ancient parts were rock solid. The heavy doors that lead from the main sanctuary to the Sacristy are original, however they have bullet holes from the Reformation. The Reformation played large in Scotland.

This is also the area where you'll find Provand's Lordship which, though it has passed through many other hands, started as a 15th century home for one of the 32 Canons of the Cathedral. A new perspective on church-owned housing for clergy! It was quite amazing to walk through a place so old. It's a real visceral experience.

Nearby is the St. Mungo Museum. (St. Mungo is the patron saint of Glasgow. He founded the cathedral in the 7th century, where he is buried in the undercroft.) The museum's purpose since 1993 is to celebrate all forms of religious life and art, indicating how broad the city and country have become. Exhibits tell of Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism and Sikhism. There's a prayer rug, beautifully woven, that has a compass built into it to point the pray-er towards Mecca. And there's Britain's first (and some say only) Zen Garden, a wonderful place for meditation.

Just to the east is the Glasgow Necropolis, a huge Victorian cemetery on a hill with elaborate sepulchres, winding roads, well-established plantings and a statue of John Knox standing tall at the highest point. It was developed by the wealthy merchant class. (It's said that Edinburgh is the capital, but Glasgow HAS the capital, and lots of that is from trading cotton and tobacco from the US.) The Merchant Guild built an entrance to the cemetery, straight from the cathedral. The plaque said the entrance was built to give people "a proper entrance."

Which brings me to Grandpa Robertson.

Grandpa was born and raised at 123 John Knox Street, immediately south of the necropolis, the road that has the original entrance. His father was a Joiner-Journeyman (carpenter) and a Sanitary Inspector (plumber), and he raised 6 children in what I imagine was a typical Glasgow tenement. I wonder if the well-to-do merchants' entrance had as much to do with avoiding the tenements as with easier access. Grandpa's house isn't there any longer. With the other tenements, it was demolished to be replaced with an upscale high rise. That's probably the story of most ordinary folks: their homes and their way of living aren't preserved for posterity. That's nothing new. But I felt it in my gut, because Grandpa, with his brogue and his stories and quick smile, was someone I loved. I wonder if he ever had time to wander around the ancient cathedral.

Where's Jean?

My body got back to Indianapolis last Sunday at midnight, and my mind and soul have pretty much caught up. Five days of sluggishness for five hours difference in time is normal, I hear. I don't know how world travelers handle this!

I haven't been blogging from Scotland as I had expected. My days were wonderfully full of touching and smelling and seeing, and I didn't want to stop to write. And I've had very limited access to the internet. My home base, after leaving Glasgow, was the Aigas Field Centre in Beauly, near Inverness, and there was no access there. (That's ehre the picture was taken, with me in my Robertson tartan in the dining room of the home of Lady Lucie Lister-Kaye, a MacIntosh.)

When I went to Orkney, I figured there wouldn't be easy access in a place so remote, and didn't take my mini-computer. Alas, I figured wrong.

Now I'm home sitting with my new desktop, getting used the strange keyboard and the latest Microsoft Word, emailing myself pictures I had uploaded to the mini-computer, and discovering that I can't "paste" to the blog from Word, or even check spelling. (Patience!) I'll be turning on some good Scottish music to help me go back to Barra and Glasgow and Beauly and Orkney. The music isn't just bagpipes; it's fiddles and whistles and flutes and the bodhran (drums), too! Good sound for my heart.

I'll be reminiscing here shortly. Meanwhile, PEACE!

Airports I Have Known

There's nothing I can tell you about traveling through airports these days. I was taken with the sign I saw in London, though. It's the first photo, and I think it says that body needs come before spirit needs.

I can tell you about the neatest/sweetest airport I've ever been in. It's the Barra Airport, of course. I flew in from Glasgow last week on Flybe, Europe's new inexpensive airline. The plane was a Twin Otter; the copilot was also our flight attendant. She reminded me of Dianne Fogelsong--trim, bright, attentive and very competent.

The plane held a few of us, in very small seats. Thanks to the good weather, I could see islands pass under me, and then the water of The Minch, then the Barra Head Isles (small, uninhabited islands used only for grazing sheep) and then the landing strip of Barra. Planes land on Traigh Mhor, Gaelic for Large Beach, and the beach is huge and covered with cockleshells. The arrivals and departures of planes depend on the tides. We left our prints in the wet sand, then crunched shells as we made our way to the airport proper, most of which is really a cafe/tearoom. A single room for coming, going, eating, chatting, ticketing, security checks--think of that! There is one fast rule, though. One must stay off of the beach when the wind sock is up.

I took off from that airport on Monday. I had to fly to another island, Benbecula, to catch a flight back to Glasgow. Being up in the air, I was astonished at how many islands there are--how many dots there are that make up one Benbecula and one Barra. And, of course, how many dots it takes to make up my own life! When I am on an island, it's the biggest dot I know. When I get up in the Twin Otter, I see the distinctiveness of each dot. Were I to be a plane flying very high above, the demarcations would be too small for the eye to see, and it would all look like one. Hummmm

St. Barr's Church

The morning before I left Barra, I deposited my luggage at the airport where the waitress at the cafe said she'd keep an eye on them. (Don't try THAT at home!) I walked to the enclave of Eoligharry, just north of the dunes that separate the the Atlantic side (weird having the Atlantic on the west coast!) from the eastern side, which is called The Minch. There are homes in Eoligharry, each with a view of the turquoise water, the Isle of Eriksay and the many uninhabited islands.

This area's claim to fame is St. Barr's Church, named for St. Finnbarr of Cork (A.D.550-623). There are only ruins there now. The chapel itself has only crumbled and crumbling walls, one with a hole/window (photo).

What seemed most alive was the graveyard that surrounded the ruins. There were many Celtic crosses from the 20th century in various states: some shiny new, some lichen-covered, some fallen. Other monuments surprised me, and maybe you will be surprised, too, by the Pooh bear and the honey pot.

All the stones faced properly East, not every which way that they do at the Glasgow Necropolis where the hill and the current aesthetic takes precedence over ancient Christian tradition. Among the epitaphs I appreciated are these:

"Be Thine own hand on the rudder,

Thine own hand, King of the Elements."

"Lord of the calm and of the storm,

Whatever seas I sail upon

Be Thou my helm,

my compass and my port."

Blogging from Barra?

Blog from Barra? What was I thinking?

Internet cafes do not exist on this wee isle. Of course, I could have waited in line at the library for access on Saturday morning, but I opted for a long walk. Wise choice, don’t you think?

How, you might ask, did I choose to go to Barra? Well, I read about it in a book that gave me a few salient facts:

It is called “the Garden of the Outer Herbrides” having such a wide variety of wildflowers.

It has the greatest percentage of Gaelic speakers of any of the islands or Highlands.

It was so remote that John Knox’s ideas of proper lifestyle and reformed Christianity never made it this far south; the vast majority of inhabitants are Roman Catholic and haven't forgotten how to have fun.

The hospitality, humor and polite reserve of these people is impressive. The Gaelic I have heard is as soft as the moss and heather that cover the rocks, and gentle as the grasses blowing on the machair. (You’ll have to Google that one!) Signs in Gaelic, music in Gaelic… I came to the right place to find modern Celts.

I met a local crofter, a Mrs. McKinnon. She was in Castlebay to do her grocery shopping and boarded the same bus as I did. (Barra has a very efficient mini-bus system that makes the loop around the island frequently on the one paved road. This road is a single lane--not one each direction, but one lane. Period. There are “Passing Places” where traffic defers to whoever got there first.) Mrs. McKinnon lives in a small croft on Vatersay, an island that was recently connected with Barra by a causeway.

I got off the bus with her, and she directed me to the ruins of an ancient broch (lookout) on a mound across from her home. I crossed heathered fields, climbed the hill and found the great number of large stones configured as two concentric circles a few thousand years ago. When Moses was leading the Hebrews out of Egypt, Neolithic communities were settled here. The space and the sense of time/perspective helped me see my small place in the great scheme of life.

Behind me was a mountain--make that a ben--and decided to climb it as far as I could. The views were spectacular: lonely crofts near the shoreline, cattle grazing near the pristine white beach on the Atlantic, a rainbow between two mountains of Barra (but no pot of gold), wildflowers and heather that grew much like the sage of Wyoming, and old, old stone walls now overgrown with grasses. The walls are soft now,too.

And there were brooks. I heard them before I could see them, the grasses and flowers being so dense and deep. It was as though water sprang out of the ground, spilling on rock and soil alike. Some water collected in pools on lichened rock. Some water collected to form larger and larger trickles, though never enough in one place to call it a brook or stream. I have a new appreciation of how it is that the Druids and early Christians found the springs and wells magical.

The light in these isles, I had heard, is unique. I think I found out what that means. There are no trees on most of the 470 islands of the Hebrides; the earth is low and covered with even green vegetation. The light, when it comes in the morning or evening casts, no shadows. The surrounding water absorbs the light, except for the sparkling reflections from waves. The result is that the light rises up from the ground. The land is amazingly luminous.

The climb up was quite steep, and I chose to descend, not by the switchbacks that got me there, but by sitting and sliding straight down, six feet now, five feet later. Heather is good cushioning. The wind was a constant companion, bringing in clouds, then mist, then sunshine, then soft rain from the ocean.

I walked back to Castlebay, having missed the last bus. I gathered stray wool stuck on bracken, and later gathered handfuls from what was left at a shearing pen. I saw an agile, white-haired bearded man use a stainless steel crozier to pick up the lamb he wanted to hear. (I wonder if Bishop Cate would like the modern variety!)

Back at the Castlebay Hotel, I prepared for dinner. My meals have been spectacular, including venison, hare, and Barra lamb (that had an idyllic if short life). Breakfasts have included grilled smoked haddock, authentic Scottish porridge, and grilled black pudding. (If you ask, I’ll tell you what is in black pudding, but you might not want to know.)

I am posting this from a bus in Glasgow, the Glasgow Flyer, that gives its customers internet action on the way from the airport to Buchanan Station. We have arrived at the bus station. Now it's on to the Underground, lovingly called Clockwork Orange thanks to its color and speed. So I'm off!

I can't believe I'm blogging--right out here in public!

I can't believe I'm blogging--right out here in public!


Ostensibly, this blog is written to keep friends and family informed about my movement through a sabbatical, and it is my hope that writing it informs me, too. It's easy for me to move through life without reflecting on it and being busy with this or that. But reflection seems to be where the growth really happens, and where the fullness of life really lives.

Lilly Endowment in Indianapolis offers Clergy Renewal Grants to successful applicants, and I'm still pinching myself to check that it's true that I was awarded one. God knows I need some renewing! Thank you, Mr. Lilly, for the support to undertake this sabbatical! And thank you, St. Paul's Church, for granting me the time!

I guess we can't get new unless there is something old that needs rehabbing. I am seeking to make new my relationship with myself as a spiritual seeker who is a caregiver by nature and an ordained cleric by calling. I hope renewal happens by connecting the dots in my life. (Hope you noticed the template I chose for this blog....) The dots seem disparate, but they're not, really. Even if it's only my life that holds them together, they do connect. I hope these next few months will reveal how Scottish Highlands, Sufism, Pelagius, Rumi, Istanbul, Alzheimer's and Christianity fit together.

Glad you are joining me on the journey!