The Holy Isle of Lindisfarne

There is a holiness about this island, a peacefulness. Today during the morning's low tide, I walked (in my new Wellies) to the nearby Cuthbert's Island; the birds, the grasses, the rocks and the wind all spoke to me. So did the seals lallygagging on a nearby sandy shoal. I leave tomorrow, and will take so much with me. I have:

• Learned how the Lindisfarne Gospels were created. That's a sample page on the left. The artwork is intricate, full of knots and triskeles (three spirals with a common "stem"), and laden with imaginative animals that morph from bird to snake or the like.
• Walked through the ruins of a 12th century abbey, and wondered what life must have been like for the monks and for the townspeople.
• Tasted Lindisfarne Mead, decided it would be great communion wine, considered buying some to bring back to St. Paul's, and thought better of it. (How could I schlepp it all over Scotland on the trains and buses? Would I have the discipline not to drink it on the way!?)
• Discovered the Celtic library here. (It is really the collection belonging to Ray Simpson, a prolific writer who is associated with the Community of Aiden and Hilda here. He decided he wanted more people to have access to his books, so they are housed in a building that any old tourist or pilgrim can enter, sit and read, or take out a volume or two simply by signing one's name in a book.)
• Learned that indeed I can walk into a pub and order a pint, even if I am alone, and even if I am a woman. The pubs here are definitely family-friendly. I have been warned to check out the pub visually before entering, though. There was one in Berwick-upon-Tweed where I knew I wouldn't be comfortable; that town is hard hit by the recession and the condition of the pub's patrons showed me how the men were handling that.
• Come to love the stories of St. Cuthbert and the person of St. Aiden. It really is nice coming to know these English/Irish saints; so many are in our Book of Lesser Feasts and Fasts.

Tomorrow I will rise early to say Matins and receive Eucharist at St. Mary-the-Virgin before taking off by bus then trains to Pitlochry, Scotland. On Friday, I travel from there through Inverness to Kyle of Lochash. There I hire a car (meaning rent a car to drive myself!) and practice driving on the Isle of Skye, where I'm told that there will be very few other vehicles on the road. Unfortunately, there will be many flock of sheep--on the road.

There may be sheep and mountains there, but probably no Internet. I'll be back blogging on Tuesday. Peace to you!

St. Winifred's or St. Winefride's Well

Sometimes it's hard to know if I am a tourist or a pilgrim. And maybe it doesn't matter. Take the visit this ancient well, for instance.

St. Winifred is another local saint, though much more widely know in Wales than St. Melangell. Here's the basic hagiography (story of the saint, and not a biography as we know the term): Winifred wanted to be a nun, and confided this to her uncle, St. Beuno. While her parents were off to Eucharist and she was alone at home tending the animals, a local prince rode by. When she refused his advances, she cleverly got away and ran to the church. But before she got there, the prince in his rage severed her head from her body. Where her head fell, a spring of pure water sprang forth. St. Beuno scolded the prince soundly, and then reattached Winifred's head. She lived out the rest of her days as a nun. The spring became a place of healing. Kings made pilgrimages there for over a thousand years. It's referred to an the Lourdes of Wales.

Do I believe there is magic in the water? No. Do I believe there is healing in the water? That's another story. I believe that God can be found there as well as anywhere. So often we find what we are looking for. Sometimes we even bring a dream with us and find it realized.

Maybe that's the difference between tourists and pilgrims. We certainly look alike from the outside. One comes to see the discarded crutches; the other comes to see God move, and all the while brings God along. I also brought along a change of clothing!

There's a ritual at this shrine.It is Roman Catholic. First, one prays, preferably at the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Nearby is a fence hung with hundreds of plastic rosaries. One then walks down steps into the pool that is fed by the ancient spring. Upon leaving the pool, one walks around the head of the well and circles the pool before re-entering. This is done three times.

Yes, the water was cold, and so was the air. And it was odd to then go into one of those cabana-like tents to change! Am I healed? Maybe you can decide that when we get together!

Pennant Melangell

My classmates and I spent a cool Welsh summer afternoon at the shrine of a local saint. St. Melangell was an Irish princess who, over 1,400 years ago, decided to give herself to prayer. She sailed to Wales with her entourage, and made her way to a remote valley just east of the mountains of Snowdonia. One day a prince came hunting. He startled a hare and with his hounds gave chase. He came to a thicket of brambles and thorns and therein found the beautiful Melangell in divine contemplation, with the hare lying boldly under the hem of her garments. He was so impressed with her devotion and piety that he built for her a sanctuary, a "perpetual asylum and refuge."

Today the place is both a Church of Wales parish for the valley and a healing center that offers counselling, prayer and retreat. The welcome booklet notes that St. Melangell's story "speaks to us about the clash between a violent and aggressive world and a way of life that puts all its trust in God. It is a way of life which is...full of compassionate care for all things. It makes vivid something of early Celtic Christianity which greatly fascinates people today living in a world which is very different yet strangely similar."

Settling in at St. Deiniol's Library

This 100 year old building was built to house the library of Prime Minister William Gladstone, and what a library it is! When he was in his 80's, he wondered what would happen to his collection of 33,000 books, with 40% of them on theology. He hadn't read them all, just 22,000 of them. What a sluggard!

He had a structure built here in Hawarden (pronounced Haah'-den) in northeast Wales and called it Tin Tabernacle. Upon his death, it was replaced by this large stone edifice. Check it out on www.st-deiniols.com

This course on Celtic Spirituality is led by Ian Bradley, retired professor from the University of St. Andrews--and also author of the Penguin edition of Gilbert and Sullivan! He promises to share with us "the truth and nonsense about Celtic Christianity." Peter Francis, Warden of the library, suggests that people look into Celtic spirituality in order to find their roots to be something other than WASP. He further suggests that we find what we look for, much as we find the Jesus we look for. I might learn as much about myself as I learn about Celtic ways.

(As I write, I am listening to change ringing of the bells at the nearby parish. It seems quaint--and thoroughly grounding.)

Save the Day! Saturday October 9

A Celtic view of life is an important one. Some claim our Anglican Christian tradition has some roots there. And I want to celebrate that.

On October 9 people interested in a casual and relaxing day in nature are invited to a party at Eagle Creek. Margaret, who is enlisting husband John and friend Pat, is helping to plan this day of celebration. If we are lucky, we might have a piper (kilt and all), and Irish dancing, a bonfire and hayride, and if we are really, REALLY lucky, some haggis! And we'll have an outdoor Celtic Eucharist, done in the round.

What makes something "Celtic"? Well, for me it is incorporating ideas and attitudes such as these:
Celebrate nature, as it is our first holy book wherein we learn of God.
Be in community, as we need each other's person and work
Love life all the way up, as it is God's GOOD gift; the body is a fine creation, so love it, too.
Time runs in a circle; it is not linear. Every day is a new start in this circle/cycle of life that comes from God and leads to God. And because time is not linear, all that was and will be in now. That means that St. Bride can be an early Celtic saint, the wet-nurse for Jesus and the ancient Druid goddess all at the same time.
Three is wonderful! (It was easy for Celts to embrace Trinity.)
Thin places are where the physical/sensate world meets the spiritual realm; the worlds are very close! They actually touch at thin places, like where water comes up to the earth in springs, or the mountains touch the sky, or where the meadow touches the forest.

Think on these things. Save the day. Invite your friends.

Hitting the Road Again!

Many of you know I received a grant for the Lilly Endowment Incorporated (LEI) for a sabbatical last year. My time away in the fall was indeed renewing, and I am most grateful for it. One problem: I didn’t use all the money!

When I inquired as to what to do with the leftover money, I was told that the grant was good through June 2011, and that I really ought to use it. (How often does that happen in a person’s life?)

I have made arrangements to travel again to Celtic lands, using vacation and unpaid time, to do further exploration. I expect to be closer to internet access than I was last year, and will continue to blog-- and with more frequency!

Here's where I plan to be:

August 15-22:
At St. Deiniol’s Library in Hawarden, Wales for a course on Celtic Spirituality, including visits to holy wells in the northeastern part of the country.

August 23-26:
In Lindesfarne, or Holy Isle, in England where St. Aiden, missionary from Iona, brought Christianity to the east coast of Britain.

August 27-30:
On the Isle of Skye just to soak up the beauty.

August 31-September 3:
In Glasgow with my sister Judith who is coming from New Jersey to play with me.

September 4-12:
On retreat with my sister and others on the Isle of Iona. The retreat leader is J. Philip Newell, writer about Celtic Christianity and former Warden of the Abbey on Iona.

I leave you with a blessing, written by Newell
May the deep blessings of earth be with us.
May the fathomless soundings of seas surge in our soul.
May boundless stretches of the universe echo in our depths
to open us to wonder
to strengthen us for love
to humble us with gratitude
that we may find ourselves in one another
that we may lose ourselves in gladness
that we give ourselves to peace.

Getting ready to leave means leaving Tom

Odd, isn't it, that one can miss a person who doesn't speak to you, or even look at you when you're right there. But I'll be missing Tom as I venture off again to Celtic lands. It feels rather precarious, wondering if he'll be the same when I get back, and wondering if something cataclysmic might happen to him while I'm across the sea. "Into your hands, O Merciful Savior, we commit your servants...."

I said in my initial blog entry that I hoped the sabbatical time would help me make sense of Alzheimer's disease, or at least Tom's Alzheimer's. Part of that process was writing some poems. Here are a few. Please note: I'm not done yet!

No. 1
In my juicy dream
I am making love.

I wake to the alarm
but quickly push “snooze”
and whisper to Tom, “Shoulder?”

He extends his left arm.
I lay my head on his broad
chest and shoulder.
He bends his arm around me.
I murmur, “This is my favorite
place in all the world.”

And I forget
he can’t make love.
I forget
he can’t form sentences.
I forget
he can’t bathe or dress.
I forget
his Alzheimer’s.

The morning air from the cracked window is cool,
but the warmth of this ample comforter is still real.

No. 2
The rain in my life
is the reign of Alzheimer’s.
It reigns and reigns and reigns.

Why, for God’s sake?
What will be upturned
by this
constant
pelting?

The sparse light does not permit far vision.
Nothing is clear—
not the meaning,
not the cost,
not the gift, if there be one.

If there is a horizon
it is nearly erased
as grey sky and
grey water
meld.

I slosh through mud.
Possibly insane, I
choose
not to come out of the rain.
Nor could I:
There is no shelter.

“This reign is not eternal,” I say.
“Something of value will show up.
Something will be revealed.
Something—
Something—
for God’s sake!"

No. 3
"It’s time for me to go,” I say.
Tom has not been looking at me, and
now his eyes turn further away.

“May I give you a kiss?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond—not with eyes or voice or lips.

I caress his head as he sits in the wheelchair,
and whisper low into his ear,
“I love you.”

At the door of this locked
down nursing home
I punch
the sequence of numbers into the keypad
to release the lock that will
let me go.

Once escaped, tears
drip down my cheeks.
They do not stop
as my heart turns
over and over
the impossibility
that our love has come to this.

I know I must leave him
to his world of hallucinations
in the care of others.

But how can I leave what inhabits my heart?


No. 4
At age twenty-one, I reported for work
in my starched nursing uniform,
crisp white cap, and
heavy shoes.

The cranky arthritic in 1321
had a visitor.
Her husband hung a sign on the knob
of her hospital door:
“Do Not Disturb.”
He entered her room, then
carefully closed the door behind him,
claiming the sweet privacy
reserved for young lovers
in perfect bodies.

At age sixty-three,
I crawl onto the hospital bed
next to my demented husband,
and do my best
to spoon.

Behind the curtains, drawn at mid-day,
I feel the warm wetness
of his incontinent urine
that spreads over my abdomen
penetrating my zipped jeans.

No. 5

On the black bars of the fire escape
just outside Annemarie's tall, naked window
are rows of last night’s snow.
Heavy and not-quite-white,
it drips. It even tries to slide off,
disrupting the symmetry.
It can’t decide if it’s snow or water.
Does it need to?
It will all join the ocean
in due season.

Tom sits in his wheelchair
deciding nothing--
not whether to have ice in his water,
or lemon.
Not whether to wear a red sweater or
a shirt that sports “Life is good,”
not discerning if the voices are real
or if the time is now.

It is now all the time
and the place is always here, not there.
My Love is quite hung between the thieves of
past and future.