Skye-Isle of Cloud

It would be hard for me to tell how many treasures I have found at the Goodwill store in Fayetteville.A paperback,"The Hills Is Lonely" was there the other day for $1.50.It is selling new for $138.64 on Amazon.When I flipped through the book, I saw Hebrides and I put it in my cart..

It tells the story of a woman who left London in the 60s to find some peace and arrived in a terrible storm to a Scottish island in the Hebrides where she rented a room.I cannot wait to dip into her adventure having found myself on two such islands a few years ago.Mull and Skye,picked out of a travel book ,became our home when we went to Scotland in 2010.

Perhaps, I picked Syke because of the Skye Boat Song whose title I have known my whole life.I found it on "youtube" and it's lilting melody haunts.It tells the story of the sailors taking Bonnie Prince Charles away from the killing fields of Culloden to the safety of Skye.They were the brave and those who would capture them hadn't the courage to set off in chase, in the wild, roaring seas of Skye.
                                   
                                   " Speed bonnie boat ,like a bird on the wing,
                                                  onward the sailors cry.
                                        Carry the lad that's born to be king,
                                                   over the sea to Skye".


The B&B on this island was at the end of  the street where the bus left us,having come over a bridge from the mainland .It was late in the day and the train/bus trip had left us exhausted.We dragged our bags up the lane and knocked.A smiling, silver haired man let us in and showed us to our second floor room.I teared up when I looked out the bay window that was behind the bed.There in the distance was the swirling sea,whitecaps,mountains.Just an enchanting view that I still see in my mind.

To the North, viewed from another window ,was the ruin of a castle on a hill above a bay. My husband wanted to take another bus to tour the island but I wanted to just walk around Skye and write in my journal.He went off hiking to the castle and I sat in a small park by the water to absorb the smells and sights of this green place.

Within moments, a plump grey and white long haired cat jumped in my lap and we cuddled against the cold wind.That sweet warm visitor stayed with me in my reverie until it started to rain and I had to go back to our room.On our day of leaving,we were waiting at the sheltered bus stop ,when I saw her across the road.I called her and she dashed over to once again share a bench with me.

I have never been so affected; I just loved that cat.She lives on a magic island in a mystical land.

heading North

To those faithful readers who bless me with their comments and to those who drop in
once in a while,I am heading North to the New York mountains where I hope to write with my feet dangling in the brook.

Posting will be something else.May just be weekly trips to the library.

I am looking forward to spending time in the beautiful valley that has held my footsteps since I was a toddler.My grandmother,Honorah, bought the property and her spirit is there to walk with me.

Have a delighful Summer wherever you are and please drop in still,once in awhile.....

the pict cross

On the wall of the St. Machar's Cathedral in Aberdeen is a block of stone held by four black spikes.On the face of the stone is what is described as a pict cross dated 580 A.D.The stone was found in a dyke in 1923,somewhere in the city ,and was turned over to King's College who loaned it to the Cathedral.

I couldn't stop staring at it.This carving was done over 1400 years ago and is still here.How many things can that be said about? What tools were used to make the smooth grooves?How many years was it hidden in that dyke as just another piece of stone? Was the artist a believer or had he been commissioned?I think it is still here because it was a labor of love.

I visualize approaching the artist as he worked.Long stringy hair hides his eyes.He is in his late 30s and probably will not live past his 40s but at this moment he is strong and very focused on gently hammering the stone.His muscles ripple and he is thin and wiry.I sit on a log next to him and try to speak.He turns and his face shows puzzlement.The Pict language he speaks will die out and I have no way to communicate.He sees my laptop and I want to tell him that I am e-mailing my family in America.He would think ,"What is America?"It would be 1200 years before the United States will exist.How to explain 9-11? Tall, glass buildings;airplanes flown by Saudis ? This man has never seen a book.His concerns are getting enough peat or wood for a winter fire,food for his family and finishing his cross.

What did that cross mean to the man? Over 500 years,on foot, boat, horse, the gospel had been carried from the Middle East to Scotland.And its symbol was now being carved by this simple man.What was his understanding of its meaning ?How different or similiar is the faith that we share?So many questions.

I love old things.The Book of Kells in Dublin was transcribed in beautiful color in 800 A.D.It is in Dublin at Trinity College and you may view it for two seconds before you are urged to move on because of the crowds.My family Bible, which was given by my grandfather to my grandmother in 1890,rests on my table.My great-grandfather sent letters home from his ships during the the Civil War dated 1860 through 1865.I have had them laminated to keep them intact for another 500 years.Things that last.

iona

The trip to Scotland was a pilgrimage of sorts;I wanted to see and experience the land which my dear Grandmother had left as an infant and to set foot on the holy island of Iona.This is the place where Columba landed in 563 A.D.,determined to spread the Christian faith beyond Ireland.

In August,while in prayer,I experienced the impression that I would be given something on the trip.My response was to honestly think that I deserved nothing but would happily receive anything given.And that was that.

We travelled through Scotland,or Caledonia, for 14 days.It rained on and off for 13 of those days and it was windy and cold.I had to buy a hat,woolen scarf and gloves to fend off this unexpectedly bitter weather.But, the only day that we would spend on Iona, the sun was brilliant.Thus we were able to hike the two miles to the labyrinth at the southern end of the island.To get there,we walked down a country road that turned into a sheep pasture,then a rocky path over steep hills and finally to the beach.

The setting for this prayer path was indescribable.Hills,ocean, rocky beach,heather,and glorious sunshine.Finally, after laying on the beach and recovering from the hike,I stepped onto the labyrinth.I tried to empty myself of all thought and just "be" on the path.This labyrinth is like no other.Not only do wet rocks mark the path,but the path itself is strewn with kelp,sheep and cow droppings,some shells and a bit of heather.Scotland!

As I slowly walked ,saying a brief prayer,I was overtaken with peace.I do not know any other way to say this.I was not thinking of peace or relaxation,it just came and my whole body eased.It was as if I was being told this: "you are not in charge,do not worry about trains/buses and accomodations.This is not your trip to manage,I am in charge."

Perhaps ,this is the difference between a vacation and a pilgrimage.I had been so uptight about getting around,contracting a cold which would instantly turn into pneumonia,catching the right bus,ducking out of the rain, that I forgot that I was seeking the One who is in charge.The rest of the trip was a breeze.

the scots

If you are descended from the Scots race,I encourage you to walk a wee bit taller this morning.These are a good and gracious people.I know that this is cheeky of me to suggest after only two weeks strolling through the heather but I want to tell you why;what I saw.

On the interminable ferry ride from Mull to Oban, a young woman came up to a man she had noticed, and insisted that she take one of his bags.He had several,was bent,white haired and struggling.When he got off the ferry, she came over and gave it back,having taken it up and down several flights of stairs.He glowed as he introduced this kind stranger to his waiting sister.He will never forget her and neither will I.

On the bus ride to Fort William, an older gentlemen told the bus driver that he wanted to get off the bus to go to another stop and on to Glasgow.He wondered if there would be room for him.The driver pulled over, called the other bus to check for seat availability and assured the man there was space and let him off to be picked up in minutes.The bus drivers in Scotland should get medals.The roads are narrow, buses huge and for him to listen to that man much less help him in that way,was startling.

I am not going to dwell on the constant rain that plagued our two weeks but when I got caught in a mini-monsoon and was soaked to the skin, Ian, our B and B host offered to dry my clothes,which saved the day.With his white hair, ruddy cheeks and smile, he was Scotland to me.The room in that B and B which was on Skye, took my breath away when we entered.Three windows looking out on mountains, harbor, hills and clouds.Wonderful.

When we arrived there,after two buses,I begged off another bus trip around the island and sat in the small stone bench park with my journal.In the distance was the remains of a castle,hills and a huge sky.I was wrapped in my new tartan scarf, hat, gloves and 2 coats.A thin young man in his twenties,dressed in a parka,knitted hat and jeans came over to see if I was a statue.We laughed and started to chat.Scott had come from Glasgow for a holiday with his much loved spaniel.We shared our love of dogs and laughed over the book "Braveheart" which was in my lap.He said he hoped that I knew it was mostly fiction.

We also talked about the Brits who he humbly characterized as arrogant.He loathed how they looked down on the Scots.He said perhaps it was soccer that made him feel this way or maybe it's genetic.The Scots suffered terribly under English rule.One town,Berwick on Tweed,which we never got to, was completely destroyed by the tall, odious English King Eward Longshanks;he who threw his son's lover out the window to his death in Mel Gibson's movie.17,000 men,women and children were left to rot in that town;he refused to allow them to be buried.Then he brought Scot nobles to view the scene as a lesson.

What struck me about Scott was his friendliness.Most hormone charged young men would find little value in chatting with a white haired,wrapped up like a mummy, woman.A good Scot.

I wasn't looking for these things;in fact I was so tired most of the time, my eyes were little slits and I was just trying to get through the day.But like the bits of sunshine that every once in awhile painted the hills,these graces came.

When in Rome...

I didn't like Rome. O.K., I know it's the Eternal City and the seat of the Church but I found it to be irritating.It was June of 2003 and I got a sunburn walking in the shade on the streets.The motorcyclists didn't care who was crossing the roads;they aimed for pedestrians.It's noisy and not very clean.BUT,

As we walked to the convent where we were to spend several nights, I passed an old, gray stone wall with a pipe that gushed water into a stone basin.This aqueduct came from the Italian mountains and was put there before Christ and the water is cold and simply delicious.This pipe has been bringing water to this street for over 2000 years.I was impressed.

And then there is this:the community of Sant'Egidio,a group founded in 1968 by a 19 year old, Andrea Riccardi, who decided to put the gospel into practice.And they have since,this group of ordinary people who feed and befriend the poor,teach school children and just go into the neglected places in Rome to do whatever needs to be done.

They meet once a week in the incredibly beautiful Church of Saint Mary in Travestere and we joined in their prayers and praise one beautiful evening.There are now groups of these people doing their work in more than 30 countries.We never hear of them,but it warms me to think of what they do and how they started;inspired by a 19 year old.

St.Peter's Basilica has to be seen to be believed but that is not what touched me,it's size and beauty.It was on the two occasions that I went down below the church to the dark ancient tomb of St.Peter.I knelt down on a hard wooden bench.There was a line to kneel so I couldn't stop for long.I knelt next to a stranger, a middle aged man in a brown jacket and slacks who had his face in his hands ,weeping.I prayed for him in support of whatever he was feeling.Then I left.

Before we departed Rome ,I again went to the tomb and knelt next to a different man who was unabashedly crying.I had trouble believing it.Again ?What were they thinking? Why were they so moved? I will never know but I wonder if it doesn't have to do with betrayal;perhaps theirs and the saint's.Or maybe they were given hope by this stumbling and cowardly disciple who yet gained salvation.

It is only in the writing that I see the hidden wonders of Rome.I can only imagine what else I might have missed as I focused on the heat and the rude drivers.

listening benches

It's been cool and breezy in Helen,Georgia where I have spent a few days in solitude.I love that word.April is a good time to come up to the North Georgia mountains as there are few tourists.

Today, I drove to Anna Ruby Falls.From the parking lot,it is a quarter of a mile hike to the viewing area and it is quite steep.The rhododendrons haven't bloomed but there are wild violets of deep purple and white,feathery white flowers called foamflowers and some trillium with reddish purple flowers.It was an invigorating hike and the crashing falls, two of them, are things of beauty.

On the trip back to the car, I took pictures of the stone benches that are next to the trail.I thought, these are poet's benches where you can waste time,muse and try to paint a picture with words of what you see around you.The enormous ancient trees shading the trail, the hemlock somehow growing out of a huge boulder,the wildflowers adding color to the grey and brown of the hillsides,the sound of the water rushing over the rocks.

As I went to my car, I noticed a separate trail along Smith Creek.This trail was placed by the Lion's Club.It is a path for the blind.At the entrance, a metal board has Braille and English messages welcoming walkers.There are posts down the trail that hold a thick metal cord that a blind person can follow.It takes them along the trail and here and there, a plaque in Braille will suggest that the person lean down and touch the log to his left. He will be told that this was a chestnut that used to grow profusely before the blight killed most of them.Another sign suggested that the walker touch the bark of the tree behind the plaque and see how smooth it is and this is a beech.What stuck me however, was the sign that suggested the walker step 4 paces back.He will find a bench where he can sit and enjoy the sounds.It's called a listening bench.How marvelous.A bench to sit and just listen.

Then my mind went off wandering as it does and I thought that there should be listening benches in every major town and city but for a different reason.This would be a place to sit and someone would listen to you.A volunteer listener would be assigned to be there for a couple of hours a day in case someone wanted to talk.Everyone would know about the benches and where they were and anyone who needed to unload would come by;especially the elderly and shut-ins.They would be brought and given a volunteer's undivided attention for however long it took.What a gift.

I know what you're thinking.This is crazy and dangerous and they'll be lawsuits.I know.If there can't be listening benches then the next time someone is talking to me, I'll pretend to be on a bench and give them my undivided attention.A small gift.

loving the languor of lakeland

My sister,mother and I are surrounded by luggage on the platform at Penn Station in New York City.We are about to board the East Coast Champion for a two day train ride to Florida.It is the middle of the school year and it's either January or February.I am 6 years old ,my sister, almost ten.My mother's double pneumonia is not clearing up so we are headed for warmer climes.We will not see my Father for months.I have no idea if I welcomed this change or not.

My childless aunts and uncles live in Lakeland,Florida and that is our destination.This city is in central Florida and when we arrive we will be enrolled in a Catholic grammar school and finish first and fourth grades there.I am a stranger in a strange land.

The sisters at the school are delightfully mellow .We have hot lunches every day ;I can still see rice and gravy.Since the teaching is behind where we were in the school up North, we find school relaxed and very easy.Conversation with new friends is slow and comfortable.People smile alot.The attached picture shows our first day of school and another liberation;we don't have to wear uniforms!


At that time, the city aerated the water supply to purify it.This was accomplished by shooting it into the air and to my eyes, this display looked like wonderful fountains.I was enchanted.

Lakeland is so named because there are over 38 lakes in the city and I recall 3 of them ;Lake Bonny,Lake Parker and Lake Beulah.They must have been the ones closest to my aunts' houses.They are fraught with terror,these lakes, as every year a few people disappear ,grabbed in a careless moment by alligators.On Long Island, where we live, there is no place that a six year old could pass or be near where a 15 foot creature might leap at you to devour your body.And yet, this danger is part of the wonder of being dropped down into another world.

Palm trees speak when the wind hits their fronds.The pink and purple bougainvillea
take over trellises and red hibiscus grow everywhere.The highways are lined with pink or white oleander.Spanish moss hangs from the tall trees and sways in the breezes. And if you have never driven passed an orange grove in full flower,you must stop everything and head South.The scent is subtle, rich and unforgettable.

My relatives are patient and so kind.As I type ,something I hadn't thought of surfaces.They don't drink ,so neither does my Mother.The people you sit down with at breakfast are the same ones that show up for dinner.Nothing has happened to change them into surly,slurring aliens.In the evening there are no arguments, just canasta under the whirring fan on the back porch, with my dear aunt saying, "Oh boys,"each time she gets a bad hand.This is a languid land ,dreamy ,colorful and slow; I blossom there.

What I felt about going home is lost to my memory but I think I carried the colors,easy smiles,warm days,the ease of it with me.When my husband said we were moving to Georgia from Denver in the '70s,it felt right.Moonlight through the pines has replaced oleander and the sun is on kissing terms with the earth.Always on my mind.

back home

Arrived home on Thursday to a computer that had died and alot of stuff to put away.Despite this and the 18 hours in the car,it was good to be home from N.Y.While we were there, we enjoyed a lovely week with my new/old friend and her husband.Their pleasure at being in the mountains was so rewarding.She wrote a lovely poem about her experience that I may ask to post on this site.Just beautiful.

My husband put in a rock labyrinth on a friend's property in August.Such hard work but the resulting path became a very holy place to walk.Angels swirled about and prayed with me as I walked.

The weather was cool,crisp and just delightful for the three months that we were there.I made a new friend and we spent a lovely day together,laughing and sharing deeply.Thank you,Garnette.

In June,we had to bury my Retriever, Cooper.He was 16 1/2 years old and he rests on a hill over the pool in the brook where he used to swim after sticks.Red, orange and yellow nasturtiums trail over the stone grave and I placed sticks here and there.When we left ,I felt like I was abandoning him.

My sister's ashes were buried in the small valley churchyard in early June.Appropriately, it rained on and off all day.Her family and friends gathered to say goodbye and a few verses were read.Over the summer, each time I passed by, I could see that one of her daughter's had left a rock formation or a flower.So sad.

One of the highlights of the stay in the mountains was a poetry walk along the rock sides of a rushing creek.It was led by a tall,gentle faced, woman Buddhist monk .Walking slowly, then stopping, we read some poetry that seemed perfect for me to savor.At the end of the short walk, we were served tea in silence.Peace, serenity and beauty.Across the stream, a black bear appeared, not wanting to miss something new.

While drifting around a strange shop in the town where we go to church,I found some treasures.Two small wooden boxes with figures burned on them .They call this pyrography.One box had a monk and a blazing heart.Another,pansies.They were created in the early 1900s and they are known as Flemish Art.They are both flawed but useful.In one box,I put prayer requests;in the other I am storing seeds for next year's garden.

And then, in the strange state of Vermont, I found my ancestor's grave and house which has been steadliy occupied since the 1700s.This the the Revolutionary War hero.Quite a lucky find and we also stumbled over Robert Frost's grave.A birch grows right next to the headstone for those who loved his poem ,"Birches"."One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."Ah,yes.