September 25, 2024 Wednesday, 6:50 AM Scottish Time
It appears to be a quiet morning. There is a tint of orange and red across the hilltops. Wispy clouds float along top with hues of pink and grey. The sea is calm. The window here in the large meeting room is open half-way. There is no breeze that I can tell. The temperature is cool and a bit damp—not unlike any fall I have experienced o an island in New England.
I slept well. Surprisingly enough, there are no lingering aches and pains from yesterday’s sojourn.
Today, we have another session with John Bell. He is quite witty. I have not been taking notes. What I remember as I reflect back in a week’s time is what I am meant to retain.
We had a peaceful, lovely healing service last evening. At its closure, there was a bit of a stir behind me. One of our group was sobbing and a few others led by Rev. Sarah were praying with her. It is known by different degrees within our traveling band that this woman is contending with her own physical illness as well as her wife’s dementia. She had shared with me that she may not be able to care for her wife much longer. This is a woman who is a midwife and a caretaker by profession.
She is obviously being given lots of advice. The younger, more emotional types in our group are clearly watching out for her.
The sky is quite motley now. Pink clouds and blue skies—which made me think of Gerard Manley Hopkins and his poem God’s Grandeur. My bird mates are here. When they arrive, their high pitch chatter announces their presence. They settle in rather quickly as though respecting the space and the silence within.
Getting back to last evening, as the small group was praying, connected by joined hands and embraces, someone in our contingent, seated above me, said they were praying for me as well. Their prayer was that I would be more vulnerable and open. Apparently, I reminded this person of their Bar Harbor, Maine grandmother—steeling her way through life—braced and ready for whatever storm came her way. It seemed to be their impression that I am not handling my grief very well.
I was quite stunned and equally offended. We were there praying for this one woman and this other person tried to make it about me. The words and sentiment were very presumptuous.
The sun is breaching the hillside. It is so bright, so glorious. I cannot look on with my eyes. I bow my head before its presence. Kris has knelt in adoration. We pause in silence honoring the wonder and glory of God.
I am grateful for this time of being away, for the precious silences, for the stories told by other pilgrims, for the sharing that has come naturally. I feel blessed by knowing Kris over the course of these last several days. She is respectful and kind.
I am disturbed by the other person’s comments to me. While they meant well, I felt judged and criticized. Their prayer was for something for me of which they did not understand.
We all do this at times. We speak when silence can be preferred. We think we know when we likely do not know at all. We interfere with another’s vision of life when we do not yet see clearly our own way.
For me, in this time, I pray for God’s grace, God’s wisdom, God’s spirit to rest upon this place and those who come here in search of all three.
The bell is ringing, signaling our time to gather for breakfast. For now, I must go.
September 25, 2024 Wednesday, 2:40 PM Scottish Time
I have made my way to what I believe is called Bishops’ Beach. Seated upon a black craggy rock, I am listening to the water lapping the shore. The water is clear—clean and fresh. The sun bright and high in the sky. But for three other people, I am alone in this space.
Our time is nearly done here on Iona. We will leave on Friday morning. Tonight, there is a Caelhi of sorts. I have decided to read a chapter of my book. It seems appropriate. It may even evoke some interest in it for when it is published.
No two beaches are quite the same. I imagine that is true of islands as well. Of the beaches I have seen on Iona, this one is my favorite. The sand is soft. While there are large outcroppings of black granite, there are no stones to speak of. It is a quiet, gentle space.
This is not a time for writing. It is a time for listening and being as in a holy place.
3:50 PM
I have returned from my sojourn to the beach. It got rather warm. I decided to come back here and read from my manuscript. I am in the library. It is a dark space. I can hear the crackling of the birds that I usually hear in the morning hours.
The walk was a bit tiring for me. I am clearly not in very good shape. I had hoped to go to The Nunnery. I didn’t have the energy to walk that much farther.