September 23, 2024                   Monday, 6:50ish AM

I am guessing on the time this morning. I left my watch and my phone in my room. Stumbling around in the dark is a real challenge. I have made my way outside already this morning. There will be no sun to guide me. At least not for now.

The clouds have come in dimming all sight of yonder mountains. Those at water’s edge are visible. It is a balmy day—not as cold as last night—a bit of moisture hanging in the air.

There is no fog or heavy mist—only heavy, grey, murky vapors dropped down from above. Those seeking a sunrise will not be glorified on this day.

I can see that I am not the only pilgrim who has come forth into the morning air. I see legs drooped along the outline on a bench at the other end of the Abbey.

I am not disappointed by the absence of the sun. It allows me a different experience of Iona—one which I mostly expected to see. This is an island in the Hebrides after all.

There is daylight. I can see across the grassy fields, out to the rocks and the sea lapping on the shore. I can see across to the villages hankered along the island of Mull. There is a bright light at the ferry boarding sight. Much smaller lights dot the remaining shoreline.

Perhaps now is a good time to recall the journey here. At this juncture, there still were more times on the road than the time we have spent here. By my account, today is Monday.

We began our trip on Thursday from South Hadley, Massachusetts, home of All Saints Episcopal Church and Mount Holyoke College. These are two factors that join us with the pilgrims with whom we have a connection here at the Abbey. The Reverend Tanya Wallace is the lynchpin.

For the first leg from South Hadley, we were four—Tanya, Kathy, Leslie, and I.  We drove to the Logan Express Depot in Framingham.  We parked in the overflow lot and met with our first of many waits. Waiting is a major part of the pilgrimage trek as we soon discovered.

Waiting for travel, waiting for transitions, waiting for the sake of waiting.

Busses and planes, taxis and trains, and not one but two ferries were embarked along our way.  Each has its own timetable. Each has their own part to play as the conveyors of pilgrims from their home destinations to this isle of Iona.

What I have learned since our arrival is that there are two Iona experiences. There is this very specific, organized immersion in the life of the Iona Community at the Abbey and then there is the isle of Iona itself.

In all honesty, in my dream of visiting Iona, it was never to be at the Abbey.  I was always drawn to the isle itself. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself as an adventurer in Scotland. Iona was to be a day or two, three at the longest. My plan was to stay at the Columba Hotel here on the isle.

Through happenstance, or the Holy Spirit, or they would say here at Iona, the wild goose, I am here at the Abbey. I signed on with a group of pilgrims traveling from South Hadley, MA and Wayne, Pennsylvania. We are now joined together for this week along with many others to live and work and pray as a community.

The travel here was long and tiring. In addition to the waiting stages, there are connecting points. There are the endless transitions from one unknown place to another. Places that do not remain unknown—places that will seem familiar when we make our return.

We touch and are touched by the places we have trekked. We touched down in Iceland, though what we saw of it was limited to the airport. We sat and paced about for hours within the confines of Terminal D. We met with two more of our group who had left Boston two hours later than the four of us. Sandra and Jane made our four, six.

The trip from Iceland to Glasgow was shorter, though we lost yet another hour. The time had skipped ahead by four hours between Boston and Iceland. We were now five hours ahead of the day on which we started. That odd sense of timing has its own role in the pilgrimage.

Speaking of time, I have lost all time. I sense that I am to be on a schedule. There will be time for more writing as the day moves along. For now, there is breakfast, followed by chores in the kitchen, and morning prayer.

Until later…

September 24, 2024              Tuesday, 7:00 AM

I have come to the “Large Meeting Room” to write and pray. I see that Kris has taken her place by the window, though she is not here now. I suspect she watched the sun try to emerge from the thick, dark clouds seated on the craggy hills.

As I wrote those first few sentences, Kris came in. She is warm and lovely. I dare to say that she may be in her 80’s. She is smart, wise, and worldly in the educated way.

She has asked me to pray for a Russian family with whom she is friends. They are Evalina, Papa, and Sofia. Evalina’s mother has recently died from brain cancer. Papa is Evalina’s father and Sofia is her 19-year-old daughter.

When you come to the Abbey, you become one of a worldwide community. There are no singular nationalities or languages. We are invited to listen and learn and evolve. Peoples’ stories flow and the air here is rich with emotion—all emotions hanging in the balance.

Kris has drawn my attention to the sun coming round to our view. It has broken through in places. From my vantage point, there is mist and clouds, and yellow gold draped down from a higher sky that is radiantly blue.

The bird outside our window here sounds like a squeaky dog toy. I got up to take a closer look. There are two sitting on what I am calling small parapets. They appear to be the same birds from the first morning.

The sun has successfully broken through all that seemingly held her down. St. Francis called the sun, Brother Sun, and the moon, Sister Moon. To me, this morning, it is she who greets me. She is glorious, casting her rays across the sea, a pathway of presence leading to me.

God is here in the sun and the sea, in Kris and the small black birds, the clouds and the mist, the mountains and the blue sky.  God is here in me. Amen.

There is music coming from the Abbey Church.  Someone is singing—a deep male voice. I am content to listen from here. I have no need to discover who it may be or their purpose. There are many spaces here at the Abbey. The abut and intersect—sometimes fluidly—other times with intentionality.  We each create our own space within its framework. There are invitations, and choices to be made.

Iona is a place of rapid change and always the same. In the short time that I have been writing, the sky has gone from a lovely blue to a dense gray. The amassed clouds control the sky at present. Or as Jo B would say, “For now.”

In fact, the sun seems to be playing a game of peek-a-boo. When she seems to be gone, she suddenly pops through. And when she does, she is oh so bright, blindingly so. She is shining in on me now. The power of her light forces me to look away and observe her from a side view. It must be what it means to be unable to look into the face of God.

It does signal to me that it is time for me to engage in the schedule for the day. Breakfast is at 8:00, followed by prayer at 9 and chores at 9:30. Today, we, those who are able, are going on a day long pilgrimage around the isle.

May God’s blessings continue to abound here and throughout the world—

September 24, 2004                         Tuesday, 4:30 PM

I survived today’s pilgrimage hike out to St. Columba’s Beach and back. I am in some serious pain of my neck, hip, and back. I am clearly very out of shape. In spite of my ailments, it was interesting, informative, and an opportunity to commune with nature and my fellow pilgrims. The territory we crossed was beautiful. The terrain varied from rocky paths to roadways to the island’s only golf course and the beach itself. We started out at the Nunnery—the one place on the trek to which I intend to return.

I took many pictures, though I doubt they can measure up to the real thing.

I came into the large meeting room with the purpose of journaling and reading my manuscript. It is not likely I will get far with either one. I am exhausted. I may need to go upstairs to take a nap. And as I write the words, I realize that is what I am going to do.

September 24, 2024                           Tuesday, 7:30 PM

I am choosing not to go to tonight’s offering. The topic is “The Iona Community Today.” I do not feel that there is anymore that I need to know. While the experience has been positive, I do not see myself returning or being otherwise involved with this Wild Goose Community. The pilgrimage with St. David’s and All Saints has been a means to an end. They got me here in what can be described as a safe journey. Being able to travel with others and to navigate my way through taxis, trains, busses, and ferries allowed me to feel more comfortable about spending time on my own next week. For this, I am grateful.

Iona is a beautiful island space. Today’s walk around the island felt very homey to me. I love the beach. I love the walk-about feeling that comes with meandering along island paths. I love being close to the sea. I love all the unique features that are synonymous with island vegetation and landscape. It is my peaceful place—that which can transport me to heavenly place—to a place of centering—where God invites me in as one with the god self.

I did not need to come to Iona to experience this connection with what I am calling home. I can go to any beach and find myself there.

Coming to Iona, being on pilgrimage, is like living out the labyrinth we saw on the beach today. This has been an intentional journey to returning to my center, to the core of myself and thus to a deeper relationship with my God.

I left what I know to be home to come to this faraway place. It is a place that represents the earliest foundations of not just Christian spirituality, also feminine spirituality, creation spirituality. It is a place that is known for its connection to the thin spaces, the thin places where heaven and earth meet.  It is a starting place—a place for unraveling and restoring—for ending and beginning again.

I am not regretting coming here to this Abbey, though what I can see it is for so many others, it is not for me. Right now, it is what I have said earlier—a means to an end.

A woman named Margaret has come into the room with me. I welcome her to stay recognizing that like me, she is seeking a quiet space.  The room is large enough, open enough to be shared. She says that she loves this room. I understand why. It has remarkable energy—many pilgrims have come to this room in prayer. It is a holy space.

Today’s walk was challenging for me. I purposely, intentionally walked to the end of the line. I knew I would need to conserve my strength to complete the journey.

It was difficult and it required my steadfast attention. I needed to be mindful of my steps, where I was walking, and how I walked. I listened to the other pilgrims. I absorbed the life around me—the beauty of the fields of heather, the craggy rock formations all around us, the sea out of reach at times and very near at others.

I thought of myself as a sponge—taking everything in—soaking up all that presented itself to me. I was there to receive.

And there it is—that which I have yet to verbalize—this trip is about receiving. I am here to receive God’s love and mercy.

I am here as an empty vessel. I am ready to be filled with God’s presence and love—the water of life.

For now, I need to allow this revelation to sink in—to be with this epiphany.

Thanks be to God. Amen.