Because/For No Good Reason

Last weekend, I rode over 40 miles with a group of very vibrant and fit middle aged women. As we pedaled into the tail end of Hurricane Earl's winds, one of my biking friends, Ann, commented that her daughter, who is a teacher, did not have school one day in early September because the air conditioning was broken. That sent us off on a "When I was a kid..." reverie of hot classrooms that led to silliness about walking to school in the snow for miles and doing our homework by candlelight. Ann said, "And now that we are middle aged women, we ride 50 miles for no good reason." Her words lingered in my memory of our hours together and inspired this poem. Thanks, Ann!



Dixie, Ann and Linda ride the wind with Hurricane Earl...for no good reason.












Because/For No Good Reason

Pioneer children walked 10 miles in the snow
to learn reading, writing and ‘rithmetic
because there were no carpools or school buses.

In the early days of the last century farmers walked
behind horse-drawn plows
because they had no tractors.

When we were young, we sat in hot classrooms
in the waxing and waning days of summer
because school buildings had no air conditioning.

As middle aged women we ride 50 miles on bikes
for no good reason.
Like the chicken who crossed the road
and footloose dogs that chase bike riders
we do it because we can.

A day may come – tomorrow or 30 years from now –
when a long bike ride will be a memory
that aches more than over-used muscles,
because memories of lost youth are the worst part of growing old.

So I ride for no good reason – because I can.

Dancing with I Don't Know

I, Linda, promise, that wherever I am, no matter what, for the sake of all beings, in my presence, life will show as a courageous and compassionate dance with “I don’t know.”


The first time I spoke those words it was 2006. I was in my first year of the Applied Healing Arts master’s degree program at Tai Sophia Institute. There were only a few minutes left in the weekend during which we had been exploring our calling and commitment in the world. Our teachers, Dianne Connelly and Susan Duggan, asked each of us to stand up and state our promise – a short sentence that describes what gifts the world receives because we are here.

The attributes courage and compassion came to me early in the weekend and I knew that I wanted my presence in the world to be as fluid and graceful as a dance. Yet, the harder I tried, the less able I was to see with whom I was dancing.

I was one of the last of the group to stand. In a strong voice, I repeated the beginning of the phrase, “I, Linda, promise, that wherever I am, no matter what, for the sake of all beings, in my presence, life will show as a courageous and compassionate dance with…” And I stopped. I stomped by feet and clenched my fist and, in frustration, shouted “I don’t know!” Everyone cheered and clapped --- my promise had been revealed.

Looking back, I see that I was first introduced to my promise by the nuns and priests who taught me from the Baltimore catechism in the 1960s. I memorized and recited answers to the big questions: “Who made the world?” “What is God?” “Does God know all things?” If any of us asked for an explanation more tangible than what the catechism offered, our teachers told us, firmly and finally, “It’s a mystery.”

This answer became less satisfying when I discovered Nancy Drew. Like the fictional girl sleuth, I was determined to use ingenuity and persistence to solve life’s mysteries. Throughout grade school, into high school and all through college I was rewarded with A’s for knowing answers. When I transitioned to the work world, I earned promotions and bonuses for problem solving. “I don’t know” was a phrase I rarely used. And when I did, I always added, “But I’ll find out!”

When I found my way to Tai Sophia and the Applied Healing Arts program, I was reintroduced to mystery. There were no right answers. There weren’t even any grades! Instead, the lessons came by observing my experiences and paying attention to my reactions to them.

As an Applied Healing Arts student, I was introduced to philosophies grounded in ancient wisdom traditions. I experienced how we are all interconnected and how our words create our world. I was shocked and delighted to discover that we live in stories that we create and that upset is optional. These principles and related practices became my life preservers as I learned to sail more skillfully through the seas of daily life. Instead of living my life as if it is a race toward some elusive goal, I now live more fully engaged with what is happening here and now.

The Applied Healing Arts program appeals to people who are interested in health and wellness without necessarily wanting to use acupuncture needles, herbs or other types of hands on healing tools. Just as painters are artists who use colors and shapes to create works of art, Applied Healing Arts students are life artists. We create healing environments by cultivating self-awareness and by being a healing presence at work, at home and out in the community.

I used to think that the purpose of going to school was to absorb information and feed it back for a grade. I now appreciate that it is through asking questions – and sitting with unanswered questions - that I truly learn. From the perspective of “I don’t know” I can be still and let my intuition inform my next step. The humility of “I don’t know” invites others to offer their opinions as we explore new solutions together.

From the freedom of “I don’t know” I created a vision that I might never have imagined if I had stuck to more familiar ways of thinking and acting. Early in the Applied Healing Arts program, each student looks into the future and imagines something that does not yet exist, something that, if it existed, would reduce unnecessary suffering and promote healing on all levels. My vision emerged as a headline that reads:

American Medical Association reports that language overtakes medical interventions in its power to enhance health and well being.

My stomach flutters when I imagine the steps that need to be taken before the New York Times prints that headline. Instead of being overwhelmed by the task ahead of me, I see that I have already taken one step toward making that vision a reality by creating a workshop that introduces healthcare workers, business people, parents and anyone in relationship with others to the Applied Healing Arts practices that have changed my life. I also breathe more easily when I remember that, as I take the next step, then the next, I do not do the work for myself and I do not do the work by myself.

People who know that I have a master’s degree in Applied Healing Arts often ask, “Where will this degree lead you?” I answer, “I don’t know.” What I do know is that, as a lifelong learner, I have the courage and compassion to more gracefully dance with the questions life offers up. I am a beginner, perpetually in practice.

NOTE: The Applied Healing Arts master’s degree program has a new name. Students who began the program in 2010 will graduate with a degree in Transformational Leadership and Social Change. Learn more at http://www.tai.edu/.

Photo: Shy Ballerina by Nate Kay.

12.2

I have 64 days to get ready to ride the Wild Goose Chase. This is a one-day all-women bike ride in and around Blackwater Wildlife Refuge in Dorchester County, Maryland.


Getting ready to ride the Seagull Century in 2009.

I got the cycling bug last year, when my friend, Anna, invited me to train with her to ride in the Seagull Century. For those of you who don’t speak cycling-ese, a century is a 100-mile bike ride. Before you get too impressed, there is also something called the metric century, which is 100 kilometers or 64 miles. I am a metric century cyclist. Or at least I was once last October. This year, I am training for a repeat of that distance when I ride the Wild Goose Chase on October 17. [Check out this fundraiser for the Blackwater Wildlife Refuge at http://www.terrybicycles.com/tours.]

I don’t brag about my riding stats. Between the heat and travel and just plain procrastination, my weekday morning rides have been a toodle this summer, averaging 15-16 miles. On Saturday morning, I have been gradually building my endurance so that I can actually walk without too much groaning after a 30-mile ride.

If you are impressed by my commitment to distance, do not put me on a pedestal quite yet. Another aspect of cycling is speed. I am a slow and steady cyclist. No matter how hard I push myself, my average is a modest 12.2 miles per hour. I’m not breaking any records. But I am having fun and testing my commitment to something other than red wine and Ben and Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide.

I wrote this poem to make peace with my average riding speed and to remind myself that sometimes being good enough is good enough



12.2

No matter how fast I pedal
I average 12.2 miles per hour.

Even when I push myself
spinning the wheels to 14, 15, 16 mph,
by the end of the ride
the bike computer registers an average speed of 12.2.

When I pump like hell
down a sloping country road,
and the speedometer peaks at a respectable 19 mph,
I end the ride with a score of 12.2.

With the wind at my back, my average never waivers.
Even with a boost from drafting the tail of a pace line
I still clock a modest 12.2.

When I end my days
and St. Peter tallies my good deeds and gaffs,
I hope I get a seat with the other average riders,
the ones, like me, who tried like the devil to be the best,
and ended the ride only to find that all it took
to get from birth to death
was to be good enough.

Climbing Dun I: There is no easy path

“Is the mountain high?”

That’s what The Fool wanted to know when I walked the Medicine Wheel a few weeks before my first trip to Scotland.

Let me step back 10 years and tell you about The Fool, the Medicine Wheel and a mountain called Dun I (pronounced done-EE).

At a little more than 400 feet above sea level, Dun I is the highest point on the island of Iona. Many, many years ago, in prehistoric times, Dun I was a fort. Today, it is a place where visitors find solitude and expansive views of Iona, the Atlantic Ocean, the Isle of Mull and other neighboring islands.

Iona was one of several sites I visited when I went to Scotland with five other women in September of 2000. Anna, Lainie, Delpha, Aprille, Robin and I mapped out a pilgrimage that had been inspired by Jean Shinoda Bolen’s book, Crossing to Avalon.

The Medicine Wheel Riddle

Before we left Maryland for Glasgow, Robin led us through a process called the Medicine Wheel, a decision making tool used by Native American people. The "wheel" consists of individuals who stand in a circle posing as the archetypes Tradition, the Warrior, the Shaman, the Witch, the Tribal Chief, the Creator, and the Pattern-keeper. Before walking the circle, the person seeking guidance whispers a question into the ear of the Fool, the eighth member of the Medicine Wheel. The Fool flips the question into a seemingly unrelated query. The seeker takes the transformed question to each character. One by one, the ancient wisdom keepers respond in the spirit of their character.

When it was my turn to walk the Medicine Wheel, I whispered to The Fool, “Am I destined to use my creativity as a writer?” Without hesitation, The Fool whispered back, “Is the mountain high?”

Traveling around the Wheel, I asked The Fool’s question. Tradition began a series of disturbing answers by saying, “The sky is blue.” The Warrior told me, “Mountains have been high for centuries.” Next, the Shaman said, “It’s as high as you can see.” The Witch pronounced a curt, “Some are, some aren’t.” Leading me down a different path, the Tribal Chief said, “The people are strong.” Returning to talk of the mountain, the Creator added, “It’s only as high as you think it is.” The last elder to speak, the Pattern Keeper, offered a nonchalant, “Mountains are what mountains are.”

I left the Medicine Wheel experience frustrated. What did mountains and this other nonsense have to do with how I would spend the next half of my life? I could only hope that the riddle would be solved as I trekked the highlands and the lowlands of Scotland.

A Hiking Lesson
During our two days on Iona, we agreed to spend one day on our own. After practicing yoga on a hilltop overlooking the Abbey, I took a hike. I headed toward a mountain I had seen in the distance. I will make it that far and that high, I said to myself whenever a barbed wire fence blocked my way or a gust of cold ocean wind tempted me to go back to the inn for a cup of tea.

View of the Iona Abbey from Dun I

After hours of hiking across pastures alone except for the occasional herd of sheep, I arrived at the top of Dun I. I was a mess. My shoes were caked with sheep droppings, my socks were soaked and my pants were splattered with mud. I sat at the top of the mountain, watching the sea brush the shores of the island. As I rose to leave, I saw Robin. She stood on a rock several yards below me. Her face glowed as she looked out across Iona.

A seasoned outdoorswoman, Robin had scaled much higher peaks on several continents. Yet, this was one mountain she hadn’t expected to climb. For several years before this trip, Robin had been in treatment for breast cancer. A few months before we were scheduled to leave for Scotland, she was unsure that she would be well enough to go with us.

Climbing this mountain was a major accomplishment for both of us. My triumph was simple and profound: I had allowed myself to get dirty, to wander alone, to be clumsy and to risk getting lost. Robin stood in wonder at the physical stamina she had mustered to reach the highest point on the island. Standing on this rise out in the sea, we both remembered the miracle of being alive.

Robin told me she was was deciding which route to follow back to the village. She pointed to two paths—one to our left that looked like a straight, clear route down to the main island road, and another more circuitous and rocky way to our right. After examining both of them, she chose the right-hand path.

“Sometimes the easier path is actually the more dangerous one,” she said. I listened as she explained that, even though the straight path looked easier, one misstep could lead to a hazardous fall down its steep, unprotected slope. The other, more crooked path might be slower and require more work, but it had a grassy shoulder to cushion a stumble.

As I absorbed Robin’s hiking wisdom, I remembered my Medicine Wheel question. I realized that Robin had given me my answer. I had psyched myself into believing that being a writer was a dangerous path littered with solitude, criticism and rejection. Relinquishing my writing dream and going back to a safer, more established job might have seemed easier. I also knew that working in fast-paced corporate settings where the income was lucrative and the work secure had endangered my health, sapped my energy and depleted my creative juices. I saw, too, that her guidance applied not only to my work, but also to my relationships and my spiritual path.

In the years since I climbed down Dun I with Robin, I have applied her hiking advice to the challenges of daily living. When I am tempted to run away, hide out or relinquish a dream, I remember that the easy route can be the more dangerous one.

Soon after returning from Scotland, I stepped up and declared that I am a writer; I admitted that being a communicator is my life’s work. I continually exercise my creative muscles whether I am working on a feature story on a health topic, writing a news release for a community event or scribbling a poem in my journal.

More Lessons from Dun I



Back on Iona in 2010, I headed for Dun I on my first free afternoon. This time, I entered the path to the mountain through a gate off of the main island road.

At the top of Dun I, I found a spot on a flat rock and sat quietly, dazzled by the turquoise waters that held the island on all sides. The wind moved in cold gusts as the cloud-covered sun burned a hole in the thick morning fog.

After taking a rest, I walked around the top of the mountain. I searched for the spot where Robin had given me a hiking lesson 10 years earlier. The terrain looked different. Every way down looked steep and dangerous.

I decided I would go down the way I came up. I remembered that, on the way up, I had used sheer muscle and the exertion of my pounding heart to move from the flat pasture of the farmer’s sheep fields to the rocky surface of the hilltop. Going down, I stepped more carefully. This was an exercise in agility and attention tempered with a dose of humility when I sat on my butt to scramble down a few rocky patches.

In the years since my first climb to Dun I, I have become more comfortable walking along what looks like the more dangerous path. I look for challenges and willingly go into situations that are new and unknown. On my second climb up Dun I, the mountain had a different lesson to teach. I noticed that climbing to reach higher planes where I can find broader views of the landscape is heart work. It takes compassion and courage - and a good bit of willpower - to take myself up and away from the day to day of life, where I can get a new point of view. Coming back down to earth – back into the worlds of work, relationships and the quotidian of paying the bills, doing the dishes and weeding the garden - requires clear thinking, some forward planning and the willingness to look clumsy and to stumble a bit.

I live life as if it were a mountain climb even though I live on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, one of the flattest terrains on Earth. Heart and strength, patience and humility are worthy companions no matter how challenging the task. And when the path looks easy, I step back and wonder, “Is this mountain high enough?”


Climbers add stones to the cairn at the top of Dun I

The Iona Pebble Lady

I almost walked by one of the sweetest moments of my recent trip to Iona. In fact, the first time I saw the sign for Iona Pebbles, I did keep walking. That day, I was returning to the hotel from a visit to the rock covered beach at St. Columba’s Bay. I wondered why on earth anyone would want to buy pebbles when they were free and so abundant only steps away.

A few days later, I had a free afternoon. I grabbed a sandwich at the Spar (our equivalent of a 7-Eleven) and headed down the beach on the west side of the island. Along the road, I stopped to talk to Alison, another member of our pilgrimage group. She had just visited Iona Pebbles, where she had met the shop owner and bought some gifts to take home. At Alison’s recommendation, I stopped to meet the “Pebble Lady.”

From the outside, Iona Pebbles looks like the garage of a suburban house. I felt like I was breaking and entering when I opened the door to the empty shop. I was surprised to find tables filled with beautiful jewelry made from polished beach stones. On the walls hung framed photographs of scenes from Iona. I was looking at lavender scented sachets when I heard a woman’s voice coming from out behind the house.

I turned as the woman walked into the shop by the back door. I saw that she was having a conversation with a sheep dog that lie hidden behind the counter. When the woman looked up, she was startled to see me. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here,” she said. “Just went to get myself a cup of tea.”

We introduced ourselves, me as a pilgrim from America and she as Val, the artist and shop owner. I selected a half dozen sachets as gifts. As she was packing them for me, Val told me the story of how she began making the sachets.

Val’s mother had been an accomplished seamstress. When dementia made it difficult for her mother to do fine sewing, Val got an idea to keep her mother busy and to use her talents. Val cut out small squares of neutral colored cotton and stamped each piece of cloth with either a saying or an image. She took wool shorn from their flock of sheep, washed it and soaked it with a scented oil. Val matched up two squares – an image on one and a saying on the other - and sewed them together on three sides. She and her mother stuffed the squares with scented wool. Her mother then hand stitched the fourth side to complete the sachet.

“The first couple of batches we made to give away as Christmas gifts,” Val said. “After Mom died, my friends encouraged me to keep making the sachets and to sell them in the shop. They told me there was nothing else like them on the island.”

She was right about that. Each sachet is stamped with more than quotes and an assortment of doves, cats, roses and praying hands. They each hold Val’s sweetness and caring touch. At Iona Pebbles, I found the perfect sentiment – and easy-to-pack gifts – for many of my friends. And, in that short visit with the Pebble Lady, I was reminded that the greatest gifts are made from generosity of spirit, compassion and playfulness.

Scenes from a hike to St. Columba's Bay, Iona

Climbing down to St. Columba's Bay, Iona



Bell heather in bloom on Iona



Joyce Watson, Iona resident, naturalist, photographer and hiking guide



A windy day on the rocky beach at St. Columba's Bay



Lush ferns growing on the hillside



Lending a helping hand on the climb back from St. Columba's Bay

Iona: Prayer Walk to St. Columba's Bay

The nunnery on Iona was founded in the 12th century AD by Reginald, son of Somerled of the Isles. The order of nuns who lived, worked and prayed at the nunnery followed the Augustinian order. The first prioress was Beatrice, Reginald's sister. A few walls still stand amid seasonal gardens, calling visitors to imagine what life was like for the women who lived here. The nunnery remained occupied for more than 400 years until the Protestant Reformation.

On Friday, June 18, the Shalem pilgrims took a hike to St. Columba's Bay on Iona. Legend tells us that the Irish priest Columba and his monks landed on this southernmost point of Iona in 563 AD.

Our guide was Joyce Watson. Joyce is one of the 120 full-time residents of Iona. She is a naturalist, a photographer and a model of how to live prayerfully present and appreciative for each step of every day.

Those of us who were going on the hike met Joyce at the nunnery ruins at 10 a.m. She set the stage for our half-day outing by reading this poem, known as “The Rune of Hospitality.” The poem called us to think like the Celtic Christians, who lived knowing that God is present in all things and that every person we meet is already a friend.

I saw a stranger today.
I put food for him in the eating-place
And drink in the drinking-place
And music in the listening-place.

In the Holy name of the Trinity
He blessed myself and my family.
And the lark said in her warble
Often, often, often
Goes Christ in the stranger's guise.
O, oft and oft and oft,
Goes Christ in the stranger's guise.

Joyce set a leisurely pace, stopping every so often to point out a historical site or to tell a story about life on Iona as it is today and how it may have been during the life of St. Columba. She pointed out Sithean Mor, a small rise of land where a follower of Columba claims to have seen the priest communing with angels. In response to a question, Joyce explained the difference between a farm (a large, self-sufficient enterprise that can sustain a family, usually by raising sheep or cows) and a croft (a smaller parcel of land that is a less lucrative business venture for the crofter and his family.) At points along the walk, she invited us to stop our conversations so that we could listen to the wind, smell the sea and take in the landscape all around us.

Halfway along our trek to the bay, Joyce cautioned us that we would be approaching a hill that might challenge some of us. She said that we would meet up at an inland loch (lake) at the top of the hill. I was surprised to find that I was leading the climb from the golf course at the west coast beach. I wasn’t exerting myself or rushing ahead. I felt my heart beating as I moved on strong legs with great ease. I paused at the top of the hill to wait for the other pilgrims. Climbing a hill with a group is comforting because there are people to help if I stumble and others who may need a hand.

When we arrived at St. Columba’s Bay, Joyce suggested that, after we ate our lunch, we look for two stones: one stone to represent something that we no longer needed and another stone to remind us of our experience on Iona. The first stone practically jumped off the beach at me. It was nearly all black. Holes worn into one side of the rock formed a face frozen in a worried snarl. I grabbed this stone, put it in my pocket and began looking for the second one. A few minutes later I saw it. This rock was dappled with muted shades of green, pink, gray and white. Its knobby shape looked like a newborn child swaddled in a blanket. I was tempted to put it down in favor of one of the more colorful stones. The “infant” stone fell out of my hand. Sure that I had lost it, I felt relieved. I could search for something more exotic. I looked down at the rocky beach and saw the swaddled stone by my foot. I took this as a sign that it was the one to take home.

At Joyce’s suggestion, I hurled the snarling stone into the ocean. I asked the sea to hold my worries and insecurities and to sink the fears that hold me back from living a more joy-filled life. I tucked the swaddled stone in my pocket, making a vow to nurture the new life that is growing in my heart, even if it doesn’t yet have a name.

The climb back from St. Columba’s Bay was a slower walk. I noticed that I was not the only one who seemed eager to stay close to my fellow pilgrims, to lend a hand and to take one as we stepped up the steep pathway back to the loch.

Joyce waited until we were all together again. Then she read this poem by David Adams:

Ebb and Flow

From the flowing of the tide
To its ebbing
From the waxing of life to its waning
Of your Peace provide us
Of your Light lead us
Of your Goodness give us
Of your Grace grant us
Of your Power protect us
Of your Love lift us
And in your Arms accept us
From the ebbing of the tide
To its flowing
From the waning of life
To its waxing

Before saying farewell, Joyce offered this blessing: “Do not forget in the darkness what Christ has taught you in the light.”

Aaaah! How easy it is to feel God on the mountain top – or on the shores of an ancient island – and how quickly the experience fades when we return home to the day to day routine. Joyce’s words remind me that God is with me even when I am washing the dishes, weeding the garden and sitting for hours in front of a computer screen.

After the walk, resting in my room at the St. Columba Hotel, I was inspired to write this poem:

Ebbing Flow

I worry about forgetting.
When I go into the kitchen
and forget what I came in to get
or when I hunt for my keys
or the name of my neighbor,
I wonder if I am losing my mind.

The bigger worry is that I too often forget
that I am not alone.
Someone is always nearby
to answer a call, to ask a question.
Just the right words and a listening heart
help me remember –
I am loved. I am well. I am whole.

Just as the ocean needs the beach
to recall it to shore
I need companions
to call me back when
I ebb away from the heart of my life.

Just as the earth needs
the sun and the rain
I need God to soften
the parched pools
of my tidal soul.

Map of Iona

A map of Iona

If you click on this map, it should open so that you can see the island in more detail.

A brief and unscholarly history of Iona

The ferry from Iona to Mull

Some of you may be wondering where Iona is and what makes it worth the long and sometimes tedious travel by plane, bus and ferry boats. Here is a little bit of information to whet your appetite. There are lots of websites and books if you want to know more from more reliable sources.

Iona is a tiny island off the west coast of Scotland. When I say tiny, I mean tiny. The speck of land is a walkable three miles long and a bit over one mile wide.

In Gaelic, Iona is “I Chaluim Chille,” which means the “isle of Columcille.” Today Columcille is known as St. Columba, an Irish priest who brought Celtic Christianity to Scotland in 563 AD. There are many stories about why Columba left Ireland. In one version,the priest left Ireland over a legal scandal. The story goes that a wealthy nobleman had hired Columba to transcribe passages of scripture. When the work was completed, Columba claimed that the text belonged to him. Of course, the noble man who had paid Columba to do the work disagreed. The court sided with Columba’s patron and the priest left his beloved Ireland in disgrace.

Columba and 12 monks sailed from Ireland in coracles, lightweight row boats. Joyce Watson, an Iona resident who led me and some of my fellow Shalem pilgrims on a day hike to St. Columba’s Bay, told us that Columba was determined to sail far enough away so that he would be unable to see Ireland from his new home land. When he came ashore on the south end of Iona, he climbed a rise in the land and declared that they were home because he was unable to see Ireland. Joyce thinks that Columba may have landed on Iona on an overcast day because, today, on a clear day, one can indeed see Ireland from a high point on the island.

Columba died just four years after coming to Iona. However, his missionary work spread throughout Scotland and into other parts of Europe as his followers brought Celtic Christianity to the Druids and other followers of pre-Christian practices.

Driven out of Iona by Viking raids, most of the monastic community founded by Columba moved to Ireland around 800 AD. Around 1200 AD, a Benedictine abbey and an Augustinian nunnery were established on Iona. The nunnery ruins are still visible.

Iona Abbey was dissolved during the Protestant Reformation in the 17th century and fell into ruin. Restoration of the Abbey began at the beginning of the 20th century by a duke of Argyll. The duke’s work was continued by George MacLeod in the 1930s. Inspired by the Celtic tradition of early Iona, MacLeod, a Scottish minister, founded the ecumenical Iona Community in 1938. This project brought together newly ordained ministers and skilled craftsmen who were out of work during the Depression. Together, the clergy and the workmen rebuilt the Abbey while learning how to communicate about spiritual and practical matters.

Today, Iona is home to 120 year round residents and the ecumenical Iona Community. The island remains a place of Christian pilgrimage as it has been for the more than 1400 years since Columba arrived.

The only way to reach Iona is on a passenger ferry form Fionnphort on the Isle of Mull. The ferry delivers visitors to and from Iona throughout the daylight hours. There are a few farm trucks and a couple of passenger vehicles on the island for residents and a taxi to transport guests from the ferry to the few hotels and B&Bs on Iona.

When the last ferry leaves at the end of the day, Iona is still. As the sun sets, the only sounds on the island are voices in worship at the Abbey and the song of the surf, cuckoos, cows and sheep.

Where in the world is Iona?

View Larger Map

The Google map will help you find Iona (marked by the green arrow) in the British Isles. Have fun zooming in and out. You can even switch it into a “live” satellite map if that turns you on. For extra credit, see if you can map the distance from your house to Iona.

Preparing for Iona

PHOTO: Iona buttercups looking east to Mull

One of the guides I turned to when I was preparing for my pilgrimage to Iona was John O'Donohue. One morning, I opened his book of poetry, Conamara Blues, and I found one of my favorites, "Inner Circle." In that poem, he refers to life as "a festival of vivid presence." I thought that this is a lovely way to describe the day to day journey of the body, the heart and the soul. He suggests that the heart holds the wisdom we tend to look for in God, scripture, even in time and the reward - and the consequences - of our doing-ness. Instead, the poet suggests that we lighten the burdens of mind and body by being still and listening. By practicing "vivid presence," we learn to hear what is true.

Here is John O'Donohue's "Inner Circle" followed by a poem I wrote that was inspired by his vision.

Inner Circle
John O’Donohue (from Conamara Blues)

Stranger sometimes than the yellow crochet (*)
Of glimpses that civilize the dark, or the
Shelter of voices who stall the dead
Silence that longs to return to stone,
Stranger is the heart, a different scripture,
Weighed down by thoughts of gods
Who will never emerge, to recommend
One way above another to anywhere,
Lest they distract from the festival
Of vivid presence, where journeys are not
Stretched over distance, and time
Is beyond the fatality of before and
After, and elsewhere and otherwise
Do not intrude on day or night.

*crochet: a small hook; an odd, whimsical or stubborn notion


Vivid Presence
Linda Mastro, March 4, 2010

There are no vendors
or carnival rides
at the festival of vivid presence.

In the hush of the cornfield,
flattened by amusements
come and gone,
another image shimmers
on the horizon.

Down the gravel lane
a man walks toward the
setting sun
unafraid of the red glow
at the end of the day.
He welcomes the solitude
and the graying darkness
on the shoulder of the quiet country road
where no traffic disturbs the stillness.

The man turns east and walks
to a new day.
One step then the next
marks the present.
The psalms of each heart beat
carry him home.

What to Remember When Waking

~ David Whyte (House of Belonging)

In that first
hardly noticed
moment
to which you wake,
coming back
to this life
from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
which closes
the moment
you begin
your plans.

What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.

What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.

To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.

To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.

You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.

Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love? What shape
waits in the seed
of you to grow
and spread
its branches
against a future sky?

Is it waiting
in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the waiting desk?

Pilgrimage to Iona, June 2010

In June, I spent a week on the island of Iona in Scotland. My first visit to this tiny island was in 2000. I knew then that I would return. I got the opportunity to go back when I signed up for a pilgrimage sponsored by the Shalem Institute. Home now for almost a month, I am mining my journal and photos for memories and insights about waking up and living a full, genuine life. I will share some of what I am learning for those of you who are on a similar journey. You might also enjoy the posts if you want to know more about Scotland, Shalem, Iona and me.

Vision and routine lead to awakening

"The key to development along the Buddhist path is repetitive routine guided by inspirational vision. It is the insight into final freedom—the peace and purity of a liberated mind—that uplifts us and impels us to overcome our limits. But it is by repetition—the methodical cultivation of wholesome practices—that we cover the distance separating us from the goal and draw ever closer to awakening." Ven. Bhikkhu Bodhi, "Vision and Routine" (Summer 2010), Tricycle Daily Dharma, 7/17/10

The Opening of Eyes

David Whyte


That day I saw beneath dark clouds
The passing light over the water
And I heard the voice of the world speak out
I knew then as I have before
Life is no passing memory of what has been
Nor the remaining pages of a great book
Waiting to be read

It is the opening of eyes long closed
It is the vision of far off things
Seen for the silence they hold
It is the heart after years of secret conversing
Speaking out loud in the clear air

It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees
Before the lit bush
It is the man throwing away his shoes
As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished
Opened at last
Fallen in love
With Solid Ground

To wonder anew

Linda Mastro

To wake each day as if reborn
To sleep each night as if life is over
Then everything in between sleeping and waking
is a grateful gift, to be cherished
for its unexpected ordinariness
and praised for its sublime surprise.

No molecule is a mistake.
The simplest gesture changes the world.
- Give that smile freely
- Accept the hug generously
In the giving and in the taking
wonder anew, each, time,
at the grace bestowed in
the waking and the sleeping and the waking again.