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.