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

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.