Belly Crawling & Hard Trekking

STAFFA

On Monday, guests at the McLeod Centre were invited to visit the volcanic island of Staffa. I enjoyed the rather bouncy hour-plus boat ride with my new friends, thankful I’m not prone to seasickness.  Upon arriving at Staffa and clambering out onto the narrow landing area, however, I realized I’d developed significant vertigo.  Watching the sky tilting back and forth reinforced my earlier decision not to try the Cliffside path to Fingal’s Cave (home of the mythical giant protector of the people of Ireland). I briefly considered finding a seat on a nearby rock and awaiting my companions’ tales of their adventures. But I decided this is the kind of thing you end up regretting later, so I gritted my teeth and began the climb to the top of the island (possibly easier than the cave…).

Anyone who knows me will tell you stairs and I are not good friends on the best day.  As I pulled myself up these very steep steps, with a death-grip on the distressingly movable railing, I was afraid to look down.  Watching the cliff above moving with the vertigo, I was only praying I’d figure out how to get back down. Staggering to the top, I saw a rolling sort of meadow (of course, everything was rolling at that point!) with small trails stretching off into the distance.  Too much distance.

A passing visitor told me basking sharks were visible in the water down below. Hmm. I was still much too dizzy to walk near the cliff edge, but I really wanted to see.  I inched as close as I could on my feet, then flopped down and crawled to the edge on my belly. The sharks were easy to spot (they were being circled by three tour boats). There was an amazing vista of rocks, sea and sky. It was mesmerizing, maybe even more so as my brain made it dip and turn.

Sometimes you get to see the cool stuff even if you have to crawl (and obviously I did get back down).

PILGRIMAGE

One of the things that drew me to this trip – apart from the fact that the whole concept was completely out of my comfort zone – was the pilgrimage walk. Joining an ancient Christian tradition, even in a small way, was intriguing. And the fact that it was seven miles long seemed like a good incentive to get into better physical shape. I worked at losing weight and walked several miles every day. I was really ready for this.

The delusional nature of this belief became evident as soon as we left the road. Of our group of forty-some, I was dead last the entire way, except for the “sweeper” whose job it was to make sure slowpokes didn’t get left alone in the wilderness. It was difficult. Really difficult. Aside from the odd glimpse of those ahead, usually disappearing around a bend, I couldn’t look at anything but my feet and the terrain a few steps in front.  I couldn’t stop to admire the lovely heather, didn’t savor the no-doubt-inspiring rocky vistas. Just the feet, trudging slowly.

But what I did see – and feel – was the exquisite kindness of my companions: offering a hand over a particularly boggy spot (I frequently sank anyhow), suggestions on where to put my feet in a steep area, a piece of marble from the quarry, a “Would it help if I took your backpack?” Not just on the hike – innumerable offers of snacks, suitcase help, an arm to get down the steps, on the rest of the trip. As someone whose “regular” life is aimed mostly at helping others, it’s revealing to be on the receiving end. Thank you all, so much.“And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love…”

       -- Sue O'Hara 

Going Home to God

After traveling through a sleepless night, in a barely big enough seat, we landed in Glasgow, Scotland. The next several hours were an up-close-and-personal bus ride on roads that were not wide enough for a minicooper, nevermind two buses heading in opposite directions.  Time and time again, we were queued up, waiting for vehicles to cross a small bridge, or to back into a cut-out on the side of the road to give right of passage to our mammoth bus. With every hairpin turn came the wonder of awestruck eyes, enjoying waterfalls, lochs, mountains, lonely dwellings nestled into the landscape, and mountainous seascapes never seen before.  Wheels rolled down the hillside, entering a small fishing community on Scotland's amazing coast: Oban.

Two if by sea: the next three legs of our journey consisted of two ferry trips and a fabulous trek across Scotland's Isle of Mull.  One of the concerns amidst us was the weather.  Since our arrival, we experienced misty rain. From Oban to Mull, we quickly learned that even when the weather clears, wait two minutes and it will change again.  In the distance, portside, what is that!?  As far as the eye can see, pastures: with a lonely castle rising off the island's outermost tip. 

Our second ferry trip was not as interesting as the first, probably due to the fact that it was only a wee-bit of a voyage, a mile at most.  As we disembarked the ferry, onto the Isle of Iona, we were greeted by residents, as well as a trip back in time, to a place where God, community, hospitality and kindness are the pillars of life. Unknown to me, my journey was about to begin. 

The Isle of Iona inspired yet another journey--inward. Was it prayer, song, community, ancient Celtic crosses, the Abbey? Iona's whole is so much greater than the sum of its parts. Worship is an integral part of everyday life, apparent in the noticable absence of the word "Amen" to end morning prayer service, allowing worship to be woven with the day's work.

There is a strong sense of the presence of God on Iona and also an essence of connectedness between God and the island. This connection can be felt throughout the island's untold sacred locations.  One in particular was  a rock circle erected over 1500 years ago, where 50 of us sat in silence for 3 minutes, together, yet somehow alone with God. We could have sat there, all of us, all day, without saying a word. I think we all experienced quintessential connectedness with God for those three minutes of reflection. Speaking in silence, I thanked Phuong and Reverend Ron for bringing me along on this awe-inspiring journey. The Isle of Iona, where all are welcome, is a piece of heaven on earth.  A place known as thin, taking me home to God.  -- Tim Connolly

Stepping Lightly on the Bog & Beyond

I had never walked on bog before.

Iona is a strange island. Every edge has a beach, and every beach is different, from the beach on the north end, filled with beautiful white sand where we met Anna and Roger swimming, to Colomba Bay, which is so rocky that you risk a twisted ankle with every step. In between are hills so steep and full of rock formations that they seem like mountains, covered with heather and grasses that are every shade of green. And in the valleys of those hills is bog. As I plodded and bounded and walked up and down those hills on our pilgrimage, bog seems to be the perfect metaphor for Iona. "Step lightly," we were told. "If you step lightly, everything will be fine." And everything was fine, if muddy. Stepping lightly is what the Iona community is about. The community worries about being ecofriendly, composting, recycling: stepping lightly in the environment. But beyond that, how many of us trudge through our days, walking on and over people, ignoring those who need us, just trying to get by? Step lightly is a phrase that conjures up images of not just walking quickly, but joyfully. Not being buried under the weight of worries about work and family and life, but letting go of those cares. Not forgetting them, but re-prioritizing, and allowing God to take the burden. Further, stepping lightly works on bogs (as long as the water ratio isn't *too* high) because the plant life binds together. One plant could never bear the weight of a person; however, thousands intertwined can support you. If that's not what a true community does, working together to support all the members, then what is? And Iona is community defined. I think many of us were surprised at how quickly relationships formed, how friendly and accepting everyone was. Even when you didn't know someone's name, they still were a part of your group. You walked with them, you served them food, you chatted. You played Flip, smack-talked and fought over Phuong's cookies. For that week, we truly were a community and I can't help but hope my path crosses with our new friends again. And that I manage to get the mud out of my clothes from when I didn't quite manage to step lightly enough.  -- Rebecca Viser

Walking That Silly Labyrinth

On a cold and rainy afternoon in Iona, Rev Ron decided to create our labyrinth on the beach.  I half-heartedly went along.  When I got to the beach, Rev Ron was already drawing circles in the sand with Anna’s (our adopted Dutch friend) pointed-tip umbrella.  Mary was holding a piece of paper with a copy of the labyrinth design alongside him.  All others (there were about 10 of us) were scattered about picking up rocks and shells by the water.  I sat on a big rock by the road with my ski parka shell on.  I could hear the raindrops spattering on the hood of my parka.  Rev Ron must think this is fun.  I was sleepy and cold.  I thought about my bunk bed at the McLeod Center and the puffy white comforter.  Before I could doze off, Mary came over and said I need to go pick up things to decorate the labyrinth.  I walked by the labyrinth to the beach.  I saw two crooked twigs tied together with seaweed in the middle of the labyrinth.  I asked Roger  (our adopted Dutch friend) what it was. 

 He seemed offended, "t’s a cross I made," he said.  "It doesn’t look like a cross," I said, "it’s a crooked plus sign." Everyone had their shoes off.  Not me, I’m not walking on the cold wet sand with my bare feet.  I began picking up shells, one by one, from the sand.  When I had a handful, I took them back to the labyrinth and placed them on the lines Rev Ron drew, circling the crooked cross.  This is going to take forever.  (Dutch) Roger came over to where I was squatting on the sand with his pebbles and said, "Wow, look how pretty the labyrinth looks already with all the shells."  Really?  He began lining his pebbles next to my shells. I stood up and examined our work.  It does look sort of pretty, I thought to myself.  Rev Ron said, "Let’s walk the labyrinth."  The umbrella tip stabbed in the sand marked the entrance to the labyrinth.  OK, let’s get this over with so we can go back to dry land.  I was the first to begin.  As I took the first few steps, I’m thinking, this is silly, kiddie drawings in the sand, a bunch of crazy adults walking around in circles on the beach, in the pouring rain, I wonder what the passerbys think of us…I kept walking. I began thinking what a labyrinth is.  It is similar to a maze because of the concentric circles and lines, but upon closer inspection, it’s different from a maze.  There is only one way in and one way out.  It doesn’t try to trick you and lead you to dead-ends like a maze does. I’ve never walked a labyrinth  before.  No one spoke. Everyone seemed absorbed in their own thoughts. My steps slowed and became more deliberate. There is only one path to God, and that is through his Son. Each step I take on this path is a step closer to God. Each step toward the center and toward the cross reaffirms my commitment to Him. This is a serious promise, like a couple renewing their wedding vows, but even more so. I reached the center of the labyrinth. I had just renewed my covenant with God. I turned around and began walking back, a little disappointed that I reached the center so quickly. I passed (Dutch) Roger as he was making his way toward the center. He was holding rosary beads in one hand and his lips were moving silently.   I stepped out of the path so as not to collide with him. He shook his head, turned his body sideways and said, no, we share the path. After everyone had walked the labyrinth, Rev Ron gathered us around to say a prayer. We huddled in a circle, arms around each other, heads down, and rain dripping off hairs, hats and hoods. We were all smiling, as if we just shared a big secret. A commitment to God also means a commitment to each other. We are interconnected, intertwined, and interwoven threads of the same fabric. We are all of the same body and of the same blood. I had learned that a long time ago, but had not really given it much thought. Somewhere between the silly lines in the sand and our circle of arms in the rain, I was awakened and reminded that the path to Christ is not an isolated path. As the Iona community emphasizes in their intentionally-inclusive daily activities—their ecumenical worship, dormitory living and sharing of tasks and meals, our worship flows into our daily living. We are all on the same path. Our love of God is inseparable from our love of humanity. Sometimes we have to step out of our comfort zone into the rain to see that more clearly. -- Phuong Bui