Pilgrimage in Iona
Pilgrimage in Iona
(20 October 2005 after walking the wild peat bog on Iona)
I passed some tourists on my way here
hunched down against the weather
scurrying along to return to warmth and comfort
following the clearly marked road
hoods held low against
blocking the wind and rain
blocking the bog and rock
hands laden with bags of goodies
tokens of their time here.
I passed the shops and centres
leaving behind the known and comfortable
found my gate immersed in mud and dung
and began my pilgrimage.
I face the wind with empty hands
and eyes open
heading to a known site
with vague notions of a route
ready to be lost, buffeted,
baptised in the windswept bog.
Some would say this is an empty hard land
wet and difficult
to be travelled with care occasionally
only when the need was large enough.
As I wander determinedly into the wild
I know this place as thin space,
God’s eternity
leaking through as the brown wet leaks into my boots
sticking to me as the peat bog crawls up my trousers
chiselling me as the wind whips through and round me.
Stark beauty lurks as water lies just beneath each step
moss, heather, grass interwoven in complex patterns
defying dismissal or belittling
tufts offering safe passage through glistening paths.
Lichened rock crags rising out
so deeply sunk
etched deep with life and nature’s grinding forces
static ancient stone
quiet sentinels to the holy and profane
silent keepers of the story here.
Borrowed boots keep me upright.
I have now way but through
trusting
hoping
I will not disappear.
I cannot stay lillie white and untouched here.
I am a pilgrim
slowly becoming part of this land
as this land slowly covers me.
I am stripped bare of all my pretences
distractions are laid aside
replaced with necessity and care.
I cannot hide in this low divinity
I can only let go
be washed in this rising rain
pulled out into this space
drawn in to the divine flicker within.
I am
And no more.
(20 October 2005 after walking the wild peat bog on Iona)
I passed some tourists on my way here
hunched down against the weather
scurrying along to return to warmth and comfort
following the clearly marked road
hoods held low against
blocking the wind and rain
blocking the bog and rock
hands laden with bags of goodies
tokens of their time here.
I passed the shops and centres
leaving behind the known and comfortable
found my gate immersed in mud and dung
and began my pilgrimage.
I face the wind with empty hands
and eyes open
heading to a known site
with vague notions of a route
ready to be lost, buffeted,
baptised in the windswept bog.
Some would say this is an empty hard land
wet and difficult
to be travelled with care occasionally
only when the need was large enough.
As I wander determinedly into the wild
I know this place as thin space,
God’s eternity
leaking through as the brown wet leaks into my boots
sticking to me as the peat bog crawls up my trousers
chiselling me as the wind whips through and round me.
Stark beauty lurks as water lies just beneath each step
moss, heather, grass interwoven in complex patterns
defying dismissal or belittling
tufts offering safe passage through glistening paths.
Lichened rock crags rising out
so deeply sunk
etched deep with life and nature’s grinding forces
static ancient stone
quiet sentinels to the holy and profane
silent keepers of the story here.
Borrowed boots keep me upright.
I have now way but through
trusting
hoping
I will not disappear.
I cannot stay lillie white and untouched here.
I am a pilgrim
slowly becoming part of this land
as this land slowly covers me.
I am stripped bare of all my pretences
distractions are laid aside
replaced with necessity and care.
I cannot hide in this low divinity
I can only let go
be washed in this rising rain
pulled out into this space
drawn in to the divine flicker within.
I am
And no more.
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