Pilgrimage, Day 5 - Cong Abbey and Inchgoaill Island

Yesterday had been full and this day's theme was SILENCE & SOLITUDE. I dare say that most, if not all of us were introverts, so this day of silence (for the most part) was eagerly anticipated.

Our van driver John and his wonderful ride picked us up at the Adare Guesthouse bright and early and we sat out for Cong Ireland, and a visit to the Abbey. 

Meet John our driver for the week. He thought he was just a driver,
but he is a monk, a contemplative. He enters into all the prayers and rituals,
and his presence is hospitality and peace. Thank you John, with heartfelt gratitude.

Cong is a beautiful little town, the filming location for John Wayne's The Quiet Man. Jim (my husband) is impressed that I came home from Ireland wanting to watch a John Wayne movie. This photo, one of the first I took in Cong, I took for here! Here you go Sweetie, I did think of you while I was there!

Big John always draws a crowd!

John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara, The Quiet Man

Christine and John ushered us into the big green space of the Abbey, and we had our morning prayer, praying in the four directions:

To the East, awaiting dawn and awakening, the bringer of light, early morning, and the rising sun. It's element is the wind. What is awakening in me today, here in this place of pilgrimage?

To the South, welcoming the noonday sun, illumination. It's element is fire. What is being illuminated in my life? What am I seeing clearly? What brings warmth to my soul?

To the West, the setting sun, dusk, letting go, limitations. It's element is water. Where am I noticing my limitations? What am I being called to let go of? How comfortably do I find myself being drawn to just enter the flow, letting o and allowing the River to take me?

For added emphases, our view to the North opened onto  a wall under construction
and a vie of the cemetery glimpsed through the scaffolding.

And to the North, the deepest night, the longest sleep It's element is earth. I came from the earth, and I will return to the earth. How does the earth call to me?

And we listened for our own personal prayer, mine: open, listen, flow, home. For me, these four words went with these four directions: as I awake, my invitation is to OPEN my heart, my soul, my mind and my spirit. As I continue through the day, I LISTEN and watch and hear and see what Spirit is saying and doing in my own life. As the Great River flows through my day, I enter into the FLOW, partnering and cooperating with the River. At the end of the day, I find myself HOME, in my own skin, truly, quietly, splendidly home where I belong, rooted and ground in Love's Center, in my own center, here, now.

After we finished morning prayer, we followed Christine across the bridge, through the archway, and across the threshold into the most beautiful forest I've been in since the Redwood Forest of our own country's northwest. Here we were invited to an hour of blessed quiet, and time to wander and explore the forest on our own.  Typically, I'm an open-sky kind of girl. I love being able to see far, and to breathe in the openness of a treeless environment (or short trees), but once in a while it's a great thing to be invited to the heart of a deep wood, to be encircled, to be still and quiet, to hear only the silence of the earth as She breathes. I sat for a while and journalled, and just listened to the stillness of the earth, the water flowing, and the song of the birds. And I listened to the ancient voices of the trees towering above me, "May you be as deeply grounded in the Love of God as we are in this moist, rich earth. Let your roots sink deep into Love's Ground. Be fastened there, held in the heart of Love."

How often on our pilgrim journey are we invited to "cross over"?

My sitting spot

 

I was always conscious that my feet had brought me here.
I remembered when my feet were so "lame", and my prayer from
Hind's Feet on High Places. I'm so grateful for feet that can travel.

Here I am...I am HERE in this lovely place, and I BELONG here.

Finally, I pulled myself up and began to walk the path of the deep woods, listening to the quiet sounds of the morning, once more reveling in the fact that I was HERE, in this beautiful space, and I belonged here. I was called here. This is part of my destiny, to be here, now.

The trail ended at this large castle, but I wasn't ready to
enter the bustle, so I turned around and headed back into the woods.

After I finished my walk, I had tea and a scone in the Happy Monk Cafe (of course). As we once more began to gather, I snapped a few photos of this magical little town, then we headed for lunch on the boat and our cruise to the island of Inchgoaill. 

How appropriate!

Tea Time

Prior John and John the drive wait for us to gather.
Christine's there, too, sitting behind Prior John.

Our ride to Inchgoaill Island and our captain

 

Rebecca and Barbara (who loves hats and has an awesome collection)

Polly and Zohra

Alix

Marie, Maura and John

Appropriate title for our afternoon

Polly and Alix 

Zohra

Sheila, Martha Louise and Lisa

The landing

Lough Corrib is the largest lake in Ireland, and there are 365 small islands on the lake. Inchgoaill is the most famous and also the 4th largest. The word Inchgoaill means "home of the stranger". I'm supposing it got its name from the story that St. Patrick was banished there when he first came to Ireland. The monastic ruins on the islands date back to the 5th Century.

This archway dates these ruins. The saint on the far right is St. Brigit,
the only woman who's face is carved in the stone.

Arches and thresholds - how many are we invited to pass through
along our own inner journey?

I am every mindful that what we see around us lies within us.
Lush greenry, ancient ruins, altars, stone and earth -
it's all INSIDE of us. There is no inside.
There is no outside.

Little windows letting in slivers of light.

The first site we visited on Inchgoaill was "Teampall Na Naoimh" translated as the "Church of the Saints". It is believed that this church was built by the Agustian Monks of Cong circa 1180 A.D. At that time between monks and lay scholars there were about 3,000 people in the monestary of Cong. For this reason the monks needed a place of peace and quiet to pray and meditate and so the Church of the Saints was built.

The stone of Lugnad and St.Patrick's church are situated quiet close to each other, about 100 meters west of Teampall Na Naoimh. More that any other monument on the Island the stone of Lugnad has captured the attention of the most renowned archaeologists. The 5th century inscription on the stone which is still legible to-day reads "Lia Lugnaedon Macc Lmenueh". It is believed that St Patrick and his nephew (who was also his navigator) came to Cong in the middle of the 5th Century to spread the Christian faith. The Pagan druids who were very powerful people at the time had St. Patrick and his nephew banished to Inchagoill Island. This is how the Island got its name - Inis an Ghaill(the Island of the Stranger). While building their church Lugnad died and was buried on the Island. It is interesting to note that the stone has the shape of a boats rudder tying in with the theory that Lugnad was St. Patrick's navigator. We believe that Limanin was St. Patrick's sister.Many archologists claim that this inscription is the oldest Christian inscription in Europe apart from one found in the Catacombs of Rome.

Our captain and guide has always been a part of this lake and island,
carrying on his father's legacy. Maura to the left, and Polly to his right.

Following the path to St. Patrick's little church

Stone walls and doorways - so symbolic of the openings in our stony hearts.

The stone of Lugnad

After the boat ride back to Cong and the ride back to the Adare Guesthouse in Galway, we had a lovely (noisy) dinner at the Ard Bia in Galway. The Valters-Paintners certainly know how to eat. I've never had such good food as I ate while I was in Ireland, from the breakfasts that Grainne served each morning at our BnB to the lovely dinners we had in the evenings.

And I cannot close this blog post without remembering Trinity Sunday last week at St. Timothy's, the rousing processional hymn we sang, I Bind Myself Today

As we sang this lovely hymn, I was transported back to Inchgoaill Island and St. Patrick's story. I am so grateful for his testimony of love and trust in the the Trinity. At the end of church, I took this photo to post for my pilgrim monk community. I do believe St. Patrick was there!

Christ beside me,

Christ before me,

Christ be behind me

King of my heart;

Christ be within me.

Another Kind of Community

I've been asked "What was your favorite thing about Ireland? or your trip?" I've really thought about that a lot, because there are so many gifts, and they keep coming.

But something came to me this morning as I was once more thinking about that question. I think - better still, I feel deep in my bones - that one of the most precious gifts of pilgrimage was/is "community". Christine and John Valters Paintner of Abbey of the Arts have a real gift of forming community, and doing it quickly. I so value their emphasis on and value of community. 

From the very first moment we gathered in the parlor of the Adare Guesthouse, the emphasis was "We are a community of pilgrims on the road together". It amazes me still how quickly all these personalities became One, and that sense of connection to them still feeds my soul.

From Left to Right: Maura, Lisa, John, Rebecca, Zohra
Heath, Alix, Polly, Sheila, Marie, Martha Louise, Barbara, Christine
Monks on the Wild Edges, 2014

I've heard it said that real community sees all of you, your worst and your best and makes space for both, and I get that. And we need that, we hunger to be known at our worst and still loved to our best.

But what if we ALSO need a space that holds us at our very best? a space that only calls for our goodness. What if  "real" community is at it's core a "family" of wholeness? What if the "best me" that those pilgrim monks saw for 8 days IS the true me? What if the depth of goodness that I sensed in each person IS the "real" them? It's a glorious thing to be held, believed, and honored as "holy". What a gift to be with flesh and blood that's never seen or experienced my broken ego self.   Something inside me has opened and room has been made for the "holy me", not just the broken me.  I am a part of several communities here locally. Some of them know, honor, and lift up the broken me, and I so cherish them.I don't know how I'd make it through life without them; but there is a community here on the face of this earth, right now, who knows and loves my True Self, my God Self - and it's the only Self they they've ever seen. My True Self is all they know.

I remember listening to a tape one morning and Richard Rohr was talking about Jesus being the Son of God. He marveled (and so do I) at what it would be like to be carried in the womb for nine months by a woman who continually whispered, "You are God".  What if each one of us were told 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year that we are holy, compassionate, good, honorable, beautiful, and a child of God. I suspect that would pull God into and out of us in a beautiful way.

And I experienced that for 8 days. For 8 days I was privileged to be a part of a community who sang to ME (looking me in the eye) each time we met, "Holy is this One". And they didn't just sing it, they meant it. And something inside me shifted just a little bit more.  For 8 days I never heard once about anything I had done wrong. For 8 days I felt, from my own True Self, compassion and mercy, gentleness and love oozing from every pore. I felt called to BE who I really and truly am, at my core.  I AM love.  And the community that held me for 8 days KNOWS that about me. I don't have to prove it to them. They KNOW it. It's all they've experienced of me. That's what they poured into me, that's what I received, and that's what I was empowered to give back.

And if there's a favorite thing about my trip to Ireland, it's the sense of community that I came home with. Thank you Pilgrim Monks. Thank you John and Christina. Now I know there's at least ONE group who has only experienced the REAL me, and they really believe that I AM the child of God. And they expect nothing less than the true Me to be.

A Day of Pilgrimage to Inishmore, at the Wild Edges of Ireland

Our theme for Friday, May 23, was "work and service". The themes are the core principles of living life as a monk, a monk's manifesto, part of a monk's public declaration of who they are and how they intend to live their lives. One of our pilgrim monks has written a number of beautiful haiku's expressing her joy of the journey (and ours). One of the poems she wrote expresses a haiku for each day's theme:

 Themes for Our Days Together

on the Wild Edge of Ireland

by Martha Louise Harkness

Hospitality ---

cells at the “Bed and Breakfast”

wombs of gratitude.

Community dance

promising life together

taken by the hand.

Work and service now?

What was it like to build then?

Deep, strong commitment.

Silence, solitude

Come away from the crowd, pray

just as Jesus did.

Sunday Sabbath time

What will I do with my day?

Hours just to Be.

Kinship with nature ---

What kind of creature am I?

Sister to the Earth.

Conversion is hope

processing all of life's gifts

again and again.

Creative joy – Dance!

Put your hand and heart to work ---

See what comes of it!

This day was to be a day that all of us had anticipated maybe a small sense of tripadition. The pilgrimage group previous, who went in March, had a really wild-edge experience on the ferry boat that day, much like those disciples who crossed the sea with Jesus. The day was stormy and the waves were huge, and a number of pilgrims had gotten sea sick, so we were strongly advised to take some sort of remedy for motion sickness. 

Bouncing on the waves

I am a waterfowl

Jesus meets me there

by Martha Louise Harkness

The day dawned cloudy and cold, but no rain, and we all walked to the bus station almost giggly in anticipation of "will I be the one to get sick?" We boarded the ferry in Rossaveel, scouting out the belly of the boat (the most stable place) and the bathrooms. We were all relieved when we arrived at our destination with no incident of any sickness. In fact, it was a rather enjoyable hour's voyage.

Our destination was Inishmore, the largest of the three Aran Islands. Our guide for the day was Dara Malloy, an ex-Roman Catholic priest, who is now a Celtic/Druid priest, a monk, and a guide for pilgrimages or tour groups. He blessed us with so many precious rituals and stories. Our time with him at the holy well not too far from his home was one of the highlights of this trip for me personally.

Dara Malloy, Celtic pries and guide for the day

Where we started our visit with Dara - a little village on Inishmore.
I found the "perfect" little necklace there, but had left my wallet
at the BnB.  Never saw another one like it. Still wish I had gotten it, a simple little "slab"
with a small cross and a spiral coming off the bottom of the cross,
to me, a perfect of blend of Christianity and Celtic (the Divine Feminine) spirituality

The first of a number of sites we visited on the island of Inishmore

Monastery crags

stone upon stone built by hands

sanctuary time

by Martha Louise Harkness (the monk in the blue jacket)

A couple of the sites we toured were Teampall Mhi Dhauch, a pre-Romanesque church with an early cross, a holy well, and the remains of an enclosing castle. And Teampall Bheanain, the ruins of perhaps the smallest ancient church ever.

Dara and some of our monks, from back to front, Alix and Polly, Lisa and Barbara,
 and I think the red jacket in the middle with the feet near the rocks is Maura.

  

Time fades memory of all the brain had a trouble grasping, but I believe
these thee stone are three dated headstones, with I think the smallest being the oldest,
but I will probably never know for sure.

Archways, thresholds, liminal spaces, windows - all sacred pictures
of the life of a soul.

But the most enduring time for me was when we visited the holy well near Dara's home. It was in a beautiful spot, with Atlantic Ocean in view, and tiny wildflowers everywhere. There are no trees so to speak on Inishmore, only a few small trees, like this hawthorn tree. There are usually hawthorn trees near holy wells in Ireland, and there all kinds of stories connecting hawthorns to fairies and witches and it "standing at the threshold of the Otherworld". Near this "rag tree", with its colorful prayer ribbons waving in the breeze, is a small hole in the ground, and there is the freshest water, a holy spot. The druids or the monks (who knows which) built a small enclosure around it shaped like a fish (if you look hard enough). Dara told us the story of the salmon of knowledge. As we listened to the story, one of the pilgrim monks near me whispered to me that it's obvious that the Celctic monks knew without a doubt that nature held a kind of wisdom that books never would be able to give us. I listened and took that into my heart. So many of us have lost that connection - our first connection to God and the holy was the world around, above and below us. It gave me a whole different perspective on the "Christian" image of the fish, and all the stories in Scripture of Jesus and the fish. Maybe he knew what Polly knows. Perhaps we are finding our way "home" to what Mother Earth has to tell us.

The hawthorn "rag tree" with it's ribbons flying -
how many have come to this sacred site to pray?

Zohra ties a ribbon to the tree representing our group of pilgrims.

The holy well

Making the rounds - we did 7. Notice the wall - what's left of a "fish-shaped" wall around the well site
marking the path that hundreds have walked before us.

Leaving that special place and moving to another - it's all sacred ground,
but then, the whole earth is sacred if we only have eyes to see
and hearts to know and believe.

Maybe this is Teampall Mhic Dhauch? I do remember Dara pointing out to us
three different phases of history at one site, but I'm not sure which anymore.

We had a lovely ritual here; we passed a scarf through the hole,
remembering our prayers, all who've come before us,
all who will come after, and for me, my own "passing through".

 And Dara talked about Mother Earth and the well being her womb. And I felt the presence of my own mother - how she nourished me before I was born, in my childhood, and over the past 12 years, here near me. I miss her still, but I felt her there, even as I feel her all around me so often. Because of that sacred moment, holy wells hold so much more significance for me than before. And the story of Jesus and the woman at the well takes on another depth of meaning to me - inside of us, our of our own deep dark places, our wombs, is living water. The sweetest most refreshing "water" we have to offer others comes from our own holy wells.

Dara also talked about baptism at this font at Teampall Mhic Dhauch. He compared it to a pilgrim's journey: a monk would travel in solitude, no knowing where he was going, but listening and learning all along the way until he felt a call to "stay". "Perhaps THIS is it?" he might think, so he'd settle down, thinking he might not need to journey anymore, but then one day, the call would rise up from deep inside, and he would know that he was not yet "there", so he'd get up and leave that spot and travel on, until finally he reached his "place of resurrection". That's where the monk would finally stay, perhaps in a hermitage still living a solitary life, or maybe near a community, serving others.

Dara explaining a pilgrim's journey to her "place of resurrection",
through the ritual of baptism.

That's been my story now for nearly 25 years. I have been a pilgrim on an inner journey now for a very long time.  And I thought I had "arrived" a number of times, only to find that the call to "get up and move on" stirred deep inside again. Today? I think maybe I've found my "place of resurrection". I have made a spiritual pilgrimage that has taken me far from my roots of the fundamentalist, evangelical Christianity of my father's house. I've pondered leaving Christianity all together. By my own definition at the age of 40, I'm no longer a Christian, but that definition is far too small. And for this time and space, I have finally found a spiritual tradition big enough to hold nature, women, myths and stories, science, and God all in the same space. I have found a spirituality that is full bodied, inclusive, exciting, tender, compassionate, and much more like Jesus than what I knew at forty. Maybe I'm home? or will I hear another call from deep within to "get up and move"? That door is always open, and if I hear that call, I will answer. But at the moment, I think my place is here, and my call now is to work and serve this community around me.

Me, sitting between the cross and another threshold -
have I found my place of resurrection?
or will I be once more called to "get up and move on"?

A monk's favorite view - the wild edges, a liminal space, the shore and the great sea.

A special thank you to Martha Louise Harkness for giving me permission to use her haiku's in my blog.