Posts Tagged ‘island’

I hadn’t expected it and maybe it was the change from the slate blue lake to the closeness of the green of the island, but once I set foot upon Innisfallen, I knew it was a special place. I wonder if, as I suspect,  it is inherently spiritual or if the centuries of learning, contemplative practice and service make it a place more spiritual than most.

I wonder if that is possible, that any one place can be more alive than others. I doubt it.

I suspect very strongly that Innisfallen is inherently spiritual, but I also suspect very strongly that the years of work that happened there make that spirituality more available to the dull senses of the all-too-common and limited human.

At any rate, as soon as I set foot upon the island, I knew. It was like seeing a lovers face after a long absence, but it was also the thrill of new love; the excitement of seeing new life and knowing that that life is surfacing from somewhere deep within the cosmos, emerging here for whatever reason. I knew it, and I was thankful for knowing it.

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Imagine the Dagda and Lugh and Ogma journeying across Ireland to find the oak of two blossoms. To regain their sovereignty. The harp. The music of the land.

They had no insurance. There was no store. They could not just make a new one. They had to regain their sovereignty. The music of the land.

High stakes. Life or death.

We  are on that same journey.

Journeying through time. Through our souls, we are journeying to recapture the harp, the music of the land from the Fomorians. We are journeying to recapture our sovereignty from ourselves.

High stakes.
Life or death.
Up to you.

Sometimes, in my mind, the gift of voice and word of Ogma are still powerful. Sometimes, he tells me the story:

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There is an island where there is a spear-burning river that keeps us away from the calves. Such a river need not be deep to protect the calves. Go, dip your spear in that shallow river and watch. Even small things can weigh heavy here. The calves of this island are calves, but appear to our young eyes to be great and magnificent oxen. Yet they are calves. The river is shallow. The herdsman on this island is huge.

Pay heed to the herdsman.

Don’t cross the burning river.

Even small meals must prepared. The branch must be given time to blossom the nourishing apples. The calf cannot will itself to grow. The mothers of the calves, we learn, are on the other side of this island. We must travel to the other side of the island. We must leave the calves and travel to the mothers on the other side of the island.

Pay heed to the herdsman.

Don’t cross the burning river.
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But so that I may reveal
The secret of this island
to you
inquire of me.

-The Woman of the Fortress

Do not be alarmed.

Most of us in the western world today are in trouble even before we are in trouble. We are in trouble because of the greatest secret in our society. The greatest secret for most of us in the western world is simply “who am I?” This secret causes most of the problems we have in our world.

When we are raided, this trouble is in trouble. And that is the trouble.

Put away blissful ignorance.

Put away the safety of religion. Put away petty obsessions and reckless addictions. Forget the hiding places you have sought out and furnished comfortably over the years.

It is time to put away blissful ignorance and come out of hiding.

With no more blissful ignorance, we can no longer act as if we are not in trouble. We can no longer hide. We know we are in trouble.

This, then, is our ordeal.

The beast on this island is turning, revolving. Its skin rotates around its bones. Its bones churn around within its skin.

Do not be alarmed.
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To find the beginning of the birthing, we must be willing to continue, we must be willing to sail on to the next island. It is there that we find a door with a valve.

The valve turned by willingness.

The valve opened by willingness will allow the nourishing salmon from the sea into the house.

Consider the wisdom of the salmon. Consider our wisdom that blinded us and deafened us to the riders and their races. Consider our wisdom that created giant red ants and hound footed horses to devour us.

Consider the wisdom of the salmon.

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Crossing the short bridge, I hadn’t expected it,
mainland to island,
so

to those who remain:
this is my prayer, at last.
I dare not intrude.

Yes,
rain was expected, clouds blackening, rolling
on whispering prayers in the hearth warmed room,
filled with the scent of peat and whiskey,
songs and tears. Rusting boats quiver
below red hills of Achill,
What fitting weather

for grief.

Had it been expected? Had death’s cloud rolled in
over grey waters? Had they suddenly appeared?
Sideways rain outside, taking thoughts away from grief,
what fitting weather

for a wake.

Wind, grieving brother,
the sideways rain, all the tears
of a widow’s grief,

and I, intruding.

Driving slowly through the storm, driving slowly
through the grief in my naked visitorship,
Driving slowly past the rocking boats
and spraying surf, driving slowly
past the family and friends huddled
against themselves, making their way
to the fire’s glow.

And then,
a bit farther up the road, farther
into the storm smudged hills, we stopped
dangerously close to true lands end,
where the sudden green of the cliff stood fast
against sky and water.

We stopped at that lands end but,
not driven by love, not pursued
by grief or society, we stayed in the car,

and wept:
Three years later, I will say a prayer
for those that remain.
I will say a prayer to keep me
from intruding.

After a while, wanting to be away from the awe
of natures cycles, the storm left,
moving inland. Or was it merely
I was now moving outland, leaving
storms behind?

To those who remain:
this is my prayer, at last.
I dare not intrude.