I enter quietly into the spacious community room. Nearly fifty chairs are set up in a large circle. A small table, adorned with a single burning candle and an old farm bell, stands in the middle. I take my seat and watch as the light of early morning before sunrise stealthily enters the room. Taking a few deep breaths, I close my eyes.
I am the first of our group to arrive this morning on the fifth day of our pilgrimage with John Philip Newell and Cami Twilling on the island of Iona on the western coast of Scotland.
Earlier in the week we had hiked to the northern beach of the three and half mile long island, to a place called Martyrs Bay. We were re-introduced to the Celtic cathedral of earth, sea, and sky, blending together into a single tapestry. It is a place where one can readily sense the deep connection to the sacred element of all created matter, including each of us.
It is also here, John Philip reminds us, that 68 Celtic Christian monks were slaughtered in 806 A.D. during a Viking raid on the Iona Abbey. The profane and violent layered on the sacred and enriching.
It is also here where we created on the shore a mandala of stone, seaweed, and grasses. Each person said brief words about the gathered stones as we placed them in quadrants representing earth, air, water, and fire. Our words abounded with yearning expressions of hope, compassion, justice, and love.
The same sandy beach where our mandala took shape had run red with the blood of the monks. We were invited to acknowledge both the tranquility and the violence that so often run together in our broken, beautiful world.
We stood quietly as the late afternoon sun cast shadows transfiguring our body shapes on the sand.
Days later in the quiet of this fifth morning sitting with my eyes closed, I hear a slight swish of the door followed by footfalls upon the floor as the pilgrims enter the room and make their way to a seat. First, it is one person at a time, then multiple sounds of entry layer upon each other. Some foot sounds are light like ballet dancers, and others heavier like beasts of burden. I hear a few canes tapping along the wooden floor. Some chairs creak as their occupants settle in. There are recurrent rustlings of papers and jackets directed to their spots on and underneath chairs. The cacophony increases until a moment when the room returns to stillness, like birds in the trees during a solar eclipse. I hear Cami rise from her chair, walk to the center of the room, and sound the bell to begin our morning meditation.
I open my eyes. The rays of the risen sun are now shimmering on one wall. The first movement of the day’s symphony has ended, and the second one is dawning. There will be harshness in the world this day. There will also be those who recognize the light of love and the sound of hope. Let me be in that number.
By: Terry Allebaugh
October, 2024