In the harshest conditions, peace still finds a way. In the coldest moments, hearts still warm with compassion – Walk For Peace USA

Squatting, with my jeans pulled down, I tried to relieve myself on the edge of the slippery culvert off Interstate 64 in Apex, North Carolina.

But suddenly I felt my knees buckle and I went down head first into the grass (I was trying to protect my new hip).

For privacy, I’d been attempting to hide myself between a parked car and my husband’s large down vest.

He quickly grabbed the collar of my jacket and yanked me up. Mission accomplished.

Because I just couldn’t hold it any longer.

We had been huddling in the cold for almost 4 hours.

---

We were standing in a line of thousands of people who had pulled their cars off of both sides of the highway’s shoulders, and here we waited.

Waiting, waiting for the Buddhist monks.

---

I had heard they were on a Walk for Peace that was traveling from Fort Worth, Texas to Washington, D.C.

On foot, some of them even barefoot.

I was there to witness and pay respect and to simply be in their presence. Just to get a glimpse as they passed through North Carolina.

We had no idea there would be throngs of people wanting to do the same thing.

An assortment of them- children and old folks, Black, Brown, Indian. Some held signs. Some waved flowers. Some came to be healed. I’m not sure what most people wanted.

But their faces seemed to me to be happy and expectant.

Many were radiant.

---

We had been instructed to stay quiet and only to bring our hands together and bow in prayer. And we were not to reach out to them or get in front of them. But we could follow along behind them and walk.

Throughout the day I felt the warmth and respect from those around me.

I’ve never been a part of a group like this. I’ve been to protests, but this was a different thing.

The air felt thick with promise. There was a restrained joy.

But mostly, there was a yearning. There was a hunger to see these men.

And finally the police escort lights were visible through the trees of the state park and the tiny figures moved closer.

Their saffron gold and brown robes moved along at a clip – they walked pretty fast.

I was holding my breath.

---

My nerves had been so jangled.

Throughout the long afternoon of waiting I had also been endlessly scrolling my text messages to get word about my sister.

She was being arrested in Minneapolis at that very same time.

She, along with other clergy, were protesting at the airport.

---

Later, I watched the media footage of them as they kneeled in the freezing cold, praying. They were bundled up, covered in ice and snow. Palms open to the sky.

And across the sidewalk a large group of fellow protesters chanted Let them pray /Let them pray.

And then one by one they were calmly taken away by the police, hands zip-tied and then put in a school bus.

This was all going on while I was waiting on the highway.

---

My sister is so beautiful anyway, but seeing her like that took my breath.

She had a glow like an aura around her face – like the saints in those medieval paintings. I was transfixed.

Her breath came out in icy puffs but you could see that she was praying. Eyes closed, her face was simply luminous.

---

Witnessing that scene was akin to receiving the beatific smile from the lively little monk who reached out to me and handed me flowers.

I couldn’t breathe, time slowed down and I felt golden warmth spread through my whole body.

As they passed, the glow went with them but a tiny bit, like holy pollen, brushed across my being.

I felt warm from the inside out and everything was shining.

---

My husband and I could barely speak the rest of the way home and into the evening. Something had changed and we didn’t want to disturb that.

And even now, remembering the event makes me tear up.

In this world that feels so broken, there are these beautiful things.

---

In these moments I feel hope. I no longer automatically default to that cynical vibe that believes that evil cannot be defeated.

Because I witnessed that mighty force that came walking bravely down the highway, undaunted and free.

A walk that embodied the hope that I’ve been searching for. The monks showed me what peace looks like.

I needed that because I’d forgotten.

---

Courage and hope in one day. It was a lot.

And now I’m trying to keep those smiling men with bare feet in my mind, front and center as I go about my ordinary day.

And of my sister kneeling and praying on the curb at the airport, both of these images interlace.

I want to hold the light of these holy people in my heart.

As a reminder of hope –

for joy, for peace and for love.

These days the sun slowly inches higher in the sky. The morning air seems brighter, crisper, in sharp contrast against the brown lawn.

The bluebirds are scoping out the nesting box (it has a new camera). They peek inside the hole and cock their little heads. Is this a home?

At the end of February or so they will start a family.

---

In January the world feels new.

And here in the kitchen a luminous softness radiates from my UV lightbox.

It almost feels like summer sun!

My desk is cleared off and I feel energized.

---

On New Year’s Eve my annual ritual is to light all of the candles in the house – Christmas pillars, tapers, votives, old tea lights, all of it.

I strike the matches to the wicks to burn away the old year.

On the fireplace mantle, in the kitchen, in the bedroom.

And I let them burn all the way down to hard disks.

And when they are all spent I bring out a slim bayberry taper that my sister gave me.

When lit, it’s fresh green balsam scent fills the whole house.

I pause and breathe deeply.

And meditate on what is real and true for me in the moment.

And I let go of last year’s energy.

Or I try to.

---

Back before Christmas I went into our attic storage area and dragged out a huge blue Rubbermaid container.

Inside were spiral notebooks of various sizes, some bound journals and some stacks of yellowed looseleaf papers.

Two of the tiny books had fake gold locks and keys.

My journals.

I drug them out mostly out of curiosity.

Should I sort out the “good stuff” and preserve it? Or just toss it all?

The lined pages were scrawls starting from my grade school years up until I was in my 30s.

Sigh.

---

What was important enough to write about?

Did I write well or was it (the dreaded word) trite?

I was curious to read and trepid at the same time.

Mostly I was just afraid of looking backwards.

I didn’t want to re-live some of that stuff.

Most of that stuff.

Let the past stay in the past.

---

So I had to steel myself before I started.

But after a quick taste from grade school 1975 (Robert Redford crazy), I deliberately left the bin open on the floor so I could dip into it at random.

For some reason it felt important to keep going.

Still it was kind of cool that things weren’t boxed up in chronological order.

It seemed easier to process the material this way: the heavy stuff alongside the ridiculous.

The sadness of my brother leaving home to go into the Navy.

The excitement of getting my first pet rat named Nicky.

The thrill of Halloween and riding our bikes all over town after dark.

Depression in high school after a huge breakup with my first crush.

The endless screeds about my weight.

And the tender entries from the days (and nights) after my kids were born.

The petty grievances against my sisters.

The blowsy love poems I wrote to my husband in college (gag).

And the running, always the running [see hip replacement].

The heartache with the sweet.

And of course the trite.

Anyway, I felt kind of brave for reading.

---

Turns out that the young diarest from the past was pretty great.

A lot of the time she was self-indulgent and silly and reactive.

And boy could she brood.

And most of the writing was lousy – boring observations and saccharine poetry.

But she was scrappy.

---

Because it wasn’t just that I had muscled through some challenging times, it was the fact that I wrote it all down.

When I was excited, hopeful and happy, yes.

But also when I was down and out and really struggling to see patches of light.

I was faithful to it.

That was me then.

And that is me now.

---

And it gives me a little boost now to see the grace in the simple continuity of writing.

Yeah just a bin in the attic, but still.

I was a writer.

---

So I’m looking forward to this coming New Year and having some days of inspiration.

At least I’m hopeful.

I have no doubt there will be writer’s block, inertia and plain old laziness.

And bad poetry.

But this morning as I flip on my lightbox and shuffle across the kitchen to brew my coffee, I can feel the warmth of the day’s possibility.

It fills up the room.

---

My dusty journals are stowed away – all the old angst is buttoned down.

But what I hold front and center are the journals’ intermittent words of bright optimism.

Because as a whole, those actually eclipsed all the rest.

Joy and discovery in the mundane minutia of the day-to-day blah.

Kind of a hodgepodge mess – hardly a linear black and white enterprise.

Seasonally disordered at best, like me.

---

So a new candle, a New Year and a new box to fill.

Today I will write.

Some people say that hip replacement surgery is a piece of cake. I think they say this because they forget the pain.

The white hot pain in the night that won’t let you sleep.

The bone on bone ache deep in the upper thigh.

The helplessness.

They don’t like to remember tenderly unpeeling the blood-crusted bandage for the first time.

The horror of the inflamed Frankenstein scar, but also the astonishment at how the body is repairing itself.

---

Post- surgery reminds me a little bit like labor and childbirth.

The indescribable pain, the heightened focus.

The way the injured area dictates every movement of the body with the clarity of the survival instinct.

And now later, the way you forget the pain.

---

These past 6 weeks added to a huge portfolio of respect – the one that I have on file for my husband.

You hear the phrase they showed up about people, but did I ever think it would involve him gently guiding my dangling foot into the opening of my underwear as I leaned against his back?

Every damn morning.

And how he kept a written schedule of my medicines night and day.

Helping me hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night countless times.

Listening to the complaining.

Being present with me being present with the pain.

---

To be dependent on a caregiver is a lesson in many things.

First, how to ask for what you need.

So, I’m not good at this.

Every time I need something I hear a whine in my voice, and it’s cloying. I hate it.

Only now do I see that a person who balks at receiving a helping hand is a person who is hiding a gaping vulnerability.

And saying no is my automatic protective response – like, don’t look at me, I’m needy, I am dependent.

I am vulnerable.

But my hip clearly needs me to advocate.

---

We grow up learning the hard lesson that we must take care of ourselves, and of course this is true.

But it’s been so drilled into us, it’s not really a lesson that bears repeating.

Rather, some of us need to learn to ask specifically for what we need.

To be direct.

Instead of sayng “Gee, my Gatorade needs refilling, say “Can you get my water bottle for me?”

I’m a really terrible asker.

And with this surgery I had a lot of asks.

---

Second, you have to give up the picture perfect image and outside expectations.

But it’s hard to let go of that ambition.

Perfection – how we grab for its shiny promise.

Perfection – another way to shut down vulnerability.

I boast that I only used a crutch once – one time going up the stairs after surgery. I was so determined to be like my mom who never even used a cane when she had her hip done.

Reportedly, she never took any painkillers either.

I did take them – and had to talk myself into every single pill.

So what does that family story teach me? Get up, get going, this is all on you. No one can walk the path with you, help yourself.

Such bull***t

We all feel pain, we’re just too afraid to own it.

---

Lastly, take the long view.

I overdid it on my exercise. I wanted points for being plucky.

And after going to a dermatologist appointment 1 week after the procedure, the doctor looked at me, horrified. I should have been at home, leg elevated.

At any rate, we try to do too much and the body says no.

If we listen.

---

So my days have been spent leaning on others for physical help and emotional up-lift.

It’s okay, I can learn this.

And it will take time.

Forget the supposed “milestones” described in the hospital pamphlet.

---

And the healing is mostly hidden.

Deep within the cut muscles and bright new bone, a new universe in there is gathering itself up to heal.

I didn’t even realize there was an ache to be found in those places, in that layer of tissue, in that joint space.

But the bone is knitting itself back together, quietly, in the dark, without me.

---

Lastly, when you can finally soak in a real bath by yourself your mind will play tricks.

It will forget the urgency of your body’s needs.

How dependent you are as a human.

Yes, you will take all the positive praise and soak it up. Feel relief and pride.

But deep inside, literally, is the reminder that you never did this thing yourself.

You are healing because numerous people at the hospital, named and unnamed, engineered this feat.

And thank God for insurance.

And for the grandson who brings sweet pink roses and a care package with his mommy.

And for a family that group-texts really bad photos of me right before I go under.

But mainly, I’m hugely grateful for the guy who’s been hanging around for 45 years, and who shows no sign of leaving.

---

Yesterday after lunch we walked in the grey winter woods of the Duke Forest.

We made it just to the half mile marker. And then we turned back.

It’s the same trail that I loved to run in my 30s, 40s, even my 50s. I felt young then – vigorous and proud of my strong body.

Impenetrable.

And here I am at 62, leaning on my stick. Scuffing my left foot along.

Trying out my new hip.

And as my husband and I chat, I think of how often we’ve walked together, and how many times he’s listened to my blubbering and bleating.

And now having patience with this older, slower me.

Me with my emotions fizzing or my brain scrambling along trying to make sense of things.

Me being my scrappy self.

He has seen me at times and in ways that I don’t want to see myself.

Me super depressed, me being snappish, me with no bra on and wearing an ugly mauve hospital gown.

Flat-out scared.

And he had the grace to not tell me how painful this kind of procedure could be (he’s had a lot of them).

And so he lies to me in the best ways.

And every day he repeats the script – that it will get better and I just need to be patient.

And I believe.

And we both know that it is a literal metaphor for our marriage.

We fall down, we help each other up, and then we do it all over again and again.

It was summer of 1974 and I was almost 12.

My family had just moved from a small town to a bigger city. I was a new kid in 7th grade at the big junior high school.

Maybe a little bit immature for my age, certainly not sophisticated or destined for popularity.

But luckily, on the very first day I made a new best friend – Jules.

---

But the biggest thing I remember about that time was that I was completely boy-crazy.

Not for any boy in 7th grade, but for the film legend Robert Redford.

I had just seen The Sting and it was all I could talk about. Analyzing every scene, every line, swooning over the star. And I was just so desperate for his next movie to be released.

And I remember going to a sleepover at Jules’s house and bringing along my signed studio glossy of him. I propped it next to me on the pillow of my sleeping bag.

Forget about 12 year old boys – I knew what I wanted and it wasn’t them.

It was Redford.

He had it all – golden good looks, charm, a cinematic smile and that indefinable cool guy personality.

I had seen all of his movies and had a huge poster of him on my bedroom door.

What an innocent I was, what little I knew about boys and men.

---

But I’ll say this, I had good taste.

Handsome, articulate, politically active, Redford was the consummate Everyman.

He was, quite simply, a decent man.

And as I look back at that young girl in her pink bunny slippers, I think about how much she had to learn.

But also how much she already knew.

---

When I went to my high school reunion this past summer, it brought back some of these old memories. And I was reminded of things about myself that I had long forgotten.

The awkwardness of those moments. But also the grace.

My friends tell me they remember me as being bouncy and bubbly, floating down the halls at school with a smile.

And this was so healing for me to hear. I really couldn’t remember the way I was.

Because I tended to see the old frames in black and white – to ruminate over the struggles, the loneliness, and the depression.

I thought I was such a loser.

---

But now I see that maybe I wasn’t just the dark, depressed girl back then.

Maybe I was the sunny girl who just happened to get depressed.

Funny how we write a script about ourselves and we never quite re-write it, or even try to edit it very much over the years.

Anyway, after graduation, when I went off to college, I ditched that image of myself and in doing so I threw away the entire script.

And only now, years later, can I see that most of the pages were actually pretty decent, even true.

I was innocent. I was fun. I was loved.

I was just me.

---

Part of the appeal of Robert Redford, or any other star crush, is that you have complete control over the narrative. You can close your eyes and see the actor in a perfect incandescent light.

He never screws up, loses his temper or messes up the house. He delivers all of the best lines. And he doesn’t take up too much of your personal space.

But I think Robert Redford took up a very distinct space in my 12 year old world.

He was there when I was hitting all of the adolescent milestones. The awkward chapters – wearing my first pair of panty hose, buying my first bra, and finally getting my period.

He was a stand-in when I wasn’t ready for a real boyfriend. He buffered the fear and trepidation of first dates, kisses and whatever else.

He was a sure, safe thing – what you saw was what you got.

And he served as a boost to my self esteem all though those school years. And then, of course, I grew up, and he bowed out, gracefully, fading into the floodlights of my imagination.

---

Every once in a while I think we all stumble across a person, or a caricature, or a figure that sort of redeems us.

A personality that fulfills some core need in us that is longing to be met.

For me it was safety – the basic need to feel secure in my changing world – with the upheaval in my friendships, in my home and even my own body.

A place in my mind, in my overactive imagination, that I could go to and have all of my stories play out just as I wanted them to.

Where I could be creator, director and star of my own life.

It might be an overstatement to say that Robert Redford was a template for my marriage, but I think it’s a little bit true.

I just know that I will always take seriously the tastes and aspirations of young girls.

---

So thank you, Mr. Redford.

You helped me dream. And to see that there were higher ideals out there if I stayed patient and kept my options open.

And you helped me not to settle for what the world offered, but to shoot for something more.

You helped me write and re-write my own script, and for that I am forever grateful.

Always and forever.

xoxo

The fat bumblebees bump against one another as they search out the remains of the coneflower pollen in the yard.

They’re after the last drops of golden summer.

I wonder where they go now – do they migrate?

It seems like they are trying to hold on to the summer.

---

And now I think about things that I try to hold on to – safety, security, love.

I close my eyes and make a wish upon these falling leaves – I’ll see you next year.

See you next summer.

So much is uncertain in our lives these days, and even the seasons can’t be relied upon.

But I want to hold this moment in time forever.

---

These days, my 2-year-old grandson is mastering the art of object permanence. He is learning to say goodbye to us without crying and thinking that he will never see us again.

And he is also able to leave his toys at our house and say “I’ll play with you next time” and it breaks my heart just a little.

Because he is learning the art of letting go. And the faith that the world will be the same when he comes back.

---

Yes, it is a milestone to know that fundamental things will remain in tact in our universe.

But also, there is the trade-off – one must first learn to say goodbye.

And I’ll never get good at this, I swear.

To be in the present moment and also know that it is already past.

---

All I can say is that my grandson’s developmental milestone is also a life lesson for me.

Like the bumblebee, I chase the pollen and try not to worry about what happens next.

Faith and hope, I guess.

A bumbling proposition.

To trust in a world that is dying all around me, but one with seeds prepared to sprout when the coming days grow longer.

Last night while lying in bed, I heard an owl hooting in the yard.

Its call was so plaintive, so clear, it cut through the hot, thick night. It was calming and soulful.

It soothed me as I struggled to sleep.

I pictured it swooping from the pine tree down into the yard, hunting for voles, and then gliding back up to its nest.

Hidden and safe.

Something in that image quieted my spirit, and cooled my brain.

---

I think we all long for certainty, for stability, for an assurance that all will be well.

We want a safe nest to fall into.

But the news in our country, like the weather, is hot and unbearable, a mess. It’s difficult to feel any sense of national security.

Many days I don’t read beyond the headlines – why dip into that madness?

And yet, life goes on.

And death.

My father, at 89, is struggling with congestive heart problems. Yet I watch him still fighting to do good in the world, and it gladdens me.

He keeps his eyes open, his brain engaged. Frankly, I don’t know how he can care so much about the world, now, at the end of his life.

Why does this planet still matter to him?

He’s leaving it.

---

So last month he participated in a sit-in at the WV Senator Shelly Capito’s office – to protest the repeal of the Affordable Care Act.

He pushed his walker, with a water bottle in the cupholder, and got himself up to the Capitol. And he sat, along with five others, in the reception area – long enough for the aide to ask them to leave.

And then when he refused to go, the police were called.

They escorted him out and took him to be processed and then released.

I know all of this because it’s a familiar drill.

He did this during Vietnam, the Iraq War, and during the vote to repeal Roe v. Wade, and on and on.

He’s got a pretty nice police record.

---

But I think this latest arrest has been the most impactful for me.

Something about having your elderly father rise up in righteous indignation at the end of his career in activism, at the end of his life – it pulls you up short.

And I can’t say I’ve picked up his mantle.

I’ve been to the last three protests here in Durham, but I’m not kidding myself that that has real teeth.

And now the President is violating human rights.

How will this end?

---

There is this despair I feel on nights like this, thinking about how fortunate I am, but how my good life has come at such a price.

The capitalism that shaped my childhood, my values, my experiences, all came from privilege.

And when I let myself feel it, it shames me.

The life I’ve built has been at the expense of others. And our President is the result of this.

But I can’t dwell on this reality; I try to focus on the present.

To be the best grandmother I can be.

To listen to my kids.

To be kinder, less quick to judge.

To be a friend.

To help someone out when I can.

I don’t do enough, by far, I know that.

And the guilt lurks.

---

Midsummer musings.

Scratching like cicadas, not pleasant to the ear:

insistent, complaining, aggrieved.

My damp skin against the cotton blanket – to sleep now would be a blessed forgetting.

Still, I listen for the owl, and for the solace of the call.

The house key sticks in the unfamiliar lock of the door. Finally, I find the perfect jiggle and then use my shoulder to push it open.

I look around at the empty space and feel the urge to cry.

It’s been a mind-bending weekend away, and now I’m back home.

Or rather, I’m back in my third home.

---

You may remember that my husband and I sold our big old Southern home almost two years ago, now. And then we downsized to this new neighborhood in the same town.

Less than 1,000 square feet now – we were so proud of ourselves.

And then, of course, we needed elbow room, and decided to remodel – just add on a little bit.

Which brings us to now – having to rent a house down the street while the new construction takes place.

And I’m having a surreal moment where the old house, the new one, and this rental are all super-imposed on my brain, and it’s really unsettling.

Never before have I felt so strongly that a house is really a soul.

And my soul feels empty now, I’m a little sad and off-balance.

It’s a hangover of grief from saying goodbye to my high school friends after a small reunion last weekend.

A group of 20 from our class planned a gathering and it turned into the most meaningful, healing time.

Talk about surreal.

---

And today, it comes to me that each of us live in the house of the present, and we have a past house and then a future one down the road.

And we live in all three at the same time.

I definitely like to compartmentalize things and keep it all separate, but right now it all comes together.

For 45 years I had little to no contact with my old friends. It was a painful time, and I tended to write it all off as – I was a mess, a failure, I left no mark.

But of course I did.

And this past weekend my friends embraced me and reminded me of that old person I used to be – bubbly, expressive, caring.

---

You see, I fled my hometown, and never really looked back.

I struggled to mature and figure things out – to heal from some pretty tough memories.

I learned how to take care of my mental health.

I learned how to be a partner and a parent.

I’m still learning.

Anyway, I can’t adequately express what this past weekend meant to me, except to say that I’m so grateful I went back to that house of the past.

It is where I learned to live in this one, and it’s given me a little bit of courage to move on to the next one.

---

These days, I’m scared to drive down the old street in town where I used to live. But I make myself do it every now and then.

I watch how the new owners are tearing the walls down, and renovating.

New paint colors. Ripped out landscaping.

And what happened to my chicken coop?

I don’t know why I torture myself like this but maybe it’s this need to keep the past with me.

To lay out all of the puzzle pieces to make it complete.

---

I’m taking a new meditation class, and my favorite practice is Lovingkindness. In it, we focus on extending goodwill to our selves.

We open our hearts to generosity, forgiveness and compassion.

It is an ancient practice that guides you to affirm yourself. And then you extend your thoughts to a loved one, and then to a neutral person and then to a difficult person.

And then to the whole world.

But a key concept is that we cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first.

We cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first

A part of my soul was missing before I went back to my hometown. It’s the part that I’m now sending lovingkindness to over and over again.

Because what I had forgotten was the love.

The love that was shown to me back then.

I tended to dwell on the pain, as if it was a solo experience. I didn’t look up to see the friends that cared for and wanted to stick by me, even when I walked away from them.

And so, too, when I drive past our old pink house, I’ll try to remember the love, not forgetting the struggles and pains that inhabited that place too, but all of it.

And I’ll try to use the meditation as an investigation into all of it – the past, the present and the future, and always keep opening my heart up to the love.

Life is not hurrying 
on to a receding future, nor hankering after 
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you. 

R. S. Thomas, The Bright Field

My last post was the final travel entry from the trip to Wales.

Today, I look over the notes, and I see just how much I’ve left out.

How many memories that couldn’t make it to the page.

---

The small things:

E. wearing a bright smile every single day, as big as her sun hat.

Quiet, all-knowing M.

Talks with R. on the bus – about Catholicism, inclusive language and music.

D’s compassionate nursing of my ailments.

S’s birds-eye view: spotting the commonplace as well as the rare, and sometimes even the magical.

The resilience of P, after a rough walk.

H’s violin.

C’s gentle hands blessing my forehead at the well.

Being a part of a church community, for just a while.

---

The nuns waving goodbye with such hopeful expressions on their faces.

Feeling uplifted about the world for the first time in so long.

---

Our leader Tony, the way he circled among us for private talks by the bus, as we set out on the next pilgrimage.

And his leadership during morning devotions with Celtic poetry and personal thoughts.

His expert planning and then his flexibility when needed.

Being guided and cared for.

---

Sidling up to the hotel bar in St. David’s town, waiting for a few others to chuck their backpacks and join us.

My sister over her martini, so classy and smooth, reviewing the day.

Being included.

---

The ancient chapel where our guide walked us through the riotous gardens, beckoning us to pick stalks of overgrown rosemary and sweet bay leaves.

Rosemary for remembrance ~ Bay leaf for wisdom, peace and protection.

And once inside, scattering them in the aisles then crushing them with our shoes.

Adding to the thick layers of herbal compost from previous pilgrims who had also traveled there.

Each had carried their own joys, hopes, and sadnesses, like me.

And the sweet aroma mixing with old incense and damp, inviting me to pause, to take it all in – to find worship.

The smell of the humus on top of the old flagstones welcoming me in some deep, earthy way.

To be my whole self.

To be an organic element of that timeworn chapel – my body, my doubting heart, all of it.

Sensing the humble presence of God.

---

So many little gifts, and now I just have to say goodbye.

To each pilgrim, to both leaders, and especially to my sister, who invited me on this adventure –

Thank you.

I hold my shell and countless memories from our journey together.

Here is holy water
Old stone and a sky
that is limitless. 

R. S. Thomas

This morning, a group of us rise a little bit early, eat breakfast, and meet up with our leader, Tony, in the lobby of the hotel.

He has told us about a sacred well nearby, and I’m eager to go explore.

---

St. Non’s Well lies two miles south of St. David’s Cathedral, one of the most beautiful stretches of the Pembrokeshire coast in West Wales.

It is another thin place where the spiritual world is tangibly present in the physical landscape.

And according to legend it is where St. Non, a young noblewoman who had been raped by a local prince, gave birth to St. David in a thunderstorm; it is said that she clutched so hard on a rock during her labour that the rock split in two, revealing a well with fresh water for her to drink.(1)

---

Our small group, made up of mostly women, walks quietly down the coastal trail.

Surrounding us is lush, green pasture, with buttery yellow gorse popping up here and there, everywhere.

It is a fertile May in North Wales.

And the backdrop, as always, is the ocean with its otherworldly blue and an immense clear sky.

---

There’s just something about a well.

You come upon it and it just naturally feels so mystifying, even cryptic.

Right there in the pasture, hidden by the thick grasses it sits, down a gully, quiet and dark.

---

These waters are said to be among the most sacred in all of Wales, and believed to have healing properties to cure sore eyes – perhaps referring to the deeper reference of insight and wisdom. (2)

Pope Benedict XVI used water from St Non’s Well during his pastoral visit to the UK in 2010, and votive offerings are still placed there: ribbons, children’s shoes and rosaries hang near the statue of Non in the nearby grotto.(3)

St Non and her story have a resonance for all victims of violence or assault, and for all those who feel excluded from their communities.

She must have been cast out by her wealthy family – presumably the rape and resultant pregnancy would have made her an object of shame – otherwise she would not have been giving birth alone in such inauspicious conditions.(4)

---

And it just so happens that today is Mother’s Day.

And of course, the women among us who have children, we are thinking of them today – they are out of touch, in another time zone.

I step over to sit on a stone bench, squeezing in with two other moms, and we look at each other and we wipe the tears from our eyes.

Silently, and without knowing each other very well, we can read one another’s faces.

They tell our stories – the joys and struggles of raising our families, the labor of nurturing and guiding our kids.

The way we still worry.

The sheer effort and strain of being a mom.

The indescribable way it breaks your heart.

---

Today we honor one another.

And we remember our own mothers – those who aren’t with us anymore, whose legacy we carry.

There is something about Non’s Well – it seems to catch our tears, but also rinse them with a sweet renewal.

Life goes on.

And our pilgrimage resumes.

Each of us climbs down the mossy furrow and stands at the well to receive a blessing on our foreheads from our leader – and we each offer up a specific request.

What to ask for?

My heart and mind are too full.

---

I pray for insight and wisdom, and for the gift of community.

And for a blessing from a God that is always present and available to me, when I am mindful.

And I pray for a renewal of that faith.

And of course blessings for my daughter and son – who make me a mother in the first place.

Near the well, among the giant calla lilies, there lies a rock with a cross etched into it, from the 6th Century – it is a memorial to Non and her newborn son, David.

And there are what is thought to be handprints in the ancient stone, where it is believed she held on during her labor.

I imagine her as a pregnant woman alone, in a thunderstorm, cold and terrified, exposed in this windswept field, in such very dark times.

And still she birthed her son, St. David.

---

On our way back, I turn to look at the tiny grotto, and if you didn’t know of it’s existence, you would see nothing at all – nothing but open pasture and a few sheep.

Like so many profound and impactful events, it takes a slowing down in the moment to glean the significance.

It requires me stopping and looking closely and bending down (figuratively) to pay attention – to cultivate a kind of reverence in my soul.

To allow a space in my heart to open up and be vulnerable – and to accept the healing that arises from the mystical deep.

---

footnotes: Catholic Herald, Camilla Harrison

Today we are traveling to Ynys Llanddwyn, the small tidal island that sits off of the West Coast of Anglesey.

---

Before we get on the bus, our leader Tony has given us a few instructions for the day:

He would like us to have a silent day, with ample time to walk without talking, and lots of opportunity to explore the island solo.

And we are to use our journals.

It is to be a meditative experience.

---

We have been told that this land is part of a Welsh National Nature Reserve.

And I have read that the island is geologically rich with pillow lava and complex aolian sand deposits.

And I read about the legend of the young woman Dwynwen, the Patron Saint of Lovers.

One of the stories says that she was another of the female hermits whom God released from an arranged marriage.

And when she was released, she traveled to the solace of this remote locale.

It is in gratitude, that she spent the rest of her life here, all alone, until her death around AD 460.

So much to think about and to take in, the stories, the nature.

---

Anyway, this morning’s hike will be during low tide – when the island is temporarily attached to the mainland.

We will traipse across the rocks to the very end. And once at the edge, we will see the historic Twr Mawr lighthouse, with the sprawling backdrop of the glorious mountains.

And so off we go.

---

Out of the parking lot we make our way through a few miles of the Newborough forest trail, a part of the Anglesey Coastal Trail.

The towering pines and silver birches line the sandy trail, as we tread silently. The breeze smells of dried grasses and salt.

I feel a gentle ease in the rythym of the pilgrim’s feet as we step out together, our little troop of spiritual soldiers.

I feel like a real member of this team.

We each tote our beliefs and queries in our backpacks like they are essentials – like our water bottles.

What weightier, more significant trek can there be?

---

And after several miles, when we emerge onto the hoary rock, we are met by a spectacular 360 degree panorama of the ocean.

And the stout white lighthouse in the distance, set against a tableau of the purple mountains of Snowdonia.

So, at this point, we pack up our things, and each of us set off to explore the entire island.

---

Some head toward the grassy space with the wild ponies, others trek to the ruins of St. Dwynwen’s Church.

And some go to Dwynwen’s holy well. This is the Medieval shrine where pilgrims would come to read their love fortunes in the movements of the sacred eels that swam in the black waters.

I shuffle along on the path for a while and then stop to watch my sister as she climbs down the high rocks and perches on a smooth rock, starting to journal.

Yes, journal.

That is the last thing I want to do, but I know I’ll eventually have to get to it.

Instead, I want to soak up the entire island.

The sun glinting off of the little waves, the ancient iron Celtic cross in the center of everything.

The expanse of cyan sky.

The shaggy ponies chomping on grass.

---

But mostly, I want to observe my fellow pilgrims make their way as they meander.

Or as they pause and gaze out at the sea.

Some sit and write.

And some simply lie down to rest on the ledges.

Each person seems to find a safe space in which to nestle themselves, in a spot where they can take in the richness of this experience.

Where they can be alone, but not alone.

Islands but also peninsulas.

---

I think about how this pilgrimage has been a bit challenging for me, being the observer, introvert, non-joiner that I am.

I am more comfortable being on the outside of the circle, rather than being at the intimate center.

I was a tiny bit nervous about fitting in with these folks, yet here I am.

On this Welsh isle, with strangers, on the edge of nowhere.

And I can sense the other pilgrims also making their way – taking it all in, experiencing, and writing about who they are and how they think and feel.

And I think about the connections in my life, my friends, my family. Those who hold me close, without question, who make me feel safe no matter what.

---

So as I begin to journal, I only write two things:

I write that I feel empty and alone, and I want to connect with my heart, to my center.

And I write about how I long for a community. Because when I go home, I will have no church or spiritual group like this.

And I will miss the balance of silence and intimacy we have established on this journey.

---

Anyway, I also write that my overactive mind, this brain that is so integral to my personality and ego, often gets in the way of reaching out, connecting and sharing, with others.

And at the same time, my words, even spoken carefully, can fill up a silence that is oh so necessary for being awake to my own body, and to others.

And now, this tactile practice of quietly writing out my thoughts and emotions, feels right.

My brain quiets, I listen to the crash of the sea ebb and flow around me.

I feel grounded.

---

And through the silence I can feel this island in my soul, this grandeur that stretches out to embrace and claim me.

And off the coast, I spy the stout little lighthouse – Twr Mawr.

It’s glass glints in the sunshine, it is fixed – stubborn and undaunted – in the breakers.

Almost knowing, that come high tide, this entire territory will be washed clean, engulfed in water.

---

Still, I am like this venerable spit of obdurate rock.

I am this unyielding, yet still gracious, expanse of land, the welcoming arms that prostate travelers can come home to.

To find serenity and rest. And some kind of wholeness.

Steady and resilient, sturdy and true – I feel inexplicably connected to both this land and the sea in some primordial way.

Today, I think I am both an island and a peninsula.