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.
honeybees & reveries 