Team finds Earth's oldest rocks.
Iona is still a thin place, even if it's not the oldest.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
The UK, in list form
Randomosity abounds!
Way to Go ERII:
Queen Elizabeth rescinds Robert Mugabe's honorary knighthood.
Ah, Liz, don't be a hater:
I know it's your house, but did you have to choose my one week in Edinburgh to stay in Holyrood Palace and thus keep me from touring it?
Questions asked by cabbies:
1. Where to?
2. Where are you from?
3. Who is going to win the election? (They know more about our politics than most Americans.)
Household weirdness:
1. Plugs have on/off switches.
2. Bathroom light switch always outside of the bathroom. Which is actually a much smarter system than feeling around in the dark for a switch, but has taken some getting used to.
3. The shower will likely need to be turned on by an electric switch, which will be located outside the bathroom. This makes way less sense than no. 2.
4. Seriously, it is not efficient to have the same machine washing and drying the clothes.
Most needed household item in UK:
A/C or at least a fan. Not for the heat; for the humidity.
Ways UK hotel system is better than ours:
1. Tea and biscuits in every room.
2. Hair dryer in even simplest of rooms.
Ways UK hotel system could be better:
1. En suite is much more civilized and should always be an option.
2. Card keys instead of huge skeleton keys, that I suspect would open any room in the place, placed on a huge key fob that would not fit in the Jolly Green Giant's pocket (if he had pockets, which I don't think he does).
Things we could learn from the UK government:
1. Equalities Minister
2. National Health Service
Way to make C-SPAN more interesting:
Broadcast Parliament instead of Congress.
Ways to improve UK currency:
1. Are two pence coins really necessary?
2. Stop letting every bank in Scotland print their own money. Even if it resembles regular money, it's confusing.
3. Switch to Euro.
Silver lining to weak dollar:
Makes "pounds to dollar" calculation easy even for me. Double everything.
Measurements I understand:
Metres and Litres
Measurements I find somewhat confusing:
Grams
Measurement I will never be able to convert off the top of my head:
Celsius. I know 20 degrees = 68 degrees and guess from there.
Surprising question I've been asked often:
Where in Canada are you from? (Once asked by a Canadian.)
"2 Countries Separated by a Common Language" category:
1. Chips = French Fries
2. Crisps = Chips
2.5: Porridge = Oatmeal. I've always thought it was like Cream of Wheat.
3. I feel impolite asking where the toilet is. Have attempted to use the word "loo" instead, but that makes me feel silly.
4. I apologize to every British or Scottish person I've met, but I am powerless to stop using the word "y'all." I take full responsibility for the ensuing confusion when I use it.
5. Would it kill you to spell place names the way you pronounce them?
6. I promise to stop giggling whenever you say "wee." It's just so charming!
Transportation Britain gets right:
1. Comprehensive public transport.
2. Cool shaped cabs.
Transportation Britain gets wrong:
Stop driving on the wrong side of the road.
Things British t.v. does well:
1. BBC News
2. Top Gear: I've seen this a few times in the US, but I've become addicted to it here.
3. Airport: If I ever saw the Aeroflot guy in person, I 'd have to pinch his cheeks, he's so cute.
Things British TV does not do well:
Pretty much everything else.
US TV Shows on 24/7:
1. Friends
2. Scrubs
(So, basically just like US)
British TV Shows on 24/7:
1. Top Gear (but minus points because it's always reshowing episodes they showed a couple of days earlier)
2. Big Brother
US Food Chain most prevalent in Edinburgh:
Pizza Hut. There are three locations in a 5 block radius of my flat, plus about a dozen others I've come across.
Second most prevalent: Subway
US Food Chain I have only seen once in UK, but very happy to find:
Quiznos. (Ate lunch there today. It was right next to a Subway, natch.)
(Note: I tried to go to Subway last night, but they were Out. Of. Bread. HUH?)
Most improved food item since I last visited a decade ago:
Coffee. (Perhaps Starbucks has helped.)
"Never Eat Mexican Food in UK":
I went to a Mexican restaurant and ordered a margarita. Waitress returned (10 minutes later--tipping really does help foster better service in US) to tell me they were Out. Of. Tequila.
o.O
How does a Mexican restaurant run out of Tequila????
Food item I'd never had before but now can't live without:
Sticky Toffee Pudding. Just the words make me start to drool.
Food item I will never try, I don't care what you say:
Haggis. Just, no.
Delivery restaurants listed in Edinburgh metro area (pop. 1.25 million) yellow (actually blue) pages:
Approximately 22
No. of those restaurants delivering in center of city:
0
No. of brand names available in Marks & Spender Food Hall:
1 (Marks and Spencer)
Taste of M&S Diet Cola vis a vis Diet Coke, on scale of 1 (only in case of extreme emergency) to 10 (this isn't Diet Coke?):
2.5
Way to Go ERII:
Queen Elizabeth rescinds Robert Mugabe's honorary knighthood.
Ah, Liz, don't be a hater:
I know it's your house, but did you have to choose my one week in Edinburgh to stay in Holyrood Palace and thus keep me from touring it?
Questions asked by cabbies:
1. Where to?
2. Where are you from?
3. Who is going to win the election? (They know more about our politics than most Americans.)
Household weirdness:
1. Plugs have on/off switches.
2. Bathroom light switch always outside of the bathroom. Which is actually a much smarter system than feeling around in the dark for a switch, but has taken some getting used to.
3. The shower will likely need to be turned on by an electric switch, which will be located outside the bathroom. This makes way less sense than no. 2.
4. Seriously, it is not efficient to have the same machine washing and drying the clothes.
Most needed household item in UK:
A/C or at least a fan. Not for the heat; for the humidity.
Ways UK hotel system is better than ours:
1. Tea and biscuits in every room.
2. Hair dryer in even simplest of rooms.
Ways UK hotel system could be better:
1. En suite is much more civilized and should always be an option.
2. Card keys instead of huge skeleton keys, that I suspect would open any room in the place, placed on a huge key fob that would not fit in the Jolly Green Giant's pocket (if he had pockets, which I don't think he does).
Things we could learn from the UK government:
1. Equalities Minister
2. National Health Service
Way to make C-SPAN more interesting:
Broadcast Parliament instead of Congress.
Ways to improve UK currency:
1. Are two pence coins really necessary?
2. Stop letting every bank in Scotland print their own money. Even if it resembles regular money, it's confusing.
3. Switch to Euro.
Silver lining to weak dollar:
Makes "pounds to dollar" calculation easy even for me. Double everything.
Measurements I understand:
Metres and Litres
Measurements I find somewhat confusing:
Grams
Measurement I will never be able to convert off the top of my head:
Celsius. I know 20 degrees = 68 degrees and guess from there.
Surprising question I've been asked often:
Where in Canada are you from? (Once asked by a Canadian.)
"2 Countries Separated by a Common Language" category:
1. Chips = French Fries
2. Crisps = Chips
2.5: Porridge = Oatmeal. I've always thought it was like Cream of Wheat.
3. I feel impolite asking where the toilet is. Have attempted to use the word "loo" instead, but that makes me feel silly.
4. I apologize to every British or Scottish person I've met, but I am powerless to stop using the word "y'all." I take full responsibility for the ensuing confusion when I use it.
5. Would it kill you to spell place names the way you pronounce them?
6. I promise to stop giggling whenever you say "wee." It's just so charming!
Transportation Britain gets right:
1. Comprehensive public transport.
2. Cool shaped cabs.
Transportation Britain gets wrong:
Stop driving on the wrong side of the road.
Things British t.v. does well:
1. BBC News
2. Top Gear: I've seen this a few times in the US, but I've become addicted to it here.
3. Airport: If I ever saw the Aeroflot guy in person, I 'd have to pinch his cheeks, he's so cute.
Things British TV does not do well:
Pretty much everything else.
US TV Shows on 24/7:
1. Friends
2. Scrubs
(So, basically just like US)
British TV Shows on 24/7:
1. Top Gear (but minus points because it's always reshowing episodes they showed a couple of days earlier)
2. Big Brother
US Food Chain most prevalent in Edinburgh:
Pizza Hut. There are three locations in a 5 block radius of my flat, plus about a dozen others I've come across.
Second most prevalent: Subway
US Food Chain I have only seen once in UK, but very happy to find:
Quiznos. (Ate lunch there today. It was right next to a Subway, natch.)
(Note: I tried to go to Subway last night, but they were Out. Of. Bread. HUH?)
Most improved food item since I last visited a decade ago:
Coffee. (Perhaps Starbucks has helped.)
"Never Eat Mexican Food in UK":
I went to a Mexican restaurant and ordered a margarita. Waitress returned (10 minutes later--tipping really does help foster better service in US) to tell me they were Out. Of. Tequila.
o.O
How does a Mexican restaurant run out of Tequila????
Food item I'd never had before but now can't live without:
Sticky Toffee Pudding. Just the words make me start to drool.
Food item I will never try, I don't care what you say:
Haggis. Just, no.
Delivery restaurants listed in Edinburgh metro area (pop. 1.25 million) yellow (actually blue) pages:
Approximately 22
No. of those restaurants delivering in center of city:
0
Delivery restaurants listed in Arlington, VA, (pop. 206,800) yellow pages:
Gazillion. Possibly more.
No. of brand names available in Marks & Spender Food Hall:
1 (Marks and Spencer)
Taste of M&S Diet Cola vis a vis Diet Coke, on scale of 1 (only in case of extreme emergency) to 10 (this isn't Diet Coke?):
2.5
People who need people...
Tomorrow I head to Dublin for the last leg of my trip. I've started washing clothes which takes a bazillion hours here. The machine is a washer and a dryer in the same machine. The wash cycle (just a regular one, no pre-wash or soak) takes 2.5 hours! If you then dry the load (which can be no more than4-5 pieces of clothing, or at most 2 pairs of jeans at a time), it takes another 2 hours to get it mostly dry. I started last night and only have one more load left--out of three loads! (I also have clothes hanging on every available water-resistant surface to finish the drying process. Last time I have to wash clothes on the road!
I'm excited about Ireland, not only because it's my first visit, but mostly because I'm staying with family (technically, my brother-in-law's family [brother's-in-law?]). I realize that for the last 10 days I haven't had an actual conversation in person. Just the little exchanges in shops and restaurants and such. (Okay, that's not exactly true. I exchanged 5 sentences with a guy yesterday at the internet cafe who was from Springfield, and that was about flying in and out of Dulles.) I've had phone conversations, but nothing in person.
And I've been fine with that. Better than fine. I've loved it. I know it would get old after a while, but for now, being an extreme introvert suits me. I'm thrilled about seeing all the family, but also a little worried since I'll be going from hermit to large family all at once. I feel like I need to pick a conversation (like pick an argument, but with no yelling) with someone sitting around me in the cafe just to make sure I still know how to do it.
There were times on this trip that I worried, panicked even, about being alone for too long. Those times were all before the fact. When it came to being alone I did great. For example, I wondered how I'd be at the Bield in this cottage in the country all by myself. There wasn't a t.v. Gustavo was broken, so I couldn't watch a movie. I thought I'd be anxious and have a hard time sleeping with all the quiet. After an hour, it was hard to remember I'd been worried. I sat and listened to Beethoven sonatas (there was a CD player, so I wasn't in complete silence). I slept like a baby until the sun woke me at 5 a.m. the first morning. (I'd closed the bedroom curtains but left the bedroom door open, not realizing the sun pouring in the bay window in the sitting room was going to be blinding.) After that I usually woke at a much more civilized 7:30 a.m.
I'm feeling comfortable in my own skin and with my own company. Tomorrow I go back to enjoying the company of others as well.
I'm excited about Ireland, not only because it's my first visit, but mostly because I'm staying with family (technically, my brother-in-law's family [brother's-in-law?]). I realize that for the last 10 days I haven't had an actual conversation in person. Just the little exchanges in shops and restaurants and such. (Okay, that's not exactly true. I exchanged 5 sentences with a guy yesterday at the internet cafe who was from Springfield, and that was about flying in and out of Dulles.) I've had phone conversations, but nothing in person.
And I've been fine with that. Better than fine. I've loved it. I know it would get old after a while, but for now, being an extreme introvert suits me. I'm thrilled about seeing all the family, but also a little worried since I'll be going from hermit to large family all at once. I feel like I need to pick a conversation (like pick an argument, but with no yelling) with someone sitting around me in the cafe just to make sure I still know how to do it.
There were times on this trip that I worried, panicked even, about being alone for too long. Those times were all before the fact. When it came to being alone I did great. For example, I wondered how I'd be at the Bield in this cottage in the country all by myself. There wasn't a t.v. Gustavo was broken, so I couldn't watch a movie. I thought I'd be anxious and have a hard time sleeping with all the quiet. After an hour, it was hard to remember I'd been worried. I sat and listened to Beethoven sonatas (there was a CD player, so I wasn't in complete silence). I slept like a baby until the sun woke me at 5 a.m. the first morning. (I'd closed the bedroom curtains but left the bedroom door open, not realizing the sun pouring in the bay window in the sitting room was going to be blinding.) After that I usually woke at a much more civilized 7:30 a.m.
I'm feeling comfortable in my own skin and with my own company. Tomorrow I go back to enjoying the company of others as well.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Warning: Stream of Consciousness Post Ahead, enter with caution
After not having even seen a t.v. set, much less a t.v. program, for 2 weeks, I arrived in Edinburgh Sunday to find that I have a 43 inch plasma screen in my flat. I haven't turned it on much, in large part because I've come to like the silence and peace of it. But also because as wonderful as British shows can be, the UK has really terrible cable and there is rarely anything decent on.
[An aside about my flat: Since I'm in Edinburgh 9 nights, I had decided that a 1 bedrooom flat would be preferable and more cost effective than a hotel or a B&B. After MUCH researching, I finally settled on a flat, only to find it had been booked for those dates. Instead I was offered a much nicer flat for not much more money. So I decided to take it.
All I can say is, wow. They said it had been certified as 5 star by the Scottish Tourism Board, something you never see here. I can see why. First the location is amazing. It's in the heart of New Town, but also only a 10 minute walk from Old Town and the Royal Mile. Second, it is in a 200+ year old Georgian Townhouse. We are talking 15 foot ceilings; exquisite moulding; 12 foot windows. Third, it has every modern amenity you could want: the aforementioned plasma (plus a 22 inch LCD in the bedroom), a Bose sound system wired through the whole apartment, a remote controlled gas fireplace, a shower with 4 body sprays and an overhead rain shower. There are also three blocks of private gardens across the street, to which I've been given a key.
As lovely as it is, the best part is just having a flat rather than a B&B, mostly because it allows me to...cook. Yes, you heard me correctly, I've been cooking and glad for it. After 4 weeks on the road I'm so happy not to be eating in a restaurant all the time. Plus I can go all day without talking to a soul if I want to. Look at me--sabbatical has turned me into an introvert and a chef.]
Okay, so that turned out to be quite the digression. Let's get back to t.v. Yesterday I did watch a couple of episodes of Antiques Roadshow (reminder to self: look up whether the original was the American version or the British version, just out of curiosity) on BBC History (which only has programming in the daytime, because apparently only people home during the day care about history). In one commercial they made mention of a place that was over 3 billion years old. So (as part of me suspected) Iona is not the oldest place in the world. Still, Iona is extraordinarily old and none of that changes the whole Hawaiian business nor the palpable presence of the spirit in that thin place.
I had known for a long time that God was calling me to go to Iona. I arrived ready to spend lots of time in the Abbey and to paint every day. Except that is not what happened. While I did worship in the Abbey, which is one of the holiest spaces I've ever encountered, I most strongly felt God when I was outside. And although I tried, painting was not happening. The handful of times I set up and painted, it ended up making me feel stressed and frustrated and quite the opposite of what a sabbatical is supposed to make you feel. I tried to listen to God and spent lots of time outside and put away my paints. But with a couple of days left, I found myself starting to panic. Why was I here if not to worship and paint? Was I disappointing God, my parish, my family, my friends, myself by not accomplishing what I set out to do? I felt calm and peaceful, but I felt I had nothing to show for my time there except a couple of really dreadful paintings and a bunch of rocks that were going to make my luggage even heavier than before. I left with a feeling of loss, wishing I had more time to "get it right." However I was prisoner of my itinerary (and non-refundable deposits), and I headed back to the mainland.
After one interim night in Stirling (to see the marvelous castle there), I arrived home. That's the only way I can describe it.
Over a year ago, as I was researching retreat houses here in Scotland, I came across a place in Perth called The Bield at Blackruthven. It looked like a typical retreat center (I don't mean that negatively, just that it seemed like Roslyn or Shrine Mont or Honey Creek or Kanuga or any one of dozens of retreat centers I've visited), except for one thing: the art room. I ruled out the Bield as a place to stay because Perth was a little out of my way and I didn't want it to cut into my time in Iona.
But for months I kept going back to the website and thinking about it. Here was a place with an art room and an artist who does spiritual direction. They stated that it was there especially for those who are non-artistic (a description that most definitely fits yours truly). I kept looking, but had no intention of going there.
Until it became clear exactly how expensive it was going to be to stay on Iona (we're talking considerably more than a 5 star luxury flat in Edinburgh). This wasn't unexpected, but it did present a dilemma. Even with the generosity of quite a few people, I just could not stay on Iona for the two weeks I'd hoped. I settled on staying in Iona for 10 nights and resigned myself to spending more time in Edinburgh. I know, I know. Extra time in Edinburgh is not a hardship. But it was a city when I was hoping for more time in a thin place where I could listen to God (i.e. where I wouldn't be able to drown out God with sightseeing and sirens and bad British cable).
Then one day I went into my favorites folder with all my sabbatical websites. I saw The Bield and thought, "Well, I could try it." You've got to understand. I don't stay ANYWHERE that tripadvisor.com hasn't rated well (whether that be a hostel, a B&B or a hotel), much less one that isn't even listed there. I want to know that I'm walking into a safe, clean place to stay. Plus, to be perfectly honest, sometimes Christians can be kind of crazy. They seemed sane on their website, but that's no guarantee.
However, they had me at "art room." I figured if nothing else, at least I'd have 4 days of access to paint and paper. Besides it was late in the game; there were no guarantees that there would even be space for me. I emailed asking about availability and quickly got back a reply that they did not have space in the Steading (the former barn that houses the guest facilities and dining room--where the tables are set up in the actual stalls where the huge draft horses were kept), but they could put me in the Lodge. I said yes, and put four nights at The Bield on my itinerary.
I knew that the accomodations in the Steading were simple; I expected that the Lodge was an overflow building that probably didn't get many guests in it because it was more primitive than the Steading. Don't ask me why I thought this; I have no idea. Muriel, the facilities coordinator, had said that I could self-cater in the Lodge or take my meals at the Steading. I pictured the Lodge as something like the old Rectory at Shrine Mont (before it got renovated into the poshest accommodation west of the Blue Ridge). A couple of bedrooms, a communal kitchen and living area, hot and cold running drafts and mildew.
I arrived at The Bield in a taxi from Perth Station with some trepidation. The countryside was beautiful (and could easily have been Orange County where I grew up, except for the sheep). As the taxi driver and I debated on which building to go to, we saw a very British looking man coming across the lawn with his walking stick in his hand and two red hounds following on his heels. (Come to find out that Robin and his wife are Danish, but he really was the picture of a British [not Scottish] country gentleman.) He hailed us and said to me, "Are you staying at the Lodge?" I told him yes. His eyes lit up. "Ah, then you must be Leslie!" I blinked. I've been really anonymous on this trip. I'm used to walking into places where I'm simply a reservation on the computer and a name on the credit card. To be greeted by name was an extraordinary gift because I hadn't even realize how much being anonymous had been effecting me.
The Lodge, it turned out, was the old gatehouse of the estate. The taxi driver went to drop off my bags and I went to the Steading to check in. I walked in and was greeting like a dear friend. They gave me my keys (though Robin took back the key to his garage, so I didn't get to joyride on wind-y country roads) and Melitta, the artist, was tasked with showing me around. She walked to the Lodge with me and helped carry in my bags.
I could not have been more wrong in my preconceived notion of the Lodge. It turned out to be a very charming 3 bedroom cottage that had just been refurbished (and looked like the inside of an Ikea catalog, in a good way). And I had it all to myself. A large kitchen, a sitting room with a bay window, and a bathroom with a huge soaker tub. It was simple and homey and would have a really fantastic rating on Trip Advisor. Then Melitta showed me around: the art room (which is really two rooms with one entire wall devoted to shelf after shelf of every kind of artistic supply you might need); the labyrinth which is mown into the grass and centers around an archway of bamboo; the cozy lounges and prayer rooms in the Steading; the quiet chapel that was, I'm not making this up, the carpenter's workshop; the indoor pool (Shrine Mont is clearly behind the times); and, my favorite, the walled garden, which IS the Secret Garden, overflowing with flowers (including my favorite peonies) and lots of quiet places to sit and read/meditate/pray/snooze.
[Note: At this point in the writing of this post, the internet cafe cl0sed and I had to stop writing. The next portion was written 3 days later. If you notice a great difference in style between the first half and second half, that's why.]
Once again, God showed me that it is best if I let God do the planning. I had been so stressed about not being "productive" in Iona, when I actually had. I needed that quiet, calm time to be still and know God (Psalm 46, my favorite). I couldn't paint or write because it wasn't time yet. Iona was the place to be still. And it worked because when I got to The Bield my well-rested Spirit (and brain and body) were ready to respond to the stillness of Iona. I painted and painted and painted. What's more--I liked what I painted because my paintings reflected what was going on inside of me. I stopped trying to "paint" and instead started responding to God using paint (and yarn and buttons and glitter). There is a big difference between the two.
At The Bield, my heart and soul opened and poured forth every emotion you could imagine: joy and sorrow and peace and calm and bitterness and contentedness...My paintings, with no conscious planning, alternated between serene blues and firey reds. Words poured out into my journal (more about that in a moment), hard and angled and sharp, and strangely made me feel bouyant, like the difficult emotions had left my body through the ink in the pen (which, is probably exactly what was happening).
God placed exactly the right person, Melitta, into my life to hold my hand through the torrent. We did spiritual direction in which we looked at my paintings and talked about them and she helped me to see it wasn't about paint on paper, but instead about fire in my heart. She cannot know how grateful I am to her for her quiet confidence and encouragement.
Worship at The Bield (I feel almost disloyal saying this, and I don't even know why) was much more fulfilling than at the Abbey. Twice a day we gathered in the small chapel and were led in worship by one of the staff. You never knew what would happen, it's very free form. For the first several days there were guests from Malawi there, and they led us in singing and dancing and it was exhilerating. I found a new artist I love (Ludovico Einaudi, who is like an Italian George Winston) and another day we heard Jars of Clay, my favorite contemporary Christian band. Sometimes there were scripture readings, sometimes formal prayers we read together, and always there was blessed silence.
When I first arrived, I was invited to a program that night on the labyrinth using meditations on the writings of Julian of Norwich. As you know, my entire sabbatical has been based on Julian's writing: All shall be well. It was definitely God's way of saying, this is exactly where you need to be right now. We walked the labyrinth in a soft rain. Underfoot were the buttercups and clover that covered the fields where I grew up. Marianne tried to give me an umbrella, but I loved the rain and the way the fields shone bright green against the dark grey sky.
I had known that on the weekend I was at The Bield, there was going to be a poetry workshop led by Kenneth Steven, a poet--his most well-known book of poems entitled, wait for it...Iona-- and author of several children's books. I hadn't signed up for the workshop because I wasn't there to write; I was there to paint. But on Thursday, Muriel asked, "Are you going to the poetry workshop this weekend?" I replied, "Am I allowed to go?" Muriel, looking mystified by my question: "Of course!" I almost didn't participate--again I wasn't there to write. But I was intrigued by Ken's poems and his time on Iona and figured it might be nice. I'd go to the Friday night session and see how it was.
Once again, say it with me boys and girls, God knows better than I. Ken's gentle presence and the gathering of fellow seekers were like balm to my soul. At chapel that night I had a thought of something I wanted to write. I took out my journal to write a couple of quick notes, and ended up in the chapel for 30 mintues after everyone had gone, unable to stop the flow of words. The next morning, when we had a break to work on a writing assignment Ken gave us, I went to the Lodge to take a nap. After all, I wasn't actually at the workshop, so I could do as I pleased. Before I kipped (<--insert random Britishism here), I sat with my journal and decided at least to write a few sentences, no more than a haiku. 1 1/2 hours later, I put down my pen only because I had an appointment with Melitta for spiritual direction. In one 24 hour span I painted 6 pictures, wrote about 1,000 words, read several readings that Melitta had given me, and made many connections that were only possible after several quiet weeks beforehand.
Saturday night, Robin and Marianne, being Danish and used to a big midsummer's night celebration, had us all to their home for a barbecue (What do they serve at a barbecue here, I wondered? Answer: hamburgers, ribs and corn cooked on a charcoal grill.). It was cold and rainy and grey and we sat outside eating our feast and celebrating the longest night. Afterward there was a reading by Ken of his poems, an event that turned out to be a céilidh (pronounced "KAY-lee" because the Scots can't spell anything the way it sounds), with readings of lots of poets by many of us (I read Billy Collins, of course), singing of old time spirituals, and a bagpiper.
Sadly, on Sunday, I had to leave early to get to Edinburgh and missed the last day of the workshop. That was the only time I felt truly sad at The Bield--saying goodbye. Melitta came to breakfast to see me off, which meant the world to me.
So, that is a very long post which still does not even begin to capture the profound experience I had in Iona and The Bield. I really only need to quote Julian for you to know my experience:
All shall be well.
And all shall be well.
And all manner of things shall be well.
[An aside about my flat: Since I'm in Edinburgh 9 nights, I had decided that a 1 bedrooom flat would be preferable and more cost effective than a hotel or a B&B. After MUCH researching, I finally settled on a flat, only to find it had been booked for those dates. Instead I was offered a much nicer flat for not much more money. So I decided to take it.
All I can say is, wow. They said it had been certified as 5 star by the Scottish Tourism Board, something you never see here. I can see why. First the location is amazing. It's in the heart of New Town, but also only a 10 minute walk from Old Town and the Royal Mile. Second, it is in a 200+ year old Georgian Townhouse. We are talking 15 foot ceilings; exquisite moulding; 12 foot windows. Third, it has every modern amenity you could want: the aforementioned plasma (plus a 22 inch LCD in the bedroom), a Bose sound system wired through the whole apartment, a remote controlled gas fireplace, a shower with 4 body sprays and an overhead rain shower. There are also three blocks of private gardens across the street, to which I've been given a key.
As lovely as it is, the best part is just having a flat rather than a B&B, mostly because it allows me to...cook. Yes, you heard me correctly, I've been cooking and glad for it. After 4 weeks on the road I'm so happy not to be eating in a restaurant all the time. Plus I can go all day without talking to a soul if I want to. Look at me--sabbatical has turned me into an introvert and a chef.]
Okay, so that turned out to be quite the digression. Let's get back to t.v. Yesterday I did watch a couple of episodes of Antiques Roadshow (reminder to self: look up whether the original was the American version or the British version, just out of curiosity) on BBC History (which only has programming in the daytime, because apparently only people home during the day care about history). In one commercial they made mention of a place that was over 3 billion years old. So (as part of me suspected) Iona is not the oldest place in the world. Still, Iona is extraordinarily old and none of that changes the whole Hawaiian business nor the palpable presence of the spirit in that thin place.
I had known for a long time that God was calling me to go to Iona. I arrived ready to spend lots of time in the Abbey and to paint every day. Except that is not what happened. While I did worship in the Abbey, which is one of the holiest spaces I've ever encountered, I most strongly felt God when I was outside. And although I tried, painting was not happening. The handful of times I set up and painted, it ended up making me feel stressed and frustrated and quite the opposite of what a sabbatical is supposed to make you feel. I tried to listen to God and spent lots of time outside and put away my paints. But with a couple of days left, I found myself starting to panic. Why was I here if not to worship and paint? Was I disappointing God, my parish, my family, my friends, myself by not accomplishing what I set out to do? I felt calm and peaceful, but I felt I had nothing to show for my time there except a couple of really dreadful paintings and a bunch of rocks that were going to make my luggage even heavier than before. I left with a feeling of loss, wishing I had more time to "get it right." However I was prisoner of my itinerary (and non-refundable deposits), and I headed back to the mainland.
After one interim night in Stirling (to see the marvelous castle there), I arrived home. That's the only way I can describe it.
Over a year ago, as I was researching retreat houses here in Scotland, I came across a place in Perth called The Bield at Blackruthven. It looked like a typical retreat center (I don't mean that negatively, just that it seemed like Roslyn or Shrine Mont or Honey Creek or Kanuga or any one of dozens of retreat centers I've visited), except for one thing: the art room. I ruled out the Bield as a place to stay because Perth was a little out of my way and I didn't want it to cut into my time in Iona.
But for months I kept going back to the website and thinking about it. Here was a place with an art room and an artist who does spiritual direction. They stated that it was there especially for those who are non-artistic (a description that most definitely fits yours truly). I kept looking, but had no intention of going there.
Until it became clear exactly how expensive it was going to be to stay on Iona (we're talking considerably more than a 5 star luxury flat in Edinburgh). This wasn't unexpected, but it did present a dilemma. Even with the generosity of quite a few people, I just could not stay on Iona for the two weeks I'd hoped. I settled on staying in Iona for 10 nights and resigned myself to spending more time in Edinburgh. I know, I know. Extra time in Edinburgh is not a hardship. But it was a city when I was hoping for more time in a thin place where I could listen to God (i.e. where I wouldn't be able to drown out God with sightseeing and sirens and bad British cable).
Then one day I went into my favorites folder with all my sabbatical websites. I saw The Bield and thought, "Well, I could try it." You've got to understand. I don't stay ANYWHERE that tripadvisor.com hasn't rated well (whether that be a hostel, a B&B or a hotel), much less one that isn't even listed there. I want to know that I'm walking into a safe, clean place to stay. Plus, to be perfectly honest, sometimes Christians can be kind of crazy. They seemed sane on their website, but that's no guarantee.
However, they had me at "art room." I figured if nothing else, at least I'd have 4 days of access to paint and paper. Besides it was late in the game; there were no guarantees that there would even be space for me. I emailed asking about availability and quickly got back a reply that they did not have space in the Steading (the former barn that houses the guest facilities and dining room--where the tables are set up in the actual stalls where the huge draft horses were kept), but they could put me in the Lodge. I said yes, and put four nights at The Bield on my itinerary.
I knew that the accomodations in the Steading were simple; I expected that the Lodge was an overflow building that probably didn't get many guests in it because it was more primitive than the Steading. Don't ask me why I thought this; I have no idea. Muriel, the facilities coordinator, had said that I could self-cater in the Lodge or take my meals at the Steading. I pictured the Lodge as something like the old Rectory at Shrine Mont (before it got renovated into the poshest accommodation west of the Blue Ridge). A couple of bedrooms, a communal kitchen and living area, hot and cold running drafts and mildew.
I arrived at The Bield in a taxi from Perth Station with some trepidation. The countryside was beautiful (and could easily have been Orange County where I grew up, except for the sheep). As the taxi driver and I debated on which building to go to, we saw a very British looking man coming across the lawn with his walking stick in his hand and two red hounds following on his heels. (Come to find out that Robin and his wife are Danish, but he really was the picture of a British [not Scottish] country gentleman.) He hailed us and said to me, "Are you staying at the Lodge?" I told him yes. His eyes lit up. "Ah, then you must be Leslie!" I blinked. I've been really anonymous on this trip. I'm used to walking into places where I'm simply a reservation on the computer and a name on the credit card. To be greeted by name was an extraordinary gift because I hadn't even realize how much being anonymous had been effecting me.
The Lodge, it turned out, was the old gatehouse of the estate. The taxi driver went to drop off my bags and I went to the Steading to check in. I walked in and was greeting like a dear friend. They gave me my keys (though Robin took back the key to his garage, so I didn't get to joyride on wind-y country roads) and Melitta, the artist, was tasked with showing me around. She walked to the Lodge with me and helped carry in my bags.
I could not have been more wrong in my preconceived notion of the Lodge. It turned out to be a very charming 3 bedroom cottage that had just been refurbished (and looked like the inside of an Ikea catalog, in a good way). And I had it all to myself. A large kitchen, a sitting room with a bay window, and a bathroom with a huge soaker tub. It was simple and homey and would have a really fantastic rating on Trip Advisor. Then Melitta showed me around: the art room (which is really two rooms with one entire wall devoted to shelf after shelf of every kind of artistic supply you might need); the labyrinth which is mown into the grass and centers around an archway of bamboo; the cozy lounges and prayer rooms in the Steading; the quiet chapel that was, I'm not making this up, the carpenter's workshop; the indoor pool (Shrine Mont is clearly behind the times); and, my favorite, the walled garden, which IS the Secret Garden, overflowing with flowers (including my favorite peonies) and lots of quiet places to sit and read/meditate/pray/snooze.
[Note: At this point in the writing of this post, the internet cafe cl0sed and I had to stop writing. The next portion was written 3 days later. If you notice a great difference in style between the first half and second half, that's why.]
Once again, God showed me that it is best if I let God do the planning. I had been so stressed about not being "productive" in Iona, when I actually had. I needed that quiet, calm time to be still and know God (Psalm 46, my favorite). I couldn't paint or write because it wasn't time yet. Iona was the place to be still. And it worked because when I got to The Bield my well-rested Spirit (and brain and body) were ready to respond to the stillness of Iona. I painted and painted and painted. What's more--I liked what I painted because my paintings reflected what was going on inside of me. I stopped trying to "paint" and instead started responding to God using paint (and yarn and buttons and glitter). There is a big difference between the two.
At The Bield, my heart and soul opened and poured forth every emotion you could imagine: joy and sorrow and peace and calm and bitterness and contentedness...My paintings, with no conscious planning, alternated between serene blues and firey reds. Words poured out into my journal (more about that in a moment), hard and angled and sharp, and strangely made me feel bouyant, like the difficult emotions had left my body through the ink in the pen (which, is probably exactly what was happening).
God placed exactly the right person, Melitta, into my life to hold my hand through the torrent. We did spiritual direction in which we looked at my paintings and talked about them and she helped me to see it wasn't about paint on paper, but instead about fire in my heart. She cannot know how grateful I am to her for her quiet confidence and encouragement.
Worship at The Bield (I feel almost disloyal saying this, and I don't even know why) was much more fulfilling than at the Abbey. Twice a day we gathered in the small chapel and were led in worship by one of the staff. You never knew what would happen, it's very free form. For the first several days there were guests from Malawi there, and they led us in singing and dancing and it was exhilerating. I found a new artist I love (Ludovico Einaudi, who is like an Italian George Winston) and another day we heard Jars of Clay, my favorite contemporary Christian band. Sometimes there were scripture readings, sometimes formal prayers we read together, and always there was blessed silence.
When I first arrived, I was invited to a program that night on the labyrinth using meditations on the writings of Julian of Norwich. As you know, my entire sabbatical has been based on Julian's writing: All shall be well. It was definitely God's way of saying, this is exactly where you need to be right now. We walked the labyrinth in a soft rain. Underfoot were the buttercups and clover that covered the fields where I grew up. Marianne tried to give me an umbrella, but I loved the rain and the way the fields shone bright green against the dark grey sky.
I had known that on the weekend I was at The Bield, there was going to be a poetry workshop led by Kenneth Steven, a poet--his most well-known book of poems entitled, wait for it...Iona-- and author of several children's books. I hadn't signed up for the workshop because I wasn't there to write; I was there to paint. But on Thursday, Muriel asked, "Are you going to the poetry workshop this weekend?" I replied, "Am I allowed to go?" Muriel, looking mystified by my question: "Of course!" I almost didn't participate--again I wasn't there to write. But I was intrigued by Ken's poems and his time on Iona and figured it might be nice. I'd go to the Friday night session and see how it was.
Once again, say it with me boys and girls, God knows better than I. Ken's gentle presence and the gathering of fellow seekers were like balm to my soul. At chapel that night I had a thought of something I wanted to write. I took out my journal to write a couple of quick notes, and ended up in the chapel for 30 mintues after everyone had gone, unable to stop the flow of words. The next morning, when we had a break to work on a writing assignment Ken gave us, I went to the Lodge to take a nap. After all, I wasn't actually at the workshop, so I could do as I pleased. Before I kipped (<--insert random Britishism here), I sat with my journal and decided at least to write a few sentences, no more than a haiku. 1 1/2 hours later, I put down my pen only because I had an appointment with Melitta for spiritual direction. In one 24 hour span I painted 6 pictures, wrote about 1,000 words, read several readings that Melitta had given me, and made many connections that were only possible after several quiet weeks beforehand.
Saturday night, Robin and Marianne, being Danish and used to a big midsummer's night celebration, had us all to their home for a barbecue (What do they serve at a barbecue here, I wondered? Answer: hamburgers, ribs and corn cooked on a charcoal grill.). It was cold and rainy and grey and we sat outside eating our feast and celebrating the longest night. Afterward there was a reading by Ken of his poems, an event that turned out to be a céilidh (pronounced "KAY-lee" because the Scots can't spell anything the way it sounds), with readings of lots of poets by many of us (I read Billy Collins, of course), singing of old time spirituals, and a bagpiper.
Sadly, on Sunday, I had to leave early to get to Edinburgh and missed the last day of the workshop. That was the only time I felt truly sad at The Bield--saying goodbye. Melitta came to breakfast to see me off, which meant the world to me.
So, that is a very long post which still does not even begin to capture the profound experience I had in Iona and The Bield. I really only need to quote Julian for you to know my experience:
All shall be well.
And all shall be well.
And all manner of things shall be well.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The Inside Joke
Iona is an island 3 miles long by 1 mile wide, population about 120. The Abbey, built in 13th century, originally founded by St. Columba in the 6th century, is the main tourist attraction. It has a graveyard where about 45 Scottish kings are buried, including Macbeth. I'm particularly fond of the ruins of the old Nunnery; I've eaten lunch a number of days sitting on a bench there. There is a general store, a small grocery that would fit inside most of our 7-11s, and a handful of small shops selling art and jewelry, and a lovely used bookstore. The truth is, though, you can see all of that in a day (perhaps less if you don't stop to pray in the Abbey). So what do people do here? Especially if, like me, they are here for 10 days?
The answer: they collect stones. There are stones everywhere. The beaches are littered with them. People walk along with their heads down, looking for stones that call to them. There are rose colored granite (the stone that make the cliffs across the sound always look like sunset); brilliant green stones the color of my dining room (yes, that color actually does exist in nature); white marble;and mermaids tears, stones spotted with the tears of a mermaid when St. Columba cast her out for falling in love with a monk. Most of the rocks are worn smooth by the ocean, but my favorites are rough, waiting to be smoothed, much like me. I had a 15 minute conversation today with fellow visitors about how to get home with 15 pounds of rocks added to our luggage. (Conclusion? Shipping them back is not an option.)
People don't collect the stones simply because they are beautiful or because they are free souvenirs to take home to our family and friends. We collect them because they are a way to take Iona home with us. I think I'm trying to build my own abbey, stone by stone.
Iona is made of stone. But not just any stone. The stone of Iona is 2.9 billion years old.
2.9 billion years old. Nearly 3,000 million years old.
Iona is, I'm told, literally the oldest place on earth. If you find a stone with a fossil in it, it's not originally from Iona. Iona rose out of the sea before the smallest carbon organism formed within the depths. Fossil stones are pilgrim stones, traveling from near and far, drawn by God to this place that has been rained with God's grace longer than any place on this planet.
No wonder we collect stones. The ancient Abbey is not even milliseconds old when compared to the age of the stones around us. You can pick up a piece of creation and put it in your pocket. It's irresistible.
I go to the Abbey at least once a day for prayer, but most of my prayer has taken place sitting on a sand dune, watching the waves of Iona sound or the north Atlantic lap on the shores. This is amazing to me. I'm not a nature girl. I am not the kind of person who lays back on the scratchy sea grass getting sand in my hair while I watch the clouds drift by. Yet here I cannot be outside enough. The sun doesn't set until 10:30 p.m. and the light lasts even longer and I'm grateful, because it gives me more time to be outside in the chapel that is the island of Iona, prepared by God at the beginning of the world.
Last Tuesday I walked across the island and sat on a dune at the edge of the beach. I sat there trying to paint the sky and the sea and the stones that had found their way into my bag when I walked along the beach. My paintings are terrible, not only because I am artistically challenged, but also because there is no way to capture the peace that makes the colors brighter, the sun warmer, the winds fresher.
As I look out at the beaches on Iona I am struck by how familiar they are. It took me some time to place it, but I finally figured it out. The white sand, the turquoise and lapis-colored water, the jagged stone outcroppings against which the waves fling themselves. I've seen them before...in Hawaii.
Hawaii. I had many pictures of Scotland in my mind, but none of them were Hawaii. If you gaze inland it is undoubtedly Scotland. There are impossibly green hills dotted with the creme puffs shapes of sheep. There are jagged stone cliffs beyond. The wind brings the scent of the heather growing in the fields. But turn and face the ocean, and it looks like a deserted beach you might stumble upon in Hawaii, laid out like a bejeweled gift from God.
Today at the Abbey, the preacher spoke of joy. It was a sermon I needed to hear. I realized that is what I've been feeling as I sit on the dunes. Not simply happiness or contentment or peace, but joy. I feel connected to God through the stones that first peeked out of the ocean 2.9 billion years ago; through the prayer of nearly two millenia that has covered this island; through the understanding that it's all connected through time and space, so that a baby beach created by a volcano in Hawaii is the twin of the ancient beach of Iona. (Though, I must say, you know the difference immediately when you feel the temperature of the water.)
Last Tuesday when I finally put away my paints and dusted off the sand, I walked back across the island, not really praying, but more just thinking to God about the amazing similarity between Iona and Hawaii. And then God, hearing my mere thoughts, gave me a miracle.
As I came up the hill to my hotel, three young men sat on a bench playing instruments and singing. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me as I caught snatches of the sound on the Scottish wind. As I came close I realized I was not imagining things at all.
The young men were playing ukelele and singing in Hawaiian.
2.9 billion years this sacred place has been here, but on a Tuesday afternoon on a sunny June day in 2008, God heard my thoughts and took the time to let me in on the inside joke.
The answer: they collect stones. There are stones everywhere. The beaches are littered with them. People walk along with their heads down, looking for stones that call to them. There are rose colored granite (the stone that make the cliffs across the sound always look like sunset); brilliant green stones the color of my dining room (yes, that color actually does exist in nature); white marble;and mermaids tears, stones spotted with the tears of a mermaid when St. Columba cast her out for falling in love with a monk. Most of the rocks are worn smooth by the ocean, but my favorites are rough, waiting to be smoothed, much like me. I had a 15 minute conversation today with fellow visitors about how to get home with 15 pounds of rocks added to our luggage. (Conclusion? Shipping them back is not an option.)
People don't collect the stones simply because they are beautiful or because they are free souvenirs to take home to our family and friends. We collect them because they are a way to take Iona home with us. I think I'm trying to build my own abbey, stone by stone.
Iona is made of stone. But not just any stone. The stone of Iona is 2.9 billion years old.
2.9 billion years old. Nearly 3,000 million years old.
Iona is, I'm told, literally the oldest place on earth. If you find a stone with a fossil in it, it's not originally from Iona. Iona rose out of the sea before the smallest carbon organism formed within the depths. Fossil stones are pilgrim stones, traveling from near and far, drawn by God to this place that has been rained with God's grace longer than any place on this planet.
No wonder we collect stones. The ancient Abbey is not even milliseconds old when compared to the age of the stones around us. You can pick up a piece of creation and put it in your pocket. It's irresistible.
I go to the Abbey at least once a day for prayer, but most of my prayer has taken place sitting on a sand dune, watching the waves of Iona sound or the north Atlantic lap on the shores. This is amazing to me. I'm not a nature girl. I am not the kind of person who lays back on the scratchy sea grass getting sand in my hair while I watch the clouds drift by. Yet here I cannot be outside enough. The sun doesn't set until 10:30 p.m. and the light lasts even longer and I'm grateful, because it gives me more time to be outside in the chapel that is the island of Iona, prepared by God at the beginning of the world.
Last Tuesday I walked across the island and sat on a dune at the edge of the beach. I sat there trying to paint the sky and the sea and the stones that had found their way into my bag when I walked along the beach. My paintings are terrible, not only because I am artistically challenged, but also because there is no way to capture the peace that makes the colors brighter, the sun warmer, the winds fresher.
As I look out at the beaches on Iona I am struck by how familiar they are. It took me some time to place it, but I finally figured it out. The white sand, the turquoise and lapis-colored water, the jagged stone outcroppings against which the waves fling themselves. I've seen them before...in Hawaii.
Hawaii. I had many pictures of Scotland in my mind, but none of them were Hawaii. If you gaze inland it is undoubtedly Scotland. There are impossibly green hills dotted with the creme puffs shapes of sheep. There are jagged stone cliffs beyond. The wind brings the scent of the heather growing in the fields. But turn and face the ocean, and it looks like a deserted beach you might stumble upon in Hawaii, laid out like a bejeweled gift from God.
Today at the Abbey, the preacher spoke of joy. It was a sermon I needed to hear. I realized that is what I've been feeling as I sit on the dunes. Not simply happiness or contentment or peace, but joy. I feel connected to God through the stones that first peeked out of the ocean 2.9 billion years ago; through the prayer of nearly two millenia that has covered this island; through the understanding that it's all connected through time and space, so that a baby beach created by a volcano in Hawaii is the twin of the ancient beach of Iona. (Though, I must say, you know the difference immediately when you feel the temperature of the water.)
Last Tuesday when I finally put away my paints and dusted off the sand, I walked back across the island, not really praying, but more just thinking to God about the amazing similarity between Iona and Hawaii. And then God, hearing my mere thoughts, gave me a miracle.
As I came up the hill to my hotel, three young men sat on a bench playing instruments and singing. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me as I caught snatches of the sound on the Scottish wind. As I came close I realized I was not imagining things at all.
The young men were playing ukelele and singing in Hawaiian.
2.9 billion years this sacred place has been here, but on a Tuesday afternoon on a sunny June day in 2008, God heard my thoughts and took the time to let me in on the inside joke.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Still on the face of the Earth...
..though you would be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
My traveling companion, Gustavo (my mini laptop) died unexpectedly last week. I took him to the computer doctor who took him apart. Doctor shook his head and told me, "Sell it for parts." Luckily he is still under warranty (Gustavo, that is, not the doctor), but without him my time online has been spotty.
I wasn't doing well with keeping up my blog anyway, so I can't blame it on Gustavo. I had an intense two weeks of traveling before I landed in Iona. London, Salisbury (including Stonehenge), Stratford-upon-Avon, Coventry, Durham and finally Glasgow.
I composed blog entries constantly--in my head. There were about 4 written waiting to be posted (I had difficulty getting a connection in some places even with the laptop) on Gustavo that will never see the light again. Instead of composing them again (or, let's face it, not posting at all) I will instead give a short run down of all the witty, insightful and profound blog entries that I did not write:
--Is having the artifacts from his tomb displayed and becoming the most famous pharoah King Tutankamen's hoped for resurrection? All these items were meant to help him navigate the afterlife, and in a sense they are accomplishing that. All because he was so obscure that his tomb was lost not long after he'd been buried.
--Will the people who made "White Chocolate Creme Brulee" King Tut candy be forced to eat said candy in penance for their sins? (Hint: yes)
--Stonehenge was already ancient and likely abandoned when King Tut became the boy king.
--I would love to have seen Salisbury Cathedral and Durham Cathedral and Iona Abbey before the reformation when they were stripped of all ornamentation and color.
--Coventry Cathedral is beautiful and dedicated to justice and peace. Yet, sitting inside I felt like I was sitting inside a tomb.
--I don't like Evensong; I like Sung Evening Prayer. Evensong is basically just a concert. I would at least like to be allowed to sing the responses and a hymn.
--"A Midsummer Night's Dream" at the Royal Shakespeare Company is absolutely the most wonderful theater experience I've ever had. It was transforming. Yet afterward I saw some of the actors headed to a pub and realized that for them, it's just another day at work. I am sure they loved it, but if they want the kind of experience I had, they need to go see some other play. I absolutely love what I do, but leading worship every week is slightly different than worshipping every week. Going to worship needs to become something I do more regularly. (NB: I am not comparing myself to the RSC. I'm a dinner show in Kansas City compared to them. But they taught be something about being a priest and why I needed this sabbatical.)
--Durham Cathedral is just as spectacular as I had hoped. That is a living, breathing place of worship.
--Iona is a holy place unlike any other. Walking into the Abby, you can feel the 1500 years of prayer on this island.
--I am a terrible painter. Truly untalented. But I saw some watercolors for sale today for £45 (about $90) that I could actually do. Which is more a comment about the artist than it is about me.
--Sometimes the generic stereotyping in our heads is based on reality. E.g. It rains in the U.K. And rains. And rains some more. Also, they actually say "wee" in Scotland and it makes me extraordinarily happy to hear a gruff, Glasgow male cab driver tell me, "The station is just a wee bit down the road." Three ice cubes rather than two is the UK equivalent of extra ice.
--The silver lining of the dollar being so weak is that it's very easy to convert pounds to dollars in my head. You just double everything. Things here often cost what they do in the states, only in pounds. A Starbucks latte (yes, of course they have Starbucks here) is about £3.90.
I met a wonderful couple on the train from Glasgow on the first leg of the trek to Iona. We're staying in the same hotel and have had dinner together every evening. It's wonderful to travel and meet people you would never know otherwise. Plus it proves how small the church is: John and Mary are from Minnesota and John is priest and knows a friend of mine from seminary.
I've put up a picture of me at Stonehenge. I'm uploading pictures by fits and starts when I can get at a computer. I'll post links when they are up.
I'm going to go to Eucharist at the Bishop's House now. It's not actually the Bishop's House, but that's what the call the Scottish Episcopal conference center here on Iona.
Blessings!
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Happiest Place On Earth
When I got to Walt Disney World, I realized it was (give or take about 10 days) exactly 35 years since my first visit. On that visit I was 6 years old. It rained 5 inches, and my most vivid memory is of sitting in a large room in the Contemporary Hotel where they were showing a movie as a rainy day activity for kids. The reason it sticks out in my memory is that I was the only child there. My father came to get me halfway through the movie. I felt guilty leaving the projectionist there showing the movie to no one. I have lost count of how many times I've been here since 1973, but they've always been special.
Yesterday we went to one of the water parks here at WDW, Typhoon Lagoon. Of all our visits I'd never been to one of the water parks. It's been in the upper-80's this week, and it was lovely to spend time floating along the lazy river in an inner tube. We also spent time in the wave pool, one of the largest in the world. It creates 6 foot waves. I much preferred bobbing in the 2 foot waves.
The night before and all morning before we went to the park, I nagged my friend Jim about putting on sunscreen. He tans the minute he is in the sun and often won't wear any sunscreen. He got a third degree sunburn on a cruise once, though, and I was adamant that he put on sunscreen early and often. So we did. Lots of sunscreen before starting and reapplied several times. We also sought out lots of shade.
I was vindicated. He did not burn. Neither did Katie or Dirk. My nagging paid off!
For them. Even with multiple applications of SPF 45, I look (and feel) like a broiled lobster.
Sigh.
Yesterday we went to one of the water parks here at WDW, Typhoon Lagoon. Of all our visits I'd never been to one of the water parks. It's been in the upper-80's this week, and it was lovely to spend time floating along the lazy river in an inner tube. We also spent time in the wave pool, one of the largest in the world. It creates 6 foot waves. I much preferred bobbing in the 2 foot waves.
The night before and all morning before we went to the park, I nagged my friend Jim about putting on sunscreen. He tans the minute he is in the sun and often won't wear any sunscreen. He got a third degree sunburn on a cruise once, though, and I was adamant that he put on sunscreen early and often. So we did. Lots of sunscreen before starting and reapplied several times. We also sought out lots of shade.
I was vindicated. He did not burn. Neither did Katie or Dirk. My nagging paid off!
For them. Even with multiple applications of SPF 45, I look (and feel) like a broiled lobster.
Sigh.
Monday, April 28, 2008
...I have no idea how to respond to that.
I was planning to make a light-hearted post today along the lines of:
Q: Leslie, you just started a three-month sabbatical. What are you going to do now?
A: I'm going to Disney World!
Instead today I am introspective and a little fragile. I took off my collar last night when I got home and realized I wouldn't put it on again for three months. Who am I now? I know that I'm still a priest even when I'm not wearing a collar, but even without it I tend to spend a majority of time around people who know me as a priest. This summer I will be much more anonymous which is freeing. Also? It's a little scary.
I had two moments of "Oh, maybe I should drop an email to the parish office and tell David one more thing" today. I didn't do it because I knew I'd get in trouble if I did. The communications agreement certainly will keep me honest.
Q: Leslie, you just started a three-month sabbatical. What are you going to do now?
A: I'm going to Disney World!
Instead today I am introspective and a little fragile. I took off my collar last night when I got home and realized I wouldn't put it on again for three months. Who am I now? I know that I'm still a priest even when I'm not wearing a collar, but even without it I tend to spend a majority of time around people who know me as a priest. This summer I will be much more anonymous which is freeing. Also? It's a little scary.
I had two moments of "Oh, maybe I should drop an email to the parish office and tell David one more thing" today. I didn't do it because I knew I'd get in trouble if I did. The communications agreement certainly will keep me honest.
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Trinity of Days
I've been preparing for this Sabbatical for a year. I'm ready. The staff is ready. The wardens are ready. The Vestry is ready. The parish is ready. We have a great plan, and I have no doubt that everything is well in hand.
And yet yesterday, when talking to a parishioner about my Godspeed pot luck on Sunday night, I thought, "Three days." And my stomach dropped as if I were going down the first hill of the Cyclone on Coney Island (the scariest roller coaster I've ever been on; the only one I will Never. Go. On. Again.)
I love roller coasters. I love the feeling you get with that drop, when gravity fails and you wonder if it will ever come back. But with a roller coaster it's a controlled experience. You are strapped in and ready. You have gone click, click, click, click up the hill. You have seen the drop. You know what's coming.
Still, it always seems like a suprise when that last link lets go of the cars and now you are under the control of physical laws of nature that you didn't understand back when Mr. A taught them to you in 11th grade. Will the train fly off the tracks? No, say Mr. A and the roller coaster designers (who, you hope, paid a lot more attention than you did in 11th grade physics). Centrifugal force is your friend. You go up and down and around, completely at the mercy of steel or wood, some couplings you hope will hold, a harness that is your lifeline, and yes, you are at the mercy of the God who invented those laws of gravity and centrifugal force and who I'm sure loves roller coasters, because they give us practice in letting go of control, something God's been trying to get us to do since back in the garden where we couldn't wait for gravity to drop the fruit from the tree, so we went and plucked it ourselves. Click, click, click, click, our free will carries us up the hill to our inevitable downfall.
My stomach dropped when I realized I have a trinity of days before my sabbatical because I recognized that I'm strapped in. I'm going click, click, click, click, and I'm almost at the top of the hill. This is the scariest part--not the drop, but the anticipation of the drop. Three days. I'm clenching onto the harness, fighting not to close my eyes. Fighting not to beg them to let me off this ride and put me back on the merry-go-round, where the path is comfortingly the same and predictable and the ups and downs are gentle and regular.
On Monday morning I begin a new adventure. A ride with dips and turns I cannot predict. As much as I feel anxious right now, I know that I'll do what I always do on a roller coaster: Let go of the rail and raise my hands high and put myself in the mercy of those laws that Mr. A taught me, that Jesus showed me, that God prepared for me (and you and you and you...) at the beginning of the universe. Roller coasters--and life--are a lot scarier when you don't hold on. They are also WAY more fun.
And yet yesterday, when talking to a parishioner about my Godspeed pot luck on Sunday night, I thought, "Three days." And my stomach dropped as if I were going down the first hill of the Cyclone on Coney Island (the scariest roller coaster I've ever been on; the only one I will Never. Go. On. Again.)
I love roller coasters. I love the feeling you get with that drop, when gravity fails and you wonder if it will ever come back. But with a roller coaster it's a controlled experience. You are strapped in and ready. You have gone click, click, click, click up the hill. You have seen the drop. You know what's coming.
Still, it always seems like a suprise when that last link lets go of the cars and now you are under the control of physical laws of nature that you didn't understand back when Mr. A taught them to you in 11th grade. Will the train fly off the tracks? No, say Mr. A and the roller coaster designers (who, you hope, paid a lot more attention than you did in 11th grade physics). Centrifugal force is your friend. You go up and down and around, completely at the mercy of steel or wood, some couplings you hope will hold, a harness that is your lifeline, and yes, you are at the mercy of the God who invented those laws of gravity and centrifugal force and who I'm sure loves roller coasters, because they give us practice in letting go of control, something God's been trying to get us to do since back in the garden where we couldn't wait for gravity to drop the fruit from the tree, so we went and plucked it ourselves. Click, click, click, click, our free will carries us up the hill to our inevitable downfall.
My stomach dropped when I realized I have a trinity of days before my sabbatical because I recognized that I'm strapped in. I'm going click, click, click, click, and I'm almost at the top of the hill. This is the scariest part--not the drop, but the anticipation of the drop. Three days. I'm clenching onto the harness, fighting not to close my eyes. Fighting not to beg them to let me off this ride and put me back on the merry-go-round, where the path is comfortingly the same and predictable and the ups and downs are gentle and regular.
On Monday morning I begin a new adventure. A ride with dips and turns I cannot predict. As much as I feel anxious right now, I know that I'll do what I always do on a roller coaster: Let go of the rail and raise my hands high and put myself in the mercy of those laws that Mr. A taught me, that Jesus showed me, that God prepared for me (and you and you and you...) at the beginning of the universe. Roller coasters--and life--are a lot scarier when you don't hold on. They are also WAY more fun.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The beginning of the beginning
On April 27, 2008, after church, I will begin my sabbatical, a time of refreshment, renewal, and, in my case, painting.
This blog will host periodic reflections on my sabbatical, from its planning to its completion. This will include: travelogues, pictures, prayers, reflections, packing lists (Item 1: Dramamine) and navel gazing, not necessarily in that order. My adventures will take me to one of the most ancient pilgrimage sites in Christendom, the Iona Abbey in Scotland; other locations in the British Isles, wherever free room and board are to be had (hello friends!); and, in no surprise to those who know me, Walt Disney World.
Warning: There will be pictures of (bad) paintings I've done. Not for the faint of heart, though my mother will probably say she likes them.
On July 27, 2008, I will return to St. Michael's, refreshed, renewed, and with more paintings than my mother's fridge can display.
This blog will host periodic reflections on my sabbatical, from its planning to its completion. This will include: travelogues, pictures, prayers, reflections, packing lists (Item 1: Dramamine) and navel gazing, not necessarily in that order. My adventures will take me to one of the most ancient pilgrimage sites in Christendom, the Iona Abbey in Scotland; other locations in the British Isles, wherever free room and board are to be had (hello friends!); and, in no surprise to those who know me, Walt Disney World.
Warning: There will be pictures of (bad) paintings I've done. Not for the faint of heart, though my mother will probably say she likes them.
On July 27, 2008, I will return to St. Michael's, refreshed, renewed, and with more paintings than my mother's fridge can display.
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