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.
