Closing the Books on the Past To Make Room for the Next Adventure

If you followed my previous long journey when I went to Europe a few years ago you may recall that I kept hinting at a Large Story that I needed to figure out how to write...a story that was the climax of that trip....far too grand a tale, I felt, to wrap up neatly or blog-style.

Well, over the last few years I have been struggling and struggling to put it into writing.  I have no trouble telling the story to friends over bottles of wine, with an hour or two to really flesh it out.  But writing it.....I just couldn't.

After I bought my ticket to India I hired a wonderful life/career coach, Denise Barnes, for four sessions to be spread out over two and a half months to guide and cheer-lead me through the writing process so that I could close the books on the "old" story before setting off to discover a new one.  Funny thing was, even though we got the writing juices flowing pronto and I found a solid voice for the story after the first session, I still couldn't navigate my way through writing the whole tale.

However, Denise did coach me through quite a powerful mental block: she helped me to finally feel confident in my abilities as a "light worker".  With her energetically holding my hand I took the first steps towards believing that I have something unique and valuable to give to the world by virtue of my exploration of it and reporting on it.  All I have to do is trust my gut, take one step at a time, and keep careful notes.

Over the same few months, I made the long-distance acquaintance of another wise-woman, Victoria Pendragon, who has a site that I've followed for the last few years called sacredearthsevenelement.com. I introduced myself because she was looking for free images to replace the copyright protected photos that she used for her cyber tarot deck in order to make a sellable hard-copy deck.  I had a picture that I took on Iona that had always reminded me of her Tower Card; I wrote and asked her if she'd like to trade my image out for her old one.  She did.  This led to several of my travel photos being incorporated into her deck...a high honor for me, as I feel she is a very gifted healer and light worker.

On Sundays Victoria doesn't post her usual daily readings, but sends out tutorials on the meaning of one of her cards.  Yesterday she highlighted The Tower; naturally, she included my photo.  She was gracious enough to give me a shout-out at the end of the post and I wanted to repay her with the history behind the picture.  

Lo and behold, in a matter of minutes I found that I had written The Story.  Granted, it doesn't have all the back-ground I thought it needed in order to be impactful, but it is The Story.    (If you'd like some of the history I might have shared in an oral telling, you can root it out by sifting through the blog posts from the spring of 2008).

So, to close the books on Europe 2008...without further ado...I give you: THE Story (as told to Victoria Pendragon).

A different shot of "The Tower" 

I built that tower at the end of a very long (3 month) quest around the British Isles....a quest I was called to go on, without being given the reason, by the universe.  The night before had been a full moon....I had spent the new moon, two weeks earlier, in Glastonbury casting wishes for clarity and a sense of purpose into the Holy Well....and I was sure that my long awaited epiphany would come to me on the full moon on Iona...I mean, if you can't expect an epiphany there, where can you???

But none had arrived.  No prophetic dreams.  Nothing.

So I'd slogged through the rain and sheep poop across the island to the beach where pilgrims have gone for thousands of years.  This beach is famous for it's pebbles and it was, indeed, covered with millions of the most beautiful pebbles I have ever seen.  

I sat amongst them all, in the rain, building that tower feeling very much at sea and forsaken and at the end of my energetic/spiritual rope.

And I gave up.  I started to walk home.  But then I turned around and decided to walk out into the water on some big boulders (so, surrounded by water, but not IN the water)...

....and I yelled into the surf, "What's it all about?" and I found myself saying out loud, "Love."  

Well, this didn't surprise me because all along my trip I'd been followed by hearts....heart shaped leaves, flowers, wads of gum, puddles, rocks, I had been photographing them for months just to make sure I wasn't going out of my mind:

So, somewhat petulantly, I threw back to the universe, "LOVE...OK...LOVE...I give.  LOVE....".

At the Holy Well I'd "received" a mantra: "Weaving a tapestry, putting in light."  Now, the mantra expanded to: "Weaving a tapestry, putting in light.  Weaving a tapestry putting in LOVE."  I stood on that boulder arms wide open yelling that into the sea.  And then I thought, that's all I can do....my epiphany will obviously come after I get back to the states...maybe years from now...

I began to walk back.  There was a little tidal pool filled with a thousand pebbles, shallow and warm.

So, I decided that the one thing I hadn't done was infuse a prayer into the water....a practice taught to me by a wise man in Australia.  Its a simple practice, you just put your hands in a body of water and say a prayer and by being clear and open-hearted, you infuse that prayer into the water which takes that prayer and sends it around the world.

I said the juiciest prayer ever.  I prayed for peace and love and harmony for everyone I could think of by name and then everyone else whose name I didn't know, as well as for the planet and all its critters.  It was a long long prayer.  Upon occasion my eyes would drift open and I became intrigued by three particular rocks...and when the prayer was done and I was sure that there was no more I could really do to incite an epiphany, an epiphany that was OBVIOUSLY not coming anytime soon...I indulged my curiosity and picked up the three rocks, one at a time.

The first was tiny and white and irregularly shaped with pin prick orange and blue spots on it....I pocketed that one for a kid I nanny upon occasion.

The second looked as if it was going to be heart-shaped....of course, knowing my luck....but it wasn't.

The third was a very ordinary egg shaped rock...grey...with a pink line running down the part I could see...and I love a rock with a wishing line on it.  I picked it up and slowly turned it around to make sure the line connected on the other "side", because we all know...the line has to connect on the other side to be a valid wishing rock....but as I turned it around I realized that it did not circumnavigate the stone...instead it appeared that God had taken a pink sharpie and drawn the outline of a slightly irregular, but Hallmark worthy heart onto the pebble.

I stood up and tried telling myself that that was a perfectly normal thing to find.  That there was nothing at all extra-ordinary about finding a rock with a perfect heart drawn on it amidst millions of other pebbles that don't have hearts...and to find it right after I said a prayer for love into the water right above it...."PERFECTLY NORMAL!"

But as I walked away I suddenly felt as if I'd been punched in the stomach...I doubled over and collapsed to the ground and started sobbing....and I knew in a flood of insight that the Earth had been speaking to me all along the way.  It had been speaking AND listening to me..the whole time.  It had been telling me that Love really is the only answer.  I also believe it was telling me that it can be healed...we can be healed....and the healing starts with love.

Now I don't think I'm special...I think the Earth is speaking to all of us..listening to all of us...I just happened to be in a space where I could pick up on the signals...

Snapshot Sanctuary: Iona

This moment of peace today comes from the Island of Iona off the coast of Scotland....picture a small, very remote, flat, wind-swept island where pagans and christians after them have been coming for thousands of years to meditate and find their inner compass re-balanced.....off in the distance is the famous Abbey...behind you a long walk to a beach filled with stones of every color and before you an evening of sitting in the little church next to the abbey where sparrows nest...perhaps, tonight, you will come across a group of pilgrims chanting for peace and love and joy...and you will join them...perhaps you will sit and look out at the rising moon and then sleep deeply and restfully....and in the morning you will feel grounded and strong and connected to the earth...

Dining Alone in the Hebrides

A single candle. A single glass. A single wicker chair with two worn cushions, one for below, one for behind.

“Yes, I'll have a glass of wine. The Sancerre, please. Thanks.”

She sits looking out at the wee bay that separates Iona from Mull. Between them, in the gathering dusk is the Island of Women, a small, barren rock not much larger than a city block.

She wonders if all the single ladies are plopped here on the sun porch while all the partnered people and single men are gathered together in the dinning room behind her. Twisting in her chair, she peeks through the glass window behind to see folks in the full swing of their meals.

Is this sun porch really her own Island of Women? Well, Island of Woman, singular, to be exact. When Columba claimed Iona for the church he banished all the pagan witches to the rock across the bay. Perhaps his descendants still harbor a tiny distrust of independent women.

“Yes, I’ll start with Foie Gras.”

She sounded sure of herself, though inside she was a little conflicted. Did she really want the pate? She loves pate, but Foie Gras is such a delicacy and it comes with the price of the room, so has decided to be decadent. Even as the nice young man walks away she still feels torn.

Maybe her exile from the other travelers is her own doing. Didn’t she request that afternoon to be seated on the porch to enjoy her afternoon tea? The porch, where she can watch the people go by, the rain fall, as it always seems to be falling, on the Scottish sea and cliffs and granites of pink and green. Perhaps the inn keeper, respecting her solitude made it known to all the staff that she would be taking all her meals at that little table, with the single wicker chair, it’s partner pulled aside and secured against the wall lest anyone mistake her for a woman who was waiting for someone to join her.

The foie Gras arrives.

“Thank you this looks delicious. I’d love to have the chicken with rosemary next. That comes with asparagus? Great!”

The appetizer resembles a portrait out of Gourmet magazine. She thinks. She doesn’t really read gourmet magazine. But this little gelatinous rectangle of duck innards and fat sits somewhat tantalizingly on the plate, like a centerfold on a luscious bed of croutons and watercress. That first bite is rich and earthy and she closes her eyes to appreciate what a fine piece of work is this little concoction. It’s good, very good. Yet, she wishes she had just ordered the pate. This thought makes her smile. Why can’t she remember that although she appreciates foie gras, it is too heavy to eat much of, too challenging to her palate to really enjoy.

She sips her wine. Here she made a wise choice. The buttery complexity of this Sancerre delights her. Why are Sancerre’s so hard to find in the states, she wonders. It is such a magical little grape that never fails to tickle her palate.

The sun, which made it’s first appearance of the day late in the afternoon, is begrudgingly making its way to the other side of the world, somewhere behind her. As it sends it’s dazzling rays eastward it catches the rain and does that thing rain and sun do so well together, and a rainbow magically appears over the shimmering bay. She snaps pictures and turns to the empty porch, then looking through the glass partitions that separate her from the other guests. She is hoping someone else can see this gift that the heavens are delivering. But no one inside seems interested in what is happening outside. She turns back to the to the rainbow, to the water, to the boats that bob up and down as if they are trying to capture a bit of red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple light before they are swallowed by the darkness of night. She alone will have to be their witness.



“There is rainbow out there, see just there. There were two of them just a few moments ago. Spectacular. Oh, yes, I’m done, thank you. It was wonderful but a little too rich for me.”

Perhaps the natives are too used to rainbows to find them noteworthy, she speculates when her plate has been cleared and she is once again alone.

The chicken arrives. It smells of rosemary and pepper, of warmth and comfort. Where the foie gras was exotic and alien, the chicken is inviting and familiar. The asparagus is crisp and buttery. She takes a bite of each, both are moist and exactly what she expected, only tastier as if this Scottish rosemary and pepper and butter and sea salt are really determined to make a name for themselves.

She settles into her chair, relaxing into the heart of her meal. The rainbow has faded away and a silver gray twilight is fast engulfing the view. In the distance, beyond the Island of Women, are the crazy cliffs of Mull. What are they called, she wonders. The land just there looks as if some giant picked up the island, turned it up on it’s end and made an accordion fold in the landscape then laid the island back down. The resulting effect, especially at dusk, makes it appear as if some ogre deep in the cliff has just slightly opened his blinds and is peeking out to watch the sunset.



She smiles across the water to the ogre, knowing his secret, solitary pleasure.

“Goodness, yes, it was truly delicious. I’d love another glass of wine, and maybe the pudding. That’s cake, right? I mean, it’s fully cooked. I mean, in the states we call pudding “cake”, so I just want to make sure you mean cake. I’m allergic to most puddings, like tapioca. It’s the milk, you see. Great, I’ll have the pudding.”

She loves those little discoveries of cultural differences. After three months of traveling, her mind is full of them. Each country and city seems to have it’s own way of doing things. Crossing the street in Rome is a leap of faith, best to find a nun to walk behind; Romans seem disinclined to run over a nun. She feels sure Londoners will run over anybody who gets in their way, regardless of their moral standing in the community. Parisians kiss on sidewalks seductively, Italians kiss hungrily. The Brits don’t seem to kiss. In Paris the men smile in appreciation. In Italy, the men chase and pester, while the women keep their distance. In Ireland, the gift of the gab is a true stereotype and conversation is ripe for the picking, In Wales and Cornwall and Edinburgh, and here, in the Hebrides, her final stop, she has been pretty much left to herself.

The pudding arrives. And the second glass of wine. Both feel like extravagant little afterthoughts. Like down pillows on a featherbed. Dense and chocolaty, the pudding melts as she chews. This isn’t the soft billowing sinful pleasure of a mousse in Paris. She doesn’t close her eyes to register its effect deep down in the sensuous depths of her belly, as she did when she dared that milky treat two months ago. Instead, this cake settles in closer to her heart.

Tonight, she decides, she will visit the chapel with the swallow chicks and the abbey cat. She will reflect on this journey that has unexpectedly brought her to this little sacred isle. She yearns for clarity, for revelation, for meaning. Why did she choose to travel when the economy is spiraling downward, why is she so alone, what will she do when she goes home, how will she make money, what is the purpose of her little beautiful life?

Tomorrow she will get up and make the pilgrimage to Columba’s bay, just as pilgrims have done for thousands of years. Perhaps it will be raining. Perhaps she will find the answers to her questions. Perhaps it will just be another step toward the unknown and unknowable future.

A couple in their early sixties enters the sun porch which now awaits the arrival of the full moon. They sit together on the love seat. They carry a collective sense of peace and compatibility. They nod in her direction, but they do not speak.

She is aware that somehow, in this short evening, she appears to have adopted a proprietary claim on this little window on the world. She’s become at home here. Though she welcomes visitors, the couple seems reluctant to shatter her solitude.

Closing her eyes and breathing deep, she finishes the last of her wine. Even though she predicts that she will be eating in this same spot tomorrow, she wants to soak in the feel of her little wicker throne on her little island of woman.

She opens her eyes and gathering her camera and the journal that has lain unopened on the table all evening, she stands to leave.

“ Isn’t this a lovely little spot? I’m just on my way out for an evening stroll.”

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I want so much to tell you the story of Iona, of my time with... interaction with....what do you call it when an island almost literally speaks to you, when the Earth answers a call....I guess I'd say, my conversation with Iona.

But this story has visual aids that cannot be accessed on rented computers.

This story and you deserve the whole shebang.

So let me tell you this: The Earth Is Listening. The Earth Is Talking. All we have to do is remember how to speak the language. It is a romance language. It has everything to do with Love.

I assure you I have not gone off my rocker, but something so amazing has happened that I find it staggering to believe....in fact, when it happened I almost fell over, and had to stumble to a seat.

Enigmatic, Yes?

I am home in two weeks. Then all will be revealed.

"Strange Travel Suggestions Are Like Dancing Lessons from God." Kurt Vonnegut

A while ago I received an email from a dear friend family friend, Judy. She told me I should go to a place called Iona off the coast of Scotland. She hasn't been there herself, but a friend goes there and has reported an intense spiritual energy and connection to the place. Somewhere in the haze of my memory, I seemed to have heard that somewhere else, and my guide book happens to say the same thing. So, following Kurt Vonnegut's implied advice I decided that I would make Iona a part of my trip. As it turned out through the twists and turns of scheduling from the road I was able to book two nights on the magical isle for this coming Tuesday and Wednesday. Fortuitously, these happen to be around the full moon, which seemed right. And they also happen to be very near the end of my trip, which seemed even more right.

After I booked Iona, I worked backwards and found someplace to stay on the island right across the water, The Isle of Mull, for the three nights before hand. That is where I am now. If I walked outside I could stare across the water at the beautiful Abbey on Iona, one of the many Christian churches erected prominently on old Pagan pilgrimage sites so that the church can show the world who they think is boss. That's okay though, spiritual energy, when it's really clicked on has no boundaries, no names, and we can all sit together and commune with it whether we are under a stone temple or sitting next to an oak tree by a well.

I have not gone across the water yet to Iona. I feel that I want to look at the island for a few days. I feel as if I am preparing myself. I want to take some time to journal and to remember this trip as it has been up till this point. Then I want to go across the water and step into what I feel will be one of those profound doorways from "what was" into "what will be". Don't ask me to explain that, it is just an intuition, I don't know what it means or what it will entail.

What I do know is that as I drove from the ferry dock that brought me to Mull to the little town I am staying in that houses the ferry terminal for Iona, my heart started to ache and open and tingle.

Then I got another strange travel suggestion. The innkeeper where I am staying, Jillian, said while holding a little pamphlet, "Well you should take this boat to Staffa while you are here." I didn't know anything about it, but I thought, why not, I have three days on Mull and not a lot to do. So, I went this morning.

I must go back to a third travel suggestion that three people gave me right at the start of my trip. They all said that I had to go to The Giant's Causeway when I was in Northern Ireland. That strange place is a mass of hexagonal rock formations that stick up out of the earth for miles around. The pictures of it look breathtaking. So when I was in Northern Ireland I kept trying to go. I got The Paperboys interested in going. We kept talking about it, but could not get there. At one point I thought about going by myself on a bus, but my suitcase prevented it.

So, I had to let The Giant's Causeway go. I was gracious and zen about it, but deep down, I was kind of disappointed. No, I was really disappointed. It was the one place on this whole trip that I'd really invested an interest in going to and I didn't make it.

So, today. I got on my little boat bound for Staffa. As we set off the Captain told us of the wildlife we would see and about the massive cave that Mendelssohn wrote a symphony about, but he mentioned nothing else remarkable about the island. And off we went.

As we neared Staffa I could hardly believe my eyes. Can you guess?

The whole island is made of the same geological, hexagonal formations as The Giant's Causeway!

I was stunned. I thought, "this can't be, there's only one place in the world with those formations, isn't that what all the guide books said.....? "

Then the ever-helpful captain came on the speakers again and told us that this island was made out of the same geographical formations as The Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland.

It was confirmed....someone, something, somewhere was nudging me where I needed to go and I am so glad I listened, because at that moment I could feel how this whole trip has been a series of dancing lessons and somehow The Giant's Causeway, that particular hexagonal splendor of the Earth had simply sent me out in a spin and patiently waited for me to find my way back....not to the same place on the dance floor....but never-the-less, we made it in to each other's arms safely and with ease, as if I'd known the steps all along.