How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the
depth and breadth and height my soul can reach
It does not seem too great a stretch to appropriate Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s immortal lines when writing about the Scottish Hebridean Island of Iona. Her expression of love for another person reaches multi-layered dimensions existing beyond description. Some would call this a spiritual state encompassing certain places set apart as well as people set apart. Iona is such a place.
Serene and calm breaks the dawn; one of those days on this sacred isle. Gentle zephyrs caress the cheek. The sea in the Sound of Iona radiates cerulean and azure, ever changing with the elements. Wagtails and Swifts are on wing gathering breakfast for chicks heard but not seen. Gannets are engaged in dramatic dives into the waters from great heights, emerging with the prize–a fish. Comparison with Olympian divers yields Avian Gold every time. Geese soar past in a cacophonous arrow; to the south; then to the north, undecided on which end of the island to pass the day. Two Corncrakes, most illusive of birds, run about the gardens, a creature obviously designed by committee, forever cursed with a song reminiscent of a metal rasp. A pod of dolphins frolic in the Sound leaping in perfect synchronization making their way toward any boat, visiting and playing with the human occupants.
In high summer, the nights are short and never completely dark; sufficient light to read outside at 10:00 p.m. and morn’s first light by 4:30 a.m. So repeats the cycle. . . back, back as far as memory. However, islanders remain ever vigilant, cognizant how quickly their Elysian paradise can devolve into fury led by Neptune’s tempestuous tantrums in a malicious pas de deux with Saturn, assaulting life-sustaining crops. Those who know are never complacent. And so this day another battle ensues. Wind from the North bodes fine, settled weather. All looks calm this morning but the winds are ever so gradually moving to the South. Breakfast begins in bright sunshine and by the final drop of caffeine, Mars, Neptune and Saturn intensify the cataclysmic battle now growing at warp speed.
Known in maritime climes as a gale, this one develops to force-8! It is an awesome experience (intending an earlier understanding of that term, before it was appropriated as a trite, ephemeral exclamation). The hotel creaks and shutters with mournful howls emanating from every window, door and crevice, creating an eerie, sepulchral presence. Garden furniture is tossed like autumnal leaves–Valhalla’s dare to anyone foolish enough to venture outside. The sea has become a roiling, gray cauldron . . . surely a spell by one of Macbeth’s witches: Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble . . . White caps (known in Britain as white horses) explode like depth charges and blanket the sea. All people and animals have taken shelter as the gale continues to intensify and sheets of rain inundate the island. This particular gale, its severity somewhat unusual in a summer, will continue for 36 angry hours. Access to and from the island is no longer possible. Caledonian MacBrayne has suspended all ferry service until fairer weather.
Unspoken but alive in everyone’s thoughts: We are marooned. What if . It is a stark reminder Who is the true and final Arbiter. We are not in control. . .we are never in control. My hymnological mind calls up texts expressive of this feeling of helplessness. The scriptures are full of examples. In 1774, William Cowper (1731-1800), English poet and hymnodist, experienced the unpredictability of life, eloquently expressing it in this stanza from his most famous hymn: O God, in a mysterious way great wonders You perform; You plant Your footsteps in the sea and ride upon the storm. Seafaring cultures are often less capricious and cavalier about the fragility of life balanced by the ever-present specter of death in the waves of an unforgiving ocean. Seasons, years, decades, centuries have bred an intuitional wisdom of caution; non-complacency about the fickleness of Nature companioned by a cognizance of human frailty. How can we live the idyll and survive the tempest? Iona offers a Gradus ad Parnassum for many a weary pilgrim.
Native Americans believe in Gitchi Manitou (Great Spirit), that every person has a Spirit Guide. Other cultures seek Nirvana; for others, heaven. The voyage is fraught with obstacles. . . no one travels this highway without effort. Iona offers centering. Living a well-rounded, fulfilling life can only be achieved when we find enlightenment, gradually growing into a greater understanding that rewards are peppered throughout the journey, not only at the final destination. John Bunyan’s, Pilgrim sought and found the path illumined and pursued the light. We must do the same.
Only arrogance would lay sole claim to this power. Pagan, Pict, Druid, Jew, Christian, Buddhist, Muslim–All are part but none is all. It is a celestial Parnassian tapestry where humanity joins seeking clarity of an always esoteric and allusive Truth. Are you willing to risk the peril? Do you have the courage to hear the vision, see the harmony, taste the shapes and inhale the essence of a greater plane? Are you prepared for what you will discover? This is a challenge to each one of us. Celebrate, suffer, work, play, discover, regret, laugh, cry, mourn, renew, but continue to courageously march forward and LIVE!
The second day dawns with the titanic storm still in full sail. People are changing outdoor plans to indoor activities. Nature, weary but not defeated, has one more surprise and by 10 a.m. troops are recalled and as they beat a hasty retreat– a dramatic change ensues. Torrential rain becomes a gentle shower. The angry Southern wind begins to shift and within the hour is from the North. Slivers of blue crepe marble in the heavens and Icarus’s doom begins to emerge from slumber, stretching and yawning between the dissipating clouds. Within 45 minutes it is difficult to imagine the furor of the storm. By noon a gentle breeze, bright sun, a balmy 72 degrees insure no one remains indoors. The speed with which conditions change in these Hebridean lands reminds all to be vigilant . . . a powerful metaphor of life.
This island cleanses and renews my spirit. The day-visitors (a pejorative term amongst the locals and regulars) know only the faintest scent of the sumptuous feast to be had. Iona is indeed a place set apart; from its nascent birth it has issued a cosmic clarion call to seer, prophet, visionary, saint, sage, artist, mystic, musician and pilgrim. It is humbling that its Christian connections are only the latest in its long existence. St. Columba did not land here until AD 563. For millennia before this, it was a sacred place. Unknown Pagan tribes, later Picts and Druids, but for ALL, it has been and is a place set apart, where there is a convergence of energy; where the boundary between earth and heaven is so thin that one slips unknowingly from one to the other.
I invite you to read a post-script, a collect in the words of John Donne (1572-1631), clergyman, poet, satirist, lawyer, Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral (London) and primogenitor amongst 17th century metaphysical authors. Listen for the universal choir singing the Creator’s anthem. Find your voice and join the song!
Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening,
Into the house and gate of heaven,
To enter into that gate and dwell in that house,
Where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling,
But one equal light; no noise nor silence but one equal music;
No fears nor hopes but one equal possession;
No ends or beginnings but one equal eternity;
In the habitations of thy Majesty and thy Glory,
World without end. Amen.
One additional gift awaits and perhaps the most valuable to the metaphor. The night after the storm will have a full moon. In itself beautiful and huge as it climbs up over the mountains and hills on the Island of Mull and above the Sound of Iona but when it reaches its zenith over the Sound, it offers a vision of indescribable, sublime tranquility and beauty. Reflected off a glassy sea, its radiant beams illumine a silver-bright path across the water. And yet the eternal cycle continues to surprise, thrill and calm with a gentle transcending promise of more to come.
. . . by Mark Scott, Isle of Iona, Summer 2012