Retreat

Off the grid, out of touch, not available -- a wonderful and important place to be from time to time.  Possible by unplugging and turning off the phones, but something different happens when we go, go to the ends of the earth. I travelled four hours north by train then 20 minutes south by cab, across the causeway during low tide. Some call it a pilgrimage, but just "going" works for me.  And then once arrived, just "being."  Lots of just being.  Rugged up against the cold island winds.  Drawn to the medieval castle rising overhead on the rock mound beside the sea.  Drawn to the glistening tidal beaches, the flocks of birds, the arches of the ruined priory.  Drawn to the ancient liturgy, the holy meal shared as the sunlight washes over each morning landscape.  Drawn back by the priest, her slender frame crooked with age, her voice lilting through the chapel space. Drawn into new friendship -- sharing stories, laughter, being true.  Walks together, noticing the ripples of sand, the smoothness of stone. Retreat -- going, being, and now the returning.  Daily life takes on a slightly different hue.

Gratitude

Gratitude - for all the spiritual teachers I have had.  Right now I'm reading a book from Phyl in Australia.  As usual I cannot recall the title, but it's about doors -- what doors are open, what doors are blocked, what door describes my life.  An image of a garden door, a half-door, I guess it's called a cottage door, comes to mind.  A bright red one.  Open to the sunlight from outside, yet safe from slithering asps in the grass, and hopping toads.  A door closed, but never closing off the possibility of conversation with a neighbour passing by, never blocking out the wafting aroma of the lavender now in bloom.  A comfortable warm image.