glory in the grey.
well, for the two of you who have asked for me to post iona thoughts once the words come: here you are. i have decided to take the lazy man's route, and post journal excerpts from the week. i really hope you enjoy them. iona truly is a thin place.
october 6
My fingers smell like potatoes and there are sheep grazing in the football field. And such is Iona: unconventional and perfect. Everything thus far has been community. Yesterday's travels found me patient and peaceful and mindful. I really had no stress about me the whole day, and I felt very aware of each rolling hill, each sheep, each body of water and waterfall. I stood on the top deck of the ferry, shivering, but refused to go in: everything was holy—even each crashing wave against the ship. Every created sheep that we found grazing in the road while on the bus across mull. Everything created. Everything holy. And now, I'm in the world of community. It's just after 10 am, and already I've set the breakfast table, cleared the breakfast table, washed dishes, and have peeled and chopped potatoes. Whew. What a full day! And soon, we'll go on to communion together: james from york, julie and karen from canada, miami janet, cali jennifer, grace from taiwan. Lars and stefan from sweden. I'm meeting people. And they're gorgeous.
october 7
The sun came out a bit today, and it's amazing how just a little light can make blue out of grey. I fell in love with the rocky beaches. I peered into the little pools, watching minnows and seaweed and stones. I climbed as high as I could in my slippy shoes, and sat, looking out on the sea. And, instantly—of course—I was brought back to Marlei and the Pacific, three months—and eternity—ago. Climb. Watch. Walk. Stop. Watch. I'm so quietly aware right now and I am surprised by every time I speak. My own voice sounds foreign. Each spoken word takes immense energy to form. And they're typically the wrong words anyhow. I'm not at all getting at what I mean. Janet told me last night at the pub that Maya Angelou spent seven years in silence, just listening. I wonder if she wrote. And Etty is reminding me about the contours and shape of silence. Such contours must look something like the white, sandy veins of water flowing between rocks, cutting deeper and deeper, quietly and purposefully—finding their way back to the shore. It's constant movement, nothing is stagnant, and I can see the evidence of it. I don't really know what I'm getting at; my face is frozen.
october 8
today is cathy's birthday. And today is the day that I finally got internet access. This is all very good news. As for now, I've just left my little internet hut (a shed next to the post office, right off the jetty) and am having a ½ pint of Tennent's ember at the pub. I have chosen not to go on the pilgrimage today. It is just too wet and windy and cold. Instead, I'm taking a whole afternoon to write and read (gulp) and take in the green and grey waters of the sea: clear waters. It's so rough today. Loud crashes on rocks. The anchored boats are rocking. There is no sun in sight, but these waters are still clear. And in them are dolphins and sharks and seals, hidden. I really can't put it all into words. Etty would do much better.
october 10
Today I am thinking about grey. Kathy Galloway and I actually got to talk about greyness this afternoon over lunch. I told her I was buying her book, A Story to Live By, and that I loved how she refers to the glory of grey. We went on to briefly discuss the greyness of Iona: the multilayered kind of grey. The hues are subtle and beautiful. I called the Iona grey a thin veil of hopeful things. Kathy called it a permission to be melancholy. I find it interesting how much this one seemingly unimaginative color has become such an integral part of my life over the past couple months. Once again, I'm brought back to the thought of Marlei and how she planted the hope of grey in me.
october 11
Last night was a good kind of wind-down for the week. A beautiful communion service led by Kathy Galloway, and it truly was communion between this group of new family. Onward went the communion—all the way to the pub. There, we all laughed and shared our beverages and crisps. Margaret--with her spiky, white hair and shirt with all the owls on it--of course, was deftly comedic, and I was again her captive audience. And then she would come down and be serious, exposing herself. She told me she thinks I am a beautiful woman, for which I kissed her head. Earlier she had told me: "I have one daughter and she has no children. I am the grandmother to a dog. However, I am quite fond of this dog." Dear Margaret. She is a good one. And Runa. I had known all week that she was a doctor in Palestine for many years, and that she had done a lot of good. What I did not know until last night was that she is eighty-six years old! And she wrote a book called Exile in Israel. And she is going back to Palestine in ten days. As I watched her with her big black bag on her back (the one with straps and wheels) and requisite jeans and loafers, walking around the ferry and train, I smiled in utter appreciation for her vitality. I really have no idea how surrounded I have been this week by amazing people. Slowly, the truth is revealed.
