The Final Day

As we came back from Loughcrew last night, stopping off in Cavan for a visit to the street festival of music going on, the hostel was brimming with life of the day’s activity. All around us were people getting ready for the next day’s events while we were dreading the following last day. The last full day of being present in Ireland, the last full day of being with our people, and the last full day of our journey bringing with it a sense of bittersweet emotion. Monday will be a day where we visit a few places and then turn the car in at the airport awaiting for our very early flight; the good news is we’ll be home by Tuesday afternoon and sleeping in our big king size bed with our precious kittens and hopefully our daughter in her room.

How can I even begin to summarize the last 40 days of our pilgrimage back? I can state emotions from happiness, to dread, to tiredness and sorrow. I can express visually the journey from the Holy Isle to the Mellifont Abbey. I can relate tales of past troubles, ones perceived by others in our future, and yet they do not even begin to come close to what I want to say. I can say this – I will miss the many people we know, have come to know, and I can say that I will often think of them in my return to our “normal” life.

Sacred. Liminal. They are two words that really describe my feelings, as I awoke so very early this morning, while contemplating the last month and a half. Standing in the cool breeze, as I watched the sunrise and whispered a good morning to the Emerald Isle, I reflected back upon yesterday’s events as we stood inside an ancient place while drumming and singing. Our voices echoed outside as the other tourists wondered what and who it was praising the Earth and beating a heartbeat melody to our ancestors. It was very liminal and sacred to do.

Our friends put together a tent for us to sleep in, Heather and Oak, and laid down sheepskins to keep the ground chill from our bodies. On top they laid out two very comfortable and long blankets and I slept like a rock. I listened to the animals – ducks, chickens, crows, and Jack the donkey – as they sang their natural songs. Before I knew it I was fast asleep only to be awaken by the soft pattering of rain, which didn’t last long, and then as the sun began his slow trek on the morning sky I was up.

I hadn’t been up that early for most of this trip, with the exception of the first week, and yet I could not sleep any longer than that. Sacred. Liminal. These two words hold so much more meaning for me now than before. I think they will resonate with me for the rest of my life as I look for other examples in other places.

The relationships we create become sacred to us and when we are away from those it goes into a sort of liminal state, waiting for us to return, waiting for us to return home.

On Sacredness and Liminality

I came here to try and define what was sacred, along with liminal, with the intent on finding the right picture in which to portray it. I am leaving here with memories of so many of my old friends, along with new friends, and the many conversations with them on said subject. It can be said a church is sacred with the altar set before the masses and the priest standing before you uttering messages of faith, or a sacred site in which the ancient Irish once stood upon waiting for the fires of the Harvest to be lit, but what it really comes down to is the community where one lives. This I learned from many conversations with community leaders, musicians and authors.

In all the pictures I have taken there are but a few that truly portray that sacredness. I am not sure any “one” picture can correctly even catch it, except for those that reveal the work of community, or the gathering of community members. I happened to catch a few; one on the isle of Iona where a set of boats are seen gathering crab traps and the other was a festival in the community of Gleann Colm Cille. Perhaps those are the only ones that truly capture the spirit of sacredness.

But notwithstanding those churches, statues, places or locations that are deemed sacred. For they, in their rightful place, inspire vast amounts of people to undergo a pilgrimage in order to gain some unseen insight or religious experience. I myself sought out to find such places for said happenstance and was fortunate to have had my own experiences, of which I will keep to myself, finding an inner peace that I had not had for some time. I can say that it was a place, on Iona, that I had this experience and it caused me to ponder on others experiences.

It is the relationships, friendships and acquaintances I met along the way that really made this whole trip worthwhile. In the conversations with them, I began to see how others view “sacredness” or “liminality”, and gain an even deeper understanding. It has also brought an understanding to the front of my mind about a search of this type; everyone has their own idea of what they are and no one way is the right way. So then I will take what pictures I have, adding a few more along during the last few days of my journey, and I will define what Sacredness and Liminalty are from my point of view, in this I will add to the vast collection of what many communities and people have already collaborated on.

"Sacredness is that which is life and Liminality is her sister known as experience, of which I am very rich with." - P.M.Sattler

Nearly the End and New Beginnings

As we near the end of our journey, with only a week to go, I am sitting here with a sort of sadness I had felt only a year and a half ago. To know that in less than a week we shall be back on home ground is a sobering feeling and I just can’t get over how quick the time went. We had traveled to Ireland and then to Scotland in what now seems a whirlwind of adventure and revelation. I had no idea it would be so fast, then again maybe I did and that is why we came a second time.

They say you have to visit Iona at least three times and if this is true then I know we will be back at least two more times. I am not sure why they say it, but something about it seems right. The next time I plan on visiting all the Hebrides Isles and spending time at many of the local sites of Holy Wells and ruins. Something about those isles, like Iona, just calls to me and I feel strongly pulled towards them.

Iona. I still dream of her, walking her slopes and passing through her valleys seems so right to me. On the hill of Dun I, I found a peace that I had not felt since I was in my 20s, in a place known as Waldo’s Canyon near Woodland Park, Colorado; something I had searched for in many locations. What is it about these quiet places that draw me from so far away?

I could tell you stories of strange happenings in those places but then I take away the mystery and awe of them, instead leaving them open to be argued or disbelieved. Why would I arm anyone with that weapon?

I keep thinking of my future, what to do for my Masters, and I keep going back to “Soil and Soul” by Alastair MacIntosh. Perhaps the reason he resonates with me is because I believe as he does and that old communities held something far more important than profit margins or “economic potential”. They hold history in a way we can only read about, or hear about from some old soul who had been in “that” time, and I yearn for something like that to be in the here and now.

It has given me a lot to think about. To take my cultural studies background and do exactly what I have wanted and bring into it sustainable studies in an effort to preserve such special places, not just in America but anywhere in the world where such a site exists. This “past” we research is alive in ruins, stories and music, we have but to only tap into the generational well to receive it and be patient enough to learn it while preserving it. Why is this so hard to do?

I find myself answering before I even contemplate it and I do not want to seem brash or quick witted but it is usually because they sit upon, or near, some precious resource. A resource not thought of so long ago, as needs were basic, which only today has become a market commodity. It makes me think of the old sites in America, how I wish to be able to find those, and how we can help all Americans preserve them.

So where do I go from here and how do I proceed?

I have a good idea, and even better ones at how to be ecologically minded, the trick is getting there in a way that shapes a framework for others to follow. That my friends is the bigger goal!

Going from There to Here

As we entered into the Republic of Ireland we passed through the town of Cladys, a border village between the two parts of the isle, and you could see the ghostly remnants of the Troubles. The barricades and fence stood as a silent testimony of the turmoil from the past and we drove in silence taking it all in. How is one supposed to feel when they witness first-hand the apparition of the past so startling?

From there we could feel a distinct difference in the “feel” of where we were now. The tension seemed to melt away, like the icing of a cake on a hot summer day, and we breathed a sigh of relief knowing we were now back in the part we considered home. Soon we hit Donegal town and the familiar scenes played before us as if we had never left. The sky opened up and began to rain as if to wash away the trouble moments from being in Belfast and cleanse us of the tension we felt inside. It did not take long to drive up that road that would lead us down towards the Gleann.

Gleann Colm Cille, a village in the Gaeltacht, rose before our teary eyes and we both shared a moment of elated happiness. We rounded the corner, passed Biddy’s then Roarity then the Glen’s Head and straight to Ionad Siúl where we would stay for the next five nights and six days. We checked in and were shown around, placed our food in the frig and cupboards, and I walked a familiar road I had done so many times last spring towards Oideas Gael.

When I entered Liam looked at me and asked me in Gaelic how I was in which I replied “iontach”. Not a moment had passed, the genuine smile and warm greeting confirmed what I had hoped – I was home. I said hello to Siobhon and Gearadin and told them we were in town and walked back to the hostel. It was a homecoming I was looking forward to and I was glowing with a deep happiness I had not felt since we left. I had also regained what I left behind.

The first day was great as we began to meet our hostel roommates, all which were very happy and friendly people taking the language classes at Oideas Gael, and which I have since befriended on Facebook to keep in touch. The Sunday we were there though we were awoke to a fire alarm, startling us from a deep sleep, and the rest of our stay another less intense alarm would ring frequently; most likely signifying some sort of electrical short somewhere in the fuse box. That would be the only inconvenience as it became the hostel joke of where to find Charlie and just how many of us could reach him by phone.

Monday came fast, so I wanted to get a few pictures of the cistern below the old Church of Ireland, the structure built next to Turas 1 of St. Columba’s pilgrimage around town, and I went to see Liam. Now he had been battling a cold so he handed me the keys and warned me of how slick it was and that I was to take special care for insurance sake but he stayed behind and left me to do what I had to do without even worrying whether or not I would fall or leave it open for others. I truly felt as if I earned a high level of trust and within the hour I was back with the keys for Liam; the place was all locked and secure.

When I returned I showed him the pictures and one I got of the light coming down the shaft flooding the small underground area was extremely captivating. He liked it a lot and complimented me on my “fine eye”. What can I say? I was just elated I had earned his trust to be able to go into a locked area that only two people had the keys for and here I was going down into an area that was as old as the original village.

The story is that it was made to hide the special artifacts of the church in times of raids or trouble, and later food if necessary, where people would not be able to access it or find it. It is made similar in style to the old portal tombs with the overlapping slabs of stone making it damn near dry. Of course it wasn’t made like it exactly so some moisture seeps in, but for the most part it would have been a great place to hide things. I sat in the darkness for a few moments thanking the universe for this rare opportunity.

Tuesday came and it was time to leave our home and head for Peterswell, near Gort, and spend a few days with our musician friend Christopher DeLaney. Talk about a gem! This guy is the real McCoy and his hospitality stretched farther than the Liffey. He had a room made up for us and hesitated not in the least to open his home to us. Paddy Mór had given us a bunch of wine, which was very good as we would find out, and we broke it out and drank a few bottles that night; relishing in tales of our past, his past and current events. It is amazing at how similar the politics of greed are no matter where you go.

The next day we toured around Gort and just hung out with Christopher relaxing and enjoying a much needed break. Last Sunday, the fire alarm went off in the Gleann we had learned of our aunt Juana’s death, so we were both spent from the sadness that brought upon us and very much needed this. I have to say I feel inadequate, though I am not it is just the way one feels in such a situation, to lift Jill’s spirit up in such a case; but I stood by her side and let her cry while shedding my own tears.

This lady was amazing and it struck my mind, the whole reason of why I was here and taking pictures, as I had heard it time and time again. Sacred is family and the connection to the land. Sacred are the value one has in one’s self. Sacred are the communities we live in be it religious or secular, and how we relate to our neighbors. This sacredness is being taken away with modernity and the advent of “mass communication and corporations”. No longer do we have our children helping us bring in the cattle or tie up the fishing boat or tie up the seaweed, instead we place them in schools until they are so sick of it they no longer desire it and possess no self worth.

That vernacular activity is what gave so many in the past the desire to become something more than they thought they could be and it no longer exists in “civilized” nations. World powers seek to turn “undeveloped nations” into carbon copies and do away with their past and culture in hopes it will add to their resource portfolios and spur economic growth. They offer so much culture – art, music, folk tales – and instead of embracing it they seek to make them conform; But I digress, and the real point was to make clear what has changed and why.

But time moves on and we were now ready for Borrisoleigh in Tipperary. The place we would be staying is the Fairy Farm Hostel and when we arrived we had stepped out of the modern world and into the realm of the Fae. Michael greeted us and showed us to the main building where we would be staying and in the process we procured a private room for less than what we had paid in the Gleann. I must say the lore he has on the land around him is incredible and the stories he has already told us are amazing. I cannot wait to see what more we experience while we are here for the next five nights. Perhaps, we’ll even catch a glimpse of the Small Folk.

Bewildered Moments

So we ventured forth into the Belfast Museum of History and walked through the halls of Natural history into the bowels of the Troubles. I can say, as I said a year and a half ago, I was brought to tears. The vast rich history of Ireland never ceases to amaze me; the art, music and language born of a very colorful people. But the machines of empires can quickly spoil any appetite for identity.
As I finished reading several placards which detailed timelines and scenes of the Troubles I stepped outside for a smoke.

As I inhaled that calming smoke I noticed a gentleman to my right and jokingly asked if this was the smoking section. He chuckled and said he should quit and then we both shared a slight at the expense of governments and their irresponsibleness of spending the tax on other things than what they had promised; like education and so on. He then asked what we were doing in Belfast and I explained we were doing university projects and then I asked him what he did. He was a British soldier during the Troubles and the look in his eyes said it all.

I won’t say his name, out of respect for the fact he spoke with me about it, but what he told me sent a chill down my spine. It is easy to blame the other side, even easier to place that blame, but to hear the story from one on that side can be far more educational than a book or movie. I can say that he was given conflicting orders and that he did not like what he had to do, so much that after his 25 years of service he left England and moved to Belfast. By the end of the conversation we both had tears in our eyes, and as I said to him that there was nothing he could have done as he was following orders (and anyone in the service will tell you what happens to those who don’t!) and that at least he left the service.

He told us to stay in the city center for venturing outside of that zone could land us in a bad situation, and wished us a fine day. As we walked away I looked back and noted him looking at the ground. I think I felt like he did and wondered why such orders had come down to those who were just soldiers and why the brass upstairs did not have the nuts to do the murderous jobs themselves. Maybe it was because they were landed gentry?

We went back to our hostel and as I laid in bed thinking I wondered back to many of the pages of “Soil and Soul” and what Alastair McIntosh had written. I dreamt of explosions, gun fire and old men weeping into mugs of ale wondering if their wives had given birth as the fought a war that was based on 800 years of repression and internal colonization. I dreamt of my early 20s, of walking the streets late at night watching the horrible things that go on in dark alleys and even darker streets. And when I awoke I was really anxious to be out of Northern Ireland and back into the Republic.

Lughnasadh Revelations

On this day we walked to St. Columbus Bay and stood among the cairns reveling in the sea and rock. The wind was slight and the place was void of all but Jill and I. It made for quite the scene in which one could contemplate the world around them and that is exactly what we did. It also brought up decades old issues and resolutions that I had patiently worked through because I had the love of a fantastic partner in life.

When we returned to the B&B we both laid down for a brief nap. It was during this time images and scenes of my past crept into my mind reminding me of the darker place I had came from. I was not always so positive or hopeful like I am today; instead I was filled with anger, hate and discourse. I was lost in a world I thought would rather loose me, instead, as I later realized, it was always welcoming and waiting.

This revelation would not come to me at my younger years; instead it tempered me with lessons disguised in horrid experiences that would later reveal their truths through talking to a gentleman by the name of Gabriel Quincy Collymore. Sometimes one must walk in the darkness in order to gain the strength to prevent such madness to happen again.

It is not something I am proud of but in my days away from home I wandered the streets of Colorado Springs not knowing where I would end up. I saw some pretty horrible stuff, including an old man who was beaten by a group of teens simply because he walked on their “side” of the road. I idly sat by as this happened and did nothing, feeling the guilt of this action for decades, but I silently swore to God I would never do that again.

Years later I would be doing a midnight shift at a Circle K on Austin Bluffs Parkway and Oro Blanco when a group of teens attacked a customer. A friend had stopped by and as I ran past I told him not to let anyone leave. I opened the doors in time to witness this mob stomping on the customers head and drew my arm back as I charged the crowd. At that instant a county sheriff saw the group and pulled into the lot, but it was too late as the damage was done and the man lay in his own pool of blood.

They had to call the fire department to spray down the wall of all the blood and I myself who had helped the man up to keep him from drowning in his own blood had to wash my arms in bleach to prevent any sort of blood contamination. Even more years later while working at a Texaco I witnessed a man who had pulled in to get gas punch his wife in the face. I turned to my co-worker during the early morning shift and told him to call the police while I grabbed a mop and snapped off the fabric to make a club.

In the end she went inside as I held the man at bay and the cops arrived. I pressed charges but would later find out that she had dropped them and all was back to normal for the two. These senseless acts creep into my mind periodically to remind me of how life is so precious.

I lost my job at Circle K because I would not testify on behalf of the company; instead I stood with the poor man who could have been safe had my manager replaced the exterior lights weeks earlier. I lost my job at Texaco because I refused to drop the charges against the man who beat his wife and I began to develop an anger towards corporations who would rather sell out people than admit to things they could have done to better protect them and our environment.

I was angry at the world around me for not being able to recognize I could be an asset but created obstacles I had no idea how to overcome. I was angry at my family for failing to realize I did not even have a clue as to how to proceed in life with what I was born with. I was angry at the military for sending me home without ever trying me as a soldier simply because I had only one trigger finger, but what I did not realize is that the universe had different plans for me then, I just did not understand what they were.

It is incredible the kinds of people you meet along journeys around the world. Spiritual, kind and angelic beings who at the right time step into your life to reinforce the path one takes.

Interesting Bedfellows

The last few days have been very interesting but not in the sort of way one would think. You would think that coming to the Holy Isle one would find open minds and arms, but I found instead a deep divide in spiritual thought. What should have been a glorious week has been a somewhat minor disappointment. I can only chalk it up as one of those humbling times and equate it to what Saint Columba must have felt.

The Iona Hostel was indeed a technology free zone, so much that when I attempted to use my laptop on the second day to work on photographs I was reprimanded in front of other people about a “strict” policy about no computers in the kitchen or seating area. I was very much taken aback and floored. I had thought from reading their website that is was a place where internet and cable television, or television at all, we void of which I was okay.

Perhaps what truly struck me as unreasonable was the fact that nowhere was it posted, either facility or web site, of this fact and when I was told I could sit on my bunk and use it in my dorm room. I promptly packed up my laptop and Jill and I ventured into town to find a new place to stay. Unfortunately we would have to wait two days before that would happen.

We made the arrangements and went back to the hostel to inform them we would be leaving two days early and would like our money for those days. Then they told us we would have to wait until they filled the beds, as they plan a week ahead, and that if they could not fill them we would not get one. We said fine and went to our rooms and sort of sat there wondering why there were no postings and why they had to reprimand me in front of other house guests. I personally felt they had misrepresented their hostel on their website and did not feel it was right; nor did our dorm mates.

What became a hassle was ironed out, or so we thought, and we were offered a day where we could use them. Things looked brighter until the evening when Jill was painting. She had begun a project and was sitting at a much smaller table, there were two including a rather large table, and when dinner time came around was told she needed to put her project up. Again this was done in front of everyone with much the same arrogant attitude as my situation. Now it wasn’t only laptops but our projects as well, even though we were at a smaller table that sat only four.

I can understand they may have needed to use the table, and I can understand them needing to tell us, but was it necessary to do it in a manner that belittled us? I can only chalk it up as a social difference.

What I do not understand is in a place so filled with other people from all over the world why some sort of discreetness cannot be adopted. It seems so silly to have gotten upset over but when we are here for our college doing projects and work; it is simply not conducive for us to not be able to work. I am very happy we are heading over to a Bed and Breakfast tomorrow where at least I will be able to process pictures and do some of my portfolio work.

The silver lining was our bunk mates. The diverse group of people we shared a room with would include persons from Holland, Australia, the United Kingdom and Scotland. Our individual personalities meshed together in a way that was both joyful and uplifting. In the end it will be them I remember, along with the beauty of Iona, and I will walk away with a new insight to these various places and the people who live there.

So in the end I am chalking it up as a lesson of humility, being on the Holy Isle, and moving forward while noting where I will stay at in the future. I will come back to Iona, I found my spirit on Dun I, but I will not be coming back to the Iona Hostel, instead I will locate a place that is much more conducive to what my needs are.

I Wonder, I Wander

I wonder long,
I wander far,
To find an answer,
To the world at large.

As I wonder,
About the loss of faith,
I wander further,
Seeking answers galore.

But as I wonder,
At the loss of faith,
I wander to places,
Of a different space.

It is in these wanderings,
That I find my thoughts,
Of when the church,
May have lost its’ soul.

Then I wonder,
Why it was so,
Had they lost it,
During those dark times.

So I wander further,
Trying to make sense,
How something so lovely,
Had lost its’ soul.

And still I wander,
While I quietly wonder,
How money became an idol,
For something so lovely.

And as I wondered,
While I was wandering,
Down these foreign roads,
How they lost their soul.

Then I wandered,
Up a steep hill,
And sat upon a stone,
While I pondered so.

As I gazed across the land,
While the ocean flowed,
The silent thoughts,
Were keeping me company.

It was then I wondered,
If the church would know,
That the soul is worth more,
Then a few pieces of gold.

So I wondered long,
And I wandered further,
That’s where I found my soul,
On a distant shore.

- P.M.Sattler
- July 30, 2011

Sunrise Blessings

I awoke very early on the first morning on Iona to a wonderful rising sun. The clouds splattered across the sky with the horizon holding off the darker ones. I stood outside and had my morning smoke as I pondered the forces that created this tiny isle that I heard you can circumvent in just a few hours. How majestic they must have been.

How does one even begin to think of crossing a vast ocean in just a tiny craft as St. Columba must have done? To me it is just unfathomable.

I moved about the dorm room in a silence I had hoped would not disturb the others. I gathered my things to step out into the waking day and I hummed a tune not known in my mind. Yet I sit here typing on a piece of plastic and metal that did not exist even 30 years ago. Unreal to imagine what it would have been like without it and penning it all down with a quill or pen on a piece of paper or parchment. Then I remembered the illuminated pieces and I can hardly imagine making the dyes, or colors, and taking countless hours to paint the books they once produced.

What a marvelous sight just outside my window. The colors stretching across the sky like a painters canvas and I cannot help but feel the presence of the universe in such a small place. I have never questioned God, or His existence, but I have often wondered if He had forsaken us, but it is during times like this when I am reaffirmed of some greater power that lies behind the creation of a place so beautiful as the one I am currently at.

I stayed up late taking pictures of the dusk that enveloped the land and awoke early in the morning to capture some of the dawning colors. How wonderful it is to be able to witness such moments of the day when you are in a liminal state. I feel very liminal here – in the world but apart from it.

Unknown Sanctuaries

Tomorrow we head out to the Isle of Iona, the Holy Isle, and set foot upon the land that St. Columba stepped upon after his leaving from Ireland. I must say I am excited and nervous about going to such a remote place though I have heard that many other spiritualists make pilgrimages there. We should be in good company and the events over the last few days seem to point towards a blessed time.

Just before we left Edinburgh Scotland we participated in a Sunday morning mass at St. Cuthbert’s church and received blessings by the acting bishop. Today we endured some pain for a tattoo symbolizing our eternal love for each other, and just a little over a week ago we ourselves left the green shores of our second home Ireland. Along the way we have been blessed with friends and confronted past issues, while walking away from those who would rather belittle rather than befriend us; I would say we have been prepared but can you ever be fully ready?

It is going to be an awesome experience and one most likely without some of the more modern conveniences, though we won’t know that until we get there, and I am actually looking forward to it. We have shopped for main staple items, done our laundry, and even informed loved ones of our temporary departure from the world.

Many people we have come across, during our brief discussions, have told us how beautiful and spiritual the place is and I look forward to what may happen upon that Holy Isle. I will walk upon her shores with no expectations but with wide open eyes so that I may see her in her full glory. I would say that afterwards I would be a changed person but that would be exactly what I do not want – an expectation, so I shall just go forth.

I keep thinking of St. Columba and wondering what must have been going through his mind. What thoughts he had, reservations, and what sort of hardships did he endured. I know whatever I experience will not be comparable to his time but in comparison to the time it will be just as reclusive. I do know this – whatever happens it will be on an island with a long history and beautiful scenery just as everyone thus far has explained.

I am just too damn excited!

Blessings and Spirit

The last few days in Edinburgh have been very enjoyable and revealing. Over the course of the last three days we have witnessed horrid tales of early Edinburgh, the Haunted Vaults, and witnessed local drunks harassing a young girl. The act of exile has been harder than I would have imagined and this new land has dark corners mixed in with bright souls. It can cause one to wonder if the Scots themselves suffer from a sort of schizophrenic nature brought on by the subjugation of English rule.

With the vast diversity of international people mingling with the locals it seems to create an atmosphere rip for fights, robbery and downright abuse. Had Jill and I not gotten into an argument a young girl may have been accosted by a drunkard who had solicited her for sexual needs. She was 11 and very frightened, asking us what bus we were going to take. When we told her she spoke of how that was before hers and she would be along on the streets, her grandma too drunk to accompany her to the bust stop, so we opted to take a later bus.

I kept my eye on the drunks and kept my body between her and the fellows, feeling if they saw me it would deter them from any action. Before we knew it, others showed up and one gentleman even threw fruit at the drunks to chase them off. It would seem a few angels were among us. After she got on her bus and was safely gone, we boarded ours and a poor baby was very disgruntled and crying. I couldn’t help but react and played peek-a-boo with the wee waif. In no time at all she was smiling and giggling, which brought joy to all around her, and I felt happy at being given the chance to interact with a being who did not judge me by words but action. She was so adorable.

The next few days were filled with history lessons, of the haunted variety, and optical illusions from cameras and lights. In-between these excursions we visited the Scottish art museum, the National Gallery, and went to mass at an Irish church of St. Cuthbert. The bishop came over and spoke with us a few moments, commenting on how he liked Seattle but didn’t know much about it, and welcomed us to his congregation. At the end of the service he blessed us for our journey ahead. I feel as if I am now ready to step forward on the rest of this leg of the journey.

I can only imagine at how St. Colm Cille must have felt as he left the green shores of Ireland for the isolated isle of Iona.

Sojourn into Exile

So we left Dublin behind, on the tips of the waves, and we journeyed towards a new foreign land. I am quiet as I sat there remembering what a friend told me about our landing spot – Hollyhead. According to him it was the last place the British Druids made their final stand before falling to the Romans. Three times the Romans tried to take it and three times they were thwarted. Many years ago I had written a poem called “The Battle of Na Morna” where I describe such a stand; I shall have to fish it out when I return to the states.

Then I began thinking about the famine ships, the ones which brought so many Irish to America during those hard times and I wonder what they would have done to have the accommodations we had experienced. What it must have been like to stand for hours at a time with no place to relieve themselves, or to get something to eat. Just an hour earlier, on this vessel, we had a big breakfast and I wondered how long some of the Irish endured empty stomachs on their dark journey.

In a weird sort of way I feel as if I am going to another place that will feel like home, given the history, and how I will experience the run of emotions there. Although we are only there for a very brief time, I am excited. I cannot express the excitement of this part of the journey, going to a place I have yet to visit, and seeing the new sites and places. It feels very much like the first time we went to Ireland.

As I gazed across the vast stretch of the Irish Sea I saw no land. It is incredible when one looks at a map and thinks how small a distance it is, and yet the reality is the exact opposite. The waves were low and it caused me to ponder how different it must have been to sail before modern times. I remember studying how the Irish used these skin covered boats, currachs, and would cross more in the north where the distance between the isles was only a mere 12 miles. It must have been a dubious task to navigate across such an expanse.

Upon landing in Hollyhead we boarded the train right away. As quick as we landed we were whisked away from Wales and heading towards Edinburgh. Three stops and we would be at our destination. But before we made it I had a run-in with a very drunk Brit who had been listening to a conversation I was having with a bloke who was Scottish.

He and I were discussing how smokers had been pushed out of the pubs, along with restaurants, and yet they extorted a huge tax from us for their greedy endeavors. The Brit decided he would chim in and yell at me, moving towards me and into my face and shout, “Damn Americans think they can push their way into every place in the world. You Americans don’t rule the world and can’t push into England!” I was taken aback and tried to reassure the man that it was not what I was saying and that a misunderstanding had taken place. At this point the Scottish bloke moved away and looked at the ground, disengaging completely even though he knew that was not what I had said. I ended the confrontation by simply walking away as the Brit yelled at me, “Welcome to England!”

It stole my mood, took my energy and left me wondering not just about the hidden fury the Brits may have, but as to why the Scottish bloke did not even stand up for someone who had not said any of that. I was very quiet the rest of the journey to Edinburgh and I began to watch every little word I spoke. Then I remembered I was no longer in the land I call my second home and that hospitality held no place where we now were.

It made me ponder what other Irish experienced along their Green Martyrdom, or exile, and what sorts of conflict may have arisen for them as a result. Then we checked into our hotel and were greeted by one of the most cheerful people we had yet to meet, Charlene, and she helped to ease my already nerve by offering us complimentary drinks. Then she went out of her way to make sure we could get around Edinburgh and were able to see some of the sites it had to offer. My day had started out horrible but ended on a great note.

But I still ponder the very question of why.

Time of Exile

I awoke this morning with a deep sense of sadness. My heart wanting to stay in this small perfect world and my soul wanting more of what we have experienced here thus far; it was quite the experience. It isn’t everyday you come across people who resonate on the same level with you, or that accept you for who you really are, we found that here with the great people we have met at the Slane Farm Hostel. Not only did we do our pilgrimage to the Hill of Slane, but to Newgrange, the Hill of Tara, and now we are headed off across the sea.

We are now going into exile, a Green Martyrdom if you will, where we will now journey to the Isle of Iona in hopes to follow St. Columba’s steps. What we hope to find there is both personal and public; personal for spiritual reasons and public for the beauty and wonders of what this tiny island holds. Having just walked two of St. Patrick’s paths we are now ready to begin the journey. I feel energized and ready.

On our last night we spent it singing and dancing with friends we met in Slane. Their voices rose as the drums beat and the tambourines jingled. It was so fantastic to share with these people some of the songs we learned from the previous year, when we studied Ireland, and to participate in their songs. The highlight was when the owners of the hostel came in and spotted me with their bodhran and playing it with a wooden spoon. They laughed and noted how they had never seen it and remarked how well I could play – even without the proper tipper.

As the sun set and the music faded out, I lay in bed thinking of the past week. The healing, the conversations, and the photographs I had taken. So many memories but it was time to start thinking of what lay ahead.

Scotland. It will be our first trip there and we probably could have avoided the whole thing but then it would not be what it needed to be. A pilgrimage. I cannot express the fear of the unknown and yet the deep excitement it stirs up in me.

As we began to stir this morning we sat in silence as we ate our breakfast and both of us held tears in our eyes. These wonderful people, who for a moment in time had become our family on so many levels, would soon go about their lives, just as we would our own. But they will not be forgotten. They will not remain a memory for now we have to figure out how to get back to see them.

A few days ago we toggled our journey around in order to be able to spend one of our final days near so that we would get at least one more night of craic with them. It was deliberate and we are happy to do so as we will also hit a few other sites of the area we did not get this time around.

I took many photographs. So many I had to recharge my camera batteries a few times. I even sold a bunch to the hostel we were at and updated their website. Funny how things we used to do serve us so many different times throughout our lives. It is beginning to make sense why trades and apprenticeships were so important in the days of old.

Exile. What does that mean? Does it mean a physical separation from the world around you, or could it be one of a mental nature? Perhaps, to me, it could be both. When I was younger I once threw myself into exile. Separating myself from my family, friends, and the world around me. It was such a dark time that only now I am beginning to see just how much it had changed me. But I can say I am glad I am no longer that way.

It is funny how much something affects you when you walk the old paths that so many others had passed along. Druids, Christians, and peasant alike. When one sees the ruins one can only wonder at how we ever got by in America without them. They seem to beckon me with lessons of the past of how badly humans can treat each other, and how great they could also be. A deep historical tie of the modern world to the ancient one.

Am I any different today than I was a week, month, or year ago?

Very much so.

Quiet Conversations

Today I awoke to a cold cloudy morning, the wind knocking at our windows and the pull of something spiritual tugging at my soul; I needed to head back to the Hill of Slane. I had originally planned on taking more pictures of working people in Ireland but overslept by 2 hours and missed my opportunity at the dairy farm, so instead of taking the day off I went in search of my new friend Oak to see if he would give me a lift to the hill. He agreed and within an hour we were off.

I shut the door and waved goodbye as I looked up the path towards those ancient ruins. The wind welcomed me and the ruins seemed inviting. Very few people were there so it was a great opportunity to take pictures of a place that has resonated within me since Saturday, so I took out my Nikon and I prepared my memory cards for the slew of pictures I would take. It is interesting when you give in to the voices of the “place” and let them guide you on your mission. They did not do me wrong.

I only spent an hour there but that was long enough to rip off over four hundred shots. I was on a roll and even did some silhouettes, manual focus (which has eluded me since my vision was so bad!) and walked away with some very incredible shots. But as I was taking them I took a moment and sat on the field and silently prayed. Now I am not religious, at least not in the church going sense, but today I felt it was time to commune with Universe.

Vulnerability is not my best suit, hasn’t been since I was younger and had to be tough against the bullies, but as I communed the tears flowed and a sense of release came from it. This is what I so badly wanted my first trip – a moment of magic and healing. But it was not a trip for that the first time around; it was a trip of learning to go beyond my comfort zone in order to prep me for this one. It worked.

After my release I went back to shooting, feeling the arm of whatever guidance there was instructing me to go here or there. I was moving, sitting, and leaning to get all kinds of angles. My hands became the camera, my eyes the lens, and my soul was the instrument by which I would listen. All the while I had a quiet conversation with the saint who had at one time claimed this land. What it must have been like to see the fire early from the Hill of Tara.

What would the druids have thought? Other than giving King Laoghaire a strong warning, what else were they thinking? I wondered if they were afraid and if they knew (of course they did!) that their time was at an end. Perhaps they even knew it long before then, since their brothers and sisters on the continent had already fallen, and they were grasping straws to keep the waves of change at bay. No one can be sure as history is left to interpretation.

I thanked the Universe, thanked the land Ireland, and began my long walk back to the hostel in order to process both the pictures and thoughts. How does one process what they experience but cannot really explain? I feel transformed somehow and yet the same – a very liminal feeling. Yet I cannot help but feel that this will forever be another of those life changing events, like our last trip, and am very much looking forward to the next few weeks we spend in Scotland and the Isle of Iona. I have already made new friends, seen so much, and now I want to see more and experience that as well.

As I walked home I passed by a Catholic church and felt compelled, yes compelled, to step in and give a silent thanks to God. The beautiful stained glass windows and ornate altar reminded me of those years so long ago when I did go to church. With it came the hurt I had felt for having been made to feel guilty over the fact that no matter how much I believed Jesus would not heal my hands. It was then, as I closed my eyes and whispered an apology to God for the insanity of humans, that I heard a voice say, “How can I heal something that does not need healing, but just needs love?”

What does one do with that? I breathed deeply and let the tears flow. I had found my inner peace at last and with that I walked back standing straight and taller than before. My soul is recharged and my mind is full of possibilities. I truly cannot wait to see what we experience next…

The Walk of Faith

This morning as I awoke I had the desire to visit the Friary and College on the Hill of Slane. Admittedly I thought it would be one more site I would have to pay to enter and have some sort of restricted access to certain areas – I was wrong. The stairway to the top of the west tower was the only part of the set of ruins we could not enter but the entire site was free and complete access was available.

I underestimated the impact it would have on me.

The fantastic part of this walk was it was through back roads, cow pastures and even a corn maze. Once we cleared those we were left with a path that resembled an old cobbled road. It was also the point at which the air changed and a sort of ethereal feeling came over us. It was a feeling I once had when I was much younger and deeper into a faith I have not practiced so intensely for years. Even now as I write this I am getting goose bumps.

We stood on this darkened path and gauged the senses we both were having, when suddenly some sort of bird stirred in the bushes and scared me. I truly felt like we were being watched, not by a physical presence but a spiritual one, and we began the last leg of the journey towards our destination. Once we arrived at the final gate, jumped it, and walked up a small hill we were greeted by a set of ruins one only sees in movies in America. How do you even begin to explain to others how something so old and sacred impacted you?

Jill went to the tower as I stepped into the college. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt a long distant memory creep up in my mind. I felt connected to this place. I walked slowly through the ruins trying to picture the wooden beams that would stretch across and construct the floors upon which the priests, lay-brothers and choristers would live, work and play. How it must have been back in those times of 1512.

According to oral traditions the place was built sometime near 670 A.D. where in 674 Dagobert II, King of Austrasia in Gaul, was supposedly educated within its walls. Along with the oral tales, one medieval source also notes Ochré as having a rath in that location. A rath is a circular enclosure surrounded by an earthen wall: used as a dwelling and stronghold in former times. One other interesting characteristic is a coat of arms of both England and France within the monastery walls, which still can be seen, which causes some to wonder if perhaps it was Richard, Duke of York, who planted them there.

Whatever the oral stories hold, St. Patrick lit a fire during Easter in 433 A.D. on the hill, breaking Druidic Law forbidding any fire being lit while the festive fire was still burning in Tara. The druids warned King Laoghaire that if the fire were not put out that Ireland would be conquered. Later the Flemings would reconstruct the old tower, in 1512, only to lose it to the Reformation some 30 years later. Attempts were made to re-establish it but all ended in vain. It almost seems the druids were right.

As I stood in those very ruins I could feel the weight of the stones. I explored every inch of the place I could; walking up old stairs, ducking into tight dark places and sitting in the old area that possibly was the kitchen. In the walls that survived you could see the spots where wooden beams would rest in order to make the upper level, along with various alcoves for fires or reflection. It began to rain so I stepped into one of those alcoves and looked across the valley through a slit that served as a window.

After the rain stopped we decided it was time to head back to our hostel. We cried, we laughed and we were in awe at how something so old survived. Even though it was not a dolmen, nor Tara, nor Newgrange it was a place of sacredness. It reminded me of when I asked my friends about what they thought was sacred, or what that meant.

It would have been very sacred given the history and traditions associated with those times. It is sacred to me as I reflect and think of how different times were during St. Patrick’s time. I have read in some books where he was a druid, captured and turned Catholic priest; yet others say he was captured during some sort of raid and taken away, only to return later in his known form. Whatever the case, was he certainly knew of druidic rites and used it against them to make his case and in the end he won. From then on Catholicism would be the order of the day in Ireland until the Reformation but that is another blog.

I did not take my camera on this venture nor did I want too but given the situation I will be going back to take photographs of a place which resonates with me deeply. In a sense, I too left Ireland only to come back a different person with a deeper appreciation for this wonderful land.

Quiet Moments of Reflection

We have been in Slane now for a few days and I have already taken over 200 photos. I cannot express how deeply impacted I have become. In order to get here we would have to take a bus from Dublin, hitting a few towns along the way, but we had an angel looking out for us and were introduced to Bernard. This gentleman offered us a lift from Dublin to Trim, yes that town that part of Braveheart was filmed at, and made sure we were on our correct path towards Slane. It is moments like that I sought to have on our last trip.

As he drove and related his knowledge to us I sat wondering how it was that we were so fortunate to have an opportunity once again to mingle among the Irish people. After he dropped us off, at the right bus stop, we sat looking at the ruins of Trim Castle. I snapped off a few dozen pictures and sat in awe at the ruins mixed among the modern structures. I can only imagine what it would have been like growing up with these relics in view every day.

I sit here, sipping my coffee, yes I drink coffee even in Ireland, looking out my window at the tree of fire and am greeted every morning since we have been here by a council of crows. That dark bird of omens and prophecy cawing down at me and reminding me of Cú Chulainn and his journey. The Morrigu, the goddess associated with death and transformation, who followed him along his journey from Muirthemne Plain to Emain Macha where he would later join up with the Red Branch after displaying several feats uncharacteristic of a young man. Though I am not born from a god and mortal, I feel my own transformation has been going on since I began this journey.

I have changed from my first trip to Ireland, having been to a place I have only dreamt of, and I am changing once again. My emotions are free of any social dogma and I am finding my words easier to speak. It is a testament as to how the human spirit can soar to great heights and drown in some of the deepest sorrow. A journey I have been making for several years now. I am fortunate to have a partner in life who understands what I am going through, feels and shares similar experiences with me.

I close this with but a single thought – What do I get to experience next? What indeed.

Amsterdam and Images of the Past

It was exciting to be going back to Ireland, but when we found tickets with a lay-over in Amsterdam we were ecstatic! As we landed at the airport and boarded the train to the Amsterdam Central Station it all sank in. Not just the trip but the fact that we would be walking through the house of Anne Frank. I was not prepared.

The movies cannot portray the living space adequately. Nor can the human imagination hold at any length what it was like having to hide there, up a set of small stairs, and behind a bookcase. I walked through the small house reaching out to touch the walls and objects. I read the wall writings, gazed through the windows and shed my own set of tears. How can you not when you see what prejudices push people to do?

I am numb. Numb from the thought of human history ever possessing the ability to be so cruel and soulless. When I looked around at others I saw similar frowns and expressions of sorrow. I actually am having a hard time processing the wide array of feelings suffice it to say it has altered my sight a bit.

We walked around the streets of Amsterdam for about an hour after that, spoke with a very friendly lady who shared her opinion on architecture and people tossing cigarette butts on the sidewalk, and finally made our way back to the train station. We sat on the train, riding back to the airport, occasionally discussing Anne Frank but mainly in silence watching the various buildings go by. Their ever-changing shapes reach up into the sky like fingers stretching from a group of hands, hands reaching for a fence or maybe, or for a thread of hope.

The Calm Before the Storm

It is the evening before we begin our journey back to Ireland and I am deep in thought. Questions run through my mind, scenarios of photography arrange themselves in mental shapes, and the reflection of what is sacred resonating deep within. It fills me with much anticipation and I keep logging mental notes.

But what is sacred? Is it that place, amongst the grove of trees or that pristine waterfall, which resonated with the people of long lost time? Is it that stone monument jutting out of the landscape, or standing out amongst farms in the area, which so many make pilgrimages to see? Or is it that ornately decorated church, the Gregorian chants in the background, that so many find faith in? Perhaps sacred is a state of being, or one of presence, in that remote field or ancient jungle. In truth, sacred is interpreted differently for each of us and all one can do is respect what others view as sacred, share what one thinks it is, and be open to new experiences.

I am open.

In my mental notes I have this list of items to be photographed. Their state they are in, the time of day, and even where I might take them. The reality is most likely to prove different and I am sure to come up with interesting compromises but it will be fun to see how many I can get. I’d share the list, but then that sort of takes all the fun out of the art.

As I close this out, I leap back to the one thing Jill and I both have – excitement. To go back to a place we have been, along with new destinations, and study it through another perspective is very exhilarating. I am looking forward to what I may be able to produce.

In Search Of

I find myself thinking a lot about why people went on pilgrimages. What were the motivating factors that drove them to remote regions to seek solitude and isolation? I am reminded of past stories of Saints, monks and mystics of which they sought some sort of transformation. It is the motivating factors for which I ponder.

I can say my pilgrimage is on many levels - creative, spiritual and physical. On my first journey I came with a class, all sharing a single trip with different reasons, and we all walked away with very different realities. This time the trip is being made with just my wife. That other part of me who sees things very differently.

Yet we travel together, as husband and wife, as best friends, and as lovers. In this we shall experience each others pilgrimage with very different perspectives and views. So not only do I make this journey as a person, but as a member of a couple. I look forward to her interpretations of the world around us during this trip.

But what is it I am in search of? I get these snap shots that appear in my mind - pictures already taken from a previous journey - and I keep looking for the right one to sum up my experiences. In that I seek to find that one personable picture, that one snap shot that says it all from my point-of-view. In that journey I will venture down roads of inner depths, reflect on what I have learned, and put into practice what it is I believe.

I had a professor ask me what holes in my life I thought might exist, to which I replied - Creativity. In not having good sight for most my life I had no artistic desire to explore painting or drawing. I focused too much on minute details instead of the abstract shapes and colors in order to cover up the fact I could not see them clearly. It was my bane.

In comes photography, an old high school favorite, mixed in with digital technology and my new cornea and I can be as creative as I want. I can search for the definitive photo or that cascading waterfall or the sunset where the sky seems on fire from the wispy clouds and red colors. I can search for that photo that shows the harshness of humanity along with the glory of accomplishment or the passionate face as one quietly worships.

Perhaps this is why we go on pilgrimages. To see the vast world for what she is worth and to gain by others experiences. To hear the tales of ordinary people's lives and vicariously live through them. To climb that hill top which provides one with a clear view of the valley below displaying clarity of the world around you.

And as I finish up packing, checking gear and adding yet other gear, I sit here quietly thinking of my journey over just the last two years. My studies on Ireland, Russia and Eurasia opening the doors up of a world I had no idea about. The stories of lives in so many regions reflecting common themes of hope, love, and faith. Three components of an inner pilgrimage.

So what is it I am in search of? Perhaps I am just hoping to catch the right shot of a place I love so much while reigniting an old faith. Yep, that sums it up.

The Coming Days

After what seemed a grueling month, which was actually a week, we finally purchased our tickets. A great weight has been lifted as we reserve spots at hostels and hotels. Plans for where and when are solidifying and we are gathering gear and equipment for the trip. We definitely have a plan.

As we have done these things my mind ponders on outcomes. The logic center kicks in and settles my expectations to reality and reminds me to be open to the experience ahead and to be in the present. What I do know, is that I am searching for the right subject as to what I am there photographing.

Sacred sites have been among us for thousands of years, be it a burial mound in the Ukraine or a stone circle in Ireland or a cave with Neolithic paintings like ones in France, and to see ancient ones in the same setting as modern ones. Those are the subjects I see in my mind, in various settings, in different locations. It'll be interesting to see what sorts of shots I come up with.

In finishing our planning I can only see one slight in the mix - the British pound and higher than expected currency exchange. In this we simply shifted our focus from the Isle of Man and Wales to that of Scotland and the Isle of Iona. This sets us up for a pilgrimage that starts in Dublin and spirals outward to include Scotland, the Isle of Iona and the whole of Ireland counter-clockwise.

I am curious at this point of the journey ahead. Excited at whom we may meet along the way. Eager to get back to a place I consider home and am elated at the chance to be able to do this.

In Preparation

Over the next few weeks I will be preparing for another journey over the pond. Once again we shall journey to Ireland but this time we will be spending time on the Isle of Iona and Scotland. It is a journey of reflection but most importantly, I will be returning to the places where my people came from - Limerick.

I will be showcasing my photographs of the journey here. The Pilgrimage of Patrick, An Oilithreacht Phádraig in Irish, will be the showcase of a journey to sacred places and liminal spaces. With that I plan to bring you visions of such locations, both past and present, and present them to you through my eyes. Along the way I am sure to meet interesting people, collect stories like I did a year ago, and share them with you here.

Like all pilgrimages there is a spiritual side to this. To be at a place where my ancestors walked from and be present where they once were. To see the world through the eyes of others and experience it through them. In this, I will also visit the Glenn once more and return to see old friends of whom I have kept in contact with since coming back. In a sense, I feel like I am going home.

But first to do much planning and preparing...