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.