(For anyone needing to be in the moment and not 10 steps ahead)
I'd always imagined that whenever I reached the top of Skellig Michael,** I'd have an exhilarating moment up there in the blue sky with the bluer ocean below. Time would stand still with me and create an unforgettable memory. Missing from my vision was the "guide" at the bottom of Skellig Michael, who serves to instill caution/scare the hell out of visitors before directing them up the stone steps...without him. Also missing were the severe drop offs down the side of the mountain and into the ocean. Instead of barriers such as rails or ropes defacing this sacred place, there seems to be a common sense understanding that if one goes up the 600 steps and fall to their death,...well...'sometimes that's just bound to happen...such is life.' Reaching the top, I realized the only thing scarier than going up, would be coming down, when the views of the drop offs are almost impossible to avoid. The monks went up and down these steps regularly. They likely often had mist or fog on their side and could see only the step before them. I could do that. I could just look at one step at a time. I had to, because if I looked beyond or looked to see what someone else was doing, the disorienting view might throw me...such is life... Exhilaration came only after we reached the bottom. With it came a sense of peace. I had felt compelled to make it to Skellig Michael and from this sacred place, I'd received a lesson in being present - in being in the moment and in trusting that when I come upon an unstable step or I'm unsettled by a gust of wind, ..I'll deal with it...but not before. Courtney A Brown **Skellig MIchael is a steep rocky Island about an hour by boat off the coast of Ireland. Because of its remote location and the limitation on the number of visitors, the 7th century montastery at the top has been well preserved. The monastery is reached by climbing 600 stone steps laid by the monks.
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Though only 15 minutes from a city center, I feel I'm far from the rest of the world. My husband, daughter and I live on the inside of a basin. The downward slopes are covered with trees that step down into an open lawn with a stone creek passing through. Sitting on one incline is our house. It looks across to trees which have a floating, ethereal quality. On a nearby slope is my office, where on the second floor, I spend my days high up with the birds and squirrels. From there, I can look down on the deer as they step gently out from a large magnolia tree after a rain.
The only way in - a narrow driveway that crosses the creek - welcomes our frequent visitors - people coming to my office, travelers passing through to stay for the weekend, or friends coming for dinner and conversation. News of worldly events comes by way of guests, my daughter returning from a day at school and my husband home after a meeting. Except for the newspaper retrieved from the end of the drive and the NPR host chatting as I make lunch, I rarely invite the news in... For me, this is an odd and mysteriously beautiful place. It insists on a stillness; that I like to believe we've called to be the keepers of and to share with others. Courtney A. Brown To send this note to a friend: |
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