Walking takes you out of your
well-ordered, cozy comfort zone and throws random events at you like confetti
or like a sun shower. Sometimes those
events take on a kind of pattern that can suggest destiny or some sort of moral
about the way life is. Two quick
examples. On my first day of walking, the
way wound along the River Tweed for a few miles. The water moved rapidly and my pace
quickened, too, despite having to push my way through dense clusters of
fireweed. I slowed only for pleasant
exchanges with trout fisherman and local dog walkers. I stopped for several minutes though when I
ran into two middle-aged ladies standing still in the middle of the path
admiring a very beautiful butterfly. Its
wings were orange with accents of violet, but the stand-out feature were the
four circles that looked like open eyes with blue and purple irises around
black centers. The women were marveling
at how close the creature allowed them to get, and they were taking pictures
with their phones. I joined the group,
but when I tried to bend down and position my phone to get the best possible
shot, the water bottle I’d been carrying in one hand slipped, fell, and frightened
the butterfly away. I was annoyed at
myself for being such a klutz. Weirdly,
by the end of that first long day, another of the same kind of butterfly was
basking on a leaf just waiting for me to eye him. I felt like the recipient of two
blessings: a second chance to see the same
kind of butterfly and a message from the world at large. Nothing is final or over. Life circles around. Flit from beauty to beauty and you will have
chances to correct, to see better, to understand. There was that. Then, this.
I woke up in Wooler and before beginning my walk, I ducked into St.
Mary’s Church to see a photo exhibit on spirituality and landscape which I
enjoyed very much. Someone had done what
I was doing—collecting stones, leaves, and grasses and writing love letters to woods,
hills, water, dark skies. The nice
things distinguished men said about landscape and walking, men like John Muir,
Albert Einstein, Henry David Thoreau, and Robert Louis Stevenson were printed
on cards around the church. When I’d had
my fill of looking, I lifted my eyes to hills visible through the lead-paned
glass, and in a petal-shaped panel, there was Robin! What is the world telling me? Will he be in my future? Whether or not, I knew I’d be bumping into
him and his companions on the trail, and I would have to balance solitude with sociability. Even trickier, I’d have the chance to feel
things and maybe even express my feelings.
The mix of clouds and sun, of
moorlands and farmlands, of fern, heather, and gorse, of naked hills and darker
pine plantations sliding down them was a feast for the eyes. I felt happy and free and walked Weetwood
Moor alone, seeing no one, save for a couple of Russian girls wearing flimsy
rain ponchos that the wind whipped around their heads. They were looking for the ancient stones said
to be hiding in the heather, cup and ring-marked rocks, and they had a lap top
out that they were using to navigate.
They didn’t seem to be on any Way but were out only to find these
particular stones. We spoke briefly and
I climbed over a stile and went on. All
was peace. The rain in the air made the
distances misty, and I gave little thought to my worries about the men or
anyone else. My mind was on Cuthbert and
answering the question posed by the exhibit, “how does it feel to walk in the
footsteps of the Northern Saints.” How does it feel? What can we learn about Cuthbert’s life by
walking the hills he walked, leaning on the good shepherd and even the sheep,
having visions, feeling the tension between the bliss of solitude and the need
to serve.
Eventually, I saw the group of men
in the yellow distance, and slowly I began to rely on them for direction. My attention slackened and my thoughts turned
to Robin. Then they paused by a gate,
considering the way, and I caught up with them.
We chatted about the Russians and began to move forward. Once I’d joined them, I stopped trying to
find my own way, and, funnily enough we all got lost. A missed turn took us out onto paved roads
and we wound up walking an extra mile or two.
Some of the time, I walked with Robin, chatting about teaching and
writing and walking. He grew bored or
felt he needed to stay with his group, and I found myself talking to and
walking with a 70-some retired Danish vet, Ed.
This was not the way I wanted to walk.
I missed my own ruminations. I
missed the company of the plants and animals.
I told the guys that I’d stay with them until we found the way. Once we did, I said goodbye and bolted
ahead. My attempt to talk to Robin had
failed. I felt my spirits flag, and,
worse, I felt my mind turn onto the familiar road of self-criticism: not attractive, not clever, not not not.
Negativity. But the physical act
of walking and looking brought me back to my own natural buoyancy. I quickly forgot about Robin and the rest,
and I took the incident as a lesson about not giving up on oneself and not
becoming a follower. Followers get lost
literally, and, worse, they lose the joy of the Way.
The destination of the day was
Cuthbert’s cave. This is the one stop on
the route associated with Cuthbert’s life.
Legends are contradictory: one
suggests that Cuthbert used the cave during his young life as a shepherd and
another one claims that the monks, who carried his body away from the coast
when Vikings invaded, stopped in the cave to rest. The cave is eroded from a cliff of yellow
sandstone, and it is set uphill in an ancient pine forest. A line of pines across the top of the cave
look like sentries or angels. There was
an English couple around the cave taking pictures and a picnicking family with
kids bicycled up to it, but since I had no acquaintance with these people, they
did not trouble me. I explored around
the cave and then remembered my host in the Wooler B & B said to be sure to
scramble up the rock outcrop behind the cave for the view of where you’ve come
from and where you are going. I
did. Ferns and heather beyond the
woods. A wire fence. Stiles.
Finally, bare rock. On top, there
was a view of the sea!!! And I could
actually see the tiny little “sand-castle” looking thing on a tongue of
land. Lindisfarne! I was surprised at how close I was to the ocean. From here, it looked like just a couple of
fields away. Charcoal smudges in the
distance suggested rain. But nothing
could dampen my spirits up there on the high rocks looking at the blue water
melting into the blue air—and Lindisfarne!
I felt free and joyful.
Heading back to the cave, descending along the wood path,
there were the guys, leaning against the boulder in front of the gaping mouth. They were eating and drinking. I guess this was their lunch stop. I waved and approached. One of the Danes offered me a capful of
liqueur, and I slugged it back and asked for more. Robin offered me a granola bar and, when I
complained about being almost out of battery power, he pulled out a solar cell
and offered to “give me power.” It was a
light and sociable meeting. “Mary Jo …,”
began Robin, “I’ve been wondering why the monks would carry around a Cuthbert’s
dead body.” His other question involved a
misunderstanding of the place of the monastery in the community, “how could the
monks think it was okay for the local population to support their life on
contemplation?” did they? That was not my understanding. I thought that monasteries were highly
entrepreneurial and good for the community.
Maybe I was wrong. But I was
still chewing over Robin’s question of yesterday, “Wasn’t Cuthbert a very
extreme person?” Disagreement stimulated
thought. Conversation pushed me to think
harder and opened up byways of thought that I needed to explore. Mostly though, it stimulated me to want to
present my own views intelligibly and beautifully to others. The meeting was warm and filling. Photos were taken. They wanted to photograph me. One of the Danes noted with satisfaction that
having reached the cave, they had accomplished the purpose of the day; and his
remark forced me to pause and to assent.
I, too, had had a glimpse of the under glimmer of things: the inside of the rock, yes, but also the joy
that is possible in sharing, even simple food and drink and ideas, with
complete strangers. They took the high
road and I went back to the Way, reluctant to become just a follower. But I still got momentarily lost—confused by
my interest in them and their direction, and I had to make my way through a
field of animals and climb a fence that wasn’t in the book. But when I found the path and read that I was
to turn left at a fork “signed Holburn,” I knew that the men ahead of me, who’d
turned right, were once again, off course.
Walking alone toward the village, I
felt that I had taken a big step forward in personal growth. I had joined a human group (accepted an
invitation) and also remained on my own Way.
Did Cuthbert experience the same tensions that I experienced? I wondered. He was a gregarious jokester of a
youth who was told by a child that he had to straighten up. He went into a monastic community but sought
places of solitude by walking to far-flung communities to preach. Eventually, he retreated to Lindisfarne
(Aidan’s island), and from there, he went further and further out to sea: to Cuthbert’s island (a sand bar off
Lindisfarne) and, finally, to Farne where angels helped him build a high-walled
cell. He was called off Farne, out of
isolation, to become a Bishop. Very
reluctantly, he agreed. His stint as
Bishop lasted only two years. This was
definitely not a man who was “extreme.”
His was a human life of paradoxes, pulls in contradictory directions,
and accommodations. What about
love? I wonder what Cuthbert did with
his human desires.
He had friendships with several
noblewomen who were also Abbesses of local convents. The princess, Ebbe, was one such. She invited Cuthbert to Coldingham, located
on the coast just norther of what today is the Scottish border. The monastery at Coldingham housed both men
and women and, due to the noble backgrounds of the members, it was a place for
eating, drinking, and entertainment.
I’ve read that the monks and nuns in this place were very lax and
worldly. This place was the setting for
one of Cuthbert’s most iconic miracles.
At night, he walked down to the sea (perhaps to get away from the
partying), immersed himself up to his neck and began to pray and sing psalms in
the sea as waves rose up but didn’t swallow him up. When he came up on shore in the morning,
otters bounded out of the sea and rubbed themselves all over Cuthbert’s feet to
dry them. Miracle?
After the day I’d had, I felt I
understood Cuthbert’s desire for immersion in nature as an antidote to the
aches and pains human life causes, and I wondered if he, too, felt compromised
by his own experience of desire. Perhaps
he was attracted to Ebbe. Perhaps he was
tempted by the luxuries of her monastery.
From the hilltop, the sea looked so close, but the walk along hedgerows
and through patches of forest in rain and mud to Fenwick (Fennick) was
joyful. Before the rain came, down in
the grass before me, was the orange butterfly with eyes. Second chances. I bent down to marvel and looked right into
those eyes. Back home in America I find
a “Butterflies of Scotland” website and learn the name for it: “Peacock
butterfly.” The site includes legends
about butterflies and notes that some people believe eyes on butterflies means
they are “God’s spies.” I understand
that, but what I jotted down in the tiny notebook tucked into my money belt was
this: “if we open all the eyes of our
senses, we can fly.”
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