St. Cuthbert's Way Day Three: Tale-telling

                         “We have at least as complicated a relationship with ourselves

                                   as we do with the rest of the environment.”

            Pilgrimages in literature involve storytelling—The Canterbury Tales and Pilgrim’s Progress.  I woke on the third day of my pilgrimage wondering whether I could discern a story without imposing one on my walk.  There were knots in my life that I was hoping walking would untie—the loss of Mom, the lacks in my marriage; and, although I didn’t place these problems in the front of my mind—I just walked—I wondered if I would wend my way to a solution. 

            I walked through the tiny village of Kirk Yetholm on the lane, heading east, past the cottage where the last gypsy king was “crowned” in 1898.  It was an unassuming white house with black shutters.  (There’s a story here.)  The road went along up and down for a couple of miles next to farms.  As I passed a field, I greeted a black and white horse, who responded by walking to the fence to meet me.  

I stroked his white nose and picked bunches of wet green grass and clover.  He moved his flesh-colored lips, nuzzling my cupped palms, and the grasses disappeared quickly.  Contact of such a sensuous kind—movement of mouth tickling palms—was rare in my life.  I was aware of liking it and of needing it.  When I prepared to go, the horse followed me along the fence.  It was as if he was offering to go along with me.  For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to mount him and take the hills by storm, up and down, letting his animal knowledge of the land shapes guide me.  And sheep were everywhere on the third day of the pilgrimage.  Lambs in August are nearly the size of ewes, yet they still want to suckle, and pull hard on the teats.  The ewes looked annoyed or tired, yet I saw one that rested her head on the back of her “baby” while she eyed me suspiciously.  They retained their places if I kept moving but leapt away if I stopped to look at them.  Shy or wild.  Perhaps shyness, even in humans, is an effort to preserve wildness.  I shared that quality with the sheep I “met” just as I was sharing with them the narrow paths made through upland hills and moors by hooves and boots.  “On foot everything stays connected” and “one lives in the whole world rather than in interiors built up against it.” When the going got rough or lonely, I would pick up a piece of wool and smell it, fondle it, and pray a few lines of the 23^rd psalm which seemed to come to life here more than it ever had when I heard it inside a church.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures

He leads me beside still waters,

He restores my soul

He leads me in the right paths

Today of all days, I needed leading and I needed to be able to lean on the Lord.  The guidebook noted that Day 3 was the toughest day with boggy and “indistinct” sections and tiny paths nearly overgrown by the blooming heather—bell heather (pink/orange blossoms) and the “regular” heather with the purple flowers.  Losing the way (when the description in the book no longer made sense), I would feel afraid and pray, look for footprints, clutch my sheep’s wool, and hope against hope that I would see the circular waymark with the Cuthbert cross on the next gate or stile.  Usually, I did.

            “Take the lane uphill, signed Halterburn Penial Revival Centre.  It climbs steeply, then descends to Halter Burn glen.  At the valley floor, bear left along the fence to cross a footbridge with a tall signpost.”  What was a burn?  What was gorse?  What does it mean to “sign” and to “bear”?  The lay of the land and its features told me what such words meant.  But an expression as simple as valley “floor” set my mind working.  If the valley has a floor, then this place is a house or a temple, and as I worked my way up the hill, scattering sheep and flushing red grouse whose wings drummed and voices trebled with “laughter,” I saw the pile of stones on a distant hill that the book called Eccles cairn.  The stones mark either the site of a very old church (Eccles for ecclesia) or the burial site of a prehistoric chieftain.  Sources, like paths, are indistinct.  I left the way despite gathering dark clouds and climbed the naked hill for the view and for the ecstatic feeling I’d had on Wide Open Hill the day before.  When I arrived at the stone pile, I was thinking about Jacob and the dream he had after sleeping on a stone.  He saw a ladder with angels going up and down, and God hovered over him, reassuring him that he would be with him and guide him on the way out and back.  When Jacob wakes up, he is in awe and afraid

How fearsome is this place!

            This can be but the house of God,

                        And this is the gate of heaven

Jacob set up the stone he’d slept on as a pillar and poured oil over its top, and he called the place Bethel.  Jacob had many knots in his life and was going into exile because his brother was murderously angry that he’d stolen his paternal blessing.  Jacob is a cunning strategist, but his exilic pilgrimage is about learning a new way, about relying on the Lord:  “And Jacob made a vow, saying, “If the Lord God be with me and guard me on this way that I am going and give me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and I return safely to my father’s house, then the Lord will be my God.”  He cuts a deal.  He requires God to insure his trip before he is willing to commit fully.  What chutzpah!

            The dream, the cairn, the conversation with the divine—all of these things raised Jacob’s spirits and he sets off—“lifted his feet and went on to the land of the Easterners” where he promptly falls passionately in love with the first lovely shepherdess he sees.  Jacob’s covenant led directly into a love story—the first love story in the Bible:  “And Jacob kissed Rachel and lifted his voice and wept.”  “And Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed in his eyes but a few days in his love for her.”  Sitting at Eccles Cairn, taking in the views of the Cheviots and the rolling hills of the Scottish borders misty in the distance, I didn’t remember that, for Jacob, love of God seemed to express itself laterally in human love almost immediately.  To say that I was falling in love with Cuthbert and God makes me sound a bit too much like a monk.  But when at home, I live like one studying and sleeping in a tiny cell and inhabiting an absolutely chaste marriage.  Still, I have desires I don’t know what to do with and, therefore, can say with the Japanese traveler and poet, Basho, that I have one foot in the dust of the human world.

            It was somewhere after Hethpool, after the rain came and went, when I followed two English super walkers that had blown by me on the road alongside a red castle.  While I was stumbling up a bank, trying not to get cut with barbed wire for a view of the ruin, they were utterly disinterested.  Far ahead of me, I saw that they were holding hands as they walked.  It was after that that the unexpected happened: I began to meet people.  “Shepherd me, Oh God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears from death into life.”  I thought I wanted to be completely solitary.  I thought that was my way, but, as a priest back in Michigan says, “dear people, we often don’t know what we are praying for, but God sees the whole picture.”  I was climbing again, and the sun was lighting up one hill after another.  I felt very happy and light.  

An enormous black slug appeared.  I remembered seeing a medieval stone basin at Dryburgh Abbey that was carved with lizards.  The blurb, written by some scholar, speculated that lizards, in the serpent-dragon category of creatures, were “evil,” and perhaps the mason sought the symbolic contrast between evil of the lizard and the purity of the water.  

Seeing the black slug, I thought how wrong that was.  My slug wasn’t a lizard, but I found it beautiful anyway.  It comes out after rain when the world is wet.  The mason was probably just making art of things from his own experiences.  Higher yet, the breeze kicked up and began drying things out.  The bunched clouds were broken by paths of blue to match the green ways I was following.  I spotted an old stone sheep enclosure.  It was the perfect place to stop for a rest.  But by this time, there were two women in purple and pink windbreakers walking behind me.  Should I walk faster or slow down and let them pass.  At this point, I did not want human company.  Soon enough though there was another group of men.  Where did they come from?  I felt nothing but annoyance, wishing to be alone.  The women were Swedes, friends who walk pilgrimage routes together every summer.  “Have you done the Camino?” they asked.  As for the men:  there were four of them.  Three were three bright eyed and gray-haired but there was a younger man who seemed to be leading them—tall, lanky, dark-haired, with an almost oriental cast to his eyes.  In the few minutes we walked together, I learned that he was trying to read Middle English and finding it difficult, that he quit dentistry to write fiction, that his tutor told him he needed more of a “story” in the historical fantasies he crafted in the vein of the Hobbit, and that he was teaching an online class for Oxford in creative writing.  When he shook my hand—his hands were large and soft—I laughed, and I heard my laugh like the voice of grouse scattering in flight.  After a bit of talk, I bounded away, footsteps thudding like a frightened calf, but the soft hands and the adorable admissions of his struggle with Chaucer’s English took me by surprise.

            That evening in the town of Wooler, I’d had dinner in the Black Bull pub—the same one I’d sheltered in after coming down from the high places in the rain to have a relaxing lager while Mom (invisible but by my side) had her relaxing cigarette.  When I first came in from the rain hill, people looked scared of me, and I remembered that Moses had to veil his face after being on the mountain.  Dinnertime rolled around, and I returned to the pub with hair combed and settled at a table in the corner to make notes and wrap myself in solitude.  The Swedes came in but chose not to sit with me. 

Afterward I took a short walk around the town, feeling lonelier than I’d felt all day.  I talked to myself:  Why can’t I face the fact that I, too, want a human story?  All the heroines of novels I love and who walk long distances have love stories even when, like Dinah in Adam Bede, they also have vocations.  And for Shakespeare’s Rosalind (the heroine of As You Like It) falling in love is the sport that is the emotional equivalent to going to the forest of Arden.  I thought of the handshake and blushed inwardly at how quickly I could spin a fantasy around this strange man if I wanted to.  Just as I was thinking these things, he appeared, down the street, standing outside of a hotel.  What was his name?  Robin!  Good.  I walked right up to him, and he said, “Didn’t I meet you today on the hill?”  I learned more of his story.  Dentist.  Revolutionized implants.  Colleagues.  Palle, Kai, Edward.  “I hate coming down from the high places to the town,” I confided, testing the waters.  “It breaks the spell, doesn’t it?”  Yes.  Exactly.  I will not write a romance, I told my heart.  Yet there was something irresistibly appealing about having had an experience together and sharing feelings about it.  Simple and profound.  I instantly understood Rosalind’s nervousness when she discovers that Orlando is in the forest, but she’s dressed as a man, “Oh, what shall I do with my doublet and hose?”  But, at the same time, I held onto the sprouting thought that a human connection made while walking might lead somewhere other than a romantic entanglement.

           

St. Cuthbert's Way Day Two: Mountain Message

                                    “A landscape can sing about God, a body about Spirit.”

Animals and man work on the land through the paths they take, the farms they make, their flights on, above, or below the surface.  From any hill, the landscape appears as a patchwork quilt with squares of greens and squares of gold—plantations of trees and fields of wheat and barley.  I look at the land like a painting when I am standing still, but when I am walking, I am less aware of any composition than I am of making another line to add to the vast system of moving, squiggling, dancing lines:  a fish leaps, a buzzard lifts off in flight, diagonal shafts of rain sweep the hills in the blue-gray distance, I walk field-edges, hedgerows, and ridge lines.  I push through the tall stems and curling stems, and am touched by the wet silks of spiders.  On the hills, I walk the same paths used by sheep and wild goats.  As creatures in motion, we add to this calligraphy and, sometimes if we’re given the grace, illuminate the manuscript. 

            An Englishwoman walker warned me at breakfast that I would need to get to Morebattle and “gather my strength” because the hill (“Wide Open Hill”) was a “proper climb.”  It is the highest point on the Way, and it consists of at least three “cols” or summits.  But the morning walk was too wonderful to worry.  The steady wind at my back was a constant reminder that wind in the Bible is often compared to the Spirit that blows where it will or, as Genesis 1 has it, “a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.”  My thoughts of other worlds, too, kept me company.  I was very aware of being in proximate relationship (just next to) an entirely different reality.  While in the forest—pine with fern understory or beech with clusters of bluebells around mossy roots—if you look left or right or if you pull your eyes away from the fascinating particulars to peer over the stone wall, you will see a bright world of golden grain rippling like water.  It’s no wonder legends sprang up here about fairies in the woods (“out of this wood do not desire to go”) or of the people that live under the Eildon Hills.  Sunshine percolates the tightly bound bales of hay, turning it to energy for animals, and this is the image I sit with as I drink my golden lager (“free for walkers”) at the pub in Morebattle.  The pub is perched just on the edge of a small hill before the road dips down into a very low valley that runs along at the base of the huge green slope that I am going to climb.

            To modern ears, the name “Morebattle,” conjures up images of archaic fighting or some kind of heroic effort.  The Englishwoman, Katie, certainly spoke about the hill as if it were a test that she had not passed.  “It flattened me.  I was very weak.”  But this place had once been an outpost of Lindisfarne, and there had also once been a lake or loch nearby (now the trough before the hill that is rich, green pastureland).  “Mere” and “botl” combined is “Morebattle,” and it means building by a lake.  The ancient landscape of blue waters between the breasts of hills, flowing into crevices and filling valleys, is female and familiar from the Adirondack Mountains of my home in New York state.  Indian Lake, where I grew up, is surrounded by very high mountains, much higher than Wide Open Hill.  Thus, I felt no need to prepare for battle.  If anything, I felt like I was heading home.

            I approached the hill by crossing through a field of black cows and sheep with black faces, and I skirted a hedge of prickly bushes on which sheep wool was caught and drying in the wind.  I pulled some wool off the briars and held onto it throughout the climb to remind myself that I would be led, would be given the strength I lacked, that I didn’t need to try too hard.  The path (pressed-down green grass) sailed above the pastures and followed a serpentine stone wall.  I moved forward and up … and up, trying to discern whether the wind had its own voice.  I would tell myself that I couldn’t stop and look back until I’d reached a particular rise.  Keep moving into the sky past the cows, past the sheep, into the wind.  I always cheated though, unable to resist the view, unable not to pause (“shelah”) to take in all the beauty.  Each time I reached what I thought was a summit, another green mountain would appear with a path beckoning me on.  I breathed and the wind whispered, “sh, sh, she,” like a calming voice.  The moving shadows of clouds and the wind at my back kept me going.  “Crackin day isn’t it,” quipped a delighted Dad with his two boys and wife who were heading down.  By the time I got to the top, the few walkers were gone.  I was alone and sunk down to rest with my back against my walking buddy, the stone wall that had been by my side all the way up.  Support.

            I had left the quilt made by man’s hands below and left the herds.  I let the velvet hills, the heathery moorland swatches and the wind flow over me without trying to analyze its moods.  Sitting there, I knew that my mother’s soul was happy in some such place.  This is Heaven.  Mom is here (or there) in cool air, warm sun, feeling connected to everything without effort.  I listened to the wind speak, and then, suddenly, just before my eyes, a hawk hovered, facing into the wind (like me) and held himself or herself almost perfectly still in the air, halted in the presence of a commanding majesty.  An occasional beat of wings was all she needed to steady herself.  My own heartbeat slowed.  Together, we gave ourselves to the air and hung there in blissful stillness transfixed by the green mountain.

            As I descend, the wind is less noisy and not as cold.  The happy sounds of the herds return and the human scene takes shape—farmyard, clumps of trees, tractors, men.  I understand that here below there is so much we can choose to focus on.  Not so above where phenomena choose us (or so it seems).  Take the hawk.  It didn’t have to perform its trick of floating on the air just for me.  But it did.  Twice or thrice even.  Cuthbert understood birds as special helpers.  If an eagle left a piece of dolphin meat on shore, it was God who had directed the bird to do so to feed a hungry monk.  Perhaps the hawk was my mountaintop message not to try so hard but to let the spirit lift me up.  If you surrender to the air, you can ride it.

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            Almost a full week later, plodding along the pavement in London, hoping I am still marked by my experience on Wide Open Hill, I enter the open door of a church in South Kensington.  I can’t stop walking and am headed from Hammersmith to the British Museum—at least a seven-mile mini-pilgrimage across the whole of metropolitan London—to see the Lindisfarne gospels.  The gospel from Matthew read at the mass is about Jesus’ walking theology.  Call it that.  He is teaching the disciples that he will have to die but will rise again.  Then they come into Capernaum and are harassed about paying the temple tax.  From theology to taxes.  That is the declension all walkers must make when their journeys bring them back from hills to the petty paces of town and city, from crosses in the landscape to crosses nailed to the interior walls of church buildings.  So as not to cause offense, Jesus tells Peter to go down to the lake, throw out a line.  In the mouth of the fish he will catch, there will be a coin twice the value of the temple tax.  Don’t try so hard.  Don’t worry.  And, most of all, do not let the petty ways of man divert you from the Way you have walked.  Your face is still glowing from what you saw in the high place.  Write hawk with quill pen or clicking computer keys, imagine a face and feathers on the letter "H," and make a new and very real path on the desert of the page.    

St. Cuthbert's Way Day One: Beginning

One doesn’t go to Melrose half-heartedly.  Cuthbert, arguably the most important of the northern (striding) saints was a shepherd before he entered the monastery, and he journeyed to Melrose only after he’d had a vision of a bright light ascending to heaven and learned the next day that it must have been the soul of the Celtic priest Aidan, who’d founded the monastery at Lindisfarne, and who had died on the night of Cuthbert’s vision.  The heart of Robert the Bruce, the medieval chieftain who unified Scotland, is buried in the ruins of Melrose Abbey.  From Edinburgh I rode in the front on top of a double-decker red bus through the little towns and along streams, watching the beautiful country roll out on all sides of me, eager to be walking through it and seeing it all up close.  I’d longed for this pilgrimage for several years, but I’d been immobilized by an abusive relationship, by my own anxieties, and by my mother’s failing health.  My mother’ soul departed in May right as I was supposed to begin the walk, and, of course, I postponed it.  Now I had the additional burden of grief to carry with me to Holy Island.  I got off the bus and headed to the abbey after dropping my bag at the B&B.  I climbed the tower and looked out for the pig and dog gargoyle, but the sculpture that impressed me most was the open-mouthed face, hanging out over a corner molding, saying “OH!” in terror at the height, in awe at the beautiful landscape, or in song to the Lord of blue sky.  Though my feet were on the ground between the River Tweed and the Eildon Hills, my mouth was open just as wide.

           Melrose to Lindisfarne is not a traditional pilgrimage route like the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.  It was laid out in 1995 to commemorate important places in Cuthbert’s life as well as its progression from shepherding to entering the monastery to walking the hills to far flung settlements in the borders to preach the gospel.  Cuthbert lived the tension between serving and loving people to wanting to be alone with God; and Lindisfarne (cut off from the mainland by tides twice daily) seemed to symbolize life on the edge of eternity.  But even Lindisfarne, situated on trade routes, with its bustling monastery and entrepreneurial endeavors was too crowded for him, and he eventually withdrew to live in hermitage on the isolated island of Farne.  In preparation, I’d read two early biographies—one by an anonymous monk in Cuthbert’s community and the other by Bede—and was, therefore, familiar with stories that have become iconic:  Cuthbert’s vision of Aidan’s soul ascending; Cuthbert’s study of John’s gospel with his friend, the Abbot Boisil, who was dying of plague; Cuthbert’s ministering to an angel; his unconcern about food while walking great distances; the ways that animals—eagles and otters—tended to his needs; and, finally, his setting off for Farne in a December storm to be in hermitage before he died.  I set off from the U.S., touched down in the UK, and stepped off the red bus in Melrose, knowing some things but in the dark about so many more.  At best, I hoped to converse with Cuthbert, hoped that by walking in places he knew or maybe by just walking a long distance (something new for me that was perfectly normal for him), I would learn a way that would make me new and that could teach me something about he spirituality of this early Celtic Christian whose gentleness and affability made him the Church’s choice for spreading the new Roman rite.

            Stone crosses were erected all over Northumberland to remind people that the whole landscape was holy.  They gave a reverential tone to any and all journeys made on the big pilgrimage that we call life.  Cuthbert was one of the northern saints who spread Christianity by walking and teaching and celebrating mass (hence the pocket-sized altar that was buried with him) as much a part of his intimate belongings as an ivory comb or the small sized version of John’s gospel.  When he arrived in a settlement, people would assemble in tents to hear him read, teach, and heal them by his presence alone.  “But wasn’t he an awfully extreme personality?” asked a dentist I ran into along the Way, presumably thinking about the monk’s desire to live as a hermit.  I doubt this dentist knew the details:  for instance, that on Farne, Cuthbert built the walls of his cell high enough to close out even the beauty of his surroundings so as to concentrate more fully on God.  Despite all of this, I do not think of Cuthbert as extreme.  I feel rather an affinity for him.  He craved solitude.  He knew that there is a richness to solitary existence in which one is connected to trees, plants, hills, birds, and the Creator of all by silken strands of attention, thought, and feeling.  The earth seems to want to be seen and known.  Cuthbert was a witness.  The silent traveler moving through the Borders is also a witness.  Though there are no stone crosses, there are beech trees, butterflies, sweet peas, the Eildon Hills, bridges lost and found, and a hawk that fed me wisdom as surely as an eagle dropped dolphin meat on the seashore for Cuthbert.

            On my pilgrimage, Cuthbert functioned as a guide, a human waymark.  The majority of people in the secular West are not capable of affirming real experiences that connect us to the natural world and its inhabitants.  I could not post on Facebook that I’d met an angel, that sweet peas cheered me on, that I saw my mother’s hands in the moss-covered gnarled roots of an ancient beech near Lilliard’s stone, the tree dead and alive at the same time.  But walking with Cuthbert gave me someone who had had similar experiences.  I could set my own against the stories others told about his and felt less crazy or less alone.  Maybe you are laughing or feeling skeptical.  If so, consider that most Americans fear being alone with their thoughts for more than six minutes.  Few would walk 70 miles alone in wild places and like it.  And most are frighted with the false fires of distraction.  “He will heal all those in need” read the window in the tiny church in Maxton.  A woman I met contacted the pastor of a tiny stone church that was legendarily established by Cuthbert; and Reverend Sheila opened the church so I could see the Hebrew inscriptions I’d read about.  In one of the windows was the verse, “he healed them that had need of healing.”  “The key word is need,” said the woman I’d met.  Most people are not aware that they need healing and help.  She is right.  Wrapped up in our comforts with the whole world seemingly available at the touch of a button, we really don’t need anything.  In America you hear people say as a matter of course that we live in our own private “bubbles.”  A sign on the pub door in Fenwick said “Turn off your phone and talk to your neighbor.”  The first step of any walk is to become aware that you need something whether it’s as little as clarity, fresh air, relaxation, the sensory awareness of your body in motion or as much as connection and inspiration.

            The map I was using indicated that the first day would be the longest day.  Melrose to Jedburgh is 15 miles, and the way passed through many small villages and made many twists and turns:  up the Eildon Hills, along the River Tweed, and finally down the meadow path that followed the old Roman Road to another river and bridge.  How would I manage it?  On top of that, it was showering just before I started off.  “What will I do?”  “Bring an upbrella,” quipped the husband at the B&B who’d cooked my breakfast.  “Got one,” I said.  “No, I’m jokin.  Not a tough lady walker like you.  No.  That’s just not done.”  So stuffing my rain poncho in my pack, I set off and the rain stopped.  The first real difficulty I faced was psychological:  leaving comforts and security.  A warm, dry B&B and my big duffel bag that contained dry clothes for all occasions and an extra water bottle.  Without it, I had to make do with what I had.  Looking up into the misty, dark, conical Eildon Hills, I set off.  The whole steep ascent, step by step, I was getting used to the tingle of fear and letting it become excitement.  I was finding my walking rhythm.  I was opening my eyes and ears to all that was going on around me.  Straight up the red path into hills that were once, in the ancient past, volcanoes but are now heather-covered, I passed fireweed, a lone foxglove, protective ewes with their big lambs.  I began to see heather but kept my eyes on the summits and imagined the legends I’d read about fairies that lived under these hills.  My mind began to loosen up with my muscles, and I was growing less self-conscious with each step.

            On the back side of the hills, I descended into woods and heard a chorus of birds.  At first I thought they were mourning doves, but the song was four-noted and energetic:  Hoo, Hoo, hoohoo.  I heard the flap of wings.  These were large blue-gray birds with white rings around their necks and white bands on their wings.  I supposed they were a kind of pigeon but so very different from the grimy birds at home that scavenge in cities.  These were fat, wild-looking, and choral!!!  Listening became my practice.  Listening and noticing and so long as I was engaged I was no longer frightened, and I was aware of how good it felt to travel without the burden of a bag even if I got wet or ran out of water or needed food.  I began to trust that what was in my small pack would suffice.  Happily, I took all the detours one of which was to Dryburgh Abbey, and along the way—a detour within a detour—I chanced upon a “Temple to the Muses” constructed to honor James Thomson, the Borders poet born around 1700, who loved the natural world and who, according to the plaque, is considered a proto-Romantic.  Also on the plaque was an excerpt from his poem, “Spring” (1728):

                                                            Thus the glad skies,

                                    The wide-rejoicing earth, the woods, the streams

                                    With every life they hold, down to the flower

                                    That paints the lonely vale, or insect-wing

                                    Waved o’er the shepherd’s slumber, touch the mind,

                                    To nature tuned, with a light-flying hand

                                    Invisible, quick-urging through the nerves

                                    The glittering spirits in a flood of day.

I meandered through the Abbey, talked to everyone I met.  Along the Tweed, I stopped to sketch the Eildon Hill that I’d walked around, and in a kind of ecstatic state, I jotted down my own simple “poem.”

I ate the fruit of the forest

I felt light rain on my skin

Heard the rhythmic chant of wood doves

My soul is alive again.

The only time I felt lonely was going into a coffee shop in St. Boswell’s where the colognes and fine clothing of people out with families and friends on a Sunday afternoon accented the wild mess I’d become.  I took my soup and juice and fled to the riverside.  Finding a bench along the Way, I befriended a cat, and then, along came a equally odd looking woman all in blue, veiled, carrying a white cat, who she called “Elijah,” in a sling.  A chocolate lab walked next to her. 

            Because the pilgrimage felt, in part, about finding a way to have a voice and finding a way that responded to a call, I marveled at the fluent prophecies that poured effortlessly forth from this very odd young woman if woman is what she was.  “Yes, he [speaking about Elijah’ has eyes of two different colors.  That’s for Elijah and Elisha and because God wants us to join together.  She spoke about covenant and Mary as the arc of the new covenant who birthed Jesus, who is returning soon.  There have been signs in Jerusalem:  three extra stars in Leo, and next year is 2020.”  She told a story about swimming to the bottom of the Tweed and pulling up 12 stones and carrying them in her rucksack—“for the twelve tribes of Israel and because Scotland must be unified.  And it will be, she predicted, “because (it’s a secret) but Robert the Bruce’s heart has been dug up and reburied in Jerusalem.  This is the only way for Scotland to be renewed.  I have given my whole self to Jesus.”  When I asked her about the Hebrew inscriptions in the parish church in Maxton—along the route, she gave me her cell number and said to call when I arrived.  She would ring up the Reverend Sheila and see if she would open the church.  When we parted ways, she prayed that God would open my eyes and ears and that my spiritual pilgrimage would be fruitful.  As I continued pushing my way through the grasses and tangled plant life along the river, I thought about Cuthbert.  When he decided to enter the monastery at Melrose, the first “job” he was given was to offer hospitality to strangers.  On one occasion, a worn-out man arrived and was fed, his feet washed, and he was given a place to rest.  Overnight it snowed, and the guest arose and departed early, leaving no tracks in the soft snow.  Cuthbert felt—“felt” is too weak a word—he knew with his heart that this was an angel.  I wondered about Gabrielle Mary. 

            The path eventually wound round behind the gray stone church, and I could see two women (one veiled with a blue scarf—Gabrielle!—and another with bright gold hair almost like a halo).  They were obviously waiting to welcome me.  I called, but they didn’t hear, and I walked along the wall and entered the gate.  Gabrielle came forward holding out a white rose whose stem and leaves were wrapped in a blue bag.  “It’s a thornless rose.”  It is Jesus saying something about you.”  “St. Cuthbert’s Church at Mackistun” first appears in the records some 500 years after the time of Cuthbert, but like several of the auld kirks on the way, it could have been served from Old Melrose and maybe even by Cuthbert himself.  The Hebrew writing on the way—way up high—are verses from the psalms:  “Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound” and “Come let us worship and bow down.”  The women didn’t know what the inscriptions meant, but Gabrielle—ever sensitive to names—talked about my name Mary Jo … “Joseph, John, mercy.”  She said that Sheila was connected to the Hebrew word, “shelah” (I think it is really “selah”), but she understood it to mean “pause, pause, take it all in” and told a funny story about immersing herself in a pool on top of Mount Sion and being watched by a proper rabbi (or was it a hermit) who called to all passersby, “shelah, shelah!”  When we parted, she kissed me on the lips, and I left, clutching my white thornless rose.  Was this some kind of annunciation?  I felt I was being called to look and listen very closely—to see all phenomenon as gifts, signs, or messages.  The angel Gabriel approached Mary with a lily, and all annunciations are invitations to trust in something that sounds impossible or preposterous.  “Let it be done to me.”  Later that evening, I texted Gabrielle (she’d given me her cell number) to thank her for the kindness, but she never replied which, once again, made me wonder about who or what she was. 

            When I think about my experience placed next to Cuthbert’s, I have to wonder what enabled him to feel that the guest he welcomed was an angel.  Certainly, there could have been naturalistic explanations for the lack of footprints in the snow, yet Bede researched the life and the incident stands as one of the first stations in Cuthbert’s holy life.  When I stood with Gabrielle and Sheila in Maxton Church, she spoke about angels.  “They are all around us.  I saw a huge one once just before a storm when I was trying to visit my mother.”  I asked the two women if they’d heard the thunder.  I’d been hearing it all afternoon in the clouds over the river.  Thunder but no rain.  “I didn’t hear thunder.  Listen, God is speaking to you,” was what Gabrielle said.  But there was actual thunder, and it was confirmed by several trout fishermen I passed.  Still, there was the moment a white bird with an enormous wingspan took off just as I’d passed under the branch on which he was perched.  There was the fact that I’d somehow made it on foot 20 miles to Jeburgh just before the hostess of the B&B was going to call the police because “it’s nearly twelve hours since you set out, and you are walking alone.”  Things happen.  “There are things happening all around us and we don’t know what they are.”  This observation made by my skeptical dentist friend serves as a kind of secular credo and mantra for my journey.  Neither he nor we know anything much about the natural let alone the supernatural world, and my feeling, my strong feeling, my faith is that these levels of experience interpenetrate.  Didn’t God “prepare” a great fish to swallow Jonah?  Didn’t he speak to the gourd to enlist its help in teaching his prophet a lesson in mercy?  Maybe the early and medieval Christians were wiser than we in reading the created world as a book or a story.  If so, how poverty-stricken we moderns are who don’t even read books anymore. 

            To read the world’s book, you must step out and walk.  A story unfolds.  The walker must tell it or sing it, but it is a joint creation that is both yours and the world’s.  The anonymous Life of Cuthbert gives us a tiny glimpse of a musical procession along the banks of the Tweed.  Cuthbert had been invited to the village of a man called Sibba who lived somewhere beside the river.  He arrived “with a company of people,” singing as they walked.  They were singing psalms and hymns.  A few years later, in 680, a herdsman called Caedmon would begin composing beautiful hymns in Old English, much to everyone’s surprise, including his own.  Cademon was one of those people who are convinced that they can’t sing.  Whenever party pieces were called for, Cademon would slip away.  One night, he went out to the byre to feed the beasts and fell asleep there.  A man came to him in his dreams, called him by name and asked him for a song.  “I don’t know how to sing,” said Caedmon, “that’s why I left the feast.”  “But you shall sing for me,” said the man.  “What shall I sing about?”  “Sing about the Creation of things,” said the man.  And Caedmon began to sing—in his own voice—a song he had never heard before.

            I wandered into Jedburgh shattered on a Sunday night.  It was dark and raining lightly.  The pubs weren’t serving food and, worst of all, I’d forgotten the name of the place I was staying.  Panic set in.  My bag had been delivered to the B&B whose name I’d forgotten.  How would I find it?  But my confusion—delirium even—came out of a total loss of concern about where I’d sleep or what I’d eat.  And it was, I think, a sign that I was really truly on the way.  There had been a moment along the old Roman road when I wanted to lay down in the deep grass, under the sacred protector tree (whose name remains a mystery) and pass the night in wonder.  Perhaps I was living the parable of hidden treasure from Matthew 13:  “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field.  When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field.”  Even on my first day out, I knew that there was something challenging but immensely valuable about the project of pilgrimage, and it was even linked in some way to Jesus’ use of the parable as a teaching tool.  What is the treasure hidden in the field?  How is it comparable to the kingdom of Heaven?  Jesus, who Cuthbert followed closely, walked, walked everywhere; and he, too, sought places of solitary prayer and contemplation.  Perhaps even Jesus’s teaching grew out of the ecstasy of dreaming on foot.  And maybe the kingdom of Heaven is knowing the field from the inside out … the topographic sublime.

          

Love Letter

I couldn’t throw away my mother’s phone book.  The impulse to save is, I think, linked to my superstition about wrecking spiders’ webs.  Although some of the people listed in that book didn’t visit her even once from the time she fell and then kept falling (“I’ll wait till your Mom can go to restaurants” was the excuse one “close” friend made), most of them were very loyal.  Was I loyal?  A letter that turned up, saved in that phone book, addressed to me, typed on onion-skim typing paper and photocopied, gave me pause.

            “Dearest Mary Jo,” (Mom was rarely this effusive) … Dearest!  “It was pure joy to hear your voice Friday morning.”  Pure joy?  My voice?  “I had not worried that you were safe, but it certainly was reassuring to know that you were really safely at the university.”  The emphasis on safety is Mom through and through.  “When I got home last Saturday, it was a very lonely feeling to think of you so far away.”  I’d been living at home for the latter part of the summer of 1993, having given up my apartment in Boston and preparing to leave to teach in Ankara, Turkey.  I was thirty, and on the couple of occasions when I had to live at home for any length of time at that point in my life, I always got physically sick.  I never figured out why.  But from this vantage point, any sickness or ambivalence I felt then is completely forgotten.  What I remember vividly is Mom packing the two duffel bags I was allowed to take—for a whole year!  She packed those bags as carefully and tightly as a bird weaves grasses together to make a nest.  Cowboy boots were filled with socks and underwear and extension cords.  A small computer printer, clothes for teaching, books and papers, and even a box of oil paints, were arranged masterfully.  I held the hefty bags inches off the floor and stood on a bathroom scale in the front hallway of the house, checking to make sure they did not exceed the airline’s baggage weight limit.  Checking in at Logan Airport in Boston, I had to surrender the oil paints.  I remember handing them to Mom, who was always encouraging me to draw and paint.  I remember feeling a lump in my throat.  “I’ll keep them for you, honey.”  Like everything we had no room for.  Mom saved and kept all safe.  I don’t remember being overly emotional at parting.  Mom stood with my sister, Jennifer, and my then-boyfriend, Michael, and later she would tell me with a certain amazement, “I couldn’t believe how easily you got right on that plane.”  In truth, it was never easy.

            The letter goes on to detail the adventure that Mom, Jennifer and Michael had after they left me at the airport.  They explored over-priced antique shops on Beacon Hill, and a homeless man hit Mom up for a cigarette.  She offered him the one she was smoking, which he took gladly, so as not to have to open her purse.  She’d warned me about that very thing as well as not walking on frozen lakes, not being near water in electrical storms, always unplugging toasters and coffee makers, and not forgetting to call home.  That was Mom, but before she was a mother, she had wanted to travel and had even applied to teach school in Japan.  It’s possible, though I don’t remember her saying anything of the sort, that I was fulfilling a dream she’d let fall by the wayside.  “It was a very lonely feeling to think of you so far away.”

            I hold the pages of onion-skin, and I remember the manual typewriter vividly.  I can even see her sitting at the end of the kitchen table where she always did schoolwork or wrote bills, with a cigarette burning in a nearby ashtray and a cat at her feet.  Oops.  Scratch the cat.  Near the end of the letter, she tells me that “Mr. M is enjoying himself outside on a true fall day; I’m watching him as I type.”  This was Mohammad, a cat I’d adopted during my graduate school years.  He’d suffered a leg injury a few years before I went to Turkey, and it just seemed better for him to go home to Mom and the yard rather than stay in a basement apartment in Central Square, Cambridge.  Mom even started sleeping downstairs on the couch to let my cat in and out at night.  That arrangement became permanent; she never returned to her bed upstairs.  “I love you very much.  Mom.”  I fold the letter up, and sadness washes over me.  Did I really appreciate this love?  Was I even aware of it?  Oh, Mom it is a very lonely feeling to think of you so far away.

            The initial take-away for me was that I should stop doubting the love of significant others.  I regretted falling under the influence of a series of therapists—each one tried to get me to criticize Mom for her failings.  “I just respond to what you bring in,” said my latest one, when I weakly protested that Mom was the only mother I had, and I loved her.  Mothers are human beings in an impossibly demanding role.  Easy targets.  I know because I am one now.  I am nearly 56 years old, and over the long haul of a mother-daughter relationship, each of us goes through so many changes.  Mom had to start over many times in her life, after losing a husband, after starting to teach school again in midlife, after realizing that she needed friends, after she retired.  She needed the same kind of loving attention a young one needs.  Life cycles.  People do not stand still.  While I think my husband is right and that I did tend to revert to the good girl role when I went home, so what?  If I never felt I'd won her approval, is that her fault or mine for not trusting that it was there all along.  “I love you very much.  Mom.”  I contemplate the letter and the photocopy, and then I realize that it is possible Mom never sent this letter.  So even if I have difficulty receiving and believing, maybe Mom got distracted or self-conscious.  Maybe I got a phone in my apartment and called her.  Maybe the words were never sent, never said.

            On the walk to St. Mary’s Franklin Street to Mass this morning, I walked and sweated and thought about how horrible it is to be constantly preoccupied by doubts about love.  Did Mom love me?  Does Paul?  Does my daughter?  More importantly, did or do I love them?  As I worried the subject of love like a King Lear or an Othello—tragic—I was stopped along my physical and mental path by a brown rabbit.  A miracle.  He let me get very close to him and never jumped sideways into the thick brush along the stream.  We regarded one another.  I spoke, he stirred as if listening.  I stepped, he stepped--forward not sideways, as if showing me the way I was to go.  Walking past him carefully, I said, “have a good Sunday, bunny.”  Funny  that I felt so blessed and even loved, not by the rabbit, but by a force of goodness that gives us natural and worldly answers to our questions if our eyes and minds are open. That little moment reminded me that I know love every time wild humans come close, when they let us look into their eyes and speak a word to them, and when they go on their way.  The truest, deepest, most real loves have not ever been and probably cannot be worded.  Maybe love is pheromonal or a product of rhizomes in the roots (as it is for trees that know and attempt to assist their grove-mates).  Maybe love is as simple as the urge to look and listen to an other, to help, to seek out, to rejoice when the spouse returns at day’s end or the teen daughter from a late date.  Safe and sound. I know my mother loves me, and I love her dearly.  It’s natural for reactionary thoughts to arise in our minds.  They ripple the surface, but we shouldn’t let the impulse to judge events, information, and people as either good or bad, right or wrong, loved or unloved cause a tsunami that will surely shipwreck us.  We have to ride the waves, enjoy them, and trust the deeper currents.   When a little brown rabbit didn’t flee from me, I realized that belonging is love.  And I belong to the rabbit as my dear ones belong to me and all of us to the loving Creator.  And Mama, dearest Mama, maybe I imagined it, but when that rabbit looked at me, you felt a little less far away.  Love.  Mary Jo.