Note: today's blog post may be hard to read. It was a good day, but not an easy one. My goal is honesty in these posts and today's honesty is raw. All journeys are not easy, but they may be necessary. My visit to Iona was necessary, an appointment I believe I had to keep. With love and remembrance for my son, Christian Joseph Rohr.
08—Blog Post 8 September 9, 2024 Grief Renewed
We walked, trekked, hiked, bogged over 27,000 steps today.
Our goal was to see much of the Isle of Iona before the rain started in the afternoon and we managed to do it.
We began with a hearty Scottish breakfast at our hotel, the Bunessan Inn, a small local hotel that is beginning to feel like home. Here, in the middle of virtually nowhere, they are completely vegetarian friendly, so I had veggie sausage and eggs. A great start to a long day of walking.
The short ferry ride over from Fionnphort to Iona is only 10 minutes but required four layers of clothing—long sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, thin down jacket and a raincoat. Unbelievable but necessary.
As soon as we got there, we set out. Cars are rare on the island, but there are some. Most people seem to ride bikes since the island is small. The island is only 3 miles long and most of it is uninhabited.
We headed out through sheep pastures and had to keep locking gates behind us to ensure the sheep stayed where they were supposed to be, and we finally landed at the Bay at the Back of the Ocean where the stones have been so roughhoused by the ocean that they are rounded and smooth. Stone plays an important role on Iona from the building of the Abbey to the ruins of the nunnery to the stones that line the beaches. Few beaches are sandy in this remote place.
I came to Iona to feel God’s presence. So much is written about this ‘thin place’ where heaven and earth seem closer together, where God’s presence often feels stronger to people. But my first experience was not of God specifically, but of my lost son, Christian. I cannot explain why he was so present to me here. He has never been here. We shared no memories of being here—this visit was my first time and he died over 7 years ago.
But my grief felt fresh again. Honestly, it was as if I had permission to grieve for the first time in a long time. I chose not to take time off when Christian died, and so today felt like a renewal of that grief, as if only the ocean and the wind and the island could withstand the depth of the pain and loss I still carry every day. I could have yelled and screamed into that wind, and no one would have yelled back, no one would have been afraid of my mother’s heart re-breaking into shards. The salt smell of ocean mist from stone-smashing waves, and the ocean colors blended and bled into one another even on this grey day—subtle greens and steel blues mingling and moving together—I was alone on that beach with the enormity of these primitive elements around me and my grief felt bigger than the ocean itself. And I let it. I let the grief win and I reached out for my son again, sensing that this too was sabbatical, that I can only be rebuilt by breaking again.
The image for the Iona Community is a wild goose. Rather than the traditional dove for the Holy Spirit, Iona chooses this wild bird as a symbol of the wildness of God’s presence with us. I have already spoken of the way I responded to the wildness of Mull, and today, I was led by the Wild Goose on pathways of grief refreshed and renewed, wounds reopened so they could heal properly. I trusted this Wild Spirit to lead me and heal me, and it is precisely the wildness that draws me close. Grief, too, is a wild thing, untamable and unpredictable.
I close with a prayer from the Wild Goose Community of Iona, an ecumenical group of people from around the world committed to the movements of the Spirit. They use creative liturgies with natural images to help us connect with God and remind us of God’s presence all around us, even in the wildest of places in our hearts, in our world.
May you be out of your depth--
as the deeps of the night sky
contain but cannot explain God's mystery.
May you be in the dark--
as the moon is eclipsed, but held safe,
with all that is, in the palm of God's hand.
May you be lost for words--
as the Word is spoken
in the silence of the night
in the beauty of God's creation.
And so may the loving blessing of God,
Creator,
Healer,
and Holy Spirit,
be in us and around us tonight,
tomorrow,
and all our nights and days
Amen.
