“And now perhaps our travels will bring us again to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne like so many, pilgrims and tourists alike. Most will venture over only between the tides when the island is an island in name only. The tide comes in and the place becomes quieter. With tourist and holiday-maker less in evidence, islander and island speak, and smile, then leave us to thoughts of our own. It has always been that way.”
~ Ronald Blythe

Yesterday as I made my way out into the early morning, I was hit full force with a feeling of home. By this I do not mean the home I have known, have made, for the last few decades. Instead I was plunged head long into the home of my childhood. The morning was bright but understated in its light. But the air was filled with moisture that was causing a fog to move in along the fields I passed on my way to the gym. These fields are full of tiny little creeks that wind and turn through the tall, green grass. The mist of the morning created not only a visible image of the foggy mornings of my childhood but also the smell, fresh and full of autumn, a sensation I wanted to ignore in favor of holding onto summer as long as possible. This experience left me thinking about the ways in which place finds a home in us, creates memory, memories that can cause a flood of feeling to wash over us and define our day.

Later in my morning reading, I came across these words of Ronald Blythe about the holy island of Lindisfarne, a place I visited three years ago. It had been a life long dream to go to this island that has the ebb and flow of sea around it, allowing people to cross to its shores only when the tide is out and to be a resident there until the tide recedes again several hours later. It is a place inhabited by those who welcome pilgrims and travelers, those whose life’s work is to tell the stories of the ancient ones who once prayed and studied there, those who tried to make sense of what it meant to be the people of God in their time, in this ever-changing place. Visiting this place as I did, I was both pilgrim and tourist. Pilgrim seeking to experience the Holy in this place where so many prayers had been prayed for so many years. Tourist in the need to purchase small tokens to remember the place, trying to hold on to something of the sacred nature of it all for the times when my spirit feels disconnected from the vast expanse of the Universe.

What captured my imagination in Blythe’s words was the idea that once there is enough space, ‘island and islander speak.’ This reminded me of what I have experienced in so many places, this sense that as humans we have a conversation going on with the landscape that houses us. If we can calm our minds. If we can create space. If we can stop talking in words meant to dazzle and distract.

Last week as I sat on the shore of Lake Superior, I engaged in one of these wordless conversations. Each morning I sat and allowed the Big Lake to talk to me, teach me, hold out its wisdom to my waiting hand, my hungry heart. Through the glistening of sun on the glasslike water to the ways in which those with wings calmly glided along the water’s path, the lake spoke and I listened. We did not use words but the ancient language of knowing passed between us. We were both reminded of the vastness of which we are a part. We were both urged to remember the ways we are connected. We reminded each other of the gifts of gratitude and awe and mystery. This being a part of Creation is holy work and I felt blessed to be in the dialogue.

The smell of yesterday morning transported me to the soil and sky that shaped me. Last week’s conversation with Minnesota’s enormous lake filled me up until next time. Remembering my crossing to Lindisfarne helped me see the long line of those who have conversed with land and sea, who have carried on these wordless prayers for centuries, offering praise and thanksgiving to the One who breathes through us all.

It has always been this way.