Wild Goose

Great Spirit, Wild Goose of the Holy One. 

Be my eye in the dark places; 

Be my flight in the trapped places; 

Be my host in the wild places; 

Be my brood in the barren places; 

Be my formation in the lost places.

                                    ~Ray Simpson

Poets and spiritual writers have long described the Isle of Iona as a “thin place” - a place where the boundaries between this world and the next blur. A visit to this small island off the west coast of Scotland has been in my imagination and on my wish list for many years. It is where St. Columba landed bringing Christianity to the British Isles, where the Book of Kells was written, and where a 1400-year-old abbey still stands housing an ecumenical community and visitors.  It is a place that holds spaciousness for the soul to both expand and rest.   

Nearing the island via ferry, we could see the abbey within walking distance of the dock, surrounded by field and rock – austere.  We walked the road passing through the ruins of a 13^th century Augustinian convent, arriving at the refectory of the abbey.  Deep history was visible everywhere.

As part of the “abbey experience”, we ate, worked and prayed in community, facilitated by seasonal community members.  I admired these “summer” community members.  They were young (in their mid-20’s to late 30’s) and passionate about holding the spiritual life and social justice work together.  As someone who understands that need to stay grounded as we follow our calling, I understand that this approach is needed more than ever. Yet surprisingly - and disappointingly - I found myself resistant to the unrelenting messaging at each meal and service during this week.

You see, our visit to Iona was themed “Time and Space” – what I thought was an apt title for respite; a chance to step away from the daily news cycle that continues to break my heart and take up too much space in my head.  I arrived ready for “Sabbath” and “thin places”, and the constant messaging around ecological distress, war, and the curiosity about our country’s political state felt abrasive and wounding. 

After doing my morning chores and attending prayer service, I found myself escaping to a bench with a view of the white sand beach and blue waters, or to a seat in one of the ancient chapels.  I felt a certain guilt in this escape and avoidance of conversation, but in retrospect I see it as caring deeply for my soul.  In the sounds of the beach or the silence of the chapel I could hear myself a little more clearly and feel the presence of God more intimately.  This is the “time and space” that no one can provide, and I understood that I didn’t need to be in Iona to find it. 

Was there a different “thin space” that was possible here?

On the fourth day of our visit, Tom and I walked south across the island to visit St. Columba’s Bay, the place where the saint is believed to have landed in 563 AD.   This was not the first hike of our trip, and we had learned a bit – 

Sheep are everywhere (including golf courses).

Close the gates behind you.

A sign stating “Boggy Trail” should be taken seriously. 

As we passed through yet another bog on this hike, I found myself frustrated.  Frustrated that I had just stepped squarely in the muck again, sinking my shoe down to my ankle in thick, odorous mud, frustrated that my ankle and hip hurt, frustrated that I couldn’t keep up with Tom’s pace or focus. 

We came to the top of a steep rocky climb that ended at the bay, and decided that we would not go any further.  This submission to body limitations was difficult to accept, but we agreed to be grateful and make our way to another beach. 

And here is where the Wild Goose, once again, enters my story…

In Celtic spirituality the Wild Goose is a symbol of the Holy Spirit - and I simply love this imagery.  This is the way the Spirit tends to enter my life:  Unpredictable.  Clumsy.  Mysterious.  I don't seem to attract a Spirit that lands with the grace of a dove! 

As we retraced our steps arriving back at the bog, there, clinging to a barbed-wire fence, was an 80-year-old woman, donning cardigan, powder blue pants and matching shoes, clearly struggling.  This would have been comical if it weren’t concerning.  Before exchanging pleasantries and introductions, we talked her through a plan to extract herself from the mud, gently recommending that she reconsider continuing this trail. 

This Wild Goose was named Marjorie.

Marjorie slowed us down.  We didn’t make it to the beach, but instead walked with a new friend, seeing the face of Christ. 

Tom shared his walking poles as the three of us hiked together down a rocky hill and back to the small village. Marjorie shared stories with us about her Franciscan spirituality, her previous trips to Iona, Assisi and the Camino, about the bishop she met on the island who had come to be a spiritual friend, and about the contemplative prayer group she started 25 years ago.  She laughed telling us that her kids worry about her solo travel, and she lovingly talked of her grandkids.  After 45 minutes of walking and talking, we approached the gate of her retreat center and she looked at me squarely, saying, “I just really think that in this world of non-stop activity and noise, what we all need is a little more silence. All of us need some silence so we can listen.” 

I didn’t know that I needed to meet Marjorie, but she was a balm for my soul that day, a mirror, and friend.  There is no one who could have been more encouragement for me in that moment.  There were so many beautiful places on Iona, both natural and man-made, but meeting Marjorie was the “thin place” that I didn’t know I was looking for.  A reminder that the Wild Goose shows up when we least expect it, sometimes clinging to a fence in the bog.