TGIF :: Iona, the Autumn Equinox, Silence, & Awe
Weekly drop #25 || A sampling of radical self-trust & ClearLife as a practice
Iona
I am writing from Iona, a tiny, remote island off of the west coast of Scotland. A mere three miles long with a population of 170 humans (there are far more silver-wooled sheep!). The locals speak Gaelic and live a simple life, tending to small farms or visitors. It’s rugged, weather-beaten and difficult to get to (Oban → Isle of Mull via ferry, followed by a 90 minute drive across Mull to leave your car and catch a last ferry → Iona). Yet there is something alluring about the place that has withstood the test of (a very long) time.
“There is a wealth of colour, not gorgeous, but exquisite, appealing less to the senses than to the spirit, and creating a sense of peace that is balm to the world-weary. The pilgrim, the antiquarian, the artist: Iona casts a spell on all.”
Iona, A History of the Island with Descriptive Notes, F. Marian McNeill, ©1920
Tourists, pilgrims, and other curious folks come here to experience the serenity of the landscape, visit the Iona Abbey (of great significance in Christian history), tour the ruins of a nearby nunnery, and possibly stay in one of a few guest houses, though most visit for a day.
Beyond these obvious sites, the island is peppered with clues of a history going back thousands of years, for Iona was a sacred place long before St. Columba arrived from Ireland to found a monastery. A learned eye will spot grave mounds dating back to the Stone Age, circular stone huts that far outdate the Christians’ arrival, the healing waters of Tobair na h’Aoise (“Well of the Age”), and Sithean Mor, what the locals unapologetically refer to as a great fairy knoll, one of several on the island. These layers contribute to a mysterious draw of the place and support its reputation as “a thin place where only tissue paper separates the material from the spiritual.” (-G. Macleod, founder of the modern day Iona community). People come and then return without great justifications or explanations. I met an older American lady yesterday who is visiting for the fourth time in twenty years.
Chasing Ancestral Lines
My fascination with Iona emerged during a borderline obsessive ancestral deep dive four years ago. As I chased our family line amidst the spaciousness of the pandemic, Iona continued to show up as the burial site of dozens of relatives. Countless hours spent poring over historical records from libraries, genealogy sites, and a handful of books indicated again and again that as many as sixty kings of Scotland (and its previous kingdoms before united) were buried here, over thirteen centuries.
I didn’t come to see the sights or prove my adventure-worthiness; something subtle and unexplainable drew me here. I felt called to try to sense the place—apparently to stroll the graveyard and see if I could feel history (and herstory), meditate under a tree at the nunnery, light a candle and write a prayer in Caibael Odhrain, see what I might discover here, both on the island and in myself. The call felt unparalleled in my life to date, other than perhaps to the Himalayas as a teen. And luckily, these days, I listen.
Equilibrium
Thanks to a bit of planning and a dose of good fortune I am here for the Autumn Equinox, one of two days a year upon which both hemispheres get the same amount of sun, and we have a day and night of equal length. Around the world, the equinox marks a celebrated beginning of a new season. Scotland and its still strong Celtic ways are no exception.
Celtic tradition, a timely fascination given my immersion in Scottish history, culture, and landscapes, pays high honor to this day. The overarching theme across various celebrations and rituals is equilibrium—balance between extremes including light and dark, masculine and feminine, ambition and rest.
During this time, we are invited to take a break, relax, and “take pleasure in what we have produced as a result of our individual labors, whether those labors have been directed toward the care of our gardens, our families, or any projects that we have been working on.” (cite)
It is also a good time to wrap up any unfinished business, clean our living and work spaces, and let go of anything we need to in order to take full advantage of the more quiet and reflective season of winter. We can then sow the seeds of fresh efforts we seek to unearth in the spring.
Melancholy
I’ve been traveling alone for a week. When I arrived in Paris on Friday morning, I’d slept on my direct flight, the weather was flawless, and I was greeted by a dear friend who lent me his family’s apartment in the heart of the city for two nights, a little nest that has become a home away from home. Yet, I was still not fully happy, not quite soaking up the enormity of blessings and circumstances that made the trip possible. My mood has been, and remained, “off.” A friend also taking hormone suppression medications described it well: “I feel like a different color. Like I have felt ‘orange’ my whole life and now I’m ‘blue.’”
I asked Dr Bill, my therapist, about this melancholy a few weeks ago. “I just don’t feel like my usual sunny self,” I explained. “After all of these years of ClearLife, removing dimmers and things that could artificially impact my experience, it’s frustrating to be taking a daily medication—for five years—that impacts my mood and emotions in what feels like an artificial way.”
“Maybe this is exactly what you need,” he replied.
Food for thought.
And I’ve had a lot of time for thought. I’ve journeyed alone by foot, train, car, and boat to ancestral sites and lands all week, eating and sleeping alone—this took some adjustment—but I’ve found my groove. Instead of listening to books and podcasts (my usual), with the exception of one hour when I felt called to listen to a deep dive on codependency and check-in with loved ones at home, I’ve been practically “word-less” enjoying local, instrumental music.
Perhaps not surprisingly, something has been stirring in me, breaking loose a bit.
On several different occasions, I’ve found myself spontaneously crying, overwhelmed with emotion, in a place, at a sight, from a feeling. The first was entering Scotland by train. I am here, finally, I thought to myself. The next day was in a dungeon at Edinburgh Castle where we know an ancestor was slain. That one was more of a feeling, a recognition? The most intense was on Tuesday, entering the gardens at Stirling Castle, another ancestral place. These were not little tears, they were big, heaving, unexplainable tears. Release-tears. Relief-tears.
There are three kinds of nobility; the first is derived from virtue and good actions; the second comes from acquaintance with good training; and the third from an array of family portraits and genealogy or wealth.” — Desiderius Erasmus, The Education of a Christian Prince, 1516 (and copied off of the wall at Stirling Castle, Scotland)
I found myself in the neighboring graveyard a couple hours later making video post cards for my dearest beloveds at home. Later that day, walking through a glen on my way to remote ruins of yet another castle, this one my intuition—not a plan—led me to, again, tears. That set felt like awe for the spectacle of a brook, bridge, fairy tale path, and oak trees that felt like they could tell tales if I sat there long enough. I can’t explain much more than that, however, yet.
Each time I tried to tune into why, what is the feeling underlying this emotion? It’s not always been clear. Part of me wants to believe it is the ancestral thread, the storied blood in my veins that ties me to these places and the souls that called them home, some as long as 1500 years ago. We cannot explain these things with science, for they are affairs of our soul, perhaps similar to that inherent fear of drop-offs, or a shaking inside upon hearing certain types of music (bagpipes for me, since I was a child). Perhaps it’s our job to not explain, not fully understand, not resist.
Being & Doing
So I return to the theme of balance, equilibrium, a day of the equal pitch black dark (I know because I walked back to my guest house in it alone last night!) and silvery light of Iona. A takeaway for me on this special day is to continue to give my mighty rational being a rest. I want to rest my brain, I’ve often thought and said in this year of discovery, healing, and allowing.
I’m trying to be more, think less, notice details, heed signs, follow my intuition, and stay open. While traveling alone certainly comes with a myriad of things to figure out (not the least of which has been calculating how far I can explore in these western isles and still make it back to a car charger in time!), I’m finding that allowing for space to just go with it is an incredibly welcome balance from my carefully architected life at home.
ClearLife is a Practice
And what’s an adventure like this without an epiphany of sorts? It was in these recent days of solitude and reflection that I finally recognized that ClearLife is a practice. We can remove dimmers, strive to be more present, and endeavor to tune into ourselves, our intuition, and our core values. Yet, there is no moment of “arrival” or completion. A ClearLife journey is never-ending. It is a way of life—and an imperfect, ever-shifting one at that. We get to practice it every day, if we choose. And some days will be better than others. We learn, grow, and keep moving forward. For those of you who are in this with me, I don’t need to explain what a spectacular, magic-filled maze of awareness this practice offers. The very fact that I’m here, right now, is a testament to this work.
Speaking of Practices
We don’t need to travel alone to sacred ancestral places to recalibrate, balance ourselves, or tune into more subtle experiences. Here are a few ideas that most of us can do easily under most circumstances:
Spend a day (or even a half day) with as few words as possible. No TV, books, podcasts, phone and other conversations. “Alone time” with a lot of language from other people, in our ears or via other senses, isn’t really that potent and can be its own dimmer. Silence, lyric-free music, movement outdoors are all medicine in their own way, and give us access to something inside of us that is all too easily buried. To discover this, we need to hear, ourselves.
Tune rest with the season. As the days shorten, it’s natural to sleep earlier too. Leave the screens in another room and rest more deeply, paying attention to the guidance of dreams as they arrive.
Sow some seeds. What is it we want to welcome next? Can we start feeling in our bodies what that actually feels as if it’s already here? Quantum physics and the increasingly understood laws of manifestation tell us that seeing the future state, even feeling the future state, is not enough. We have to feel it like it’s the current state.
Tuned
Likely related, that tiresome melancholy I was experiencing some days ago seems to have faded. Maybe my nervous system just needed the medicine of solitude, silence, and awe. Maybe Dr. Bill is right, this is all part of a grand design. Part of resting my brain might also be resting that pervasively sunny disposition. Maybe what felt like an artificial mood experience is in fact more of a recalibration, a restoration to balance, equilibrium being restored.
I’ll start my travels home tomorrow. Until then, I’ll continue to explore this pristine and sacred tiny island on foot, led by my heart, with as few words (internal and external) as possible. If I’m lucky, I’ll see (or better!) feel traces of ancestors who could have never imagined I’d be a visitor someday.
Wishing you equilibrium, welcome silence, and awe—wherever you are.
Love. ❤️
Miscellaneous…
A Playlist: If you share my appreciation for traditional Celtic and Scottish music, you might enjoy this playlist I’ve crafted along the way. 🎶
Needless to say… I recommend a visit to Scotland, and I plan to come back. Happy to share my list of discoveries (old book shops, favorite ruins, fantastic restaurants, and special guest houses) plus a few practical things with anyone who asks. 🏴
ClearLife Sangha Saturdays will continue with an in-person one on September 30th (Mill Valley) and our next zoom on October 14th. Register interest here. 🌱
This was very touching for me...Thank you, love,
Dad
I can feel the magic in the air from those photos 🩷