And so it begins

By Barbara Lyghtel Rohrer

“To be whole. To be complete. Wildness reminds us what it means to be human, what we are connected to rather than what we are separate from.” — Terry Tempest Williams

“What do you carry?” That was the question that Cheryl, our guide, asked before beginning the pilgrimage along Scotland’s St. Cuthbert’s Way.

I had no answer. Instead, I had a lump of clay.

Cheryl had given clay to each of us –– Andrea, Fiona and me, three older women joining Cheryl for this walk. Cheryl told us to shape the clay into something that would have meaning for us.

I pushed and pulled the clay without a clue as to what form I was to give it. Nothing came to mind. I rolled it into a ball between my hands. I poked a hole in the center. I dug my fingernails around the outer edges. That’s when I saw it. A circle of harpies, those mythical creatures of punishment with the body of bird and the face of a woman.

Of course. I have had more than one therapist tell me that I excel at self-criticism.

Ten Days

Over the course of the next ten days, my companions and I walked through the Scottish Highlands to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne off the English coast of Northumberland in the North Sea. Fittingly, Cheryl wore a kilt on our first day of walking. She leads these tours not as a business but so she has companions. Andrea, hailing from Seattle, as does Cheryl, collected pieces of sheep’s wool stuck to fence lines along the way. Perhaps that is why the ewe butted her as Andrea sat writing under a centuries-old tree one afternoon. Fiona picked up feathers to insert in her knit cap until she resembled a Celtic goddess, fitting for someone whose ancestors hail from the Hebrides before they made their way to Fiona’s homeland of Australia.

Signs point the way

St. Cuthbert’s Way links the abbey in Melrose, where the saint began his religious life in the seventh century, to the Holy Island, his eventual resting place. The Way took us up and through the highlands, through fields of sheep and hills of heather, along rock walls, past crumbling cottages and over fencing, through woods, along streams, over bridges and across the River Tweed. We walked and we walked. The sky blue overhead.

We reached the shores of Lindisfarne by walking to the island across wet sands at low tide, serenaded by hundreds of harbor seals resting on a beach across the waters. The trek is documented to be sixty-three miles. With our detours into the well-manicured gardens of large manor homes and the graveyards of old abbey ruins, we had clocked 70 miles.

Each day began the same. I rose early, re-packed my knapsack, hauled my suitcase down the steps for the taxi transfer to that coming night’s B&B, then joined my companions for a protein-rich breakfast of eggs and salmon, along with a hearty bowl of porridge. Then off we went, walking anywhere from seven to fourteen miles to the next town, following simple white crosses pointing the way.

Carried by song

My companions were kind. They also walked faster than I did, which was not a problem. I didn’t mind lagging behind where I could concentrate on my breathing as I propelled myself forward with my poles as Cheryl taught me. I only took the lead when the way forward was flat, where I could move as quickly as they did.

At one time, the three women broke into singing the folk song “The Happy Wanderer.” I did not join them. Partly, because I did not know the words, but even if I had, I would not have been able to sing along, concentrating as I was on each breath as I made my way up one more hill.

I found that their singing carried me as much as my poles propelled me forward.

What we lost

On the first day of our pilgrimage, I picked up a small flat stone with striations that reminded me of a shell, the symbol of those who walk the Camino de Santiago, another pilgrimage trail that I have dreamed of doing. The Camino is much longer than St. Cuthbert’s Way. It ends at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, a town in northwest Spain, where St. James the Great, one of the twelve apostles of Jesus, is said to be buried.

Bits of quartz in the shell-like stone sparkled in the sun. Every morning, I slipped the stone into my pocket to carry, as if carrying the stone was a way of walking the Camino as I walked the St. Cuthbert.

At the end of the journey, I no longer had the stone. Where I lost it, I do not know. It simply was not among my belongings anymore.

Also missing were the shrill voices of the harpies that appeared in the clay I fashioned on day one.

What our stories say

I know I may never again see these dear women that I walked with for ten holy days, but I will always carry them with me through the stories they shared.

It is as if in walking and sharing stories with women I did not know ten days earlier, I found an acceptance, a peace, that silenced the harpies. Their stories told me not that I had fallen short in life but rather thinking that was a misguided perception of perfection, of what it means to be whole.

The quiet

Now, back home from this pilgrimage I circle back to the question: what do I carry?

I find I have at least one answer. I carry my stories and now I carry the stories of Cheryl, Andrea and Fiona. And in carrying their stories, I carry their triumphs as well as their pain, as they carry mine.

While I thought I was simply trying to meet the challenge of that day’s mileage, another part of me was just listening. Not only to my companions, but to the wind, to the birds, to the seals, to the Scottish brogue of the dog owners I stopped to chat with along the way, not always understanding exactly what they were saying, but delighting in the music of their accents all the same.

Whether to the winged, finned or two legged, I listened. I listened to the breeze as it ruffled my hair, until those last three miles across the wet sand to the shore of Holy Island when I finally could hear the quiet within.

And so it begins

While walking with three women, each of us as different from the others as our stories, I came to know we are the same. Our stories of failures and triumphs, of deep confusion, of certain love, tell me so.

That seems to be why there is nothing else for my harpies to say, at least for now.

I know any pilgrimage is only the beginning. Yet I see glimpses of the road ahead. A road of acceptance because of where I have trod.

What do you carry?

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This post was shared first on Barbara's wonderful website The Invisible Map. Read it and other wondeful, inspirational stories and writings there and share your thoughts with Barbara

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