Six days in we had two more days of walking—the last day. A fairly short stroll of about 7 miles— before reaching the Island of Lindisfarne and the end of the walking portion of our journey together.
Just three of us embarked on this leg of the walk, one in our group had an injured knee which made no sense to push over the muddy pathway. We saw our first rain that day, and when it rains, my mind goes immediately to the bog. The bogs are both part of the adventure of a walk in Scotland and, when deep enough, the bain of any walk. Last year we lost a boot to a particularly suction-y plot of mud. The walker in that instance got her boot back but had to sit out the next day after the mud refused to dry.
All week long the skies have cooperated, a surprise for a fall hike. Still, they were moody and cool, as if already gearing up for what climate and weather experts say will be a harsh winter on this side of the equator. Scotland and Washington State, where I am from, have a whole lot in common when it comes to the weather, and I’ve grown to appreciate the redirect from giddy, activity-filled summer emotions and heat to the more contemplative cool grays of a fall or winter evening.
Along the way we all looked for instances of beautiful ruin in nature (the spirit of wabi sabi); often we saw it conjunction with human throw away. For exampe, a pile of old tires became a beauiful image to me as the pile was reclaimed by the space where it lay. Further down the road, old farm machines and implenents were being reclaiming and reformed by nature. In the moment we passed, they were art.
There were no profound revelations amongst us as we put one foot in front of the other. There was simply the presence of the others, the curious calling out of the tiny things one sees along the path—a slug, a bird, a leaf—followed by a pause a look, an appreciation from the ones of us who passed by these things too swiftly. The day was a perfect ebb and flow among us as we walked together.
Too soggy to stop and write on the path, we saved our notebooks for an evening session.
In the meantime, we explored the names scratched into an ancient cave. The names date back to at least the 1700s. Probably far earlier. I remember the first time I saw this spot (St. Cuthbert’s Cave). I was disappointed; It was really no more than a rock overhang. No tunnels to explore, no side spaces to hide a saint’s corpse— which is what a band of his monks spent years doing as they wandered Scotland to avoid Viking raiders and find the saint the perfect place for his final rest.
This time, I was enamored of the names, and the many fonts, from old worldly to seemingly gang-tagged. And the colors, St. Cuthburt’s overhang is full of colors, whether from weather, plan, water, writing, hope, I don’t know. But unlike other times, I felt the presence of the mystic for a moment, the energy of longing.
As you know, I’ve been carrying some of my mother’s ashes wherever I travel; since she left us in March. I believe she will enjoy the company of spirits in St. Cuthbert’s cave.
In the evening, the prompt came from one of the other walkers. I loved the simplicity of A's prompt and the depth of it. Try it. Write it yourself. I’d love to see what it brings you.
PROMPT: How did you get here? Right here. Don't overthink it. Let lit roll. Wherever you are, mind, body, spirit, place. . .How did you get here?
How did I get here?
first,
i was conceived
i was born
i asked to be carried
i was set down
i moved
i moved
i moved again
i survived
i graduated
i worked
i married
i had children
i grew them up
i divorced
i re-graduated
i moved
i moved
i loved again
i returned
i wrote
I delivered
I committed
I let someone in
I let something go
I listened
I became
I explored
I walked
I walked
I walked again
i rediscovered
i reframed
i retold
i released
i realized
i actualized
i envisioned
i invited
i woke up
i stretched
I brought my own I am
To breakfast
To join a sacred we
Each of us
Moving
Walking
Surviving
Alone and together
With each step
Writing
Then rewriting
Toward ourselves
How did I get here?
I re-conceived
I said yes to rebirth
And this time
When when I asked
To be carried
I lifted my arms
I was cradled by the sky
— Cheryl Murfin
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