The Gleanings Project: Sacred Spaces: Stations on a Celtic Way

Photo Collage of Paintings and Shells
Deborah Torley Stephan

Silf, Margaret. Sacred Spaces: Stations on a Celtic Way. Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 

2001.

 

492 words

 

“In ancient as in modern times, the human heart has always been looking for a way.” (Silf, 7)

 

“The spirit of the Way will not allow us to pitch camp and stay forever with these artificial certainties.” (8)

 

“One branch of the human family, in the Celtic regions, in the early centuries, after the life of Christ . . .” (8)

 

“We speak even today of some places as being ‘thin places’, meaning that the presence of the invisible and the spiritual in those places is almost palpable. Our Celtic forebears revered such ‘thin places’ as sacred space.” (9)

 

“Space can become sacred . . . when it is saturated in prayer, perhaps because it has been a place of retreat and reflection for prayerful pilgrims through the centuries. It might be an island of Iona in sacred history or it might be an island of prayer in our own daily lives.” (10)

 

“Woven into this exploration of sacred spaces is the thread of our own story . . . weave their own patterns . . .“ (11)

 

“Beginnings . . . times of commitment . . . seasons of setting out . . . turning and returning . . . seasons of companionship . . . boundary seasons . . .” (12)

 

“Christians believe Jesus is God’s sacred space –– one in whom the transcendent creator interpenetrated the created world . . . the Christ-life is being  lived out through time, energized and directed by the Holy Spirit, until every life has been lived and every death has been died. This is the scale of the journey . . . from Alpha to Omega.” (14)

 

“The Celtic infinite knot is one picture of God’s weaving . . . What is it about this symbol that has the power to reconnect?” (25)

 

“My small piece of thread is just one snippet of an eternal spool that God is weaving into [the] Dream.” (26)

 

“Weaving can only happen when two or more strands come together. It is a symbol of community.” (28)

 

“The High Cross . . . the ladder of reconnection.” (43)

 

“In the summer of 1999, British TV viewers tuned in to the sight of the liberation of 800 cats and kittens that had been breeding them for the sole purpose of medical research. It was the last farm of this kind in Britain . . .” (53)

 

“The Weeping Stones . . . Outside the window there was bright sunshine. A short summer heatwave. The garden beckoned. I couldn’t resist to find a few moments of healing peace beneath the trees. A final vigil . . . my on mother . . .” (56)

 

“I have spent many weeks of my life walking the hilltops of my homeland . . .  strings of summits . . . “ (61)

 

“They feel like something very significant is breaking into our lives.” (67)

 

“Listening to the heartbeat of God . . . (78)

Meandering Through the Writings of Others as a Lament Practice: Under Gemini

“Hot Pink Scarf” by DS

Here are today’s explorations:

Pilcher, Rosamunde. Under Gemini, 1976

989 words

The sun had bleached their bright roses to a faded pink.

There is never a convenient time to have a baby. Perhaps dying was like that too.

He wore beneath the tween jacket of his suit, a knitted pullover. . .  It was becoming unravelled at the neck. . .

Show not tell

It’s five years since she and her mother stayed at the Beach House. . . 

He said he’d bring her up to Scotland. . . 

The epitome, one would have thought, of a perfect matriarch. . . 

There was nothing like the old blue velvet dinner dress for making one feel rich and feminine.

She sat perched on a sloping face of granite, staring down into the jewel blue depths of the immense rock pool. . . 

The tide was coming in.

Research: tides

He wore a disreputable pair of shorts and an ancient shirt, much darned. . . 

You know that I have to go out into the world and start being independent again.

The brisk sea breeze play[ed] havoc with the brim of the bride’s hat.

The kitchen sink stood two rows deep in the earthenware pots of geranium and Busy Lizzies. . . 

The cigarette going, Marcia went on with her song.

I’ve never been mothered in my life and I can manage without it.

She looked out of the window. That was a tradition. . . 

The train thundered over a level crossing and a man waited at the closed gate with a red tractor. 

He had always had a hankering to live by the sea. . . 

He found a stone mason who repaired the garden walls. . . 

It was a vicious circle. She didn’t want to take a flat until she found a job . . .

There were bay trees in tubs out on the cobbled pavement, and a cheerful red-and-white striped awning.

Ciao signorina.

Italians were wonderful, Flora decided.

The walls were mirrored, the floor scattered with straw matting.

She took an icy mouthful of lager and looked around her. . .

The faded blue of her denim jacket and the orange of the seat behind her were the colors of Van Gogh.

She thought, I’ve been away from London too long. This casual image isn’t going to get me any sort of job. I ought to get my hair cut. I ought to buy. . .

Like an expert assessing a portrait, she said now, “you look just like me” . . .

But you must be sisters.

The city glittered in a brilliant autumn light.

The hills of Fife lay serene against a sky of palest blue.

London gardens were fragrant with lilac.

Rose was simply not a good correspondent.

As he heard himself making that impossible promise, he wondered how the hell he was going to keep it.

“I’m not Rose,” said Rose.

Flora was carelessly assigned a bedroom (pale blue curtains made of Thai silk. . . 

At first you think that every new man you meet is going to end up standing next to you at some altar. And then it stops being important.

List: books on shelves, perfumes and couture

“I’m not Rose,” said Flora.

The house is on the shore, with the sea all around and sand to walk on. . .  and lochs covered with water-lilies. . . 

She knew instantly that she could trust him.

A lie was a dangerous thing.

The dressing table was covered with silver-tipped jars. . .

The half-light swirled in mist; a foghorn sounded out at sea.

Anna had been. . .  insulated from children her own age by her shyness and her father’s considerable wealth.

She was planning for its knitting a tiny sweater. . . 

The streets of Edinburgh shone black with a thin, cold rain.

As they got out of the car the cold struck at them, rich with the smell of the sea, tarred ropes, and fish.

List on a shack door

But being ill she decided was a thorough bore.

She got out of bed, and went across to the window

Today was Sunday.

Just a fiddle and some drums.

List: guests for a party

Quite a humble man from the Isle of Lewis. . .

Why did it all go wrong?

He fell in love with the loch and the beautiful country. . .

She’s pregnant again. . .

Flora had been gathering up the balls of wool, putting them back into the paper bag.

Most of the women are working with the fish these days, packing herring, or in the smokehouses. 

There is a bed for him in the Loch Garry Hospital, but he won’t go.

But it has to be me who does the telling. Not you.

It took a few months to realize that she was suffering from loss of identity.

She had no idea where to find a letterbox.

Everything shone.

Everyone had known, it seemed, but no one had the heart to enlighten me.

The sea fields which sloped down to the water were transformed into caravan sites. . . 

She knew a sensation of panic.

List: of the things out of place

She saw herself waiting for buses, queuing in the rain. . . 

She longed for the reassurance of a loving spirit.

Her old mother who had taken to her bed. . . 

In two days she was up and about again, gleaning gossip and adding her own opinion to those of others. . . 

Being the doctor’s housekeeper gave her a certain importance, a standing in the town.

I’d have saved my breath to cool my porridge.

Where will they live? There isn’t a house.

She heard the faint beat of jigging music.

And what’s that Cheshire cat grin for?

She remembered a cliff top carpeted with wild anemones. . . 

A lie however well meant, can never be contained. . .  

Everything, all of it, is abnormally skewed.

…

Meandering Through the Writings of Others as lament Practice: Hebrew Scriptures, Lamentations

“Beautiful Grief”

Phone Photo by DS, Flower Artist Unknown but rumoured to have lost his daughter

Here are the explorations:

Lamentations:

Jerusalem’s streets once thronged

With people are silent now

For all these things I weep

Tears flow down my cheeks

My Comforter is far away

He who alone could help me

My children have not future

We are a conquered land

My own people laugh at me

All day long they sing their ribald songs

Yet there is one ray of hope

His compassion never ends

All our enemies have spoken out

Against us my eyes flow with never-

Ending streams of tears because

Of the destruction of my people

My enemies whom I have never harmed

Chased me as though I were a bird

O Lord you are my lawyer

God permitted it because of the

Sins of her prophets and priests

O Lord remember all that has befallen us

We are orphans

Turn us around and bring us

Back to you again.

. . .

Meandering My Way Through the Writings of Others as a Practice of Lament: Hebrew Scriptures, Ecclesiastes to Songs of Solomon

“Warming by the Fire on a Cool Spring Day” Phone Photo DS

The idea of decommissioning a Bible comes back to me as I review my Bible reading habits after the pandemic. Some Bibles are yellow dog-eared small print paperbacks. As I go through them gathering meaning and practising worship and gratitude, I wonder which is the better way to let these old Bibles go? 

I think of shredding as a form of creating a holy fire that totally consumes the fuel. As I do a search on fuel I come across the term ‘Fire Triangle’. These are the three things that are needed for a fire to burn: oxygen, heat, fuel. So these symbolize my part as the offering of the Bible back to God, God’s part in receiving the shredding and the actual pages of the Bible themselves as the offering.

The other way, the one recommended for contemporary de-commissioning/de-consecrating of Bibles, would be to put them into the recycling. I ponder this. If I deconstruct the Bible into sheaves of pages and place them lovingly into the yellow re-cycling bag, the Bible is not totally destroyed. Someone may find these pages and perchance read snippets of Scripture and be saved. I think of how Saint Augustine heard the words, take up and read, initiating his salvation. In this way, the Bible continues its mission by the Spirit.

In the end, I decide to offer one Bible for being consumed by the shredder as an act of low key worship. The other Bible I place on the altar of the yellow recycling bag for possible continuation of the Great Commission. At the beginning of this quest, I did not consider it possible to get rid of a Bible. Over the years I had many in my collection. Some were too written on and fragile to give away. It did not seem right to put them in a bag with refuse or touch the machine which would be their destruction. 

I consider now, that it is the intention, the heart, that denotes either respect or is demeaning to an object. It is prayer, as a two-way conversation that gives the book meaning. As the book changes form, the conversation will continue. As well, I need more space for writing my comments between the lines of the verses in newer Bibles of different versions. God knows the history of my growth in comments in older Bibles, the corrections and the affirmations that were given to me there. I review them as I shred them to see how God spoke to me in the past. The speaking is always there. May the Spirit help with the listening. I find myself reading. Is this my new, temporary practice of reading the Bible? God speaks again as my eye goes to the underlined passages.

In theory, both methods are okay. In practice, I find today, that the shredding feels more meditative. I also accidentally come across these verses from Leviticus 22,  under the heading ‘Acceptable Sacrifices’ as I shred:

The Lord told Moses to tell Aaron and his sons and everyone else the rules for offering sacrifices. He said: The animals that are to be completely burned on the altar must have nothing wrong with them . . . whether the sacrifice is part of a promise or something you do voluntarily. . . When you offer a sacrifice to give thanks to me you must do it in a way that is acceptable.

In one way, the book is not important; it is the words of the book. Or actually it is the Person of the book; the Word of God who lives and speaks and acts on our behalf when we call, and sometimes before we call.

Here are my explorations:

Ecclesiastes to Songs of Solomon

The rivers run

Into the sea

But the sea is

Never full

The more my wisdom

The more my grief

To increase knowledge

Only increases distress

Anything I wanted

I took

I must leave my 

Hard work for others

There is a time

For everything

A time to heal

A time to destroy

A time to rebuild

A time to cry

Two can accomplish 

More than twice

As much as one

It is far better

Not to say you’ll

Do something

Than to say you will

And not do it

A good reputation

Is more valuable

Than the most

Expensive perfume

Because God does not

Punish sinners instantly

People feel it is safe to

Do wrong

Give generously

For your gifts will

Return to you later

How fragrant your cologne

How great your name

Follow the trail of my flock

To the shepherds’ tents

And there feed you sheep

And their lambs

How beautiful you are

My love

My lover is an apple tree

Rise up my love my fair one

And come away

For the winter is past

The rain is over

And gone

My beloved is mine and I

Am his

You have ravished my heart

My lovely one

My beloved tried to unlatch the door

And my heart was moved for him

My hands dripped with perfume

My fingers with lovely myrrh

As I pulled back the bolt

My beloved my friend

Your hair is your crown

The vines have budded

The blossoms have opened

The pomegranates are in flower

Seal me in your heart

With permanent betrothal.

Vacuum Cleaner

“Yarn Balls in a Vase” Photo Deborah Stephan

The awkwardness of the vacuum cleaner

Is beyond these words

Its weight drags like a stubborn dog on

A leash

A beast

Yes that’s it

But more

A heavy metal beast

Whose body snags

On every corner

Turns over on each pull

Its mouth tangles often with hair

Prayer comes forth to

Guide and energize

As the plug pulls out again

Always too short

The cord is unequal to the task

I like to keep it simple

I do not change nozzles

Nor do I endure the trauma of

Listening to the beater bar grind

Dust into my face

Now masked thanks to the

Idea from COVID

One positive that

Emerges from the pandemic

I break for an hour

And now it is snowing

The vacuum cleaner

Will also keep me warm 

As I fight with it to

Yield some order

In the chaos of living.

The vacuum cleaner is a safe

Opponent it does not

Surprise pounce unexpected

Like a deadly virus upending

The social and personal order

Of a lifetime

Its behaviour perhaps I can live with

It’s not so bad.

Deborah Stephan

Artist’s License Still Valid?

A license to paint

How does it come

When can a person begin

To call the self an artist

When art school is over

When the first piece is sold

The first solo exhibition

Joining a guild

Commercial gallery chooses

Or when painting inhabits 

All dreams?

Success is gauged

Sales

Reviews

Attendance

Invitations to show

Empty studio

The end

When does that come

With no paint on canvas

No inspiration

No studio

No sales

Pandemic cancellations

It arrives when

Opportunities are not there

Desire disappears

Or when the artmaking dries

Up?

Or becomes latent

Waiting to 

Seize the day.

Deborah Stephan

“Tulip For a Friend” Mixed Media, DS

The 215 Children at Kamloops

“Orange Knee Praying” DS

You know I try to come to grips with human nature and how we can survive the murderous evil among us; in us.  I read snatches of poetry, essays, newspapers.  An author (Mordecai Richler) speaks of hating Germans until he read “All Quiet on the Western Front” only because it was delivered from the library as he was sick in bed and bored, and he began to read it.  So, I began to muse about the amount of forgiveness that has begun to happen among people.  Here is my short random list:

Allies need to forgive Germans, and Italians

Italians (in the news this week), and Japanese, and Chinese, need to forgive Canadians

Indigenous peoples need to forgive other Canadians

Canadians need to forgive Americans (they are always the southern neighbour with big shoulders so easy to blame for societal ills here)

Americans, I wonder who they need to forgive, oh yes, terrorists, like of 9/11

A lot of people it seems need to forgive Americans and the British (thankfully the Scots are hardly to blame), so people from Africa, Asia, South America, the Middle East, just to name a few

Jews need to forgive Christians; Israelis need to forgive Palestinians and vice versa

Christians need to forgive Muslims and vice versa too

Japanese need to forgive Americans and Koreans need to forgive them

Chinese need to forgive North Americans and maybe Russians

Russians need to forgive (my meager knowledge or world affairs comes up short here)

This musing started with a memorial service this morning.  I had no intention of attending.  I felt I was already experiencing burnout just from my own life.  I was nudged early in the morning to get up and get ready for the 9:00am offering of grief (I thought).  I felt defensive as the descendent of Scots settlers who could not be to blame as they had befriended First Nations as they could identify with them so strongly because of the Highland Clearances.

I find forgiving others excruciatingly difficult; myself as well, so I try to consider what I do.  I also, as the oldest child in my family of origin, like to place blame.  In that way, I can focus a solution.  I am also usually quick to ask for forgiveness when I know I have crossed a line.  But this time?  I cannot face any blame for killing 215 innocent children, I just can’t.  Or can I?

Can one father be blamed for the action of all abusive fathers?  Yes, as many blame the Father in that way.  Only when we have our own children can we really forgive the foibles and inadequacies of our own parents.  Do we have to experience our own guilt in order to accept responsibility for hurting others?  There are sins of commission and sins of omission.  I have not killed anyone, so I am off the hook for the first one (but I have been quite angry at times).  For omission, what could I have done?  I did not even know about it.  I doubt if my Church of Scotland ancestors did either.

So I consider individual guilt and the guilt of a people.  Can I feel guilt on behalf of my race?  I have never really been faced with this before.  Of course, as a woman, I can certainly get into male-bashing (but not much anymore: love cured much).  That is one half of my race (and every other race too).

I read of the unspeakable damage.  I read of the injustices.  I read of the betrayals.  I read of the pain and it touches me.  I am stained with this.  In some sense this was my own race that perpetuates these injustices.  I only dabble in helping, just to be kind.

As I start to grow up (later in life), I realize the blood of the children is somehow on my hands too and I need to find out more.  In the online Memorial for the 215 Indigenous children found buried at a residential school in Kamloops B.C., they say, we are all one.  Have they forgiven?  Can I face my vicarious guilt and sins of omission?  This morning they give me courage.  As a settler, I felt too much grief at the news.  I felt sick.  I do not want to be sobbing on Zoom.  But it is not about me.  

The memorial service, rather than being filled with people wailing and crying (as they have already done in private, this being the fourth day since the news) I see they are already in the mode of offering healing, of offering forgiveness.  It is the love that draws me in to look and to awaken.

The amount of forgiveness needed is staggering all over the world and in our part of the world too.  It is overwhelming but I think of two sayings, Rome was not built in a day, and a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.  The first steps of Alcoholics Anonymous state that we admitted we were powerless and that a power greater than ourselves could return us to sanity.  May it be so.  The news is staggering.  The grief for families is encompassing.  The road ahead is daunting.  The victims, the bullies and the bystanders all need the Creator’s help.  I contemplate what it means to be a witness, to be an ally, to be a friend; to be forgiven.