I dreamt of Skye.
That sacred Isle off the rugged coast of Scotland.
Today reminded me of Skye.
The barrenness.
The beauty.
Yesterday was an October day that dreamt it was May.
Mom and I pushed the bum ends of tulips and crocuses into the cold ground.
We ate lunch on the deck in the mellow sun.
We felt the last warmth.
Our skin, soaking in the last light.
“I believe in Global Warming,” Mom declared as she hacked away industriously at my old, dead vines. “When my mom died 30 years ago this weekend we all had to go buy boots because there was three feet of snow at the grave site.”
It’s true.
Every Halloween of my childhood had been a snow-laden one.
It had ruined many a costume’s full potential.
My Pocahontas costume became an Eskimo costume
because mom made me wear my parka over top.
I was always an overweight princess, angel, fairy etc. because of the layers underneath.
Now here it was, October 31st, warm.
You could still believe fall was fully present,
summer just a glance over your shoulder,
and spring at the doorstep.
That was yesterday.
Today reminded me of Skye.
Skye.
The first true slowing on our fast-paced journey through the British Isles.
Skye. It was natural to slow here. To stop.
The village was called Staffin.
The houses were all Croft style. White. Gabled. Simple.
No striving. No competition.
Rest.
The sheep moved slow in the buttercup laden fields.
The sky hung heavy, pregnant with rain.
“Best stick to lower ground,” our Bed and Breakfast hostess said as she served us thick slabs of Scottish bacon, eggs and steamed tomatoes. “With the clouds so low, it’s easy to lose your way in the Quiraing without a compass and a map.”
It was a disappointment, as our main pull towards touring Skye was to hike the Quiraing, but we settled on the lower ground.
We followed a soggy, obscure trail only locals knew about and picked our way around the sheep pies. A mother sheep with her wee ones shied before us.
The clouds were grey and lowering yet more. Rain was inevitable.
It started slow. Shoulders hunched. Hoods came up.
We were quickly soaked through.
The land was barren.
Open.
Treeless.
You could see for miles and miles.
Yet there was beauty.
So much it made my heart ache.
Beauty in space.
The openness to breathe.
There was an absence of distraction.
No heights to strive towards.
No alluring woods to explore.
No hurry to make up time.
Time paused.
Without a sighting of sun there was no passing of the day.
Or so it seemed.
It all was one colour.
One grey sky.
One time.
The now.
And that was it.
Empty. Barren. Beauty.
Timeless.
Resting in the now.
Today reminded me of Skye.
Yesterday, Autumn graced us golden with her last cheerful face.
Yesterday there was light, fullness, distracting beauty.
Today was barren.
The clouds hung heavy, pregnant with rain.
The fields lay still, harvested, done.
I longed for a field.
A field under a grey, lowering sky.
So as soon as I was able I trekked there.
The comforts of woolen touques and mittens returned.
There was something familiar and fond too,
About walking with shoulders hunched,
Hood up,
Finding warmth amidst the elements.
I found the field.
Barren. Empty.
The sky was one colour. Grey.
You couldn’t see the mist,
but the droplets soaked gentle into my skin.
An openness of space.
Space to breathe.
Margin to make.
Far to see.
Striving to cease.
An absence of distraction.
Beautiful barrenness.
It won’t be long now.
Nature folds her hands to rest.
She knows what comes next.
For she’s naked now.
But tomorrow will come the generous sky
to fall silent and leave silence,
a white coverlet
to cover nakedness,
barrenness,
to bring yet a different beauty.
And nature will be snug,
Peaceful,
Quiet.
The white will reach far.
Empty space,
And time will pause.
Rest.
Timeless.
Rest, Nature.
Rest full in your barren beauty.
sacred rest 