The Sacred and the Scared - Part 1

Have you ever noticed in the English language that there are some words, with a transposition of 2 letters, can give you an entirely different word?  Like "tarp" and "trap".  These words might be related in some way; you could use a tarp to make a trap, for example.  Or you "tried" and got "tired".

While things like that fascinate me, I want to focus on an another pair of these words, sacred and scared.  Many of the sites we have visited here in Ireland have been associated with the "sacredness" of many different peoples.  There are two which readily come to mind, Kylemore Abbey and Croagh Patrick.

Many of you are aware of the vast differences between these two places, some of you are not.  Kylemore is located on a lovey lake in the Connemara region of County Galway of the western coast of Ireland.  Croagh Patrick over looks Clew Bay and it's 365 islands near Murrisk in County Mayo, the northwest corner of the Island.  Kylemore is a series of picturesque buildings and gardens built and planted about 200 years ago.  Croagh Patrick is a cone-shaped mountain which has stood tall at 764 meters for millennia.  Kylemore fashioned by the creativity and ingenuity of man and money.  Croagh Patrick formed by God and the forces of nature.

When one arrives at Kylemore from the east, the first glimpse is of an ethereal castle across a glass-like lake. It seems almost paper-like in it's construction from this distance; a place that seems more at home in the mind of author J.R.R. Tolkien   It is inviting and welcoming as was it's builder, Mitchell Henry.  From the beginning, it was a labor of love for his wife, Margaret.  You are completely engulfed by the beauty of the surroundings and the structures.  However, I was not prepared for what awaited me in the "Miniature Cathedral" on the property.

Margaret died quite suddenly at a young age while on a trip to Egypt.  Overcome by his grief for his "anam cara", Mitchell built a small version of a Neo-Gothic cathedral adjacent to the house.  This was to be his memorial for her.  They were married to each other and to the place that is Kylemore.  It was a magnificent edificial monument to they undying love.

As you enter the cathedral, it feels smallish by human standards.  However, as the serenity of this place washes over you, the structure takes on the vastness of the universe.  The presence of peace which fills the sanctuary is so thick, you cannot help but drink it in.  There are those who attempt, albeit unconsciously, to hold their breath until they can exit for fear of drinking in this elixir of well being.  While others, apparently numb to unseen things in life, trudge through the living waters like an inconvenient mud puddle.  But for those who sense the difference of the place, there are no words to be spoken.  Grace and tenderness flow from every curved and cut stone with a warmth that penetrates the clothes and skin to the very soul.  One must sit for fear of falling under the weight of this "loving peace".  The only thing appropriate which can flow out of one's human-ness is tears; for words or even sounds would dis-grace the place.

How does one leave such a place?  Slowly, with a silent thanks, a humbled heart and a nourished soul.

A Place of Extremes

As my wife and I spent the day driving about Cleggan, Clifden, and Roundstone I was struck by the extremes of the day.  It the midst of this beautiful sunny day, there is a wind like no other. A wind which possesses a fierceness of a viking raider looking for a village to ransack.  It would rip the very clothes off of you if given half a chance.  It reminded me of on of the Hebrew words for wind or spirit, ruache.  It is pronounced roo-achhhh, almost sounds German.  But it sounds powerful and fierce.  It was that kind of wind I faced today as I looked at Inishturk Island.  The ocean could not resist the strength of this marauding force.  So wave after wave raced forward as if pushed by a locomotive toward the land,  only to explode into a mountain of white foam as it meet with the immovable rocks.

Rocks, now there is a concept.  Rocks and rocks and more rocks.  From lush green meadows beautiful to behold and marvelous to photograph,  to a place between Clifden and Roundstone which had more rock than grass.  How would, what would these sheep eat?  For every square meter of grass there were at least 10 square meters of rock.  And there wasn't a square meter of grass to be found.  Even the mountains were more rock than foliage.  It was a harsh and stark landscape.  It made we winch inside as if I was falling on to it.  There was a savage brutality to it, like the gods had pummeled the earth and grassy flesh had been beaten away only to expose the broken bones of the rocky structure beneath.

While the sun and the blue sky were in abundance, a large chunk of cloud would come our way and remind us it will rain when it pleases.  Weather never bothers me when I travel, so I was almost glad to see the rain when it popped in for a surprise visit.  It's like one of those relatives you haven't seen for a while and you are not sure if you're glad they stopped.  And you are glad when they leave.  But when the hail showed up, I was surprised! Didn't see that coming! Almost like the mother-in-law coming for a visit... I said almost.

As we rounded a curve, I saw the distinct silhouette of some crosses. So off we went to find this cemetery.  When we finally found the cemetery, it was over looking a beautiful bay.  There was no one famous buried there that we knew of. This was a multi-level cemetery, like a giant stairway leading to the water.  I think it was so the folks in front didn't obscure the view for the folks in the back.  This was on the leeward side of the hill facing away from the wind.  Finally at rest with a beautiful view and the wind at their back.  And such a beautiful view of the water that teems with life.  The tides mirroring the ebb and flow of life.

But I think that's the way Ireland likes it.  The constant reminder of these extremes, that humanity is not in charge here.  And is allowed to remain only through sheer grit, power of will and only for a short time.  This place, this island is not for the faint of heart.  Life and death, harshness and beautiful, sun and hail, wind and surf, such a whirlwind of images today.  But one seems to speak to me the most of Ireland and it's people.

These small flowers, I don't know their name but they seem readily abundant.  They are growing out of the rock, buffeted by the wind and sprayed by the salt water.  Why do you stay?  How do you hold on? Wouldn't you bloom better and brighter in someone's sheltered garden?

The colors are not flashy or gaudy like some flowers.  However, there is a subdued beauty to them.  There is a warmth that is contrasted by the coldness of the rock it grows on.  You won't see them from far away.  They just seem to blend in, but when you move closer there they are; tough, lovely and holding on to the rock in the face of a harsh wind.

I think the best beauty comes out of adversity.  I think toughness comes from standing against an opposing force for a while.  For people who think life would be better, or life would be lovelier if it were easier, I would say, "Look to these flowers, look to the Irish."

But to see them, you have to take the time and you have to get real close.