Almost 30 years ago, I made my first pilgrimage to Wales. I landed in Manchester, England, with a group of people who were to become friends and companions. Befuddled with jet lag, we climbed aboard our little bus, and headed southwest, into the Brecon Beacons—the land of hobbits and elves. I had gone to Wales because I’d been reading and studying Celtic spirituality, thanks to a little book of prayers from Scotland, Ireland, Brittany, Cornwall and Wales, all newly translated into English. The prayers were poems! These prayer-poems were arranged on a 30 day rota, for morning and evening, with eloquent commentary by Esther de Waal and A.M. Allchin. They were lovely songs and hymns, poems that sang of sacred Presence in and through the creation. The poem-prayers gave me language for something I’d known since I was a little girl: that everything is soaked with divine presence. I found that I was not alone in that perception that there’s a deep eternal Voice that sings everything into being. The awareness stirred by those poems was soon to be enriched and expanded during the two week pilgrimage.
At a retreat center in Abergavenny, we were introduced to Patrick Thomas, a lovely bilingual Welsh writer and Anglican priest. He would recite bits of poetry in Welsh, and then translate them for us. He told us that the Welsh word for universe is “bydysawd,” which means “that which is baptized.” Following the tradition of the early church in the Christian east, here baptism is revelatory. The washing with water reveals what is deeply true: the sacredness of each person, the inherent beauty and goodness of each of us. “Bydysawd” expands that contemplative insight. That one word tells us: all is woven through with divine presence. In other words, the Celtic take on matter is that it is shot through with light and love. Patrick told us that in Welsh tradition, it is understood that “landscape heals.” How could that be? In the Welsh crags, in those forests, in the streams and at the seashore, generations of poets had heard and reported the ongoing language of love that comes through the natural world. The universe, in essence, is viewed as a poem—a poem that is ever-renewed, ever-refreshed by the Holy One who sings it into being. The universe beckons us to stop, to listen deeply, to remember a time when human language did not clot our brains and hearts, but served to open the brain, the heart, the soul, the body to wonder, to delight and to profound compassion. This is a vision of everything being knit together, all coming from the same mysterious and beloved Source. The Celtic way invites us to stop analyzing and to allow our capacity to behold to stir and awaken. When we behold, we are in a state of profound respect and humility, having let go of our cultural practices of grasping and possessing. In the words of John O’Donohue, “I really find the landscape an incredible presence, a companion in my life….Landscape is the firstborn of creation.”[1]
This companion that is the landscape offers to befriend us. If we allow this, if we can be in contemplative stillness and simply sit with the natural setting, it will disclose itself. For centuries, various Celtic bards and story tellers have spoken of this. It is said of St. David of Wales that once when he was preaching and was trying to make a point to a gathered group of hundreds, the land itself lifted him up. Fanciful? Surely to our 21st century minds and hearts this seems almost a fairy tale. Almost. And yet, there is something here that is ancient: a sense that we abide in a context not of our making. We live and move and have our being in natural settings that have pre-existed us for eons. These settings bear a wisdom that we no longer remember. They have much to tell us.
Once, when I was sitting on rocks above the sea on Ramsey Island, I had the disconcerting impression that the rocks were speaking—not in words or a language that was of human derivation. They were communicating nonetheless. I had that startling moment of renewed confrontation with the truth of my smallness, my finite nature, and the strong medicine of knowing how very much I do not know, nor will I never know. At the same time, this came through with such astounding love and mercy. Later, after the experience had time to distill. I wrote this poem:
STONES
Listen.
The stones speak.
These age old elemental beings
tell of the hand
that drew forth waters.
Hush. Be still.
For pity’s sake quiet the chatter.
These stones speak.
The land, nature, the cosmos are revealed to be “words” in an ode, created eternally. At every nano-second, the universe is sung into being, and the ongoing poetry of this is beheld through our senses, and intuited by our souls. The Psalmist knew this. It’s the ancient awareness that “one day tells its tale to another” (Ps. 19:2). This is a poetry that is profoundly, disconcertingly, embodied. Praying with the Poet who speaks forth everything that is leads us to a steadying sense of being ever held in the presence of God, and stunningly awakened to an exquisite intimacy of love. In our busy, internet filled lives, we are often estranged from this primal connection to nature. Our DNA does remember. Encoded within us we have that ancestral sense of kinship to the dirt, the rocks, the trees, the plants, with the four legged of the planet. One of the lovely fruits of contemplative practice is the steady deliverance from the imprisonment of my own version of reality. Still, quiet time in a natural setting allows us to breathe with all that breathes. We begin to notice that we are being breathed.
So many years ago, I had come to Wales grieving the death of a dear friend and worried about family situations. After we spent time with Patrick Thomas, we headed to St. David’s on the sea. One morning, I took my aching heart to the cliffs about St. Non’s well. The cobalt sky was above me, glorious green grass cushioned my body and the sea below offered its own melody. I lay there, basking in the sun. I had the peculiar feeling that the grief was being absorbed by the very earth. The grief did not completely disappear. It was eased. My breath shifted. My body felt like it did after a quieting yoga session. A gentle sense of being at one, at peace, at rest, began to take hold. I was held, upheld, beheld. As strange as this may sound, I truly sensed I was being cradled by Mother Earth, in a cellular way. Sky above, earth below, the sea sounding not only in my ears, but in my whole being. Lying upon that grass helped restore a frayed and almost forgotten relationship to what poet Marge Piercy has called “the common, living dirt.”
Later, I reported this experience to a new Welsh friend who had joined us in St. David’s. Her observation: “Of course, the Holy One abides in the land. In fact, the natural world is the first poem. It’s the first way in which the divine Word comes to us. Just think of the creation account in Genesis 1.” The land is a poem? There’s a voice speaking in the mountains and valleys, the snow and the rain, the sleet and the fog? Yes, there is.
This experience brought me home to my own experience as a child. Brought up going to my grandparents’ land in the hill country of Texas, I watched my grandmother Golda’s friendly attitude toward the flora and fauna of that territory. Limestone outcroppings full of fossils. Quartz ready to be plucked from the caliche clay soil. Striped bass moving in the water. Copperhead snakes camouflaged by leaves. Frogs singing in the summer night. A veritable symphony of sound. Because Golda was not afraid (though she was reasonably cautious), I learned not to fear that wildness. I followed her example. Only later did I begin to realize that her alert yet relaxed way of being in that place was the essence of contemplative practice. She allowed her senses to quicken, and to stir within her that desire to attend to the presence of the Holy One. Once she returned from a walk, glowing with wonder, and announced to us grandchildren: “Such a gift I have been given! I have seen two king snakes mating!” Her vision of everything—every single thing—being potentially a sign of presence formed my own way of seeing.
As I began to learn more of the Celtic tradition, I discovered a phrase that comes from Wales: “God’s presence makes the world.” Each tiny subatomic particle, each far off galaxy, each cell within our bodies is held together by a loving Mystery that is beyond our comprehension, beyond our reason. For centuries, poets in Wales have waited and watched, then sought the words to express that encounter. Euros Bowen, a Welsh poet of the 20th century, felt that the poetic endeavor was to praise “the goodness present in the world.” Of course, in order to do that, one first has to be open to that goodness, to perceive on a daily basis the unfolding mystery of the creation, to let wonder overtake us. This leads, if we are patient, to a strong moral response. The inherent goodness of the prickly pear cactus or the turkey vulture or the octopus challenges our incessant, entrenched patterns of consumption and greed. This is where the Spirit takes us. From awareness and attention, to deepening love and compassion, to understanding that love of neighbor comprehends that natural world.
It all begins with listening. It all begins with taking the time to hear that poem that is creation, to receive it with our bodies, minds and spirits.
In the Celtic tradition, there’s such a lovely emphasis on the bardic tradition. All are invited to participate in this sacred practice of being poets. To this day, in Wales, a festival called the Eisteddfod is held annually, in which as many as 6,000 participants offer poetry and songs as part of a competition. The roots of this festival go back to the 12th century, when a Welsh king decided to invite bards to offer their songs and poems for the pleasure of the court. Much of the exquisite medieval poetry from Wales comes from royal courts, whose poets were supported by the royal houses. Often when I lead retreats on Celtic spirituality, I remind those present that we all have a capacity to sing to the Holy One. (My mother used to create little goofy song poems of praise about our cats and dogs. I have inherited that trait.) In closing, I invite you to participate in this practice:
With the above as context and background, consider this poem from the early Celtic tradition; we will be using the poem as a springboard for a contemplative poem writing practice. First, read the poem slowly two or three times.
“The Song of Amergin”
I am the wind that breathes upon the sea,
I am the wave on the ocean,
I am the murmur of leaves rustling,
I am the rays of the sun,
I am the beam of the moon and stars,
I am the power of trees growing,
I am the bud breaking into blossom,
I am the movement of the salmon swimming,
I am the courage of the wild boar fighting,
I am the speed of the stag running,
I am the strength of the ox pulling the plough,
I am the size of the mighty oak tree,
And I am the thoughts of all people
Who praise my beauty and grace.
Now put the poem aside, and sit quietly. Allow your attention to focus on your breath, gently breathing in and out. As your body settles gently, call to memory a landscape that offered you beauty or wildness or safety or home. It could be a national park, your own backyard, a place visited only once or a site that you visit regularly. Once you have been given the memory, allow yourself to notice the following:
What do you smell? Make note of any aromas or scents. Take your time. Let yourself receive any whiffs of the trees or plants, animals or birds.
What do you see? Notice colors, textures, kinds of plants and animals. In your imagination, slowly regard all that you are beholding.
What do you hear? Listen for sounds loud and soft, familiar and strange. Listen for what is loud, and for what is soft. Let the land speak.
What do you touch? Attend to the air on your skin, the way your face feels, what your hands and feet may be sensing.
What do you taste? Sometimes a taste will come to us in nature, often associated with aroma. Be open to the flavors of the space.
Gently behold the place, and give thanks. Then in the quiet of your meditation, offer a blessing to the place.
When you are ready, quietly open your eyes.
Last, begin writing your own “I am…” poem, drawing from what you have remembered and rediscovered through the meditation. Write 8-12 lines, beginning each line with “I am…”, drawing from the riches of what you have smelled, seen, heard, touched and tasted in the quiet. Once the poem has been written, give thanks for your own inherent bardic life, and for the Holy One whose love sings all into being, from the tiniest particle to the farthest galaxy, and everything in between. Return to your poem as you feel led, and let it pray within you.
[1] John O’Donohue, Walking in Wonder:Eternal Wisdom for a Modern World (New York: Crown Publishing, 2015), pp. 46, 49.
For further reading:
Newell, John Philip. The Book of Creation. 1999.
O’Donohue, John. To Bless the Space Between Us, 2008
