Veil

The ancient Celts called them the thin places, those geographic sanctuaries of spirit where the veil between time and the timeless is as sheer as a dragonfly's wing.  The isle of Iona in Scotland's Inner Hebrides is such a place. It's a deceptively small and rocky spot, just a dot on the map near the large isle of Mull. There are few motor vehicles, a few crofts for farming, long horned chestnut hued cattle and black faced sheep roaming at will down ancient pathways leading to the surrounding sea. The old Abby church still stands overlooking the water as it has for hundreds of years. One early summer's day after morning prayers, I was gazing at a tall weathered Celtic cross trying to decipher its runic like symbols. A young ewe and her wee bairn were grazing near the Cemetery, burial place of ancient Scottish kings and saints. She seemed to be beckoning to me. I followed them down a rocky route through deep green grass toward the sea. It was a breezy day and I could taste the salty sea winds, a delightful sensation. My animal guides stopped near a small stone chapel close by the sea. As I crossed the threshold, time stopped. I sat on a sturdy wooden bench near the unadorned altar and gazed out through the single window at the sea. My monkey mind slowed down to a whisper and I had the sensation of looking into a deep clear pool. I lost all sense of my physical body, absorbed in the serenity of the eternal now. A strong gust of sea wind struck the window and I came back. Two hours had passed. As I was walking away from the Abby, two young islanders, who were repairing the ancient stone fence in front of the Cemetery, greeted me. They were looking at a small stone as if it were a perfect emerald. After a lengthy search, they had found the stone that fit a small gap perfectly. In a way they were praying, you see, and so was I.