the island

by Maggie Scout

The end of one thing always heralds the beginning of something new.  In the same way the beginning of something marks the end of an order.  In times of diminishment especially, we need to be made aware of other shores, even of eternal reaches.  For all of us, as long as we are alive there are always horizons (David Adams, Tides & Seasons).

She sat, hypnotised by the tide’s rhythm as it ebbed and flowed in a time set out at the dawn of creation, powerfully balanced between danger and safety.  That predictable journey of leaving one shore flowing into another and back again; perfect timing and nothing lost.

Waiting.  Not long now.  Patience.

Soon the causeway would emerge allowing them to cross.  Butterflies betrayed her composure and a smile tugged at her lips and her heart.  As the tides waited so did she.  There would be no rush.  Waiting was part of this journey.

Rolling down the window she breathed in deeply the crisp October air before exhaling slowly.   Practiced mindfulness played its part in every movement, every sensation, every unspoken request and response, as cool air filled her lungs again and again and again.  She squinted as the autumn sun captured her face and taking in the cloudless bright blue sky that she loved so much she couldn’t help but smile.  Lizzie felt good.

The traffic moved and as she crossed the causeway in her little white vintage car her spirit leapt!  She understood only too well how the wild and sometimes brutal elements could apply a vice like grip especially as the cycle of seasons turned autumn into winter. But there was also something magical, spiritual and beautiful about this island.  No one who visited left without being touched by its remarkable fortitude.  Stories of monks and Vikings, of raids and suppression, survival, journeys and community, laid the foundations for spiritual awakenings and pilgrimage over centuries.

Today was no different for there was a sense of the past and the present and the future in the air.