Just Who Are YOU?

Regular readers of my blog will quickly discern that I am on a John Philip Newell kick these days. I just bought four new books by this inspirational teacher on Celtic spirituality, and I am deeply immersed in attempting to understand his work and how it relates to other writers and theologians who have preserved this remarkable Christian tradition for us. One thread that has recently caught my attention is woven into the writing of Pelagius, the first great Celtic theologian—and a man condemned as heretic by the Roman church of the time. That thread is the idea of all of creation being a theophony or a manifestation of God. Celtic spirituality believed that creation came forth creatio ex Deo, and as such is a showing forth of the goodness of God. In fact, some Celtic theologians go so far as to believe it is possible to live a perfectly good and sinless life. Because we are part of the divine word, we have encoded in our spiritual DNA, if you will, a blueprint for holiness and righteousness that excludes the necessity of human depravity and original sin.

This past week, my husband and I celebrated twenty-eight years of marriage by driving to one of our favorite spots, checking into a local B & B, and spending most of the time outside. We’ve chosen to give up tent camping, but we still enjoy being in places that bear the imprint of wilderness on them. Pisgah Forest is a personal haven and holds wonderful childhood memories for me. Michael and I have often taken a Saturday and driven up Wagon Gap Road to Mount Pisgah, and we especially love the part of the drive from Brevard to the Blue Ridge Parkway. We’ve had the opportunity after many trips to discover some hidden spots including “our” own swimming hole, a favorite place to picnic, and several trails that lead to outstanding views both of the mountains and of the flora and fauna that inhabit these mountains. During this past trip, we drove into Pisgah Forest to eat sandwiches at a roadside table in the early evening. The stream was gurgling, and birds were calling to each other in preparation to end the day. I could not help but be struck by the smoky shafts of sunlight piercing the heavy forest canopy—heaven no longer separated from earth. That image has stuck in my memory as a visceral reminder that God is everywhere—inside, outside, and alongside me. In fact I, too, am a theophony because I am created in the spirit and image of God who said, “Let us create humankind in our image, according to our likeness” (Genesis 1:26).

The trip to celebrate our married life reinforced for me the sense of closeness and immanence between the natural and supernatural. God is present in the forests and gardens that we preserve and create. I am present to God in those places as well because I am created and re-created in such a setting. Celtic practitioners speak of thin places, and I do believe such places exist especially when one is out-of-doors in the beauty that was not unlike the first home of our first parents.

Being aware of God’s presence in nature and each other helps us to reach a place of healing and deep peace. May you experience that deep peace as you continue your journey to awareness of who you are in the God of All.

Glendalough in Wind and Rain

I'm in the throes of preparing to lead a retreat on Celtic spirituality, and my mind has drifted to my two visits to one of the key sites of Celtic monasticism. That site, Glendalough, is the village built by St. Kevin in the 6th century. In 2007, my husband and I visited Glendalough on a day trip by train from Dublin. As with any Irish day, the weather was very unpredictable, and while the sun was shining at Connolly Station in Dublin, it was certainly not shining in the Wicklow Mountains. We were semi-prepared for rain—at least we had wind breakers and hats—but there were occasional downpours and we were walking the two mile trail from the lough (pronounced 'lock'—Celtic for lake) down to the monastic village. There was a sense of wildness in that walk. Lashed by the driven rain, I had a difficult time keeping up a good pace, and there was a growing sense of self-pity because I was quickly becoming weary of what appeared to be more of a physical challenge than the perfect holiday.

This past June, I returned to Glendalough with my mother in tow. This time, I was most certainly on a 'tour,' and while I enjoyed the historical features pointed out by our guide, I missed the wildness that I had experienced the first time I visited. Glendalough somehow seemed almost tame under the experienced hand of the guide who took us through the various buildings explaining their functions while commenting on the life of the Celts who dwelled there. I tried to imagine the people milling about, much like we tourists were milling about, on their way to the market, or to choir offices, or out to the fields to plow, but this Glendalough did not give the same sense of mystery by showing forth the power of the elements that I experienced in Glendalough when I was soaked to the skin with rain.

I think it's that wildness that called up the Celtic spirit in me on the first trip. At first, I thought the trip had been a wash—literally—that we hadn't seen the real Glendalough, but when I returned the second time, I realized that we had, indeed, experienced Glendalough as a holy Celtic site, a place of elemental force and a stage for the power of the natural world.

John Philip Newell gives credence to the wildness of creation by connecting it to our inner stirrings. In The Book of Creation, he says, "A roaring fire under open sky with the wind catching its flames high into the air makes a profound impression on us, and can release a sense of identification with the elements" (21). He goes on to connect those inner stirrings with "desires, emotions and creative urges [that] surge up from our depths like whirlwinds" (21).

This unsettled feeling gives birth to creativity, just as the driven rain gives birth to roiling streams and lush green spaces. Newell also states that "The Celtic tradition deeply affirms the unbounded side of life" (22). As holy people, we have to let go of the fear of the wild places—the unchartered seas—and be willing to sail even beyond the end of the known world. It's in these wild, untamed places that God's gracious spirit blesses us with creative insight and power to heal ourselves and others.

When I think about the possibility of a third trip to Glendalough, I know that I will want it to be the wild and tempestuous experience it was the first time I journeyed there, and that I will be cognizant of the power of storm, rain, and wind as a metaphor for the mystery of God that lies at the root of all that is holy, creative and positive in this life.

For the Well-being of the World

John Philip Newell has a new book out called Praying with the Earth: a Prayerbook for Peace. The book is a book of liturgical prayers, and as such, is meant to be prayed instead of simply read. We'll use this book on August 5-7, 2011 when we gather for a Celtic Retreat at Roads End Retreat Center near Boone, N.C. I invite you to join us if you feel led to celebrate Celtic spirituality, to learn more about it, or simply to enjoy the out-of-doors that prompted so much of the Celtic way of being.

On a recent trip to Ireland, I noticed more than anything how moved I was by the landscape. Ireland is known for its lushness and green, yet there seem to be few forested areas. Instead, the Island is a mystical collection of fertile grasslands punctuated by lakes, seashore, streams, rivers--and sheep. To travel around the countryside means to meander the inlets of the sea that hugs the land. It means to wander through villages, to confront mountains and valleys, and to pass through rain, fog, and a few bright days as well. All the while, my eyes could not get enough of the natural beauty that has been preserved in a land that has been inhabited since long before the Anglo-Saxons invaded Britain.

The landscape holds sacred secrets not unlike our own inner depths. I believe we have an inner landscape that is punctuated by the promptings of our wiser selves, that speaks to us in our dreams and in the very essence of our breathing. When we grasp the concept of our Christ self or true consciousness, we become like the landscape that is full of greenspace, flowering plants, and water that in due season becomes fully evolved. It is also incumbent on us to protect that deeper space that exists below the "public" eye, to keep it safe and private from the collective until it's the right time to use our potential--our creative energy.

The Celtic people were in tune with nature and with human nature. May God help us to be so like-minded.

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If you would like more information on our Celtic Retreat at Roads End, please visit http://anamcarasmantle.org/celticretreat.html. Also, John Philip Newell will be in North Carolina at Lutheridge in Hendersonville, N.C. in December 2011. For more information, visit http://www.awakeningsoulpresents.org/.

My Garden

This is the season of fledglings. There are no less than eight birds’ nests around our home, and I have delighted in watching (from a distance) the little birds craning their necks upward, mouths wide open as they wait for mama bird to return with some tasty ground up worm or bug.


When we first moved here, our gardens didn’t exist. The houses in the subdivision were built on land that was once an orchard, but in the haste to create homes during the bubble, the land was denuded and what topsoil there was washed away. We have more than once complained of having to toil as Adam and Eve must have had to toil once they were cast from their paradise, but we have managed to create a bit of spacious beauty on our almost acre of land. Even though I always thought of myself as having a green thumb, I realized rather quickly that when it came to creating a garden I was certainly a neophyte, not unlike my little bird friends living in the trees that my husband and I planted six years ago. Of course, we’ve endured at least three summers of severe drought, and the red, rocky clay makes it all the more difficult for anything to thrive. I don’t think I’m likely to give up, however.

I’ve tended plants, pruned shrubs, pulled weeds, and watched my prized irises burst forth in color each spring. Last fall, I tried my hand at a rose bush. I’ve succeeded somewhat in producing blooms in the spring and fall, but the summer heat distracts it from much growth. There’s always something to do in the garden. As the birds in the nests build their strength and will soon take flight, I am going to begin to lay a path in the back garden. I’ve put down straw to mark my way, and I’m going to connect the bed with the fig tree to the new flower bed that was the vegetable garden last year. I want an English garden look, and the soil we have there must be good since we had a bounty of green beans, squash, and tomatoes this time last year. Being away for two European trips caused me to not be able to do much with that plot already this year. I’m hoping sunflowers will grow there; maybe I'll begin with zinnias and lavender. I think we’ll have to put in some azaleas up near the fig tree and perhaps some Adirondack chairs. Yes, I like that idea. Oh, and don’t forget the bird feeders. I want to encourage the chicks to hang around once they are on their own.

Whatever activity we find ourselves engaged in, we must recognize that there is always that neophyte stage when we don’t feel like we know much of anything. It’s then that we rely on others, our own insight, and the graciousness of the Universe to guide and direct our journey. In the words of poet, Mary Oliver,

“And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?

And have you changed your life?”

May we tread lightly, learn wisely, and give generously as we explore the world outside.