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.