Stop thinking and talking about it and there is nothing you will not be able to know.
I’m finding it hard to write a blog this month because my travels over the past three weeks, to Ireland and to Lake Superior’s north shore, have left me without words (mostly).
No words. No naming, discussing, or analyzing. Just experiencing. Absorbing color, texture, scent, sound. Vibrations of energy. Feelings. Whispers from prehistoric times.
The goal of my Ireland tour (a small group tour arranged and coordinated by a warm and wise young British woman) was to connect with the energies of the land and the many peoples over the ages who honored it as sacred. Silently touching the ancient stones, walking or sitting in meditation on the land which felt so alive, my mind stilled as my physical and psychic senses hungrily took in what they could find there. Among them fresh wind, natural beauty, serenity, protection, delight. Glimmers of timeless memories.
Day after day, as we explored—the ruins of a 15th century Franciscan abbey and the 500+ year old yew tree standing at its center; ancient stone circles set amidst rolling pastures scattered with placid sheep or cows; waterfalls sparkling through mossy green forests; prehistoric structures holding thousands of years of ceremony built atop hills with 360 degree vistas across an emerald landscape—I had no words to describe or explain all I perceived or the emotions that arose.
Gradually, except for those necessary to meet practical and social needs, words dropped away. I became suspended in a restful field of sensation, of presence, of being, of calm wonder.
Within 36 hours of returning home jet lagged from 20+ hours of traveling, I was on retreat with a friend on the north shore of Lake Superior. The cabin we shared sat just above the rocky shore of the lake. Easy here in this dramatic landscape to remain in that wordless space I found in Ireland. Fortunately, my friend understood my need for silence, my lack of words for conversation.
For most of the week, I sat amidst the soothing percussion of the waves, soaking up the sun and the cool breezes, noticing the plants beginning to fade now in late summer, watching hummingbirds sipping at the feeder, dragonflies darting for their meals, a stray Monarch floating by. Or plunging my feet into the water, exhilarated by the cold. Or lying on primeval stone, feeling its warm solidity and ageless wisdom.
Sensing the fierce life energy of the vast lake, ever-sacred to native inhabitants. Experiencing the aliveness of this place too.
I’ve been home a few days now. Rather than unpack immediately and get back to my activities, it feels delicious to remain largely in this place of wordless sensation. I’ve been drawn to spend time in the yard or create beauty in my home. I have walked amongst the flowers in my garden, noticing how they are doing and sensing what they need. I have tended my plants, indoors and out. Arranged bouquets of flowers for my kitchen. Spent a couple hours with my hands in the dirt, weeding and preparing soil. One nice day I sat outside, absorbing the sunshine, the breeze and watching the local birds and critters.
Been putting off paying bills, making phone calls, making plans. Avoiding talking about the trips.
I don’t want to leap back into Planning, Organizing, Thinking, Analyzing, Rushing, Producing. Want to continue to let my heart and body lead me forward.
And when I feel ready, to integrate my recent experiences through art or movement or voice, not through words and analysis.
The time I left open for transitioning back is ending, so I’ve gradually finished unpacking, doing the laundry, reading the accumulated mail. Some housecleaning. Set up a couple appointments, did a few short errands. Wrote this blog.
Tonight I see friends I haven’t seen in three months, a date made weeks ago; I’m curious to see if words will come.
What is your experience with being thrust into a wordless space? I’d love to hear about it.
I know exactly what your wordless feelings are about. Funny, I too after getting back from Ireland Goddess tour and my extended stay in Tulla, did yard work. I especially found myself awake and out in the yard in early morning of 4:30 a.m., when the veil is thinner. I have avoided art receptions and other back to rushing around things only doing a few each day. Ahhhh Ireland was magical.
Thank you for commenting, Ruth Ann. I am intrigued that you too did yard work–and at 4:30 am! Blessings to you in retaining the magic as you ease back into your life.
This is wonderfully reflective, Anne. I’ve not learned the art of complete relaxation and meditation. I can find moments of peace, always in nature. For that I’m grateful. Welcome home.
Thank you Janet!