Wild Spirit

By Cole Moreton

September 1, 2011

Tags: Beach, God, horizon, meditation, sea

Category: Wild

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I wanted the first attempt at this to be on the beach that means the most to me, at Birling Gap. I came here as a child, and now, as an adult, I come here often. It was about 11.30 in the morning, on a soft, warm, breezy late Summer or early Autumn day. The sea was flat, green, glassy. The beach was quiet, only a few stragglers here at the end of the school holidays. I found a rock to rest my back against, sat down and rested for a moment. Then I read something from a book published by the Iona Community, for the sake of getting started. Some of the lines are responses, but I was on my own so I just read it through.

In the beginning, God made the world:

Made it and mothered it,

Shaped it and fathered it,

Filled it with seeds and signs of fertility,

Filled it with love and its people with ability.

*

All that is green, blue, deep and growing,

God’s is the hand that created you.

All that is tender, firm, fragrant and curious,

God’s is the hand that created you.

All that crawls, flies, swims, walks or is motionless,

God’s is the hand that created you.

All that speaks, sings, cries, laughs or keeps silent.

God’s is the hand that created you.

All that suffers, lacks, limps or longs for an end,

God’s is the hand that created you.

The world belongs to God.

The Earth and all its people are God’s.

*

Then I sat and tried to be still, to accept the place and recognise what was there. The lapping sea. The hazy horizon. The distant ships. The watching gulls. The stones and pebbles. The white and yellow cliffs. The stairs behind me. The members of a drawing class, on their collapsible chairs, all looking like a congregation towards a distant point. The kids in a gaggle throwing stones at a plastic barrel that was at the water’s edge, laughing and shouting and hitting it with a clunk. The murmurs of conversation. The gossip of the water as the wave gathers, then the heave of the wave itself, a heavy sigh, then the gentle sucking in of breath as the wave retreats and the pebbles turn. The scent of the sea, thrilling and mind expanding. The honey warm scent of a barbecue, drifting over from somewhere.

I read (out loud) the Prologue from the book Eternal Echoes by John O’Donohue. There’s a recording of me doing so here. I also read part of his poem Matins.

*

I arise to day

In the name of Silence

Womb of the Word,

In the name of Stillness

Home of Belonging

In the name of the Solitude

of the Soul and the Earth

*

I arise today

*

Blessed by all things

wings of breath,

delight of eyes,

wonder of whisper,

intimacy of touch,

eternity of soul,

urgency of thought,

miracle of health,

embrace of God

*

May I live this day

*

Compassionate of heart,

Gentle in word,

Gracious in awareness,

Courageous in thought,

Generous in love

*

Then I built the pile of stones that is in the picture. As a marker, as Columba did. And I went down to the water, scooped some up in my cupped palms, and poured it over the stones. I don’t know why. Seemed right. I rubbed my face with the water, and rubbed my hands.

I had a little chat – with the divine, hopefully, but possibly just with myself or the wind – that went all round the houses but ended up just by saying that I recognise the sacred, in this place.

And after more stillness, a final word from Iona.

*

For all that God can do within us.

For all that God can do without us,

Thanks be to God

*

I drank some water, sat for a while longer then left, feeling that a start had been made.