Island Far Away
I stood at the edge of the Cliffs of Mohr, on the green isle of Eire, far, far away. I pulled the warmth of the coat with a hood and wool scarf closer to me as I felt the chill of icey wind from the ocean, myself, a tiny figure standing there, surrounded by the vast immensity of the cliffs and roaring ocean beneath. My spirit lifted to join this captivating scene. In the background on a hill sat a young lass with long dark hair beside a winding path that led to a stone structure. She played single haunting tones on a little harp. She played, then the wind blew through the strings of the harp giving it an eery sound. Wet mists rose up from the ocean, at times obscuring the far cliffs, then subtly revealing the whole shoreline of cliffs, like dominos falling away into the distance.
Earlier in the week I was invited to join a group of healers to ride out on the ferry boat to the Aaron Island. Time stood still on this island; old women still dressed in long black dresses and farmers herded their sheep and goats, walking along rocky dirt roads. A very quiet place now, unlike its ancient history that reveled in wars waging along the coast with Vikings, and stone castles rising up from the ocean on high promatories.
There were twenty four of us in the group. We spent the night in a B and B, slept in bunk beds. I told a story as all gathered in one room, with glow of a single white candle flickering over the faces in the room. Early in the morning we walked out on the rocky ground, linked arm and arm so we would not get swept away by fierce winds. We joined hands, making a circle in front of a jagged stone castle and intoned prayers of healing. In my inner vision I saw bolts of pure white lightening come down from the sky and go deep into the earth.