The narrow winding road that led to the castle was cut into
on one side by the curving line of the ocean. On the other side was a long
rolling field with sheep happily lingering and cows that curiously seemed to be
nodding their heads at us. Butterflies and tiny birds flew about our heads
fearlessly.
As we started our
walk, Peter pointed to a sign with an arrow: “The Castle: 1 mile.” The air was
brisk, cool and windy, the skies moving, open, and moody with thick dark clouds.
Every once in a while the sun would shoot through the clouds, piercing our
numbness, flooding us with streams of light. I could imagine why most of the
150 inhabitants of the island believed in God. The beauty permeated every cell
of my being.
We walked most all the way without talking. It did feel
sacred, and natural. We followed the gentle curving path to the castle in the
distance and walked along the road with others who had come there too…there was
an older couple walking their sheep dogs, a young family with a baby, and a few
individual ‘pilgrims’ who seemed to be like us—trusting that there was a good
reason to be here. Peter would occasionally point to the horizon line where the
endless sky met the blue gray waters and then sweep his hand over the whole
vista, and sigh.
I was quiet. Something
was happening within me that I couldn’t find words for—maybe it was a little
whiff of hope or maybe it was true that on this holy island the dividing line
between worlds—between the living and
the dead, between now and then, between heaven and earth— was thinner and the
beauty made it all somehow good. Suddenly it was as if all my pores and
synapses were opening up. I didn’t feel sad or mad or guilty anymore, just a
feeling of being one with it all; the beauty and the poignancy permeated me
right to the core.
As we walked, Peter’s hand brushed against mine a few times.
It felt like an invitation, and I took it. Our fingers interlaced, and our feet
walked in rhythm. By the time we got to the castle they were just closing for
the afternoon, so walked out to the castle garden instead, sat down, and
watched the evening sky changing colors over the silhouette of castle.
“This place is
amazing.” I whispered to Peter. “The curving road to the castle, the three of
us being together again—it’s all so unreal.”
“The castle is just a
museum, someone’s home once upon a time.” Peter said. “One of the few castles
that were never actually used to defend or protect. It’s a symbol, I think.”
He was right; he was seeing symbolically. And though we
weren’t “home” it still felt like a good sign—we were circling the center, and perhaps
we would all come back home when we were ready.
***
