Populated first by people, then animals, finally used for storage, these tiny huts hug the North Atlantic
coast of the Dingle Peninsula. Life in these remote headlands was harsh during prehistoric times.
My journal entry for this day trip in 2008: A succession of brief lives filled these huts, an illusion of longevity born of hardship, with glimpses of grace in a sunrise or a bright blue sky. An unnamed, unknown people faced storms and heartbreak here, sought small sustenance: only the testament of standing stones and beehive huts hint of their existence.
Unable to stand erect in these tiny dwelling places, I thought of bitter North Atlantic gales and the isolation of this place even now. On the Skellig Islands, just across the water, monks lived in similar huts in the 7th century A.D. while they transcribed the Gospels, bringing a message of hope to distant shores. The monastic order begun in the 7th century A.D. remained active for over six hundred years.
|On the Dingle peninsula, looking toward the Skelligs|
A drop of water
Brought by choice to the edge
The distant shore a rock
The immutable rock of ages
So, yes, today, a memorial service for one who died too young for all who loved her...in this moment, a juxtaposition of thoughts about death and the nature of life and choices.
Strength for the journey: a daily, sometimes hourly, gift. A chronicle of darkness stirs inside but on this day, I am sustained by gratitude: for beauty, for those who have gone before, for tender mercies.