Sarah brought a little bit of Scotland home with her to me......

As I continue to live through redoing my kitchen, replacing our deck, moving Joel to Denver, continuing working on aspects of our new book, Desperate, having Nathan home, and skyping Joy, I still seek the "Sabbath Rest" in the midst of such a busy life. I am so very blessed and finding peace, quiet and wisdom as I take more baby steps to reclaim it here and there. 

And so, having my daughter, Sarah, freshly back from a research trip for a book in Scotland, Sarah brought home with her new ideals about securing and holding fast to a quiet-heart life. And so I give you this beautiful pondering of her heart as she waited for her home-coming plane in Heathrow airport in London yesterday. Here is my Sarah with her writing that is like soft music, a comfort to the depths of my soul.

My Skye

Posted by  on Sep 1, 2012

I write this from a seat in the waiting area of Heathrow Airport. My flight is delayed. I find it best to take these things sitting down, with a cup of coffee, and some means of writing. Pret-A-Manget supplied a cappuccino, my faithful little laptop the means to write, and here I am with you until my gate finally opens.

The post that I’m burning to write is the one (or three) I have all ablaze in my mind about my days on the Isle of Skye. But I pause as I begin, struck by the vast differences between the utterly remote reaches of Skye, and the place in which I find myself at present. Here, countless faces bob round me in a waiting room, accents and loudly-spoken annoyances swirl and ebb, the flight screens blink their constant departures. I’m solidly back in the indoor realm of modern day travel, with its swift flow of talk and time. You might think that in here, my two short days in the wildlands of Skye would seem almost not to have occurred. Or at very least, rather irrelevant.

But au contraire. Right here, right in this skinny airport seat of navy vinyl, with pop music thrumming in the shop nearby, I can still taste Skye. Breath its calm. Get a bit giddy at thought of the walk down to the shore. For Skye, my friends, is now a place of its own at center of my heart.

Once in a long, rare while, I encounter a place, and a time within that place, whose splendor carves out a presence within me. It makes a room in my soul that is both memory and at the same time, a concentrated presence. Places such as these – a nook in the heart of the mountains, a strip of certain shore by a northern sea, or even a well-known, weathered old home- come to me with a physical presence so vivid I am able to know it as I would a friend.

In Skye, I found that friendship. And I think a great part of it was the rightness of it all, the way the lines and colors of the sea and moors feel almost unspoilt by sin. The way the hills lift their shoulders and closed-eye faces in such unflinching solemnity, while the sea is a sprite around them, restless, merry, and never the same mood twice. The quiet of the air is perfect. The wind is an ever-changing chorus of song. The beauty requires so very much seeing, such a focus of eye and mind that time suddenly expands. It’s almost like slipping out of chronos for a day or two’s sojourn in a long-houred world of tea in the mornings and long, long walks throughout the day, and the wind wuthering (isn’t that a lovely word?) around the eaves.

I stayed in a room with one window gazing down to the sea, and one up the long fields to the row of farmer’s homes. And that room was in the home a woman who went quite swiftly from hostess to friend. Her home and grace and friendship were the foundation of my time. Just look at that tea and shortbread for greeting.

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Now, I am dreaming of a trip to the Isle of Sky---anyone else?