#81.13 Tuesday, June 30, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

I try to explain.

   “I didn’t mean to startle you. The little monk who rescued me from the sea sent me here to return the flask and to thank you for the goats milk… every day… thank you — and for the straw and the oats — all the sustenance for healing.”

   “Do you mean, my brother rescued a man, and he told no one, not even me?”

    “I’m pretty sure he mentioned my neediness in his prayers. He seems to make a practice of rescuing the broken.”

    “Of course, he has always cared for every little needy creature anyone brings to his door. And it isn’t unusual when the birds return here for their nesting season that one or several will go higher on this Skellig to his cell, just for a grateful glimpse, remembering him. Even the seals in the cove know him as a friend for all his kindness. But I hadn’t imagined he would rescue a man.”

    “I’m no different then, from the birds and seals and the dog — I am also grateful. My healing has been slow. This is the first I’ve seen of this land. I’m supposing this place where my bones have washed up is a monastery and there are others here.”

         “If you go down through the Christ’s saddle and up the climb you will find the others.”

         I say, “But here you are, also, on this rocky precipice.”

         “It is a Skellig, set apart from shores and lands — just a rock rising from the sea.”

         “It seems a rugged place to make a garden.”

         “It is where we are. It’s our holy assignment. From our birth together, Tim has the gift of silence, so my gift is simply to voice our faithfulness. If my brother goes to the ends of the earth to be close to God for his careful listening, then I go to the ends of the earth to be the voice for the silent brother.  And in his silence, he searches for the farthest edges to be near the creatures and to live in the thin places nearest to God, alone, without the intervention of a priest or any man. That’s why it is so surprising that he would choose to rescue a man.  Where did you come from? How did you even get here?”

         “It was a shipwreck; I washed ashore here.”

         “So, are you a Viking or a merchant?”     

(Continues Wednesday, July 1, 2026)


#81.12 Thursday, June 25, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

Trinity hobbles close behind as the little monk arrives on the beaten path with the daily supplies. Every morning someone brings this to our door, or, like this morning, he goes and gets it then he shares the goats’ milk and oats with me and Trinity.

Neither dog nor man is concerned with leaving me alone anymore, now that I have risen in this healing.

I speak to him, though I know he doesn’t hear my voice. Surely something in my face or gesture or soul can speak of my gratitude.

         “Thank you.”

After the dog, the monk and I have had the goats’ milk and the flask is empty, today, the little monk hands me the empty skin and points to that particularly worn path to the southeast. Without words I know he is sending me on this mission to return the flask. It is nothing like the steep path I see rising to the pinnacle. But even on this smoother path I stumble, and regain my footing relying on the walking stick. For someone strong and with steady steps this would be easy. But healing is tenuous.

The path follows the crest of this rill around and just ahead it dips into a green place on a more southward facing slope with a walled garden and a pasture. Goats graze there and some of these sea birds strut around like roosters. Here, the path leads to another little mound of carefully stacked stone with a thatched top, looking like a fairytale acorn, where I might expect to see a little orange beetle keeping house in a fantastically tiny world.

A little cast metal bell is mounted by the door, so I ring that bell to announce my presence here.  The little door, woven of sea-washed vines, opens, and a small woman is startled by the sight of me, and she closes the door immediately, surely surprised to see a stranger at her door. Then she opens the door slowly, peaking out.

         “I was expecting Brother Tim.”

Like the little hermit she has round rosy cheeks shining from the hood of her robe. She wears a linen scapular, very much like my make-do tunic, only she also has a woolen monk’s robe beneath the linen. She keeps her curious gaze on me, as she takes the flask from my hand.

         I say, “He sent me to return the flask this morning.”

(Continues Tuesday, June 30, 2026)


 

#81.11 Wednesday, June 24, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

The little hermit, no doubt, went out this morning knowing that I might also venture out today. He left the sledge that usually blocks the door laying aside, maybe to welcome me outside, or maybe it is in wait to drag me back up from the edges of these rocks again, as he did that first day.

Outside, I see this little stone hovel is a rounded dome with a thatched roof, that makes the inside space dark, and it also keeps the rain out. It is only the smoke hole that reveals the brilliance of day sky.  [Footnote]

But today the sky is blank and pale. The sun doesn’t really shine and there are no shadows or bright glare for my innocent eyes. Darker smudges of weightier clouds shadow the pale firmament threatening rain, but there is no rain.  It is the perfectly blank page for my attempt at wandering.

The monasteries I’ve visited in forested places construct their buildings with timber; even as the lands become sparse with trees, the tradition in Francia is for timber. Queried stones only offer an outer Roman likeness to buildings in Francia and Anglia. But here, there are no trees so I suppose there was never a thought of anything but rocks for these dwellings. There are no beams for the thatching, so rock corbels support the thatch. Everything is made from rock or the thatched reeds up from the salt marshes.

Guessing or knowing — I knew I would look off toward the north and see the ocean with a steep grade down, because it was such a climb up here for the little fellow dragging me here that first day. Now I see a pathway with stone steps ascending from the sea. Everything here is a climb or a long slide down. This whole rock world demands more strength than I have just to follow the monk-made paths.

I see several paths from this doorway. One well marked toward the east disappears into the valley then rises up with steps into the shadows of the lifting fog.  In that direction, at some distance, stones are stacked for a wall, and maybe other little cloches of rock are on that peak just now hidden in fog.

The drear turns to rain, and I see the little monk coming up from the foot-worn path to southeast and he brings the daily flask of goats’ milk a carrot, and a small sack of oats.

Footnote: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skellig_Michael  Retrieved 10-17-25

(Continues tomorrow)

#81.10 Tuesday, June 23, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

It is a miracle indeed, though it never appears in an instant of shining like a lightning bolt. Healing is more of a memory of how it was, to know that now it is better.  Healing is a rare opportunity — a hope that drives a spirit beyond where a body can go.  Healing is a ceaseless driver through failures and falls, and of course, that horrific dependency on a caregiver who seems relentless in his giving, though maybe only for pity’s sake. And in these times, it seems the whole sake of me is only for pity.

The little monk never knew anything of me except my neediness.  What will he do with his pity for me when I have my strength and the power to rise up as I choose, and to walk, and move, and go out in the day whenever it is convenient? Will my simple gratitude be enough?

Thank you, God. Thank you, little monk.

I will soon be an intruder here. Though I hope I can be useful.

On this new morning the little monk brings in the flask of goat’s milk to share as always, but today he also brings me a stout stick washed in the sea, smooth and clean to be a walking stick. He must believe that I will be walking soon. He seems to welcome my new freedom — maybe it is his freedom from me, also.

I’ve pierced arm holes in the linen grave cloth he once lent me as a blanket, so that I can wear it as a simple tunic. I’m sure he notices that I have this plan to clothe myself with the linen grave cloth he assigned to me when he thought I was a dead man. I removed the draw cord at the hem opening and it serves as a cinch at my waste to draw the new tunic up to a walking length. So now I have something of earth to cover my wounded nakedness. If I should take up this walking stick and rise up and leave this hovel, at least my healing wounds will be hidden.

So, I choose this overcast day to venture outside for the first time because the bright sun would be blinding after so much time in near darkness.  I’ve seen very little of the outside but a blur of light on the most beautiful days and the circle of gray, or night’s darkness in the smoke hole at the top.

(Continues tomorrow)


#81.9 Thursday, June 18, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

Dear God, thank you for this life gift. Give me strength and resilience to learn to make use of this broken body again.

In these few days since I begged for the branch to stay in our midst, with the new freedom of stretching my limbs and sitting here on the straw, I find I am already able to grasp onto the branch. I begin to find power in my once useless arms. I can reach up and hold onto the branch, and at least support my imaginary plan to pull myself up and walk again.

Morning by morning in my imagination I rise up, and with each thought and prayer of it, I make a bit more progress. But mostly, it is about falling back exhausted. The monk prays, the dog keeps watch, and when my shaking knees fail the dog yelps and nudges the monk from his prayers. I crawl back to my place. And all we can think of is the failure. But really, morning by morning, though it goes unnoticed, I actually am becoming stronger and steadier.

Some days into this project now, I am nearly standing, leaning on the straight walls, bending my excessive height under the curves of the roof. Trinity is simply in awe of my stature.  At first, she shied back and bowed her head down to her front paw and offered a little testing-teasing kind of growl.  She is the one who can stand taller than the little monk if she would rise up on her hind legs. And I know she is wondering who is the tallest of us all now, and it appears it might be me – the useless one. 

With this revelation we all have to reevaluate relationships anew. The canine is trying to accept this with a tentative wagging tail and a few submissive nudges. I guess that makes this healing official.  In this little place I am the giant. The hound had considered herself to be the largest of beasts, and now, here I am as tall as this house, and I have to bend to fit the ceiling. Of course, as houses go, this is a very small dome of rocks.

Today, the little monk goes outside, and he takes Trinity with him. Maybe he needs his time alone, or perhaps, he is offering me the space to practice putting my legs back into usefulness. He understands the increments of healing. 

We all know healing, miraculous as it is,  is never a single magical moment of painless wonder.

(Continues Tuesday, June 23, 2026)

#81.8 Wednesday, June 17, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

The little monk surely notices my strength is returning. He sits by me, and with a serious face points to the hole in the middle of the dome that gives light and today, the place of release for the bird back into the sky. Then he starts to remove the branch. I spoke my objection, and Trinity heard me and caught the monk’s attention. I would like to say to the monk that I wish to keep that branch. But I fail in my attempt to rise up and demonstrate my need for the branch.

Now here I am lying flat. I haven’t even a feeble gesture for rising up.  My clumsy attempt to draw myself up to standing only belies my helplessness in rising. And sitting requires my hands for balance, and in using my hands for balance I have no way to say I imagine pulling myself up with that branch in case a day comes when I actually can grasp onto the branch for rising to standing.

Seeing only my frailty, the monk offers his silent language in a more exaggerated and simplified sign and his smile to let me know that he was pleased that I am becoming more able. But rising will be many falls and fumbles and he will pity all my tries.

I think I should practice standing while he is away because his empathy pains him so much. And falling is always the first part of standing. Yet when one of us who is rescued actually can stand or stretch or fly his joy is so grand that I only wish he would see nothing but the successes and never share in the hurt for my struggles. So, the bird and the dog, and now I too, try to keep secret our failings.

At least he understands my wish to leave the branch in the midst, but I’m not sure if he believes in my plan to pull myself to my feet. For now, it stays here, crowding the hearth stone under the smoke hole. If only I ever did make use of it keeping it here would no longer seem a silly whim. So today, when the little monk is deep in his morning prayers, and this little round house is filled with holiness, I move as stealthily as any torn and healing person can move, to reach for the branch. Even my arms lack their one-time strength, and I can only wonder if wobbly legs will ever hold my weight, such as it is, again.

(Continues tomorrow)


#81.7 Tuesday, June 16, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

I know something of healing. It doesn’t always appear with the fanfare of instant restored flight. Sometimes it is only discovered in the remembrance of the hurt, then it is simply taking notice of the painlessness of the healing scar. A new freedom from the pain and the limitation must be imagined and searched for then discovered anew. It requires one to discover what was thought to be damaged. Healing is just present to be found, not earned. It is grace.

Thank you, God.

I know prayers here begin as they do in all Christian places, with a separate name for each of the three legs of the monk’s dog. The names are Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. And it is the fully accepted theology that if one leg isn’t spoken the dog will fall down — a three-legged stool would tumble with only two or one leg.  Standing requires balance. And balance requires three, so if God is invented from human understanding, a tripod is required. But if God is, with or without the pull of the earth, if God created the earth as a beloved work of art, and God created the downward pull that clings all things to earth, then the larger than visible God, possibly also stands on three prongs, or maybe none at all, and in that way is all around us and yet everywhere else at the same time also.

Thank you, God, by no name, by three names, by any name, the beginning and the end, or perhaps no end. And in your namelessness, may healing be noticed even as it is unspoken.

Today, the little monk celebrates the departure of the bird. He grins, and prays, and takes the pail of sea-stuff back to the sea, then returns and starts to remove the branch which takes up precious space in our midst. I object, and he doesn’t hear me. I want to use that branch to pull myself up as I continue healing.

Trinity hears me and argues to him to keep the branch, barring her teeth, and clasping onto the branch when the monk tries to remove it. Frail though I am, I reach for the branch, and draw myself up with it, and finally the monk understands it is my need that the canine begs for.

Thank you, God.

(Continues tomorrow)

#81.6 Thursday, June 11, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

The shag spreads fine healed wings out in the sunlight on the higher perch of the rim into morning mist-rising; the huge bird’s pulsing red veins show translucent through the pitch of its feathers in this great wingspan that covers the sky hole. Just now, everything in the world shares an amazing, awed stillness up from the depths of joy itself.  The bird is a totem to the victory of healing over pain.

As softly as the shag had hopped up to the outside to spread its wings, it hops back to the inside again, and folds back onto its branch as the little hermit draws the sledge over the door again and so everything here will seem normal when the woman arrives with goat’s milk and greens.

But nothing is the same now. Here, a healing is complete and a bird is prepared to return back to the sky. Frail hope has changed to a powerful, driving joy. The daily duties – the sweeping – the spreading of fresh straw — the receiving of supplies are all different now.

She must have noticed the great wide bird spread out at our peak as she was arriving.  Does she just assume this is the place of the healing miracles? Or did she imagine the hulking black shag just flew up here from the sea? Maybe all of us mending here are just assumed to be the usual work project assigned to this monk. But I have to wonder if this little monk’s collection of us needy is his own secret, and the daily visitor doesn’t even know this fellow, assigned as the keeper of the dead, is really gifted with the task of the overseer of life.

As for me, I am able to move and stretch my healing limbs. A long complete stretch surges energy through me from my toes to my fingertips. So now, if the shag flies off to perch on the rocks at the rim of the sea, I will use that inside branch left here to pull myself up little by little until I am standing. Whenever the hermit leaves the stillness of this little place, I will be the one making this a hive of healing. Like a nesting parent, I’d encourage this bird to just fly off into the vastness of sky with all the birds, and leave this branch for me.

I know something of healing.

(Continues Tuesday, June 16, 2026)


#81.5 Wednesday, June 10, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

Thunder frightens Trinity.  As night comes so does the distant rumbling and flashes of light in the dark circle of sky. The little monk sleeps but I’m awake and very still as the canine would have me be.  In the storm, she’s paces nervously. The shag sees. Then there is a sudden light that fills the eye and the whole inside of our hovel, followed by the boom. Trinity is terrified — she looks hard at the sleeping monk.  Surely, she must know this is just another storm and storms come and go with night noises; but her whole boney frame quivers.

I would speak my worn out mantra, “I can’t help you.” But now I have something new to say aloud, “I can help you, sweat Trinity; come over here to me. I can help you.” And the three-legged boney canine immediately flops onto my own boney frame, her heart pounding, her breath is pacing into panting faster and faster gulps of fear. I find I can wrap her in the safety of my arms. I sing her a soulful lullaby in my own odd Hebrew words; the dog and bird know I’m singing and the psalm blankets us in peace. 

It is all about the healing now. I thank God for these creatures, and for my own healing amid the quivering breaths and the song.  “I can help you to the calming place of the song. I can help you.” I say again and again aloud for my own hearing. “I can help you dear faithful Trinity.”

***

On this fresh new day, I find I am able to move as I haven’t stretched my limbs in a very long time and realize I am on the mend. It is slow, and uneventful, hard to notice. But slow is good.  It is still the opposite of dead.

Then this morning while the little hermit is deep in prayer, the shag silently, without any fanfare or grand overture, hops from the top perch onto the rock rim of the hole for the sky.  It perches on the opening. Trinity paces her concern then nudges the little hermit away from his meditation.

His prayer doesn’t end but becomes a full-on dance of joy. He looks at the nearly healed shag from inside then he goes outside followed closely by Trinity. Dear God, you are celebrating with us this moment, are you not?

(Continues tomorrow)


#81.4 Tuesday, June 9, 2026

Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time

And here we are, his little collection of life’s leftovers together only because we are each needy of healing. Trinity can take herself outside and return again. She and the hermit have their own sign language together so she can be obedient to him. She always lets him know if anything is amiss in here or out there. When the hermit is exhausted and sits down to rest on the rock at the doorway, she sits by him and slides her big wooly head under his hand, resting her head on his lap.  In so many ways she gives him a warm comfort neither the shag above us clinging to the branch, nor I, can offer.

Now, every day at low tide the little fellow takes his prod and pail and goes off. He returns with an assortment of the things left between the rocks by the tide: the wriggling fish, an eel, or a sea blob. And he brings the stinking stew up here to give the shag a daily feast.  He sweeps up the soiled straw beneath the bird’s perch again and all around, and heaps the straw outside. In the evenings he makes a night fire outside. Maybe the fire wards off monsters of the night, or maybe he is just marking our place in darkness. It is not far beyond our doorway that he turns the soiled straw of the day to spark and ash and with some added peat, the night fire leaves new embers for the next day’s fires.

Each morning the woman whose voice I first heard interpreting for him comes with the sacks and flasks, and Trinity alerts the little hermit so he moves the sledge from the doorway. She never enters or even bends down to look in. I’ve never seen her and she hasn’t seen me. It is all very regular and very silent. All of these daily patterns and routines are faithfully attended so as dark, and small as this space is, it always smells of clean earth and fresh straw. It is always sparse with just a mere promise of enough.

Since it was the canine that can hear my shouting nightmares and senseless sounds in my sleep she knows I have a voice and she knows my single chant is always woefully, “I can’t help you.”

Dear God, may I heal to usefulness here in this place of slow and gentle restoration.

(Continues tomorrow)