#80.6 Thursday, May 14, 2026

Historical Setting: At sea, around Anglia, 794 C.E.

We are sailing on a northeast wind straight into a storm this night, and neither of us has traveled this way to recognize if this shadow of a distant land is the turning place, or just a dark cloud over this very wide bay. Cloothar finds this the best time to empty the keg. 

As dawn is rising red, the wind is roiling the sea, and we are already baling to keep ahead of the waves breaking on us with the rains only beginning. Baling may be futile, but we’ve finished the keg of ale so what else can we do.  I am seasick, which is mostly all I can think of, pucking in the bale bucket, since the edges of the boat are rollicking with the surf.

Now the roaring sea tosses us nearly over, then another rising wave breaks over us, and fills the boat, until finally a huge swell comes at us from the north, peaking and breaking and the little boat is sucked deep.

Now we are nothing but merciless twigs in the mountains of sea. The shadow we thought could be a land refuge, was mirage, or maybe debris loosened in the storm. There was never a safe mooring place there. The little craft of sticks and hides didn’t even offer a worthy wreck in this storm. I’m clinging to the empty chest we used for the rower’s seat which is filling with water, soon to sink. Cloothar was reaching for the hidden chest when last I saw him and he was sinking down after it. The empty keg floats beyond my reach. So, this is my drowning.

***

My heartbeat remembers rhythm. But I know nothing of the passing of time.  Glimpses of days and nights, come and go in this slow rising to life. Everywhere is the sea.

I have an eye for peering up from the waters into the blue and the darker dark.  My mind makes a frail lapse of memory trying to gather familiar fragments of the human core — touch — or sound — something.

I have only thoughts and prayers no flailing or calling out, nothing is left of me to touch or be touched.

But God is present here.

(Continues Tuesday, May 19)

#80.5 Wednesday, May 13, 2026

Historical Setting: At sea, 794 C.E.

Following the shoreline, we seem to have reached either a wide bay or open sea. Cloothar believes it a bay and we will shorten our journey to cut across. I’m on this rower’s seat, the empty chest with Cloothar’s dream to fill it with the trade of the stinky wools, now soaked in spring showers because the tarp doesn’t cover the stuff added from our stop at Ludonwec.

This is a mission of greed. This little boat is always a hefty row but now we sit ever lower in the water. Woe be to us if we should meet a storm at sea. And neither of us knows anything of these waters or even which skies will gather the storm clouds.

All through the night we are at sea with no view of land since Cloothar became impatient and chose to let go of the view of the coastline to cut across a supposed mouth of a bay. He tells me Iona should be straight up the shoreline, but when he saw the land curve to the North, he assumed it was only the inside curve of this bay. I fear we’ve strayed.  He probably does too, but he says he is sure we are making better time this way.

He takes a short shift at the oars, as darkness comes down on us. And now in a stillness in the winds, the row to the west is a bit easier for him. I see we have only four dried fish for food left — enough for two meals, maybe. But then, we still have a half a keg of ale.  I could eat and drink all of it and still have hunger pangs. But I’ll wait to share.

The wind rises again, lightly from the Northeast, so he raises the sail, and I can sleep for a few moments with Cloother at the tiller tacking us ever westward.

I awake to lightning flashes in the Western sky. Cloothar is scouring every illumination for the revelation of land. The flashes glimpse nothing but sea and the wide horizon.

Dear God, thank you for staying close with us on this journey.  I know you recognize the danger we are in, two men at sea in a heavily loaded little river boat. I know you know of the storm rising in the western skies. Thank you for keeping a close watch and may my next silence be in gratitude for a safe journey. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

#80.4 Tuesday, May 12, 2026

Historical Setting: At sea, 794 C.E.

I’m staying with the boat at the Ludonwec market port while Cloothar explores the city. While waiting here, I’ve discovered he keeps a chest of coins under the heap of black moldy monk’s robes he intends to sell in Iona. But I think he meant to keep me from knowing that we are carrying this abundance of wealth. It is probably his whole life’s treasure. So, instead of airing the robes just now, I put them back as they were so he won’t have to worry that his secret was revealed. Indeed, moldy black monk’s robes do make a fine deterrent against thieves. This also explains why, this little boat rides so low in the water.

It’s late in the day when Cloothar returns with a heavy load of goods, having made trades all day. The nearly warn out heap of linen tunics he took with him were all traded off for dresses and aprons in cotton fabrics. Some are dyed in colors. Cottons are not often available in the northern markets so he feels he has done well for himself.  He also has a keg of ale strapped on his back, and a basket of fruits and dried fish for the journey to come. 

He’s been asking around of others who travel this coastline and he’s learned that we are not even halfway to Iona by the way we are traveling.  When we sail on, probably tomorrow, we will come to the turning place where this part of the journey ends, and following the shoreline will take us westward for a short while before we turn north.  Then that journey northward is longer than the distance we’ve already come.

If we had possibly formed any bonds of friendship, they will be strained. The stories of our lives we never shared as friends would be old and worn from too much telling, if we ever just chatted — which we have not. And this keg of ale looks small compared to our need.

But thank you God, for Creation of days with the tender touch of springtime. May we endure the drone of sameness, as well as any storms that may threaten this hollow craft we sail.

It’s a good night’s sleep, moored as we are in the calm of a cove. Calm is good.  I would be rowing against the west wind today, if it weren’t for the calm. These are long days at the oars, and damp bug-bitten, itchy nights of sleeping on the beaches.

(Continues tomorrow)


#80.3 Thursday, May 7, 2026

Historical Setting: sailing at the mouth of a river, 794 C.E.

We are following a wide river from its mouth at the sea, upstream to a place Cloothar believes will be an established market in an old Roman city — Ludenwic — it has a name. This river does seem more marked with houses and all the other vestiges of human dwelling.  We pass by a church in clear view of the river. He notices my interest. Did I let my loneliness show? How does one, always focused on fabrics and markets, possibly notice what interests me?

         “Eleazor, there are churches all along this way.  You should be so happy to find that Ludenwic has turned Christian.  I’ve heard from others on the river who know, and this place has a grand church.  In Ludenwic there is a palace for bishops. You will love the Christian nature of this city!”

I answer his advertisement with a grunt.  I know he’s trying to sell me on this side-trip where we are. And I know we are only further from our intended destination on the Celtic Island of Mull.  For me, finding a palace of bishops is completely the opposite of finding humble monks inhabiting the thin places of nature.

We come to a wide bend in the river and here is a mooring bay with other small river craft. I row to the pier, and Cloother climbs ashore taking with him some samples to sell. He instructs me to stay with the boat, since he hasn’t secured a safe mooring here.  So much for my visit to this new city.  He trudges down the path toward the city markets. 

To make good use of the time I string a line from the mast to the prow to hang up the black wool robes in the sun and air them out before he tries to market them. It is a perfect day for airing fabrics. Cloothar will be pleased I’m only airing them and not soaking them in lye water as I would prefer.

Now I find, under all the monk’s robes, is another chest just like the empty chest I’ve been using for a rower’s seat.  But this chest is locked and weighty, apparently already filled with coins. Of course. This is why Cloothar protects this spot with the heap of moldy fabrics, never sorting or airing them while he continually cares for the commoner’s rags. He’s been guarding this chest from my sight.

(Continues Tuesday, May 12)


#80.2 Wednesday, May 6, 2026

Historical Setting: London, 794 C.E.

 These weeks are mostly spent rowing, rarely sailing along the wooded coast of Anglia. This journey seems to yield little in new markets for Cloothar. Yet we make our stops on land wherever he catches a glimpse of fishing buoys or a whaft of smoke rising, marking the presence of people. He trades fabrics for firs and perhaps a meal of whatever was hunted that day. And if the hunt failed, we join people in sharing a pot of thinned stew. [footnote]

Cloothar is good at finding us food and shelter, but he is no brother — neither by family or monk’s vows. I would like to call him a friend, but he has trouble quantifying friendship in his way of understanding. He doesn’t expect me to be a source of comradery and he assumes that any friendly chatter must be purposed with some material ending. Yet I yammer on.

         “Did you learn your merchant’s trade from your father?”

         “What matter is that to you, Eleazor?”

         “I was just wondering the source of your gift.”

         “Knowing things of a person gives you power over them. Do you hammer me with questions because you think it will make you the captain of this ship?”

         “No, of course not. I was just…”

In this silence between us now, I can only enjoy the humor of his miss-understanding, imagining myself taking over control as this so-called ship’s “captain.” That would only mean I would be privileged to tell him when to draw the oars.

Since I am longing for conversation, I find our stopping places a reprieve. I’m already comfortable with the language of the Saxons and we share stories.

One would think my prayers without ceasing would satisfy my need for conversation, but neither does the merchant offer me his own company nor does he yield the tranquility of sanctuary. When I put my complaint in a prayer I ask God for solitary time, and also, to retool Cloothar into a friend. I believe that prayer was answered, but not by changing Cloothar. Rather, God answered by changing me to accept him as he is.

After this long journey following the shoreline south, the rivers flow into the sea with the fresh water mixing with the brine, and each river entices Cloothar to follow it in search of a market.  Rumors among merchants tell of a town rising from the old Roman walls of a city, now a thriving marketplace. [Footnote]

[footnote] https://www.thehistoryoflondon.co.uk/ (retrieved 9-2-25) organizes the history of the rise of settlements and urbanization in Southeastern England broadly by periods of occupancy. The late eighth century after the Roman occupancy crumbled, and before the Vikings made their lasting settlements in the mid-ninth century and on, this area was under Saxon rule.

(Continues tomorrow) 

#80.1 Tuesday, May 5, 2026

Historical Setting: The Eastern Coast of Anglia, 794 C.E.

Setting out with Cloothar, I know this fellow’s purpose is the market yield. Always used clothing needs airing, not cleaning.

I planned to travel to Iona on the other side of this island of Anglia. Like Lindisfarne, Iona is an island monastery. Most would travel between Jarrow and Iona on land, but I have no horse, or purse or coin, and Cloothar offers me this journey and a silver penny for my help at sea. He deals in gold and silver in the major markets, so I am pretty sure I won’t have to take my due this time, simply by trading up my own cloak for a better one.

Neither of us has taken this sea journey along the eastern then southern shores of Anglia and north again to Iona. But he has choosen this route hoping to find new markets along the way. Today, on the first leg, we find long forested stretches sparsely inhabited. The clusters of houses are at the mouths of rivers. In these villages Cloothar trades in simply spun fibers, with no tailor’s touch to any of the garments. Most of his bounty is in the center of this little craft as heaps of moldy rags.

But he knows his customers well. At first glance he can see if someone is a buyer or a gawker. He recognizes people by their wants and takes account of their station and wealth even before a word is spoken. All he really notices of people is the bulge and brim of their pockets. His guise of empathy is always purposed with making a deal. As Cloothar’s traveling companion, I should simply consider myself alone. He spins no stories that don’t end in a deal for him. He sheds no tid-bits of wisdom of life and love… And he sails south when he means to go west.

I guess I shouldn’t expect him to fill my need for a companion. All he needs of me is help in rowing when the winds are calm. I suppose I just have to let him be as he is. And in the silence, I have my prayers.

Dear God, thank you for all these new wonders of the lands and sea. For the tender season, newly green and flowering simply by nature I am grateful always, I know you are near in the beauty of new places. 

(Continues tomorrow)

#79.14 Thursday, April 30, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

I’m not sure I need a merchant to fill my emptiness. My spiritual need isn’t like a cloak or a hat. I am missing the thin places, or the beautiful window where I meet God.

It’s Cloothar who tells me of Iona, a monastery founded by the Irish that is set apart from the politics of kings.

         He says, “Iona is a place that needs these black monks robes I’ve collected. Some brothers on this side no longer find refuge with the saints, and are shedding their holy ways as well you understand.”

         “And Iona needs you to supply them with monk’s robes?”

         “Just come with me to Iona.  You will like it.  It was the school that sent the first Celtic fellow, Aiden, to establish Lindisfarne.” [Footnote]

     “And you need an extra hand to sail that far?”

     “You read me too well, Eleazor. I’ve never sailed that far west. I don’t know what it will be. I may need a hand at the oars.”

     “You would think a monastery as old as Iona would already have a trunk of old monk’s robes.”

     “Ah, but they aren’t the newer standard of black. Their robes are just anything. You see how it is, Eleazor, they have the Celtic Rule still to this day, and it doesn’t follow the rigors of the papal communities.”

     “You mean it doesn’t follow the Benedictine rule.”

     “And oh, how I’ve heard you argue against that rule.”

     “I didn’t know I’d been so vocal about it.”

     “Don’t you remember how you were wound so tight on our little trek from Lindisfarne when you wanted to wash the old robes in lye water, and shrink them up into useless rags, when all they needed was a good airing?”

     “I remember our arguments over new monks in old robes. And now you want to go to Iona and trade the black robes for whatever the novices happened to have on when they took their vows?”

      “Not exactly. The rumor among the markets in the north lands is that Iona has riches.  I will meet with the abbot and make one good trade and sell all these black robes for gold coins.”

Cloothar has an empty coin chest just waiting. I can use it as a rower’s seat. He said he learned of Iona’s riches in the north lands. So, apparently Iona is already a target for a Viking raid.

      Dear God, watch over Iona. Amen.

[Footnote] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iona retrieved 8-27-25

(Continues Tuesday May 5)

#79.13 Wednesday, April 29, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

Weaponry and wars make no happy endings, because there are no endings, just changes in populations and power structures. But, of course, mortals, by the very nature of mortality, draw conclusions, set goals of completion, grope after legacy and prepare for whatever afterlife their religion dictates. No mortal person has touched an angel strutting among the clouds; but even I, in my persistence in earthly life, often experience being touched by the Creator love that surrounds us. Thank you, God for being present with us.

So, now, as a repetitious mortal, I imagine a destination. It is a place where the earth ends and heaven begins. It is a thin place shared in the Irish way of mysticism. I know of thin places, and I once knew an Irish mystic who established monasteries across the land of Gaul to offer the tranquility of thin places far and wide. Now, again, I am looking for this veil of heaven as I do in these spiritually needy times. It feels like the vision of mortal life has come to a solidly opaque barrier — an ending, as though there is nothing more. Then I find a spiritual place, and this seems to be the translucency of mystery allowing me a contemplative passage through. What is thin in a thin place is the barrier between me and God, not between life and death, or good and bad, or any of those other mortal walls.

I didn’t find it in the library of Jarrow. So, I come now, down to the little harbor where boats await the rising tide to access the river. And as I’d hoped, Cloothar’s little craft is still moored here.

He seems welcoming, as though he thinks he knows my need. Maybe I am allowing myself to fall into the snare of this professional profiteer. But Cloothar, the merchant of used dry goods, first told me of that distant place I’d never been.

         “Eleazor, my friend, what do you know of Iona?”

         “What is there to know?”

         “It is an Irish monastery on the other side of this island, a long haul by donkey on land, but with the right wind, it can be reached by sea, in days counted on fingers.”

         “More simply, you mean ten days.”

         “But you like the obtuse do you not? It is my business to read the minds of men, and know their naked need. Afterall, I am a highly successful merchant.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#79.12 Tuesday, April 28, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

The Viking raid on Jarrow was swift and the tragedy was mostly on the Vikings’ side. All of the preparations for attack worked: the rocks across the river at the place of the tidal rise; the guards hidden in monk’s clothes; the swords and daggers sprinkled throughout Jarrow.  Lindisfarne’s painful warning served Jarrow well. In the stillness of aftermath, Ousbert is in his glory, and by his very nature he is well rehearsed in glory. He rallies his men for a headcount. He stops the killing of the last of the captured Vikings, holding them back from the Halls of Valhalla, this time, because he has an earthly use for them.

These prisoners are bound and waiting with the beached longboats. Ousbert’s soldiers disarm the dead, collecting up the swords and shields, stripping the bodies of helmets and chains. Then the last living dregs of these marauders are set loose to dispose of the corpses at sea.

Even among these Christians ordained as holy monks, there are no bodies anointed and no prayers needed for these dead. The prayers are only of gratitude. The deaths are bleak and unforgiven. The survivors take the oars of their burdened boats and slip away into the deep. Ousbert glories.

         Dear God, may my own prayer not begin with my usual gratitude because just now, the thanksgivings I hear around me, maybe rising for you to hear, seem to be about saving the treasures of the monastery and sending the dead Vikings away for burial at sea. I’m not grateful for a win for one side or the other. I’ve seen enough crucifixion, warring, marauding, angry spears and deaths at human hands to know violence is no different from any other plague or mishap, except that this hurt is by the hands of the very species that also suffers the grief of it — your own beloved humankinds. Guide us in your wide loving way, Amen.

It is still an intimate secret that God is the Creator and the love force that set the stars in place and moves the planets. God’s judgment lifts up the beauty, the life and the love; it does not diminish it with punitive measures. It isn’t the nature of an omniscient God to sort people into teams of righteous winners and wicked losers.  In this euphoria of release from fear, the prayers rising thank God for the win. But in all the lifetimes and deaths I’ve known, God’s compassion doesn’t choose sides.

(Continues tomorrow)

#79.11 Thursday, April 23, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

At matins I chanted with the monks. Now in the full light of dawn, I walk with the monk-clad guards from the river to their posts at the sea. The tide is high and the river into the sea is roiling and deep. The heap of rocks that become the footpath at low-tide are deep under the tidal waters that will soon surge against the river’s flow. On the sea, the swells from the depths heap into shore — waves, peaking, breaking, foaming then rising again, churning up from the depths to again break on the shore. At first, I think the dark lines on the sea are debris from a distant storm, then I realize what we are seeing.

The guards shed their monks’ robes and draw swords. I turn and run back to warn the people in the monastery and the woods and the villagers of Jarrow, but faster than I can run the longboats are slipping up the river past me.

I shout it at the monastery, and the monks are going into hiding, except one nimble young novice who joins me in alerting others in the countryside. Our warning was meant to give people a chance to hide, or run, but everyone along the way is drawing swords and taking up knives.  When we hear the bell ringing from the tower alerting all of the danger, the warning is complete and we return to the monastery.

Some of the Viking ships are abandoned on the shore at the place where the Don runs into the Tyne. The tide is receding carrying ships sparse of men at the oars smashing them against the rocks laid across the river exposed in the ebbing of the tide. [Footnote] At the monastery, it was said thirty swords greeted the marauders and now many are dead.

The watchman posted at the sea this hour killed the Viking leader as the marauders came ashore, leaving the attackers driven by nothing more than personal greed. As one, who is a stubborn pacifist, I would think that lives on both sides could be spared with letting go of earthly treasures for the sake of saving lives. Maybe there is the necessity of taking prisoners and holding trials. But fear offered no place for conversation. Any kind of reconciliation did not happen, and now Jarrow celebrates keeping some of its treasure.

Prayers of thanksgiving rise over the bodies of dead Vikings. I have no understanding of warfare on either side.

[Footnote] https://www.heritagegateway.org.uk/Gateway/Results_Single.aspx?uid=1579441&resourceID=19191

(Retrieved 5-28-25)

Only one footnote is needed here, because the noted source analyses a variety of theories about this attack. This blogger, being a fiction writer, considered the discrepancies among the later written accounts, and the lack of archeological evidence of storm battered ship wrecks, based this telling of the story on the likely preparedness of Jarrow, after Lindisfarne, and the excellence of the ships and the seamanship of the Vikings, inventing the notion they were snagged on a low-tide rock wall used as a walkway to Monkwearmouth. 

(Continues Tuesday April 28)