22 May 2014
A quick note today. It’s 20 minutes past time for bed.
This lighthouse — I don’t know the name of it. All I know is that this is one of the last pictures I took on my Iona adventure, on the ferry from Craignure (Isle of Mull) back to Oban (back to mainland Scotland). It has become this icon to me: this representation of moving between states of things. A marker for change, for transition.
My list of books from Iona:
- Orkney by Amy Sayerville
- Otherwise: Poems by Jane Kenyon
- Ordinary Magic: Everyday Life as Spiritual Path by John Welwood
- A Hologram for the King by Dave Eggers
- Earth Elegy: Poems by Margaret Gibson
- On Beauty by Zadie Smith
- Something Understood poems compiled by Beverly McAinsh
- Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin
- Anam Cara: Spiritual Wisdom from the Celtic World by John O’Donohue
- Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
- All the Little Live Things by Wallace Stegner
- S by J.J. Abrams & Doug Dorst (not finished. I’m taking it to America with me)
- Eternal Echoes by John O’Donohue
- Selected Poems by David Scott
- Horizontal Gatherings 9 by Jan Sutch Pickard
- Collected Poems by Kathleen Raine
- The Patient’s Eyes by David Pirie
- The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng
- Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson
- Collected Poems by Norman McCaig
- The Bone-Collector’s Daughter by Amy Tan
- Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
– from When Death Comes by Mary Oliver
I’m packing for the US and trying to get ready for bed, and dealing with to-do lists, and I’m thinking: what happened to the minimalist life?