Chris McDonnell: Our island home
We have, over many centuries, held islands in a certain awe, places set apart, cut off, inaccessible, remote.
Lindisfarne, or to use its familiar name in the North East of England, Holy Island, is one such place. That betrays its history. The monastic foundation on the island owes its existence to Aiden who travelled from Iona, another island off the west coast of Scotland, to set up home on this rocky outcrop off the coast of Northumbria.
Strictly speaking, Lindisfarne is not an island, for at low tide it is connected to the mainland by a causeway that allows access on foot (or now by car). You choose your time to cross with care, for the rapid ingress of the tide sweeps across the narrow tarmac surface of the causeway at some speed. That is why at the half-way point there is a watch tower, a refuge for those careless enough to ignore the tidal charts. It is not unknown for cars to be swept away in the rising water.
Cuthbert, another great saint of those early years of the English Church, was a monk of Lindisfarne and later abbot of the community. The name of Lindisfarne is attached to the famous Book of Gospels, a superbly illuminated MSS now in the British Museum, written sometime around 700 AD.
Why do islands have such fascination, both then and now? Is it the total enclosure by the sea? Or the lack of amenities? The silence, apart from bird call or the waters of the breaking sea? Or the stillness as dawn breaks over the horizon?
Maybe they say something about us as individuals, members of communities, yet in some way seeking a personal solitude, a place where we can be alone, even for a short period of time. What must it have been like, during the lifetimes of men such as Aiden and Cuthbert, to live on such an outcrop of rock, their cycle of life and prayer, determined by the very elements of nature in which they had placed themselves, moved through the seasons?
We live in a largely noise-filled world where the anxiety of living creates a continuous backdrop to the daily pattern of our experience. The urge to get away, to seek the experience of quiet solitude is strong, a necessary refreshment after the hubbub of the City. I wrote following text some ten years ago, take from it what you will.
Between sunrise and evening we walk,
each listening to the Word, returning
to the point of our departure, between
the running water and the rising land.
We live the experience, each speaking
the Word, returning to our hermitage.
The many silent stones we gathered listen
high on the hillside of our Island ,
awaiting our return.
Move out to the margin
and silently watch the surging sea
break on the sand edge, smooth stones
and shale, rolled and salt washed.
High on the hill, gathered stones
give shelter from the Western wind
building across a broad, open sky, the
full spread glow of late Autumn sunset.
Open grassland, treeless and torn by rage
Empty distance beyond the fence,
where sea-wail and sky-howl
touch the moon-cold night.
This awesome place of utter loneliness
where words lead back in loops
unless abandonment is complete,
this distant, desolate, island home.