My Secret Hut in the Wilderness

Published in a book called Wrestling and Resting, Exploring Stories of Spirituality from Britain and Ireland, edited by Ruth Harvey, published by CTBI, Interchurch Hourse, 1999. ISBN 0 85169 248 6.

Dara Molloy May 1998.

As I write, the cuckoo is calling outside the house. It is the beginning of May. The small Aran fields are covered in primroses. This morning I awoke at dawn and heard a chorus of song from the many birds around my house - blackbird, robin, thrush, wren. Morning praise had begun – I was welcome to join in.

There was great excitement on the island last week when the cuckoo arrived. We waited in expectancy from around April 21st. He came on the 25th. I asked my neighbour, an elderly woman, had she heard him yet. “Oh, yes, I heard him this morning,” she said “and I blessed myself!”.

I have a little son aged one year and three months. Each day we go to see the cows in the field. He points to each of them. Sometimes the cat comes with us and wants to jump up on my shoulder. Yesterday a cow was curious and licked the tail of the cat. We listen to the birds singing. When the dreoilín, the wren, sings its beautiful melody, I tell my son that she is singing that song especially for us. The divine is present.

This place fills me with joy. I learned many years ago that the attributes of God are love, truth and beauty. Here, my home for the last fourteen years, God is beauty. In an earlier part of my life, God was truth. Then I was a perpetual student. But now I find God in the beauty of the primrose, in the flight of the swan, in the mysterious arrival of the cuckoo, in the power of the sea on a stormy day, in the perfection of a newly born calf, in the arrival of Spring, in the hatching out of tiny chicks, in the growth of my own potatoes. I exult in the divine mysteries of Mother Earth.

Last week, I found some gentians growing. These are an alpine flower that are rare outside of the snowy mountains of the Alps but grow here because of the rock formation. They have a blue colour that is stunning. Their discovery gave me great cause for celebration. Alongside them were cowslips, orchids and even some bloody cranesbills. For many years of my life I never noticed flowers. Their names meant nothing to me. Now I am in awe of them. Here they are, randomly scattered in fields, vulnerable, fragile, fragrant, abundant.

Mother Earth is the altar at which I worship. Her flowers are better than embroidery on an altar cloth. Their perfume is better than incense from a thurible.

I walk from my house towards the sea. The walk brings me down a steep path called Jacob’s Ladder. I arrive at Poll an Bhradáin, the Salmon Pool. Water here flows from the rock face into a stream, creates a pool and then again disappears under the ground. The salmon in Irish folklore, An Bhradán Feasa, symbolises knowledge and wisdom. Fionn McCool ate the Salmon of Knowledge caught by Finegas in the river Boyne and from then on was all-wise. I seek the ICHTHUS of the Greeks, the Bradán Feasa of the Irish.

I walk up the little path that leads to the Holy Well of Saint Ciarán. I am now on a togher, a pilgrim path. These toghers criss-cross Ireland. They name the journey we each have to make to find our ‘place of resurrection’.

The well marks the entrance into the womb of the earth. Here I can celebrate birth, motherhood, femininity, woman’s blood, the moon cycle, the seasons.

In a bullán, a bowl-shaped rock, I pick out seven small pebbles. They have been moulded by the sea below me and consecrated for sacred use by generations of pilgrims to this place. With these I count my rounds, dropping a stone back into the bullán each time I pass.

I journey to the right, a turas deiseal, imitating the sun going around the earth. My meditative journey brings me into step with the daily dance of sun and earth. I become one with their love-making. My seven rounds dance me through the seven days of the week.

Then I enter the holy of holies at the centre of my round. Lying face down on the holy ground, I reach deep into Mother Earth at her sacred entrance. My hand feels the cold, pure, life-giving water. Give me Jesus that water that wells up to eternal life.

In the field beside the well is Teampall Ciarán. Ciarán came here as a young man, seeking to learn from the abbot Enda and his monks, searching out his own calling. Enda told him he had a vision of a great tree planted in the middle of Ireland. The birds would carry its fruit to the whole world. This dream came true when Ciarán left Aran after seven years and founded the great monastery of Clonmacnoise on the river Shannon.

Visiting Ciarán’s church connects me to 1500 years of Irish spiritual and ecclesial history. The older door of the church is possibly 8th century, the window is 12th century, the later door marks the 15th century. These church walls absorbed continuous worship for over a thousand years.

I understand now why it was so important for the Irish hermit monks to find themselves a place of beauty in which to live. All the major Irish monastic sites are located in beautiful places - Clonmacnoise, Glendalough, Skellig Michael, Aran.

I wish, O son of the Living God, ancient eternal King
for a secret hut in the wilderness
that it may be my dwelling.

A very blue shallow well to be beside it,
a clear pool for washing sins through the grace of the Holy Spirit.

A beautiful wood close by around it on every side,
for the nurture of many-voiced birds, to shelter and hide it.

Facing south for warmth,
a little stream across its enclosure,
a choice ground with abundant bounties which would be good for every plant.
Fragrant fresh leeks, hens, speckled salmon, bees.

My fill of clothing and of food from the King of good fame,
and for me to be sitting for a while praying to God in every place.

(Irish; author unknown; 10th century)

Three Books:

The Saints of Ireland by Mary Ryan D’Arcy. 1974 Irish American Cultural Institute, Minnesota. ISBN 0-85342-733-X
This is one of many books I have that tell stories about the Irish saints. I grew up learning about Italian, Spanish and French saints, but nobody ever told me about the Irish ones. Thankfully, there are hundreds, maybe thousands of them. The stories ring true to me and are more appealing than the sugar-sweet stories of martyred virgins in Rome. I can find in the Irish saints an echo of my own identity. I love them.

Irish Monasticism, Origins and Early Development by John Ryan s.j., Four Courts Press, Dublin 1992. First edition 1931. ISBN 1-85182-111-2
Until I read John Ryan’s book, I knew nothing about Celtic monasticism, or even that there had been such a thing. Celtic monasticism was revolutionary because it took the Christian message and gave it a new expression that suited the culture, the people and the landscape. Having been directly responsible for bringing Ireland to its finest hour – the Island of Saints and Scholars – Irish monasticism then proceeded to begin transforming the rest of the known world. John Ryan showed me the road others had travelled before me, and made me want to travel it too.

Myths and Legends of the Celtic Race by T.W. Rolleston, Constable, London 1985. ISBN 0-09-467720-4
I was familiar with the Greek myths . I knew the names of Greek gods and goddesses. But Irish myths and legends were not educationally important in my upbringing. Now I see in the myths and legends of Ireland nothing less than the Irish Old Testament. Celtic Christianity only makes sense when you know the soil on which it grew. The richness of the Celtic tradition continues to surprise me. Many of the stories that I first dismissed as too violent or too far-fetched, I am now taking another look at and finding at their centre crucial insights into our spiritual existence. The Myths and Legends of Ireland tell me of my ancient identity.

Three Places:
Inis Mór, Aran Islands.
My place of resurrection. An amazing, wonderful place. A rich reservoir of Irish language, culture and spirituality. More archeological remains per hectare than anywhere else in Ireland. Ten monastic ruins to be visited in an area 10 miles by two. Holy wells, standing stones, dolmens, ring forts, beehive huts, churches, Celtic crosses.

Glen Colmcille, Co. Donegal.
The place I go to to connect with the great Colmcille, also known as Columba. Colmcille for me was the founder of the Celtic Church. He was a figure similar to David in the Bible – regal, majestic, a poet, a beautiful scribe, a great leader, yet regularly got into trouble, caused wars, cursed, and was found to be wrong. A man who practiced repentance and humility. Of course he was great not only in Ireland but also in Scotland.

The Hill of Tara, Co. Meath.
This hill brings me back into the mists of Irish legend. When the Tuatha de Danaan came to Ireland before the Celts, they brought with them the Lia Fail, the Stone of Destiny, and placed it on the Hill of Tara. That stone would cry out when the next High King of Ireland was in its vicinity. The Tuatha de Danaan chose the Hill of Tara as the residence for their kings. This practice continued on during the time of the Celts. The Great High Kings of Ireland built their fortresses here. Here the great Fianna were formed into a mighty unbeatable army led by the legendary Fionn McCool. The High Kingship continued as a central idea in Irish society until the Norman invasion in the 12th century. The Hill of Tara connects me to millenia of Irish history and legend. The Stone of Destiny still stands there.

Dara Molloy, May 1998.

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