Iona Nunnery at First Light: A Thin Place Poem

Welcome, pilgrim.

Lay down your burdens with your luggage.

Neglect your phone as you have neglected quiet.

Rise early to step into the swell of birdsong.

Be lifted on its crescendo.

Bundle up against the cold so that you can sit in my lap

and feel the warmth of my mother’s heart.

Pause in the doorway of my stone garden

whose only roof is the blue of heaven,

inhaling the virgin earth’s bracing air.

Witness my walls, how a ruin can defy its label

and be the womb of life.

My sparrows have no fear of you;

they hop to your feet in friendly greeting.

Swifts skim past your face like dragonflies.

They know here a home of freedom

and refuge now extended to you.

Quit talking and just listen.

Hear the sweetness of the distant lamb calls.

Stand with the angels to face the newborn sun,

rolling out its sparkling gold carpet across the waters.

Take in the layers of island silhouettes,

each further shore a softer shade,

forest green to lavender.

I see you there, you silly, reaching for your pocket,

your disappointment at finding it empty.

(As if you could capture the dawn!)

Better to just be here for a little while.

Use your own two eyes. Rest now,

your only clock a living cuckoo

sheltered in a sycamore.

The island has burst into bloom with the joy of your arrival!

Stay here in my embrace a moment longer.

Do not go back inside, dear one, till I have kissed

your wee head good morning.

This is my blessing, my affection, my promise.

You are always welcome here.

- early Sunday morning, June 8, 2025, on the Isle of Iona, Scotland

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I thought I was prepared for a week’s retreat on the historic island of Iona, after all that I had read about it and all the photos and virtual tours I had seen. But when I caught my first sight of its eastern shore from the ferry on June 7, 2025, it took my breath away. And as soon as I set foot on this island, all my plans of how I would spend my time there flew away. At last I knew the meaning of a "thin" place, for it drew me like a powerful, loving magnet, demanding my undivided attention, and I drafted this poem on my first morning on Iona. The garden ruins of the nunnery, built around 1200 CE, immediately became my favorite spot, and I returned there every morning of my stay. She became my spiritual dwelling place, speaking to me as if I were one of her long lost daughters returning home.