Circling the Isle of Stones

Nature taught me how to pray in feeling and movement. I prayed the rosary with my family every lent, but my walks around our island on Hubley Lake every summer taught me how to embody prayer. The rosary became a rote practice. My walks upon the stones encircling the island became a living prayer.

As I walked the stones, I had to be aware of the best place to step. My perspective changed as I went round. The land behind the island was different than the beaches across from it. Always the water lapped at the stones and gurgled as it found its way between them. Some days the lake was blue and sometimes it was gray. A reflection of sky and mood it surrounded me. And I took it all in as I stepped from stone to stone.

Water and stone. Stone and water. Prayer and Nature take us within but they also bring us out of our shell and into the world invoking gratitude and wonder. With each step came peace. With each step wonder grew at the expanse of water, the landscape of wind-worn trees, the chatter of birds and the ever changing sky. My circling brought the environment to me in ways speeding through it in a boat could not. Only know do I realize how much I became a part of the environment as it became a part of me.

The prayer of that place rests inside me still. Even though I’m thousands of miles from the island I can reach for that rosary of moments encircling a land of memories. For me Nature is not just a place in time but the prayer of Spirit cast in my heart forever.


Words to the poem in the picture:

The Camp (An island of memories anchored by stones my soul knows by heart.)

My foot lands on the next stone

and the next.

In this way I walk around the Camp,

an island rimmed with stone

on Hubley Lake’s rocky waters.

Round and round I go

Blue grey water eases in

and out of crevices.

I hear the glop, glop

as it hits rock.

Life breathes in and out

as I walk counter clock-wise

around this home

away from home.

Cabin

wood burning stove

well

outhouse

dock

boat house

all ancient

to an eight-year old’s

sense of time…

and here time has slipped

back to a past

where tiny porcelain dolls

with painted faces and

movable limbs play

in a tiny church.

Here the past is layered

in the scent of wood smoke

and the memories of others.

Round and round I go

I look across rippled waters

see another island. Wonder

who walks its paths.

A whole other world

only a boat ride away.

I continue my rounds.