Sitting in the yard the day after Labor Day; the leaves have a tinge of red; birds gather at the feeder; a chipmunk scutters two inches from my feet; the sun cuts through the maple tree. I am very grateful for this time and place of solitude. Some call it luck; I call it grace.
This is where I’ve chosen to meditate. There is a soft breeze; my body feels the soft sea air of Iona My mind isn’t cluttered with thoughts, nor is it blank. Rather it has created a collage of Iona memories--every day, every kind of weather, every trip, every moment I am there. This is as close to being there as I could hope for or imagine. It is enough. Some call it luck; I call it grace.
This is where I’ve chosen to meditate. There is a soft breeze; my body feels the soft sea air of Iona My mind isn’t cluttered with thoughts, nor is it blank. Rather it has created a collage of Iona memories--every day, every kind of weather, every trip, every moment I am there. This is as close to being there as I could hope for or imagine. It is enough. Some call it luck; I call it grace.