St. David of Wales

Sept. 23, 2000

The wind is blowing the grass, hard, in the Holy Field of St. David. We are not in the big Abbey where my spirit felt so stifled, hemmed in by the hollow spaces of vaulted stone. The air was thick there - not with sancticity, but medieval politics. St. David himself (purportedly) lived in a little iron and wood box hidden away in the back of the church, like an afterthought. When I meditated next to this box, I caught a glimpse of a wild Spirit, free as the Celtic landscape I am now sitting in, with the afternoon light slanting hazily across the grass, and the ocean breaking against the cliffs in front.
A damp chill passes through the air now, clouds obscuring the sun. I look up, as one seagull crosses the sky. This is the present moment.

I have always been here.

St. David you were born here, in a little stone hut, and now this is but a dream to you. And now I am here, and you are but a dream to me. And through it all, the green fields, the little Holy Well, the footpath and the ocean, the wind ceaselessly blows. It is rich and clear and bracing, as I imagine St. David to be.