Everybody Looook
Walking the Camino de Santiago, I learned that the sooner you let go of your “script”, the better. And gratefully, you make space to be a pilgrim—learning, adapting, and welcoming the gifts of gratitude and pausing, and wonder and healing.
I write this on the Ring of Kerry—western coast of Ireland—an area steeped in history, with evidence of human settlement dating back to prehistoric times.
On our Ireland journey, the true magic lies not just in the sights, but in the stories that breathe life into the land. The legends are a bridge between past and present, and an invitation to the power of pause: slow down, listen, and connect. To the gift of wonder. And to those around you—knowing we are on this pilgrimage together.
In a conversation with a couple before driving the Ring of Kerry, he advised, “You’ll want to drive it slowly. Because you’ll need to get ready to point, a lot, and say, ‘Loook’.”
And I smiled big, remembering one of my favorite stories.
A woman stands at the window and stares. We are on the morning commuter ferry, from Vashon Island to Seattle. A snow-covered Mount Rainier dominates the panorama. It stands prominent, imperial in the dawn light (14,400 feet above sea level). (And it is true. Here in the Northwest, the first time you see Mount Rainier, you do a double take. Some Divine-sleight-of-hand. Where’d that mountain come from?)
The woman is wide-eyed, as if she is surprised by the mountain. As if she is seeing it for the first time. All of the other early morning commuters (and there are many) go about their business. Reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee. Paying bills. Talking with friends. Napping on benches.
“Looook,” she announces loudly, “we can see the mountain. Everybody looook!”
She has the demeanor of a person “not all there.” You know what I mean. She is clearly one of those people who “embarrass” us. (Or realistically, one of those people we choose to ignore.) As other commuters walk by, they (we) knowingly smile at one another and roll our eyes. She’s not normal, we tell one another in code.
“Looook,” she says again, pointing this time, almost reverential, “the mountain.”
I’ve seen the mountain a thousand times, but I figure, “What the heck.” So, I put down my book, and look. The rising sun has just crested the Cascade Mountain ridgeline. It looks as if it is sitting in a saddle between two peaks. The shaft of light from the sun glistens on the snow face of the Cascades, the color of a good English beer. It hits the Puget Sound, and dances across the water, now a golden pathway from the ferry to the sky. Mount Rainier, backlit and venerable in this morning light, appears etched, as if a great artist rendered it in charcoal or pen and ink. The water of the Puget Sound is gun-metal-grey, and calm.
To the south is Tacoma harbor, where a crescent moon hangs in what I can only describe as a melancholy blue sky.
I do not pick up my book again. I look. A morning vista as sacrament—a dose of grace; a brew, fortifying and settling.
“Looook,” the woman is talking again. “The mountain. Everyone looook, the mountain.”
To exit the ferry, we walk by the woman (still standing, still pointing, still talking), wondering, I suppose, what went wrong in her life, what finally snapped, and what made her leave her senses. How sad for her. We walk hurriedly, you know, in order to take care of those more important obligations awaiting us in our day. However. On this morning, the “crazy woman” is my sage. My seer, my rabbi, my priest, my pastor. She is my reminder. For whatever reason, she sees the day without the extra layers of defense. (Or if you’ll permit an impenitent play on words, she seizes the day, carpe diem.)
I tell this story whenever I can. And if you’ve heard me speak, chances are you’ve heard this story. And I never get tired of telling it, because it reminds me that I am grounded and refueled in the sacrament of the present moment.
And, whenever I tell it, I get gooseflesh. And that makes me smile real big. (Meaning the stuff I carry that weighs me down, is no longer quite so heavy.)
It’s not just that she looked. It’s that she lived the moment wholehearted. There is for her a very visceral engagement. She is, literally, all in.
This is what I would love to bottle and sell…
She didn’t need permission.
She didn’t need approval.
She didn’t need skepticism.
She didn’t need a motivation to impress.
She didn’t need evaluation or justification.
She needed simply this… “Looook how beautiful,” she says, “the mountain.”
She wasn’t speaking as a “tourist”, but as a “pilgrim”, absorbed in, and empowered by, the sacrament of the present moment.
These days, I’m grounded with Sister Joan Chittister’s wisdom. “We do not pray in order to escape the world around us. We pray with one eye on the world so that we can come to understand what is really being asked of us here and now, at times like this, as co-creators of the universe.”
One of the gifts on this Ireland pilgrimage is the stories about men and women throughout history, who did just that. The came to understand what was begin asked of them, in the present—often during a time of serious turmoil and unrest and chaos.
Heartened by our time walking Lough Leane in Killarney, County Kerry (in Irish it is Loch Léin, which means Lake of Learning, a nod to the 7th-century monastery founded on one of its islands, where Brian Boru himself was educated.) We found our way to Muckross Abbey—an Old Irish Monastery dating back to the beginnings of Christianity in Ireland. The first monastery reputed to have been built here by Saint Fionan sometime in the 6th century.
In all the abbeys we’ve visited, I’ve been heartened by the monks—who often lived in great isolation—their devotion and resilience a testament to the human spirit, inspiring respect and awe. Over 1000 years later, through stories and folklore, you can almost feel the monks’ presence, a reminder of faith and endurance.
And then driving the Ring toward the Kerry Cliffs. My Oh My. The cliffs stand over 1000 feet above the wild Atlantic and were formed in a desert environment 400 million years ago. (Out to the west stand the amazing Skellig Rocks one of only three UNESCO world heritage sites in Ireland.) And yes, I did point and say, “Loook!”
And if you’re in a bit of a hurry, the Ring of Kerry is not the place to drive. The Wild Atlantic Way leads over the Coomanaspig Pass. Both the ascent to the pass and the descent can be white knuckle adventurous—no matter from which side you approach.
One thing that did my heart good as I travelled around County Kerry was the number of signposts marked “Kerry Camino” or “Pilgrim Path”. The mystery was solved when I discovered the Church of St James in Dingle. This is said to be the place where medieval pilgrims would assemble before boarding boats to Coruna in Spain, from where they would walk to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela.
Buen Camino indeed.
BULLETIN BOARD
Today’s Photo Credit: My first view from the Kerry cliffs of Ireland. And yes, we walked and absorbed for quite some time… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com
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POEMS AND PRAYERS
Oh, Great Spirit,
Whose voice I hear in the winds
and whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me! I need your strength and wisdom.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes
ever hold the red and purple sunset.
Make my hands respect the things you have made
and my ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make me wise so that I may understand
the things you have taught my people.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.
Help me remain calm and strong in the
face of all that comes towards me.
Help me find compassion without being overwhelmed.
I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother or my sister,
but to fight my greatest enemy: myself.
Make me always ready to come to you
with clean hands and straight eyes.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you without shame.
Translated by Lakota Sioux Chief Yellow Lark in 1887
Music for the Soul…
New–
Sanctuary – Carrie Newcomer
