Living on the Edge
Eigg that is. Rainbows, caves and beaches...my current life on a remote island in the Inner Hebrides is beautifully full of sites and sorrow. I'm taking the time I need to grieve and explore what's around the corner.
Having spent a month now on this remote island, I am reflecting on the transformation I have experienced thus far.Ā
So much so, I barely recognize myself: physically, mentally, emotionally, energetically and spiritually.Ā
The first two weeks of the transition were about learning the ways of the island and how the people move around, including on and off of it. Weather, Ferries, shop and cafe hours were the firsts. All while putting 8+ miles in on the bike and/or hiking a day.Ā
By the third week I was involved in groups and projects, and in a way I would describe it as āLiving fully on the front of the postcard.āĀ The people here are warm and care for one another.Ā
The last week of November, turning the corner into December was a deep plunge, a realization of what I have done: Isolated myself on a remote island. True I had made friends and was in-tune with the rhythms of the land. Yet, after a few calls with friends and family back home, I could feel the resistance to what was happening in the world I had left. A distain for the mediaās impression that was impacting others but not me. Having not looked at any news and having little interaction with social media, I feel privileged to have the kind of calm nervous system we all hope for, but rarely achieve.Ā
I have little to no external influences, unless I go seeking them.
Which is good because this has served as a foundation for my "dark night of the soul." A moment where my grief was the threshold, and as I leaned into the darkness to feel it fully, it sucked me in. It felt as though I was being pulled through a keyhole, swept out by the tide, and pulled into an undercurrent. I experienced all of the emotions in a way only grief allows you to: to the fullest, deepest, most excruciatingly way possible.Ā
Landing in a torrent. The gale force winds knocked the air back into my lungs with a smack on my back. While having been ravaged, I was breathing again.Ā
All the while showing up to others with love and graceāmy living devotion to Ray. What a forceful expectation society requires of us. Friends encouraging with words like: you are doing great, I admire your strength. Those statements make me want to hurl myself into the ocean again. Yet I find myself saying the same thing to others and shamefully put my mask so others donāt see the depth of my pain.Ā
A secondary loss I am now getting used to is navigating who I was before and who I am becoming. I step firmly as I hike, my boots sink into the boggy earth. I gently dance on the beach, toe prints in the sand. Each a purposeful interaction helping me stay in alignment with myself so I may continue forward with less stumbling, more eye opening experiences, and new memories made.Ā
With a recent loss in the community, I carry my grief alongside them. Wishing I could put my heavy load aside to help carry theirs. But I simply cannot.Ā
So I created this series of grief prompts as an offering. Though a first draft, perhaps you can benefit from them too. If you find them helpful, please share the link with a friend.Ā It includes a video from my Calligraphy as Meditation presentation.
I leave you with this.Ā
After the Tide
Standing where the water once was,
the sand still breathing its memory.
Grief shimmers like salt left behind ā
a trace of what love has carried away.
The tide will return; this is known.
It crashes, takes me down,
then cradles in the same motion.
It whispers of endings
and beginnings that sound the same.
There is mercy in its pull,
strength in the soft undoing.
It holds me ā
the ebb, the ache, the quiet repair ā
and in its rhythm,
breathing once again.
















