wind in the willows

“He had the world all to himself,
that early summer morning. The dewy woodland,
as he threaded it, was solitary and still;
the green fields that succeeded the trees were his own
to do as he liked with.”

~ Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows.

True to pilgrimage form, anticipating and preparing are elements in the travelling. The journey begins before the physical setting forth. Having the wheels aligned on my car was part of the sacred journey; the mechanics and I talked about the Berkshires, and how beautiful the mountains are in spring. Between my workdays, leading up to my time off, I gradually set aside provisions, thinking of writing, hiking, photography, and reading. Two weeks before leaving, during an afternoon’s visit at the Boston Athenaeum, it occurred to me that I’d do well with some light reading. For retreats, I’ve learned to intersperse the more demanding texts I tend to favor, with easygoing literature. Occasionally I’ve brought along short stories, periodicals, or novels. This time, while my thoughts drifted to memories of C. S. Lewis and my studies at Oxford, I remembered learning that he admired The Wind in the Willows, a book I hadn’t read yet. Climbing up through the gallery tier of the Athenaeum’s cavernous 2nd floor, I pulled a first edition of the story. Resisting the temptation to open the book before reaching Stockbridge, I placed it in the gradually-filling bag near my dining table, among pencils, cameras, clothing, batteries, ink jar, and bug repellant.

view from 2nd floor gallery, Boston Athenaeum

traversal and transition

The road southwest to the Berkshires begins with an ordinary I-95 drive south on the Maine Turnpike, as any average intercity errand. Taking the offramp that points me toward Worcester indicates that I’m going to do something out of my ordinary. Merging onto the “Mass Pike” is a rare westward commitment, yet I remained amidst plenty of hurried traffic- including the regionally stereotypic tailgaters and nonsignalling, cutoff-passing drivers. Things do change later, as I traversed the Springfield area and I-91. After that, much of the highway is all to myself, as the remainder of exits are among the Berkshires. Continuing northwest of this region are the Adirondacks. The highway grows less bland, curving and rising with the mountains. Anticipating my exit, the look of the terrain had become more interesting to me than the stresses I’d fled from. Finally departing from the toll road, I took up narrower and more eventful lanes. Blustery, chilled, aromatic overcast welcomed me to spring. Just what I like.






storybook imagery

After greetings at the Divine Mercy shrine (on Eden Hill), the center of my pilgrimage, and my hostelry at the nearby Red Lion Inn, the day had been fulfilled. The sight of my surroundings was inspiring in itself. After a short walk, I returned to the Inn for dinner, taking the book with me. At last, while tasting roast beef, horseradish, potatoes, salad, and ale, I began reading. The book accompanied my writing, and other reading, out on the Inn’s spacious front porch, becoming a companion through the sojourn. Settling into the pages, the story was unusually suited to where I was, taking place along a river, in countryside. Having the Housatonic River, the Berkshire mountains, winding roads, and forests around me, it was easy to imagine being part of the adventures.

The characters themselves are small animal sojourners along meandering voyages. Hiking in the woods, along portions of the river, I thought of places that could be hiding such landmarks in the story as Wild Wood, Mole End, or Toad Hall. In fable-like fashion, the characters exemplify personality traits. As examples, the staid and bold Mr. Badger admires the curious and naive Mr. Mole. The weasels and stoats are tribal and militaristic. By contrast, the flamboyant Mr. Toad is magnanimously hospitable, yet completely undisciplined. As a result, Toad’s adventures are the most dramatic and colorful, including an outrageous jail-break. The Water Rat is the fearless and conscientious champion of all the creatures, speaking with a steady voice. I believe he was the model for Lewis’ chivalrous Reepicheep, of the Narnia chronicles. After all, the swordfighting mouse held the honor of Most Noble Order of the Lion. The characters in Wind in the Willows navigate, argue, commiserate, scheme, and dine together.

Stockbridge, Massachusetts

And then there is the yearning wanderlust of Mole. The story opens as he senses the spring from underground where, as he says, “you know exactly where you are; nothing can happen to you.” Yet still, the season of emergence was “penetrating even his dark and lowly” confines, as “something up above was calling him imperiously,” and he tunneled up into sunlight and meadows. This generates an ambitious energy to venture out, and he finds new kindred spirits, and helps the lives of others- and he is happy to return home, in this new context. Easily, with book open in front of me, I saw some amusing parallels to my own experience. Mole instinctively knew to reach beyond the limits of subterranean Mole End. Later, after his adventures take him far afield, he reflects, “Things go on all the same overhead, and you let ‘em, and don’t bother about ‘em. When you want to, up you go, and there things are, waiting for you.” He could as well have been a basement character with top-floor administrators. Mole befriends Rat, and one of their intriguing dialogues includes this notable line, “You ought to go where you’ll be properly appreciated. You’re simply wasted here, among us fellows.” Inevitably, the book became integral to my time of retreat.

Along with these entertaining and introspective characters was the scenery, both in the story and immediately around me, in the Berkshires. The book accompanied me along the river, among the mountains, in the small towns, at meal tables, and even at the shrine. Everything intertwined, and the synthesis was involuntary. For example, one evening after dinner, I was aperch on the front porch of the Red Lion Inn, with books and journal. Turning a page in the story, I saw this: “...he strode along, his head in the air, till he reached a little town, where the sign of ‘The Red Lion’ swinging across the road halfway down the main street...” I looked up from the book and straight at the Red Lion sign as it swayed in the blustery breeze. Story and scenery merge.






red lion inn

The Inn itself deserves a few essays’ worth of narrative. Keeping close to how my seven nights’ stay there added to the pilgrimage and my enjoyment of The Wind in the Willows, the word “comfort” is a start. The Red Lion Inn was built in the 18th century, and the broadly spacious, impeccably maintained wooden hostelry stands on Main Street, in the center of Stockbridge. By today’s standards, the crossroads flanking the Inn are narrow and slow, but in centuries past, each direction would (and still can) bring road travellers south to Hartford and New York, west to Albany, north to Vermont, and east to Boston.

This was surely a logical place to build a large inn with a tavern. Peering daily from the full-width front porch, at passers-by, guests, and motor vehicles, it was easy to imagine stage coaches, horses, the elegant automobiles that followed, and strolling pedestrians. The Inn has a list of dignitaries, presidents, Tanglewood fesitval musicians, and actors that have stayed as guests. Some are among the portraits decorating the many rooms and labyrinthine corridors. The place is furnished with inadvertant antiques. Countless armchairs, sofas, settees, tables, and filled curio cabinets, though spotlessly polished, seem as though they have always been there.

Closer to my end, I was especially grateful to my generously hospitable hosts for providing a writing table at my request. They thoughtfully placed it at the window in my little room. With the outdoors, as well as the shrine, so compelling- not to mention the front porch- I did not spend a great deal of time indoors. But happily there were plenty of occasions for me to appreciate the grand dining room, which occupies most of the ground level. This was another space which joined the story to my experience, considering Grahame’s highly-detailed depictions of the characters’ savoury meals. I had quite a few of my own, and thought of our heroes and their corned beef, pickled gherkins, watercress, french bread, and ginger beer, among other victuals. Creatures all, with our creature comforts.

Leo, of the Red Lion

Within the fascinating collage that is the Red Lion Inn, I found the dining room to be most intriguing. On each occasion, I sat at a different table, to better appreciate the whole space. The wide entrance is connected by the Inn’s front parlor, which has an operating fireplace. This area is a favorite spot for the Inn’s resident cat, Leo. Common spaces allow for visiting occasions with fellow guests. Large, yet intimate, the dining room’s many tables are each decorated with flowers from the gardens immediately outside. The walls are papered with sedate floral patterns, and the lighting is gently diffused. Portions of the dining room are adorned with borders of rippled glass, and along a wide lintel is a collection of teapots perched high above. Breakfast is an especially conducive time for reading and journal writing. With the lenient pace of being on retreat, I could really linger and make note of these beautiful spaces. My neighboring guests were vacationers and fellow pilgrims, also at ease, making it easy to converse. There are no electronic screens to invade and distract the civility of people recognizing one another and appreciating the glory of the present. So many conversations begin with where one hails from; there is surely something ancient about such a way of making acquaintance.







continuity

Despite intervals between chances to read, and my slow-reading habits, I finished the book a few days before my return road trip. The enjoyment of a book is often noticed in its absence. Shortly after finishing the story, I found myself missing those quirky characters, recalling a childhood feeling of being sorry to see the ending of a good book or movie. Just the same, I had to pack my things and part company with the Inn, the Divine Mercy shrine, the Housatonic, and the Berkshires. Another sojourn streaming into the broader voyage. Finding my way to the Mass Pike, I thought of the toll-taker in The Wind in the Willows, a rabbit that cried, "Sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!” Not quite what I encountered in Worcester. Along the northeasterly drive across the heart of merrie olde New England, I did think about how the book and the Berkshires are now inextricable to me. Although I did return to the very situations upon which I had forced a pause, at least I do have the benefit of having made such a fine outward-looking inner journey.

taith pererin

“Ton passage nous découvre
Le mystère;
Trace un chemin dans notre vie
Sur tes pas nous marcherons,
Jésus Seigneur.”

~ French Cistercian vesper

In the transition before travelling from north to south Wales, I allocated time to explore an ancient pilgrims’ trail. The North Wales Pilgrims Way (also known as Taith Pererin Gogledd Cymru) traverses the northern coast, from the Lleyn peninsula to Holywell. I was able to walk portions between Caernarfon and Penmaenmawr, following paths that include mountains, pastures, ancient cathedrals, and castles. It had occurred to me that even before setting foot upon the slate paths of Snowdonia, I had already made a lengthy pilgrimage to reach these places. More broadly speaking than a travel to a travel, the vast pilgrimage surely includes the lines I write at this very moment.

A soul’s spectrum of adventures are drawn together as one person’s continuing experience. Spiritual travellers journey within, as well as across physical distances of any duration whether across an ocean or across a street. Even the subtlest turns on our paths, or sounds in our audible range, can change our perspectives. Becoming attuned to the sources of our very being intensifies a constant longing for the way. Like the ancient Psalmist, pondering inspiration day and night, the pilgrim’s ear is sensitized to the Divine. All things visible endure but for a season, temporal and provisional. As the Celtic saints that walked pilgrim roads, followed by countless souls as myself, the most ancient of the Hebrew saints were described by Saint Paul as faithfully longing for the heavenly country that awaited them. Of such longings, C.S. Lewis interpreted the pilgrim’s inner discord as “our lifelong nostalgia,” our thirst to be reunited with the place of profoundest inclusion, and that it “is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation.” An acute awareness of spiritual wanderlust is a reminder of my very portable life.

Trails and roads known by the name pilgrims way exist throughout the world. In mediaeval times, three pilgrimages to Bardsey Island- off the westernmost shore of the Lleyn peninsula- was considered as efficacious as a journey to Rome. Such pathways lead to and through extraordinary sites long considered holy for the graves and places of worship they encompass. The Taith Pererin (rhymes with “blythe aware in”) in North Wales comprises old Roman roads, mountain lanes, wells, monasteries, Bangor Cathedral, and Caernarfon Castle.

Above: Bangor Cathedral; Below: Caernarfon Castle.

Unlike other trails I’ve hiked, such as Vermont’s Long Trail, or the Appalachian Trail in northern New England, these Pilgrims Ways connect towns and various structures. Even the loneliest looking mountain trails are never far from villages with houses, people, and hot tea. The terrain is vastly beautiful yet intimate, though quite different from the Maine and Vermont wilderness. That means one can hike many of the Welsh trails in regular street attire and shoes. Pausing along the trail at the steps of Bangor Cathedral was, for me, a merging of my steps with those of Saint Deiniol in the early 6th century, and my mother’s in the mid-20th century. Our own steps are rooted far beneath and beyond what we can see.

Following the ancient Roman roads and navigating the pinched mountain trails are among my favorite highlights from the Pilgrims Way. Inland views revealed layers of valleys far into the distance, and coastal views opened to seaward horizons. Along the road, I could simply absorb the sights around my steps. It was all at once new and captivating, yet familiarly parallel to Maine’s coastal landscape. Discoveries presented themselves to me at every turn in the winding, steep, and narrow pathways. Without reminder or effort, each stride became a treasure. Every step upon slate shard, mudded pasture, and sand faced up to the heavens and through my thoughts as gifts to be committed to memory.

Amazed to find this "chair and table" perch in the woods of Penmaenmawr, albeit on a very rainy day, I returned a few days later to enjoy the place in sunshine and with typewriter. The Irish Sea is in the distance.

Many years of working and waiting for the time I could plant my feet upon this extraordinary terrain hadn’t a shred of letdown. In fact, this far surpassed my expectation. Though I’ve climbed steep grades and mountains before, I’d forgotten about how arduous descending can be, and how the downward trails challenge as much as forward-leaning ascents. But the changing terrain could not upstage the sweeping expanse.

Canopied only by skies, far away from closed-in spaces, my thoughts about God became more appropriately divine. Somehow, beyond my comprehension, my paths were known long before I breathed my first air. The change of perspective became a change in perception. Grandeur can be made woefully small, when the narrowing drudgeries funnel into still narrower portholes. Taking to the trails, especially as they ascended into Snowdonia, broadened the elevation of my vision into healthful panoramas.

The Allagash backpack, beautifully made for me in Maine,
travelled on the pilgrimage to Wales.

Days filled with walking travels, exploration, and overflowing scenery concluded with an appetite for victuals as well as for reflection and writing. Hunger blended with a pleasant weariness amounts to a sort of wholesome fatigue which adds savor to supper. In addition, with Wales’ northerly latitude, evening light extends far enough to be able to write outdoors into the night hours. It’s easy to find the energy, somehow, to extend the day with the range of available light. When it was finally time to close the days filled with aromatic sun and rain, sorefooted miles, colors, and ideas, images of green hills and low clouds would visit my rest. And the pilgrimage continues, over distances and by spirit.

Aboard the train heading to Swansea.
Above: A pilgrim's progress in 2012;
Below: The Pilgrim's Progress, in 1678.

rest assured

"God came to us because he wanted to join us on the road, to listen to our story, and to help us realize that we are not walking in circles but moving towards the house of peace and joy.

This is the great mystery of Christmas that continues to give us comfort and consolation: we are not alone on our journey. The God of love who gave us life sent his only Son to be with us at all times and in all places, so that we never have to feel lost in our struggles but always can trust that he walks with us...”

~ Henri Nouwen, Gracias.


On Christmas Day, I went to an exquisitely beautiful place that is just at the edge of Portland- called Gilsland Farm. This is an old favorite place of mine, and throughout the week my wish had been to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere of this Maine Audubon Society refuge. Days without schedule or demand offer opportunities to wander- and my steps invariably take me to the ocean. In this part of the world, there are multiple meandering and convenient ways to walk down to the sea. At the Gilsland sanctuary, river waters meet the Atlantic, and so the walkways offer many perches in a domain frequented by small birds and great herons alike. Rolling terrain permits for straight-ahead views of open skies. The combination of expanse and intimate inlets remind me to draw in plenty of deep breaths of fresh air. Pines, sweetgrass, and sea- all together on the same canvas.

Places that are significant to our individual journeys become our personal historic sites. Returning to explore- to simply inhabit these spaces- cultivates depth of perception. Now that I think of it, I’ve enjoyed the quiet of Gilsland for the better part of two decades- by bicycle, on foot, and by car- in every kind of weather. It’s where I’ve watched owls from very close. Gilsland is one of those nearby places I choose to visit for sorting matters out, regathering, or for seeing things anew. Even without the memories, revisiting any place reveals insight with each landing. Being out-of-doors, surrounded by nature, simply observing the panorama sizes down the accumulated doldrums to their appropriate proportions. Stopping in a place that represents a withdrawal from what promotes and perpetuates restlessness allows me to go further than just catching up with thoughts: from there I can extend that attentiveness beyond thoughts and listen for the Creator Spirit. As with the ancient Psalmist, the lamp within is rekindled amidst wide-open, limitless spaces for my steps and eyes.

At the surface, repose may be perceived simply as physical rest. In greater depth, rest manifests as peace of heart. While walking the Gilsland trails, for example, the woods, waterways, and quiet provided a soul respite. There are no demands, no cause to strain any senses. Moreover, on a holiday, there was no agenda. It wasn’t even all that cold, so I could pause to write at leisure. A fine and rare occasion to let things be, and to blend into the landscape. My years have made it possible for me to form a personality that is prone to forcing things into existence. It continues as a kind of recurrent old background chatter that says I have almost no resources and must build from scratch at every turn. At many times, this has been strenuously true- but I’ve learned to challenge that thinking. The breaks and the blessings must not be forgotten, and a good hike in the woods helps right the ship. Nature reminds me that I’m not running on my own power as I tend to believe. After all, do the trees will themselves to their heights? Can tides refute the moon phases, or refuse to freeze at rivers’ edges? So I walked along a frozen salt marsh and stopped at a dock to write, “grace is not contingent upon human effort, though I toil at a constantly arduous pace.” But no straining at Gilsland on Christmas Day. A gift to keep in mind.

If spiritual fortitude isn’t limited to situations of stoppage, then I might rest assured while in motion. Reaching a highland, and looking around at the hilltops around me, it occurred to me that times of forging ahead must be balanced by times of groundskeeping. Profound progress can be made by letting go of the control I purport to have. And in letting go, I become better aware of the grip of grace. Lately, I hear the expression, “it is what it is” an awful lot. Yet another term that straddles the superimposed worlds of business and sports- and common usage- that expresses a resigned reckoning with exasperation. It can’t be helped, tough luck can’t be reversed: “it is what it is.” Noticing my infuriated response to the shrug, I now imagine the words taken more literally. What happens when that which is beyond one’s single-handed control is left to “be what it is?” Isn’t it presumptuous to think I can change everything? Perhaps, then, the admission that something is what it inherently is, makes a situation easier to engage. The best of that expression is an observation about refraining from striving. It might be a useful way to perceive not trying to grind something into what it isn’t. Resting assured expresses faith in the certitude of sustenance.

An old hymn refrain returned to my thoughts, that goes: “My God is a rock in a weary land, shelter in the time of sorrow.” Yes, it was one of those work-weeks; one of those strings of long days filled with serving a notably needy representation of the public. Perhaps a reflection of the season, and the sense of urgency that it impresses upon many- but at the blunt end of it are those who equally serve the rude and the courteous, the shrill and the calm, the smug and the genuine- all with the same alacrity. One evening, walking home the long way, I remembered that hymn- which I hadn’t heard in a very long time. There’s something in those lyrics that speak to me, I thought; but wait- only in the time of sorrow? How about the times of confusion, of shipwreck, or when computers malfunction, or when I can’t find both gloves, or when someone says something resentful? That’s when the risk is greater of losing sight of the rock in a weary land: when the sorrows are deceptively small- almost too subtle to identify with specific words. It could well be that the human soul is the weary land. Yes, I think it is. It’s the ground that comes from the earth; the land that longs to be rooted, especially when all there is to hold fast to is the Rock and stronghold of consolation. Terrain can be weary, too, and the mind can regain its productivity when it is nourished from still more productive sources. During a recent wakeful night, at about 3 o’clock in the morning, I pencilled these words in my notebook: “don’t be angry- they are what they are.” Mine is not the business of changing what people do. Rest assured. The Gilsland trails provided the untethered moments I needed such that it was impossible not to be grateful for spiritual assurance.

This new season paralleling the start of a new year invites new insight. As I write these words, there is a swirling blizzard outside my windows. Surely, the trails I’d just traversed are now covered over with snow. Trails dotted with shreds of dried leaves and patches of residual ice, perfectly phrasing the meeting of autumn’s end and winter’s beginning. Settling upon exterior surfaces, hard edges are now canopied, traffic sounds are muffled. Back in art college, I had a teacher that would say, “we’re snowed in; that means it’s time to get in the darkroom and print.” We’d all head into our studios, armed with our reams of film- undoubtedly plenty of images from sunny days past. Now I must assure non-practitioners that printing in darkrooms is not a gloomy thing to do at all. For us photographers, it is integral to the creative process. It’s very much the process. As with journaling, conceptualizing our questions demands that we write them down. Put the impressions on paper, so that the words may face up to the light and air. Scribed marks can be re-read; they may be commented upon. Words and images rest assured and boldly upon our creative surfaces. What ensues will be what it is, will be reckoned with, and will be navigated, as the continuum moves forward with confidence.