Some church out west

Last night I listened to Paul Kingsnorth talk at the Dingle courthouse about his trilogy of novels, the future of a technological humanity and his sudden and somewhat unwelcome conversion to Christianity. I was struck by the seeker in him - the part that had to write books to figure out the various dimensions of himself - to understand himself more fully. I felt called to his world - of writing and self discovery. For if we don’t know who we are - how can we live as our utter selves? I sit outside the blue bus wondering about Ireland, my lass and the summons - to where, whom and what. I feel exhausted. This has been a deeply uncomfortable journey from beginning to end. My solace remains the same - short bursts of gazing at water running down a river - the river is me - the river is life - I am the river of life. So, I leave here with no strong sense of anything - some trepidation about our partnering, some excitement about a new life in West Ireland - and, all the life I have left at home - that I hope is dormant - going into the ground to rest and replete itself, not rot.

My heart is wary, wondrous and struggling to trust everything that is here now. But I’m aware of it all - acting out in far shorter bursts - and grateful to have had the courage to feel this experience fully. How I will go about unpacking, integrating and following my heart beyond this - who knows? I do know it is rarely all up to me anyway. So let the Christ beckon and I’ll say thy will, not mine.