Departing New York, I was a mid-summer pilgrim and a stranger to the Isle of Iona off the west coast of Scotland, about to cross into the long span of light surrounded by sea and sound.  I moved from tomato vines and sunflower towers towards fern glades and heather. Sometimes a new place is an old recollection, an old call that lingers and defies the boundaries of order and belief.  And so we go, push off from the shore, board the plane, climb onto the platform, cross definitions of summer to follow the call that insists from within the gut or on the wind.  This sounding, the voice beyond form yet therein contained is everywhere and is a farther place than here or there.

I walked into the sky through the blooming, wet hills, nudged by the sea, urged to offer up the pitted heart, the ruts of wounded years, generations of failure and despair, to be soaked anew and cradled in the vast beyond that opens this moment.  And there I traced the stones upon the shore and discovered us.