“Trip to Bountiful” – part 12

On July 27, 2016July 27, 2016 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality1 Comment

Rae and I at Coldplay.jpg — *Chillin’ with Rae at Wembley Stadium, waiting for Coldplay*

As mentioned elsewhere, part of our reason behind this trip was for my wife, Rae, to engage in book research for her novel, “Miss-Adventured.” Why tap the Internet when it’s so much better to simply go, right?!

#AdventureofaLifetime at the #headfullofdreams tour

Without premeditation, Rob and I find ourselves involved in near daily misadventures. Our trip to the Coldplay concert was no exception.

Thanks to over-vigilance at our bank who blocked a car-rental drop-off charge they marked as fraud, we couldn’t access our funds. We had zero money to take the tube home from Wembley to Parsons Green. Panic set in but was overridden with some across-the-pond creative communication on Facebook and email. Our friend, Rosemary, contacted the bank and by 4:30pm London Time, the doors opened to the stadium, and the cash machine pooped out a few hundred pounds.

For twenty-eight years, I’ve been a stage-spouse/parent tooting my horn about the artistic achievements of the three staggeringly talented musicians in my family who overshadow me. My artistic accomplishments include a group folk dance performed in a Grade 5 school assembly. I confused my lights and refts, danced in the wrong direction and toppled over the oncoming circle of dancers like dominoes.

Or, the choir teacher telling my mother what I lacked in singing talent was made up for in enthusiasm, despite strategically hiding me in the back where my voice wouldn’t force others out of tune. My youngest child once told me, “Mum, even with autotune, you’d still sound like a goat.”

His brother kicked him under the table offering mumbled advice against reverse brown-nosing.

At this concert, as 75,000 people waved their lighty-uppy bracelets and stadium-anthemed along with me, “I, oh, I, oh, I..” to the tune of Hymn for the Weekend, I was gob-smacked by a revelation.

We were here because of me. My accomplishment. Something artistic I created. It was a first. Tears flowed.

I was overwhelmed. I thanked God.

Rock 'n roll bracelets.jpg — *Cool, lighty-uppy concert bracelets*

At my day job, I work with maps and computers (Geographic Information Systems or GIS). My protagonist, Brynne, works in Geographic Intelligence. Through the forty-plus versions of my first draft I wasn’t sold on my antagonist’s motive.

My co-workers Cindy and DD patiently listened as I tossed about antagonisty ideas. One day I demonstrated Brynne’s spy-bling on the office carpet – Gravity Grip shoes. I can’t blame them for being leery of book talk after I TRIED THIS AT HOME WEARING SOCKS ON HARDWOOD FLOORS. (The not-so-subliminal message: don’t try this at home, unless your romantic fantasies include six burly men showing up in your bedroom with drugs to whisk you away in an ambulance.)

DD reads several books a week. I’m leaning on my crutches as she suggests, “Since Brynne is music-obsessed why don’t you use the cities on a concert tour t-shirt for the plot.” I flipped for the idea.

“But what currently touring band’s music is known among the 14–65 demographic?” I asked. The three of us stared blankly at each other and returned to work. An hour later, Cindy yells over my cubicle, “COLDPLAY!”

Coldplay T-shirts.jpg — *Cindy and DD holding up the t-shirts I bought them once I had cash*

As I fired up Spotify and listened to Coldplay’s biggest downloads, Aidan, my male lead twinkled his blue eyes at me and whispered in my ear, “’I crossed lines I shouldn’t have crossed.’ Can you picture the scene?”

“Vividly, in double-vision,” I quivered. Forwarding to the next song, Fix You, Brynne bangs it out on the piano, lamenting the aftermath of a calamitous choice.

To experience those songs live at Wembley stadium was one of the premier moments of my life. As I sang every note and clapped every beat, I thanked Brynne and Aidan for bringing me to a sold out concert to see Coldplay as I waved my bracelet in their names, experiencing all of this through their eyes.

These characters have changed my life, our lives, and I can’t wait for you to read Miss-Adventured and experience Brynne and Aidan’s #amazingday.

* * * * *

When will Miss-Adventured be on the shelves you ask? It’s off to the editor at the end of September, then to the agent once I’ve screamed a lot and incorporated the suggested changes.

Learn more about Miss-Adventured here.

“Trip to Bountiful” – part 11

On July 17, 2016July 17, 2016 By robertalanrifeIn Beauty, celtic spirituality, Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation, UK 20164 Comments

What I learned looking at Skye

Previously, I had recounted my experience of hiking the Quirain Ridge on the isle of Skye in Scotland. Here’s the exciting (one can only hope) conclusion…

* * * * *

What I recognized of the way here only lasted about an hour before I began to experience that hollow feeling in one’s gut that one is not where one should be. I looked ahead to a sheep gate with small steps designed to carry people up and over. I had recalled such a thing on my way here. Just not this one.

Skye 51.jpg — The rugged, volcanic landscape that is the Quirain Ridge

Skye 55.jpg — Views borrowed from God’s photo album

Skye 57.jpg But there was still a trail and I was happy to be on it, so onward I went. Another hour passed and anything resembling a trail had faded into a maze of boggy grass, rivulets of water flowing down from the uplands downward to one of the many smaller bodies of water lower down. Before me was the ocean in one direction, the hills from whence I’d come in the other.

Both were equally baffling.

Did I chance the eastward march through the middle of nowhere, aiming to eventually meet up with the shoreline and hopefully, the A455? Or, did I retrace my steps back upwards and seek out the original trail? The decisive guy I am, I decided to walk in circles for another hour and a half becoming increasingly frantic in so doing.

Finally, I made one last attempt back up to the rock faces that had formed my right wing on my initial route. And I saw them. A young couple who, also lost, were so evidently besotted with each other that it mattered less to them than to me, a soaking wet, sweaty, panicking fifty something.

We introduced ourselves. Then, I proceeded to recount my sob story of late middle-aged geographic retardation and we came up with the following game plan. We could try to find the eastern trail that would lead back to the motorway where was my car. Or, we would turn the other direction and hopefully find our way back to where their car was parked on the western side of the island. One would then drive the other back to their respective vehicle.

The only tree on Skye.jpg

I successfully made the case that I had already been lost for two hours and would provide little in the way of reliable directions back to anything, let alone my car. So, the decision was made to retrace our steps with the intention of finding our way west across the island. As it turned out, over two hours later it was happily clear that this had been the right decision.

Many sheep, loose stone stairways, close-cropped trails clinging tightly to precarious cliffs, and heartbeats later and a glorious sight awaited us: the parking lot. We had made our way to something recognizable from which we could then regale others with the very tale I now tell.

How metaphoric this is of the spiritual life. Broad, open vistas at one turn, sheltered inland waterways at another, all make way for more rigorous upland turns leaving one out of breath and struggling. Our better curiosity about the intricacies of the abundant life comes with a dash of danger, and much that is unknown. But it is precisely for that reason that life’s best lessons are never served up on china or crystal but in clay pots and dirty goblets better fitted to the task.

Of all the stories I tell of our trip to bountiful, this is the one that stands out most. It represents something more than the expected stops of the run-of-the-mill tourist. There is a wildness here. A particularity of incarnational wonder peppers my experience of being lost on Skye. And now, removed from the imminent danger and fear of the event, it is the most memorable. And, dare I say, formational.

My connection to Skye was both immediate and profound. It bled me from the start, leaching itself onto my spirit with ferocity and tenderness in equal measure. She is a wild, unkempt, treeless wonder, at once spell-binding and succulent. I was hooked.

But more so, I had touched something primal within me, the place of raw, untested faith, eager for challenge. As a man not generally given to risk-taking, it was exhilarating. It was liminal in all the best ways and will provide rich fodder of burning peat fires of faith still needed for the days to come.

And after all, that’s much of the reason I came in the first place.

“Trip to Bountiful” – part 10

On July 10, 2016July 11, 2016 By robertalanrifeIn bagpipes, celtic music, celtic spirituality, Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, sacramental living, spiritual formation, UK 20163 Comments

What I learned looking at Skye

After a dodgy night playing at sleep, I woke up Jonesing for coffee. Something I’d not considered was the amount of light this far north at 3:00 am. Its insistence had done its work keeping me at the edges of REM. Hence, without the final plunge that gifts a person with an actual readiness for anything resembling wakefulness, I make plans for the day. They included much walking.

Ever since first learning to play Skye Boat Song on bagpipes many years ago, I’ve wanted to see what kind of place could inspire such a fetching melody. Sir Harold Boulton’s stirring lyrics:

Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,

onward the sailors cry.

Carry the lad who’s born to be king

over the sea to Skye.

Wait, they take a bit of a turn.

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,

thunderclaps rend the air,

baffled, our foes stand by the shore,

follow they will not dare.

Phew. And, we’re back.

Though the waves leap, so soft shall ye sleep,

ocean’s a royal bed.

Rock’d in the deep, dear Flora will keep

watch o’er your weary head.

Spoke too soon.

Burnt are our homes, exile and death,

scattered, the loyal man.

Yet ere the sword, cool in the sheath,

Charlie will come again.

And for the win…

Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,

onward the sailors cry.

Carry the lad who’s born to be king

over the sea to Skye.

Abundantly evident in these overly nostalgic, clamoring lyrics is the kind of sentiment one finds at times of great national upheaval. The song tells how Bonnie Prince Charlie, disguised as a serving maid, escaped in a small boat after his defeat in the Jacobite uprising of 1746, with the aid of Flora MacDonald. Read here and here for more.

But, for all her beauty, Skye holds many secrets close to the vest. She can be coy, and her best ones you work for. Cars get parked. Hats, water, whistle (I of course didn’t have one), and walking canes come out of retirement. If you’re wise, a bit of stretching, and away. For me, however, it was to be further complicated by the fact that I’d be doing so with my bagpipes strapped to my back.

Piping my way through the Highlands and now Skye was always part of the plan for me. If I was to regenerate all that Scots-Canadian blood, it would be done loudly and frequently. On the way here I had already stopped at every other layby, handing my phone to some unsuspecting, wide-eyed bugger already trying to get pictures of something other than me. But they always obliged, adding their thanks for letting them take further photos of their own. Oh vanity, vanity…

I sopped up the last of my inordinately large, complicated breakfast, belched happily and donned my rental chariot for the ride cross island to Portree.

Portree 5.jpg — The picturesque harbor town of Portree

A short sixteen miles later and I let Skye’s largest town play with me a bit. I happily took in the smell of old sea and sound of fat gulls together with the obligatory tourist stops. A final morning coffee was enough to convince me that, today, the north road would be mine.

Skye-the northern route.jpg — Skye, the northern route. Heading east from Edinbane on Loch Greshornish to Portree, then northward and back home again.

Skye did not disappoint. The sky on Skye was uncommitted. It opened enough to allow fingers of warmth from early summer sun, brightly cheerful. But, it was also shy, at times hovering low above the higher peaks, building a rather impressive palette of hued shadow.

Yet more sheep.jpg — Ubiquitous travel companions

Gentle, sloping meadows donned liberally with grazing sheep, farm equipment, and B ‘n Bs reach out into endless lochs and inlets. They are surprised by the often immediate, multi-colored, volcanic cliffs busting out of the earth in random protrusions. It is a land that veritably tumbles over itself in complex shades of purple-shadowed greens.

I battled tiny roads, a gutless car, crappy Internet (Siri was forever confused or non-existent), and literally dozens of cyclists on the way to my first port o’ call, a rocky outcropping called simply, The Storr. It is on the Trotternish peninsula facing the Sound of Raasay. My particular interest was to see “The Old Man of Storr.” Impressive in itself although one of the ugliest old men vaguely pictured in rock!

Bodach_an_Stoir_(The_Old_Man_of_Storr)_-_geograph.org.uk_-_747492.jpg — The Old Man of Storr

Skye 13.jpg — Piping by the road that heads to the Old Man of Storr

It was exhilarating as it was inspiring. Alas, in true tourist fashion, I huffed my way, bagpipes in tow, back down the mountain to the car and continued north to my next destination, Kilt Rock. Dramatic, vertical striations of rock, the clawed back of ancient volcanic activity, rise up dramatically from the sea, offering an imaginative view – God’s mesolithic kilt.

Skye 29.jpg — Shear drop-offs make for good waterfalls onto rocky beaches

I tossed my bagpipes into the backseat, where they stayed most of the trip, and continued north. I was feeling good, even a bit feisty and adventurous. This feeling acted as preparation for or omen against what was to come.

In full obedience to the tourist parade who, along with me, dutifully pulled their cars off the road at all the same stops. Just north of the town of Flodigarry, my eye caught a sign beckoning me into the hills. I had apparently come upon the eastern entrance to The Quiraing Ridge, from the Norse Kvi Rand meaning ’round fold.’

As part of the Trotternish ridge it has been formed by a massive landslip which has created high cliffs, hidden plateaus and pinnacles of rock. Possessing numerous features with titillating names such as The Needle, The Table, and The Prison it acts a bit like the palm of a hand or fold in which cattle could be concealed from Viking raiders. As I would soon discover it had other ‘magical’ properties. It is sly and can quickly subsume unthinking walkers into its spongy loom.

It starts unassumingly in gentle turns on well-worn dirt paths that wind their way around tiny inland lakes. I took hungrily to the task of making them my own, the snaking trail gradually pulling me upward toward the more dramatic features to come. I had started at an ambitious pace, excited to discover what lay ahead.

Skye 38.jpg — One of numerous, small inland lochs

Skye 43.jpg For the better part of an hour I continued like this, letting the way unfold before me and the scenery embed itself in my memory. After what I could only guess was perhaps four or five miles I began to wonder, in the absence of any further signage or any other human being (or even sheep for that matter), whether or not I should continue or perhaps turn back. My buoyant mood made the decision for me and I puttered on, proud of my positive outlook, and equally glad for the perfectly cool weather.

Skye 47.jpg Skye 46.jpg

Finally, after another half hour or so, I began to bump into numerous other hikers. Danes, Dutch, Japanese, Somalis, Canadians, Germans, Americans, and many Aussies who, as their sheer numbers suggest, love it here apparently. Brief conversations with some of them encouraged me to continue onward to what would be some of the most jaw-dropping sights I’ve yet seen. From the highest point one can see the entire north-western shore of the island and out to the Hebrides beyond. It was spellbinding. I planted myself on a rock wall and simply let it happen.

At this point I had a decision to make. I had walked for hours to get to this place and, looking way down to my right, could barely make out a parking lot. I was almost across the island! Although there was no concern either for loss of daylight or weather since both were cooperating fully, I decided to go back the way I came and do the trek from the west side the day after. It would be a simple matter of retracing my steps.

Or so I thought…