My time at the Glendalough Hermitage has been rich. I’m surrounded by trees. The air is fresh and cool–balm after July in Tucson. The phenomenon at daybreak isn’t so much that the sun comes up as that the sky lightens–generally to atmospheric mist, fog, and gloom. Having grown up in New England, the whole setup feels utterly familiar and homey.

The one problem is that it’s hard to take a decent photo because the light’s always so low. One thing the West, Southern California in particular, has going for it is that the light is so gorgeously perfect that just about any image you capture looks gilded and radiant.

One day last week I tramped through a dark wood, up a very steep hill, and around a couple of bends and came out at the edge of meadows and meadows full of…could it be?…I was pretty sure…heather! I’ve never seen my namesake flower growing in the wild so this was a rare thrill.

The path continued on into an emerald green valley filled with grazing sheep. I mean the path went right through them! In fact, everywhere in Ireland, or this part of Ireland, are grazing, bleating, docile, dear sheep. They lend a whole aura of bucolic simplicity and tenderness to the place. (Though I did see a big sign the other day that said iI your dog “worries” my sheep, I think was the term, I will shoot the dog on sight. I was glad I didn’t have a dog).

Basically every one has been very nice. The Sisters of Mercy here at the Hermitage, bus drivers, store clerks. Some other locals clearly have adopted as a point of honor the overt snubbing of tourists, but such is life. As always, I find old men are THE kindest and most gallant.

Wifi and cell reception are spotty, even in the Coach House, where the wifi is supposedly centralized, but again so be it.

Yesterday I took a little field trip to Wicklow Town on the local bus link. There I visited among other things, the Wicklow Gaol

“The Gates of Hell” the interactive exhibit dubs the place, and that’s no exaggeration. The first prisoner was a 72-year-old Catholic priest, arrested for celebrating Mass, and many of the others were also there for the crime of “Pope-worship.” Other heinous trangressions included homelessness, petty thievery, and the inability to pay taxes.

The museum takes visitors through the 1798 Rebellion, through the 1820-1843 expansion of the prison, through the 1840s Famine, 1860s reform, the shipping off of convicts to Australia and “the Colonies,” eventual reform and the departure of the last prisoners in 1924.

After entering the low-ceilinged stone cells, tramping the bleak stairwells, and learning how the pre-reform prisoners were treated–branding, mutilation, flogging, solitary confinement, insane overcrowding, the (clearly sadistic) “traveling hangman”–you begin to wonder why the British during those times aren’t classed with the Germans during the Nazi regime.

When I got to the torture chambers, I had to bolt. So much suffering, so much evil. I just couldn’t take it.

Afterwards, though, sitting by the Leitrim River with a coffee and watching the seagulls, I thought of Mary at the foot of the Cross. She took it. She received it all. She watched her beloved son publicly scourged, spat upon, humiliated, tortured to death. I thought, too, of the Stations of the Cross and of how the Eighth Station is “Jesus Speaks to the Women.” Right before he falls for the third time, is stripped of his garments, and is nailed to the Cross, Jesus spoke to the women.

Womanhood is very much under siege these days, and in ways that are far more oppressive, darker, and chaotic than any ever imposed by the mere “patriarchy.” Woman…womb. And everything in us, on everly level, is ordered to this stupendous, glorious capacity to bring new life into the world. Part of our cross, our crown, our essence, it seems, is this very call to bear witness. To look reality in the eye. To absorb, receive, the darkness of what men will do to not just to women, but to each other.

I need to ponder this more.

Meanwhile I woke at 3:48 am this morning. After a couple of hours I could begin to make out the trees.

R.S. Thomas (1913-2000) was Welsh, not Irish. But I came across this poem in a book here and it summed up not just thist trip, but more and more I see, my life.


I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

10 Replies to “BRIGHT FIELD”

  1. I lay in bed with my leg propped up trying to recover from a broken ankle. At 74 my thoughts turn to the past and also to what is ahead. Thanks Heather for this poem, it is perfect medicine for my soul.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Yes, it’s definitely a poem that points toward or “speaks to” death…I’m glad if it was a comfort as your ankle heals….

  2. Teresa Kleber says: Reply

    Heather, I am so happy that you are able to spend this time in Ireland. Thank you for taking us along.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Hi Teresa! I only have three more days after today…heading back to Dublin from Glendalough tomorrow. Such a big trip, spiritually…thanks for coming with me and following along, and God bless.

  3. Anonymous says: Reply

    Great job on the photos! Judy

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply


  4. Anonymous says: Reply

    You’re so right, womanhood is “under siege”, and not in the way they tell us it is..

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply


  5. In reply to RS Thomas – Seamus Heaney:
    And some time make the time to drive out west
    Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
    In September or October, when the wind
    And the light are working off each other
    So that the ocean on one side is wild
    With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
    The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
    By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
    Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
    Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
    Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
    Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
    More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
    A hurry through which known and strange things pass
    As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
    And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Gorgeous, thanks so much. “Postscript” this is called, from Seamus Heaney. Here he is reading “St Kevin and the Blackbird,” which memorializes a beautiful legend that stayed with me throughout my visit.

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