Journalling II

The link for this was: Beauty/ Creation/ Nature as the answer. What do you remember?


I remember Iona.

I remember the beauty and wildness of the island but also the joy and peace and pleasure of being with Joe and with people who “get it”.

I remember the silence in the library when Joe and I were together working.

I remember the wind sloughing across the beach – “our” beach – and the big blue sky with white fluffy clouds.

I remember the pilgrimage around the island when I felt God’s presence walking with us, around places where Columba walked.

I remember when I was sure once more that my sins were cast far out to sea.

I remember when we danced as dry bones called into being and I heard God ask me to dance once more.

I remember the sense of history – a thread joining believers from all over and from time past, present and future.

I remember the huge, desolate spaces – yet not desolate because God was there. And the majesty and awesomeness of Staffa and the puffins. And the love and the joy.

And the dancing. How I remember that! How I remember that.

And the wind and the sea and the corncrake.

And the abbey, squat and strong. A fortress.

And I remember…and I remember…

And I remember Joe and the love of everyone.

And I remember the wind and the sea and the beauty of the hills.

And the glory of creation.


Back in 2014 I went along to some Bible Art journalling classes. I really enjoyed them, but sadly the group broke up as the leader found herself a job – dam’ thoughtless, I call it!

Each session Caireen took a theme, or a verse, or a word, and encouraged us to spend five minutes writing whatever came into our minds before we did anything arty. I found one of my notebooks from that course recently and read it back. I really liked what I read and thought I’d share one with you – it’s a bit “stream of conciousness” – but that was the point of the exercise: to see what was sparked by the theme.

This one was to think of what colour God might be: “I am…” and a colour.

I am…Green

I am green. I am the green of the first buds, opening on the catkin tree, the fine mist that you almost-can’t-see on the bare winter branches.

I am the green of snowdrops, poking shyly through the snow and the mud of a winter landscape.

I am the lush green of a springtime bluebell wood, so green, so juicy that you can almost taste it.

I am the sharp tangy green of apples that pucker on your tongue and prickle in your nose.

I am the palest strawlike green of a refreshing glass of wine, sipped slowly with friends and enjoyed for its freshness and delicacy.

I am – how dare you call it so – the ordinary green of ordinary time…not special for any reason, but special in its ordinariness.

I am the green of…I am the green of…I am the dark, resin green of pine forests, silent and mysterious and calling you to meditate on the fragility of life in the midst of the pine-scented air.

I am the green of…I am the green of…I am the green of a child’s felt tip pen, luminous, joyfully scribbled in random marks on a piece of paper, to show grass and trees.

I am the green of life and death, the green of freshness and decay, of shouting and silence.

I am green.