What the Stones Can Tell Us

October 1, 2025

In the far west coast of Ireland, nearly at the edge of the world, is a set of rocks called The Skelligs. The largest is called Skellig Michael. It is named after the archangel Michael (Scellig means "a splinter of stone" in Irish).

On this rocky island, deserted now of human inhabitants, monks used to live, in the 6^th Century, in beehive shaped huts made of stone, praying and working to survive. The only way to get on to the island was by boat and then only if the weather was fair. The monks left probably around the 13^th Century. Nowadays, you can get a boat trip to Skellig Michael, if the weather allows, and climb the 800 steps to the beehive huts and see the ruins of where the monks lived. Only 180 people are allowed each day and even that is beginning to cause concern about the environmental impact of all those feet. There are gannets, puffins, razorbills, seals and seagulls.

It's very hard to imagine those lives. For my retreat this year I set off across Ireland to visit Skellig Michael. This poem was my inspiration, written by the Irish poet Eiléan

Ní Chuilleanáin, called "Studying the Language" from a collection of her poems called The Brazen Serpent, (1994).

Studying the Language

On Sundays I watch the hermits coming out of their holes

Into the light. Their cliff is as full as a hive.

They crowd together on warm shoulders of rock

Where the sun has been shining, their joints crackle.

They begin to talk after a while.

I listen to their accents, they are not all

From this island, not all old,

Not even, I think, all masculine.

They are so wise, they do not pretend to see me.

They drink from the scattered pools of melted snow:

I walk right by them and drink when they have done.

I can see the marks of chains around their feet.

I call this my work, these decades and stations --

Because, without these, I would be a stranger here.

On the night I arrived in the small fishing port nearest to the islands, it rained. I mean, really rained. And the wind blew, huge gusts lifting the waves and rocking the boats in the harbor. So, the following day, the fisherfolk shook their heads and said no boat would be out that day. It was too breezy.

Too breezy? To me, it was blowing a gale!

I reflected on the poem. There is something about the poem which conveys the lives of those hermits, living, praying, surviving. Being on retreat brings one to the basics of prayer, living in the present, surviving. I wonder what it is that you can then find to reassure you that you are not a stranger in the place you find yourself. I think of those other migrants tossed in small boats, seeking sanctuary. I think of the shared humanity of those who wake each day to another day of bombs and explosions, devastation, hunger and violence and the struggle to survive. It is in understanding something of our shared humanity, each person made in the image of a loving God, that I find solace, comforting calm, connectedness and hope for tomorrow.