Callanish Stones

Yesterday, I visited the Callanish Stones on the Isle of Lewis. While it has been hot and sunny all week in the Outer Hebrides (I got a tan in Scotland?), it was mysteriously misty as a few of us walked amongst the 5,000 year old stones.

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The stones are laid out in a celtic cross formation, with a long avenue of double stones leading in from the noth and then a circular centre with shorter rows leading out in the other compass directions. The stones range from 1m to 5m in height and are made from the local rock, Lewisian gneiss, which is one of the oldest rocks on the planet at 3 billion years. It’s amazing to think of the passage of time since the stones were erected and since those stones were formed. We seem like a small blip on the landscape and yet our ability to change the earth upon which we live is immense.

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In the centre of the circle, a large stone marks where a burial cairn was found with human remains underneath. The meaning of the stones is unclear. Some people think they mark a lunar cycle, some solar, some speculate that they are a landmark that could be seen from far away at sea. Local legend says they are large giants who refused to convert to Christianity and were turned to stone as punishment.

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The Stones also form a relationship with the line of hills to the south, known as the Sleeping Beauty or Cailleach na Mointeach (the old lady of the moors). Once every 18.6 years, when the moon is at its southernmost extreme, the moon seems to rise out of the body of the Cailleach and then appears within the stones of the Callenish circle. And, if someone stands in the southern part of the circle, they appear to be reborn with the moon.

The site was truly spectacular. The lines and colours and striations of the rocks gave them added character and personality and the stones had both a presence and a power. I am so glad I got to visit this amazing place.

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Counting my fears

Today, I headed out on a hiking journey in Scotland but instead of counting sheep, I ended counting my fears.

Part of the reason to sign up for this week-long hiking trip was to face a challenge. To stretch my body and my mind and to experience new adventures. But today was far more challenging than I ever expected.

We hiked an area of the Island of Skye called the Quiraing. A giant landslip in the northeast part of the island, the Quiraing has large jagged cliffs with a slope that falls away into the green valley below. Our path wound is way up and through the cliffs, rocky face on one side and steep drop off on the other. Rocky and muddy, the path topped out at a windy and misty summit.

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While I knew some of the hiking trip would be difficult, I was not expecting the steep slope or the rocky terrain. It was probably the scariest thing I have done in a long time and most of the four hour hike was spent battling the trail and my fears.

Some of the fears were easily dismissed. The fear of not keeping up? Whatever. The terrain was a challenge and was going at my own speed. The rest of the group could deal.

Fear of physically being able to complete the hike? Well, I could stop and rest when needed. After all, frequent stops for photos was clearly warranted and gave a good chance to catch my breath.

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But the one fear that left me paralyzed and struggling to breathe was the fear of falling. About a year and a half ago, I was diagnosed with a type of vertigo and while I have had a few bouts of room-spinning, this was entirely different.

My body physically felt like it was about to fall. Panic flooded my systems, I couldn’t breathe and my body would not move. Not a step. It was like my body was saying, “we are about to fall to our death, so I’m not moving from this spot in order to save us from that”.

What is frustrating is that my mind knew better. I knew I was okay. There were other people on the trail, I had a climbing pole and I could go as slowly as needed. But my body was not listening.

But since I couldn’t stand on that hillside forever, somehow I had to figure out how to go forwards, despite that fact that it was the last thing I wanted to do. I had no choice but to try and unparalyze myself from the fear.

Since I’m back at the hotel room writing this, you will know that somehow I made it. I talked gently and lovingly to my body, respecting how it felt while trying to keep it moving forwards. My sister helped me, talking to me the whole way, telling jokes and stories to keep me distracted and she even took my camera and took photos so I could see them later. I watched only the path in front of me although I did manage to look up a few times, if rarely down.

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This was my second experience with whatever you call this kind of vertigo panic attack. The first was on Glastonbury Tor last year. From that experience, I learned that sometimes you just have to move forwards through the fear because there is no other choice.

What struck me this time, once the adrenaline had cleared from my system and I was having a nice cup of tea at the end of the walk, was that people say that one of the worst fears is the fear of the unknown.

I’m not sure about that. If I had known at the first upward turn of the path today what was ahead of me, I would not have continued. After struggling through the first of river crossings and down-up that first slippery slope, if I had known that it was but the first of many heart-pounding, breath stealing, panicky stretches of trail then I would not have been able to continue. Hell, if I’d known what that hike was like, I would not have left the carpark!

Perhaps when we face our fears, it’s best not to know what is ahead so we can do it one tiny step at a time. Focus just on the challenge in front of us and not worry about what is next. Perhaps the whole path ahead is too intimidating to think of in its entirety. It can only be traversed one challenge at a time.

Did I have fun? No. Would I ever do it again? Not willingly. Am I glad I did it? Meh, maybe give me a few more days to recover. Am I proud of myself? Hell yes!!!! And I am grateful for everything that my fears and that path taught me today.

And as I take my tired body to bed, I’ll be happy with just counting sheep.

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