This place is a sacred place. Crossing the treeline threshold is like stepping into Divine presence itself. The fragrance from the pines fills my nose like incense, the first frost of the season covers the forest floor and the morning sunlight finds my skin as it passes through glistening spider webs and the last of the autumn berries.
This is my place to pray, to slow down and be still and know (and maybe practice Shinrin-yoku and the ‘peace of wild things’). Some people have prayer rooms, a special chair or some other place sacred only to them where they go to be still and be with God. This small patch of Scottish woodland lies next to the saltmarsh, which in turn gives way to the eternally swaying marram grass of the sand dunes, the sweet wee lark’s birdsong, and eventually the rugged shoreline of the North Sea. It is this small patch of Scottish woodland that becomes a place for my soul to be held, to be content and to pray.
The ancient Celtic people of these lands would make a connection between the deer found here and the human soul, drawing comparisons to its shy and elusive nature. Some mornings I would spot a roe deer, perhaps hold their gaze for a short while before they ran for cover. I treasured this reminder that the depths of my own soul, its truest essence is often shy and elusive too, but glimpses come when surrounded by nature’s beauty. It’s here that my soul comes out of hiding and nervously surfaces.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.*
November 2021 saw the worst storm that this coast has seen in centuries. Storm Arwen reached wind speeds of over 100mph and caused devastation up and down the east coast of Scotland and England. That night my family sat huddled together in our lounge as various unattached pieces of garden furniture, recycling boxes and even a full trampoline got carried along the street outside our window.
Unfortunately, my sacred space was not left unaffected by Arwen. Quite the opposite in fact. That night we lost 80% of the trees in the wood. This beautiful little patch of pines lay devastated. Huge trees uprooted, lay still, defeated. But it was no surprise really. This was only a plantation, despite its beauty. These trees are not native to this area and they had their roots in shallow soil. The estate just along the next bay suffered losses but not to the extent that this one did. Old oaks fell, as did the Scots Pine, but the scale of the destruction wasn’t quite at the same level.
The next morning we went to the woods to witness the scene. Silence fell over our family as we tried to take in what we were seeing. Natural habitats had been destroyed, the community had lost a prime piece of our outside playground……and I had lost my wee prayer space, my holy ground.
I had to grieve the loss. Nothing to do but sit with the reality of it. Normally I love storms, the epic wildness of God’s nature showing off its tempestuous character, reminding us of how fragile we sometimes are (thankfully no-one in my town was hurt that day). So I was forced to linger in that tension, witnessing with awe the raw brutality of nature but also lamenting over the loss of something sacred.
In the days and months that followed I walked silently around the perimeter of the woods with my faithful companion Barney, a wee Tibetan Terrier. Giants lay still on the floor. I got frustrated that the clear up wasn’t happening fast enough. I noticed that deer were not returning to the area, I missed seeing them.
But our Creator God is one of restoration, He makes all things new, beauty will come from ashes. Eventually work got started in the forest, and the fallen giants got cleared. I regularly walk in that area, returning to my sacred prayer space. Recently I saw that the space that had been made by the storm give room for other trees, plants and wildflowers to spring up from soil. Storm Arwen had actually cleared the path of non-native species and made way for seeds, often delivered by winds and birds, or lying dormant in the ground, to take root and grow. It is incredible to witness nature restore and new life flourish.
This is a reminder of the work of God. I pray that we can all live with this awareness. Sometimes storms come and they cause devastation, physically and spiritually. Sacred places are desecrated, sacred souls are ravaged and broken. But God is close to the broken-hearted. God is close in the pain. God is close in the letting go. Let’s remember this important progression, God is also close in the restoration, in the healing and in the new growth. Clearing away is a difficult and often heart-wrenching process, but there is a time for uprooting and replanting. Let’s yield to the process, lean into what God is doing and find peace in His rhythm, timing and pace. As Teilhard de Chardin reminds us, “trust in the slow work of God”, learn to let go and wait for patiently for the new growth that will appear in the right time.
Jon Timms
Director, Scotland and Northern England
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