Day One at Kylemore Abbey: When You Don’t Understand the Words, Listen with Your Heart

On a misty evening in Connemara, I began my retreat at Kylemore Abbey with Evening Prayer in the chapel. Outside, the mountains were wrapped in clouds and the lake lay still beneath the gray Irish sky. A deep quiet seemed to embrace the abbey, inviting me to slow down, breathe deeply, and simply be present.

As the Benedictine sisters began chanting the evening prayers in Latin, I tried at first to follow along. But since my Latin is almost nonexistent, that effort did not last very long! So I closed my eyes, stopped trying to understand every word, and simply listened.

And perhaps that was the first grace of my retreat. Listen.

The sisters’ voices rose and fell in the ancient rhythms of chant, drawing me into a stream of prayer much older than the twelve of us gathered in that chapel. For centuries, Benedictine women and men have paused throughout the day to pray, following a monastic way of life shaped in the sixth century by Benedict of Nursia and embraced by his sister Scholastica and generations of Benedictine women and men who followed.

Sitting there, I realized that sometimes we do not need to understand the words to receive their meaning.

Prayer is more than words. Prayer is presence. It is listening. It is opening ourselves to the Sacred Mystery already within us, around us, and flowing through all creation.

With my eyes closed, I became aware that the sisters were not praying alone. Their chant carried echoes of countless generations who had sung these same psalms before them. I felt connected with mystics and pilgrims, seekers and saints, and ordinary people in the communion of saints through the ages who have longed, as we all do, to know that they are loved and held by a Presence greater than themselves.

I thought, too, of the many ways people pray throughout our world. Some pray the rosary. Some chant psalms. Some sing gospel songs. Some sit in silence. Some dance. Some weep. Some walk through forests, along the sea, or beneath a starlit sky. And sometimes our entire prayer is simply one word which I often use: “Help.”

The Sacred Mystery at the heart of all life understands them all.

As I listened to the sisters chanting, I felt deep gratitude for this sacred pause in my journey. I had arrived at Kylemore  as a pilgrim carrying memories, hopes, dreams and the weariness that comes with weeks of wonderful but tiring - packing and unpacking -travel. Slowly, I sensed that I simply needed to be here. No agenda!

Perhaps this was the first invitation of my retreat at Kylemore Abbey:to slow down the pace, listen with my heart, enter the silence, and rest in the infinite Love in whom we live and move and have our being.

Footnote:
The Rule of St. Benedict (6th century) was written by Benedict of Nursia and became the foundational text for Western monastic life. His twin sister, Scholastica, is traditionally regarded as the first Benedictine nun and is honored within the Benedictine tradition for her deep spiritual companionship with Benedict and her own contemplative witness.

ChatGPT was used for editorial assistance in this article. 

A Walkabout Galway—and Another Serendipity: My First Hen Party!

 

Yesterday I set out to wander the streets of Galway. Being in Ireland, I came prepared for rain with jacket on. Thick clouds lingered overhead all day, threatening to open at any moment. But, not a drop fell. In Ireland, there’s often several showers with intermittent sunny spells each day. Yet this summer has been different—unusually dry, unusually warm, as if even the skies had decided to be unusually kind.

Across from where I was staying on Eyre Square, there were colorful tents filled with crafts, paintings, custom jewelry, and—most dangerously for me—desserts. I stopped at several stalls and enjoyed conversations with local artisans before finding a few small treasures for my already bulging bags. Then, I spotted the biscotti cheesecake.

And I was hungry after the two hour train trip and besides there was no soft- serve ice cream in sight so of course , i felt obliged to try a slice. It was delicious. I reassured myself that I would likely walk several miles that day, and that the calories would simply disappear somewhere along the streets of Galway.

That evening, my fitness app informed me I had walked 5.4 miles. So no worries about weight gain!

Whether 5.4 miles fully cancels out biscotti cheesecake remains a question for future research which I probably will not do.

Music was everywhere in Galway, spilling out of doorways, and drifting through alleyways as well. I love Irish music, and as I wandered through the pedestrian streets, I kept stopping to listen, drawn in again and again. Two musicians were playing a lively jig or reel, their fiddles and bodhráns setting the air itself in motion, and suddenly the entire street seemed like a celebration you’ve accidentally been invited to—full of energy, warmth, and an irresistible, joyful pulse.

Later that evening, I passed several restaurants and pubs and found myself at An Púcán. The sight of it brought back fond memories. I had visited years ago with my Dad, and later returned with my brother Sean and my sister-in-law Nancy. Walking in felt like stepping into these happy moments.

A band was playing sixties and seventies music—my era—so my feet were already tapping.

Nearby, a bride-to-be and her friends were celebrating a hen party. The bandleader invited them onto the dance floor, and up they went.

I was sitting quietly nearby, still waiting to order, when one of the women looked over, beckoned, and invited me to join them.

Before I could think twice, I was on the dance floor.

There I was—a wandering “pilgrim”in Galway who had started the day in search of crafts, music, and perhaps a little cheesecake—now dancing with a bride-to-be and her friends at my first Irish hen party.

As we danced, I learned the wedding will be in October, and one of the women mentioned she had visited Florida. Small world indeed.

And what a delightful serendipity.

It struck me afterward that pilgrimage is not just about sacred sites, ancient churches, quiet prayer, or deep reflection. Sometimes the sacred  journey includes a delicious slice of biscotti cheesecake, street musicians playing an Irish reel, a pub filled with family memories, or a stranger inviting you onto the dance floor.

Perhaps the Divine Presence does not only whisper, “Be still and know.”

Sometimes She says, “Get up and dance!”

So here is another lesson from my Irish pilgrimage:

Be open to the unexpected invitations that bring you joy.

We can become so focused on where we are going that we miss the grace unfolding right beside us in the most unexpected places. Serendipity invites us to loosen our grip on the itinerary and allow ourselves to be surprised by the people we meet along the way.

Joy often arrives without an appointment.

And sometimes the Spirit doesn’t wait for you to be ready—or even to finish ordering your drink.

She simply reaches out through a stranger and says:

“Come join the dance!”

And when that happens, my advice is simple:

Get up and dance.

The Spirit is alive—and She loves to dance with us!

Chat GPT was used only as an editing tool. All stories, humor and spiritual thoughts belong to author.

Grace on the Galway Train: Suitcases, Strangers, and Serendipity

Geraldine and Veronica

Today I left Portlaoise, once again dragging my two faithful suitcases behind me. Apparently, yesterday’s spiritual lesson about “traveling light” has not yet translated into any actual reduction in luggage.

In fact, I must confess: I added a few more “must-haves.”

At the station, I quickly discovered I was on the wrong side of the tracks. There I stood, staring up at the steps with my two cases, completely missing the lift that would have solved my quandary.

As I considered how I might manage the climb, a traveling angel appeared—this time a young man with tattoos. Without hesitation, he took charge of my suitcases, carried them up the steps, and set this wandering pilgrim firmly on the right track for the train to Portarlington.

Lesson number two in becoming a true pilgrim: when you are on the wrong track, grace sometimes arrives with tattoos and strong arms.

At Portarlington, I discovered the lift and used it!

Alleluia!

No more hauling suitcases up stairs. In that moment, the lift felt less like modern convenience and more like divine intervention. Sometimes I miss what is right in front of me, but that is another story for another day.

When I boarded the Galway train, another kind young man lifted my suitcase into its place above my seat. Being short in stature was, in my defense, a contributing factor!

And then the journey took a beautiful turn.

I met two kindred spirits, Geraldine and Veronica from County Kildare—Brigid’s land. We began talking, and our conversation carried us all the way to Galway. They shared wonderful stories of faith and family that touched my heart.

They were delighted to learn that I had written about women saints and a book of healing prayers for everyday life. We exchanged details so they could find my work. From there, our conversation turned to the Roman Catholic Women Priests movement, which was new to them.

Their response surprised and delighted me:

“Could you come and say Mass in Kildare?”

Now there is an invitation that would make St. Brigid smile.

I could almost hear her in the Communion of Saints saying, “It’s about time.”

When I finally reached my hotel in Eyre Square, I left my suitcases behind in at last. For once, they were going nowhere—and neither was anyone being asked to carry them.

I then set out to explore Galway.

That was when another unexpected encounter unfolded.

As I stood at a crosswalk, a woman suddenly called out:

“Bridget Mary!”

For a moment I looked around, wondering, “How does anyone know me here? Have my suitcases become famous already?”

She told me she followed me on Facebook and thanked me for my work supporting women priests. She also shared that she had spent her life working in the Church and now felt called to be a deacon.

There we were—two women at a Galway crosswalk, speaking about women’s call to ordained ministry.

Perhaps the Spirit really does work at intersections.

Her friend took a photograph to mark the moment. It was one of those graced encounters—kindred spirits meeting unexpectedly in the heart of the city—where the Holy Spirit seems to whisper, “Pay attention. This matters.”

For the rest of the day, I wandered through Galway, walked the Spanish Quarter, and eventually made my way to the cathedral. I stayed for prayer and later attended a beautiful liturgy. The priest preached on holistic healing—body, mind, and spirit.

I smiled.

Of course he did.

It felt like a perfect prelude to the next stage of my pilgrimage: tomorrow I begin my retreat at Kylemore Abbey.

Today reminded me that pilgrimage is not only about reaching sacred destinations. The sacred often meets us on railway platforms, in lifts, in chance conversations, at crosswalks, and through people who recognize something of themselves in our journey.

Perhaps traveling light is not about carrying less at all, but about becoming more available—more open to the interruptions, invitations, and unexpected graces that reshape the road beneath our feet. When we travel this way, even ordinary moments become sacramental, and every encounter a possible doorway to the Divine.

And that, I am beginning to understand, is the real journey.

Author’s note: These experiences, reflections, humor, and theological insights are my own. ChatGPT was used as an editorial tool to help organize and polish my original writing while preserving my voice and story.

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