Memory Lane
I just discovered an online resource that archives old versions of websites. I’ve had a website at www.anamchara.com since 1996, and yes, the archives go back almost that far. It’s not by any means perfect — lots of broken links — but some of the archived versions are pretty much complete, and for me it was quite a trip down memory lane to look at the evolution of my website, from the amateurish page at the beginning that was essentially an infomercial for my one published book, to the blog that I am lovingly nurturing at the present.
Follow this link to see www.anamchara.com as archived on May 22, 1997. At that time I called the site “The House of Breathings: A Virtual Sanctuary for the Contemplative Way.” I was still an Episcopalian (although with marked pagan leanings), had a ponytail, no beard, and barely any grey hair. My first book had literally just been published, my second one wouldn’t appear for another two and a half years. I was only 36 years old. Yes, the site looks like something a 5th grader could do today, but give me a break: this was 1997!
A fistful of dirt
Here’s a wonderful story recounted by John Shea in Daybreak: Daily Reflections for Lent and Easter:
There was an old Celt who loved his wife, his children, his friends, and his jar. But most of all he loved the land he trod and fought for food. So when his time came, his sons carried him from the stone cottage and laid him on the stone earth. He clenched a fistful of Ireland and was gone.
When he arrived at the gates that only swing in, God appeared in the long robes of judgment. He noticed the closed hand. “Old man, you are not allowed to bring anything in.”
But the hand with the loved land heaved beneath the judge’s nose, “Then I stay outside.”
After a while, God appeared a second time as a pub mate with cap and pipe. He threw a tavern arm over the old man’s shoulders. “Friend, dust belongs to the wind. Let go of that earth and come inside.”
“Never,” said the tightfisted one.
After a while, God came out a third time as a small boy. He ran to the ear of the old man. “Grandfather, the gates only open for those with open hands.”
The old man rose with a slow sadness and never looked down as caked and crumbled Ireland fell.
The gates opened like arms flung wide and the old man entered. Inside was all of Ireland.
