I wrote this first in a Facebook post on 12th April 2021.

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After receiving the devastating news of the burning of the CC and sanctuary today, I remembered that a few months back I’d started writing a chapter called The Sanctuary for my coming-of-age memoir (working title ‘Lark Ascending’) set during the three years I lived at Findhorn, 1970-73. So, I started noodling with it this afternoon, and it brought sweetness and joy to my heart.
May it do the same for you.
The structure may be gone, but the blessed space remains…

The Sanctuary

No matter what was going on in the world, no matter what was going on in the community, no matter what was going on in my heart, the quietude of the Sanctuary was always there: the concentric circle of upholstered chairs, the soft carpet, the Pitlochry rainbow tapestry on the back wall, the baby grand piano in the front corner, and Peter’s beloved Quince tree outside the west window.

Meditation in the Sanctuary

Most everyone attended in the morning; throughout the Park there would be a hustle and bustle to get there on time. People scrambled out of their caravans and bungalows, trudged up the path, entered through the outer door, hung up their coats, slipped off shoes, pushed through the swinging door, and quietly padded across the carpet to find a seat.

I looked forward to seeing the familiar faces, to communing in silence, to hearing Eileen’s inspirational words, to feeling the sense of steady, calm and joyful purpose in which we were all engaged. Then it was great to be energized and encouraged by Peter as he outlined what the focus of our work would be for the day. Did the print shop need people to help collate the latest publication? Was there help needed in the kitchen or caravan cleaning to be done because a busload of visitors were expected? Did the compost need turning or perhaps amendments? Was there going to be an excursion to the forest for ferns, to the ocean for seaweed, to the farm next door for hay?

Making compost

The compost was the foundation in which all the co-created miracles of the garden manifested. Our motley lot of gardeners did massive amounts of work to make the soil amenable. Yes, there was communication with faeries and angels about the care of the garden, about how important it was to be respectful and appreciative, but we were a ‘Working Community’ and believed wholeheartedly that ‘Work was Love in Action”. We were devoted and spent a tremendous amount of energy, joyous energy, in all areas of the community to fulfil the promise, the command, and the ideal. We were devoted and committed to that great endeavour to ‘Create Heaven on Earth.

At the end of each day, after having done ‘God’s Work’ to the point of exhaustion, we’d all meet in the Community Centre for dinner. After dinner, just about everyone was truly done for the day and trotted back to their caravans and bungalows to tuck in for the night.

Meal in the Community Centre Eileen and the boys (left), Peter (right)

It was then that I would find myself inexorably drawn to walk up the narrow path, past the apple trees, past the printing hut, past the office shed, and enter the quiet of the Sanctuary. I sought peace.

Often it would only be me: the girl who had a thousand thoughts a minute and multiple project ideas in a day and endless crushes on boys and odd fears of old ladies, confusions, doubts and way too many questions. Because of this cacophony in my mind, the Sanctuary was essential.

For three years, every night, I would trudge, scamper, or shuffle up the path and push through the quiet door and then sit … and be still, allowing my body, my mind and my heart to settle down.

Findhorn was my home. It provided shelter, food, companionship and purpose.

The Sanctuary was the heart of my home.

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More stories about the early 1970s and my experiences with the founders can be found in my memoir:

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Photo credits: Thank you to Marilyn Barry who shares with us the photographs she bought during her visit to the community in 1971, and to David Spangler who sent us scans of photos he found from that time.

Lark Batteau

Grew up in Cambridge, MA, groomed to be ballerina. Moved to London at 18. Hitchhiked to Findhorn a year later. Involved in dance, theatre, music and art, Shiatsu practitioner and Yoga teacher.