What is your thin place?

Ullswater Lake in Cumbria / North England

Long before we spoke about mindfulness, stress management, or inner calm, Celtic monks were searching for places where life felt more connected.

Between the fifth and ninth centuries, they travelled across Ireland, Scotland, Wales, to the far edges of northern Britain … to windswept islands, silent valleys, and rugged coastlines … not to escape life, but to meet it more fully.

They believed that in certain places, the distance between heaven and earth grew “thin”. Not as an abstract idea, but as something you could sense in the body, in the heart, in the breath … in the stillness.

Some of these monks are still remembered today. Figures like St. Cuthbert on the tidal island of Lindisfarne, St Columba on the remote island of Iona, or the anonymous monks who carved their beehive huts into steep Atlantic rock off the Irish coast.

They did not build their monasteries in cities. They chose edges … places where wind, sea, stone, and sky were not softened by comfort. Places exposed to the elements, where silence was not scheduled, but given.

Photo by Towel401 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41989094 

The image above shows the monastery on Skellig Michael, a windswept rock rising from the Atlantic off the coast of southwest Ireland. High above the sea, small, rounded stone huts, built from stacked rock over a thousand years ago, cling to the island’s edge. No mortar. No ornament.

Surrounded by vast water and sky, everything feels exposed … wind, salt, light, silence … and yet, within that exposure, there is shelter, and at such edges we find ourselves reflected back. Closer to life. More connected.

For me, a thin place becomes a metaphor for something deeply human, a place and a moment in time when we are more connected to our own truth … without distraction, comparison, or the constant noise of “what’s next?”

The moment we enter a thin place, something inside begins to settle. Our breathing slows. Our heartbeat softens. The shoulders drop, almost without notice. And often, without planning it, a deep sigh escapes us, as if the body recognises that it is safe to be here.

During the beginning of this year, I had the privilege of visiting two of my thin places.

One is the frozen Ivalo River in northern Finland. The other is Ullswater in Cumbria in the north of England. They are far apart geographically, shaped by very different weather and landscape. And yet for me, they share something essential.

Frozen Ivalo River in Northern Finland

Both places give me the feeling of coming home inside myself.

The problems that seemed urgent on the way there lose their sharp edges. The massive to-do list that was weighing on my shoulders no longer feels that heavy. Instead, there is calm. A quiet sense of safety. Nothing to solve. Nothing to prove. Just space to watch the stillness.

And something interesting happens in that space.

When the nervous system feels safe, when pressures, anxieties and comparisons fall away, the mind becomes clearer. Not because we are trying harder, but because we are no longer bracing.

From that place of inner safety, perspective returns. Problems feel less daunting. New insights appear with surprising ease. Thin places do not remove life’s challenges, but they help us meet them with greater clarity and courage.

Perhaps because, in those moments and in those thin places, we are not fighting reality. We are simply present.

The encouraging part is this. Thin places do not have to be far away. They do not require flights, long journeys, or dramatic landscapes.

I have discovered a few of my own even within the busy rhythm of London and its surroundings.

And I am not alone.

One close friend often speaks about an ancient oak tree in western Germany. Whenever he stands beneath its wide branches, a sense of calm seems to settle over him almost immediately. Nothing extraordinary happens, and yet everything feels steadier.

Another friend returns regularly to a small pond in the hills of the Erzgebirge. It is quiet, unassuming, and easy to overlook. But there she finds stillness. She recharges. She gathers new courage to meet life’s challenges again.

Thin places, it seems, are less about geography and more about permission.

Permission to pause.

Permission to breathe.

Permission to come home to ourselves.

So, here is my invitation to you:

What is your thin place?

And if you feel like sharing it with me, I would genuinely love to hear about it.

Cheerio

Joerg