That’s me. I thought I might have grown out of it by now, this urge to run/fly/burst into song at inappropriate moments. But no. When I look at the width, breadth and length of the world outside my window I want to be a part of every moving second. I can hear a bird, one whose song I don’t recognise. Where is it? I want to go find it right now, even if I haven’t yet pulled on my boots. I want to watch the tide rise and fall, to be a part of it. I wonder what it is like to be a mermaid or a fairy or another of those who live in the Otherness. I want to sparkle beside the stars, feel the intense cold of outer space, get as close as I can to the sun or to fly down a black hole. When geese lift, I lift too. When a tree is felled, I hear it cry out. As new buds burst into flower, I can sense the joy of the mother plant, and see her smile. Sometimes all these connections exhaust me. After all, I have enough to think about down here on the good solid earth without Otherness swirling tantalisingly through my limitations.
I don’t want to go shopping in Glasgow, nor do I want to knit with other women, however much I respect all women for the lives they are required to live. I don’t want the latest this or that, but I do want to buy something huge and wonderful for someone I love. I care not for a new sofa nor a new gadget to make my life easier, some bit of kit that requires a plug socket and fatling space on the kitchen counter. I must be weird. Perhaps I should have been a bird or a volatile planet, new to human eyes. I am open to the idea of a parallel universe, of Time shifting sideways when we all think she can only move forward or back. But, in truth, the worldly limitation of our thinking, our understanding, irks me. Although I could not stand my ground on any argument for Otherness, I know it is there. Although I cannot actually see fairies or mermaids I know they are there, for if there is really no Otherness, no dimension we cannot see, but only sense, then, well, gosh, how flipping dull!
A choice of belief, however, is not quite what I am getting at. I was born with spontaneous crazy running through my veins. Sometimes, it takes control of me and my inner parent needs to rein me in. What I consider possible is, very probably, impossible and could well be hazardous to health. But, and there is a but, if this gift of lunacy is for me, there will be a purpose to it. At the very least, our make up is a finite thing, held in by skin and bones, and sensible boots. They say we should keep our feet on the ground and our heads in the clouds. I like that, but it’s a tricky balance to maintain when all I want is to be up there among those clouds, boots an all.
I meet like-minded people from time to time, and, at others, I meet the flicker of spontaneous crazy in another’s unguarded moment. So, there are a few of us about. I’ve never asked how they manage to be sensible humans with the odd nod to spontaneous crazy, often well imprisoned in their past. They have ‘dealt’ with their restlessness, but not I. It wakes with me and messes with my sleep. It walks with me through an ordinary day, but is not a quiet companion. It picks and pokes at me and it has a voice and a persona. My mum always said she had no idea where I came from and I know well how flummoxed she was around me when this spontaneous crazy took the wheel.
On listening again to my dad playing Jazz and Blues as I drive Maz (sensibly) along the single track roads, I know he had this spontaneous crazy in him. He never read music but taught himself to play and there were so many wonderful parties where we all witnessed the depth and length and breadth of his natural talent. He lived in his sensible boots, had to with a family of five children and all the responsibilities of being the wage earner, but when that work was done and the candles were lit and the drinks poured, he became himself, became one with the keys of that honkytonk keyboard. I never asked him how he kept in balance with the sensible life and it’s too late now, but when he waxed lyrical about the Cairngorms and other wild places, or wrote his powerful poetry and let me read it, I met him there. Not asking him bothers me now, but back then it just wasn’t ever going to be a conversation.
So….….Dad…..just to let you know…..Spontaneous Crazy lives on. And, there’s a tree down there by the loch that is about to show a green light. I need to walk down to pay my respects. I’ll take you with me.