Month: June 2023

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Island Blog – A Good Day for Rebellion

A good day, productive and engaged. Washing up at the Lunch Club in the village hall for two ours is a pleasure and a craic. You non Scots might need to look that one up! Fun, basically, engagement, mischief, shared stories, or snaps of them, whilst dealing with the ordinary. I now believe that this is how a real life is lived. I remember it at Tapselteerie, the chaos of it all and yet we danced through it all, me and my fabulous support team. Well, team is a bit of an exaggeration as there was only one strong woman beside me whilst the men did what they always did, expecting food and respect and room for all sorts of things such as a young ewe who needed lambing, or room for a ‘very important’ chainsaw to be serviced. That sort of thing. It didn’t matter that I, and my strong woman support, were juggling children, phone calls, guests wanting another drink, or that dinner, my cooked dinner, a dinner that won awards, required a focus which had zip to do with ewes in labour, nor that flipping chainsaw.

However, those days are gone forever, even as the memories laugh me now. How I did what I did is beyond my understanding, at 70. Maybe that’s the point. I was in my 20’s and 30’s then, strong and bloody minded and nothing was going to fell me. It did, eventually. We all have a limit. These days, without that life, my children all gone, my grandkids growing and blooming, I have only my reflections. This is olding. However, there is a miasma of nonsense around we, who are already at our 3 score years and ten, urging that we should stop everything that we loved and enjoyed before. We must be CAREFUL. Of what? Of everything? Fear is a good friend but only when it comes from an individual in danger. The culture of fear makes me want to blow the whole thing up. The wisest and funniest people I know are ‘old’ (and should be CAREFUL) But I remember them out there, dancing in the street, laughing, sharing stories, memories. Ok, they might not be able to dance physically, but they turned up anyway, until they stopped. Doctors appointments pepper their diaries. They stay behind their front doors. It just is not right.

Be careful when you walk, where you walk, says Fear. But I will not let the fear of ageing control me, even if Fear has many legs, is fast moving and as tenacious as a swarm of midges. You will not escape, not once the Fear has been allowed in. So, I get it, feel it, know its presence. An unwelcome guest for sure. I think we all do, at certain times of our lives, certain circumstances shoving us into the Fear room. Could be well-meaning children, could be loss, could be anything at all. But, people, you alongside me over 70 and wondering who the frickin hec you are right now, remember who you are, who you were, what you achieved over decades. Sit with that and feel proud because you did well, you fought battles, daily, you made food, brought in cash, covered the massive expanse of ground you had to cover just to bring one child to independence.

I bow to you. Now, YOU bow to you, too.

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Island Blog – I’ll Meet You There

I have been away. Just for a few days, but what larks we had! Old friends, they are, sharing a long history, music, and song ribbons that connect us, plus a shared sense of humour. Nothing beats such times. We just know each other and have done since we were young and strong and with no thought of ageing, nor loss. Our hairstyles, remembered visually with the help of old photos were, well, of the times, big and long and slightly ridiculous. We moved differently then, thought differently, lived spontaneously and without care. We laugh at it all, whilst we remember that we had a million cares back then, as we fought our way towards our dreams, only to find that dreams are just dreams. We felt the setbacks like kicks to the gut, the disappointments as unfair and unwarranted, whilst the realtor of our lives flicked his/her whip at our reckless flanks, taking us down paths we never really wanted to take. Ah, t’is life. For all of us.

And then I came home, bobbing over the water on the old ferry, seeing old friends, also bobbing, looking older than I feel, but still bright with a smile and a welcome. All was well, is well, in my island home, my safe space, my beloved solitude, but. But that time I had away, those nights of laughter till 2 am, the music and reflections, spin me. I know the party has to end. I know that my life is not their life, still working their jobs and much younger than I, but it is very hard to settle. My normal is this shape. Days of just me. Days of either talking to myself or to my dog, or shouting at the radio when some presenter racks up my irritation to level 1. I have conversations with my Indesit (no fulfilling conversation there) washing machine, my linen cupboard who tells me she needs a tidy, the compost bin, which is worm-absent #worrying, or the trees I walk under, or the sparrow nesting under my tiles, or the neighbour’s cat. But I have to answer, too. It’s like playing scrabble with myself. Nobody wins, nobody loses. This is not communication, and that is what I miss. That is what I have to accept, somehow. It is gone, that chat with the Old Chum who abandoned me almost 3 years ago, the ordinary, simple, often infuriating conversations we take for granted until Death shuts the mouth of it, tight, and forever.

I know it is the same for all of us. The same story, whilst each story is wildly different. There is no Standard for this one. It is chaos, mess, random and, it seems, tenacious. I am told it is a process, a word that indicates progression, a sequential list of boxes ticked and sorted. That is a lie, all of it. The loneliness of loss has no process. It is a lion waiting to pounce, a giant with a Fee Fi Fo Fum in his mouth, a lightning strike, a tsunami, and it comes and it comes and it comes. Just when I think I’ve got this, ticked all the get-on-with-it boxes, a chaos moves in, a turmoil of darkness and doubt, of fear and, yes, terror, sweeping me off my pins. I recover, we all do, and get on with the day, with myself, with my commitments, my face bright as a polished apple, my eyes light, my words cheerful and sunny, and with the dissonance a jangle, only in my ears.

So, to all of you who are experiencing this, I send my love and respect. If you are facing a newbuild of your life, be patient. I am not patient, but the advice is good. You did a wonderful thing, lived a wonderful time, shared, gave your heart, sacrificed much, let go of so much more. Now, there is a new you. Scary as hell, I know, I know. He/she is there somewhere, deep down, not forgotten. I think of building. I watch birds taking one bit of grass, one snatch of sheep’s wool, at a time to create a soft nest for chicks. I think of when I painted. One strand of raffia glued to a canvas, a dried grass, seed from a wild poppy, a thread, a tare of material from a little girl’s frock, a feather, some shells, dried seaweed. Once the glue tied these down, I would paint over, soft, watery watercolours, to create a ground. I miss my work. Perhaps I will build this way again one day. My point is, it takes one thing, then the next, then the next along with the patience to wait for each stage to dry, to affix.

The sharing times come and then they pass, be it family events or friend visits. But when they end, when the time of fun and sharing and laughter morphs into what might, and often will, feel dull and ordinary, I will meet you there.

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Island Blog – A Story for the Bridge

The birds wake me, for there is no other disturbance here. I know, I know, many hear the bin lorry, early traffic, noisy neighbours, those heading for work or those heading home from work, but not here, here where the biggest sounds are from Nature. And I am glad I live here. However, it is not always a treat. The sun doesn’t always shine big, bright and warm and oftentimes the birds are punched backwards by the gales that can rise in Spring, Autumn, and definitely in Winter, and Winter stays way too long. Always has. But we who have lived here longtime, have learned to love the whole of island life. We might turn blue in the endless months of rain and chill, but we know that our weather, an unique weather pattern, will, in time, turn on the sun to warm us. And we have learned how to bring a smile into any day, even if it takes a lot of physical strength to remain upright when moving from car to shop.

The garden is dry, the island is dry. A rare thing, and not so rare, historically. There is talk of a water ban. I remember one, way back in Tapselteerie days, when bowsers came over on the ferry, their big rotund bellies full of someone else’s water. Not for us, though, with our independent flow of spring water, but for others on the mains. Holiday cottages, bed and breakfasts, hotels, all flapdoodled without water. Water. The {almost} only thing we need to survive.

I am watching weeds thrive in this mini drought. It thinks me. If I had to come back as a plant I would come as a weed, a pretty one, mind, but a weed, nonetheless. These creatures are tough, survivors, invasive, yes, but they survive. What does that say about me, I wonder? I believe I am hot-wired for survival, and not just a wimpy sort of almost there sort of survival, but a pushy, strong and flowering one. I meet many of my age and on into their 70’s, and see myself as fortunate, indeed. Others have not been so lucky, as weedy me, I see, walking with sticks and supports, with hair that hasn’t seen a hairdresser for some time, who are out of breath and melting in this heat. I put up a big thank you, and pull down a blessing for each one of them. These folk are my folk. We danced in village halls together, not so very long ago, but there will be no more dancing for them.

There is a bridge over our lives, one we all must traverse, at some point. It’s a swing bridge, one we don’t really trust. Half-way across, exactly, is the keystone. It lies in the middle ride, and without this keystone, we would all end up in the water. I am on it, we all are, once we hit our three score years and ten, and, because I can still dance, i can help, encourage and support others around me. Together we can laugh at the inevitable, remember our younger days and lift our long memories into play, batting them back and forth between us like shuttlecocks, because we have shared a history on this island, through all the difficult days and through all the happy ones. Only our circumstances are different. Our sense of fun is the same.

I just went to the shop to buy compost for the dry earth, readying it for a sluice of goodness. Prior to this, I had walked the hotdog to the shore for some coolth and a tiddle about on the rocks. I found a tiny shell, a twizzley one, like a minute snail. I also picked up wire, plastics, rope and twine, which would, had I left it, have rejoined the ocean at high tide. Having only two hands, I pushed the tiny sea-snail shell down my front. I would find it again, eventually. Forgetting it completely, I drove to the shop, smiled everyone up and lugged my compost into the boot. Once home, something caught my attention and I burst out laughing. This snail shell had migrated into just the wrong place, so that it looked like one nipple stood out and proud. I thought the shopkeeper had looked at me, a tad abashed.

I wish I’d had that story for the bridge.

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Island Blog – The Difference

When anyone asked me if I was looking forward to some event or other, such as a visit or a trip away, (why is it called a ‘trip’ as in a falling over?) I couldn’t find any feeling of anticipation, nor excitement. And this has been the case for years. Although I longed to reciprocate the thrill in their eyes or their voice, all I saw were the problems around leaving home, even for a day, even, back a few months, when I only had to go shopping for food supplies. In short, I looked forward to nothing at all, even though I felt certain that I was not right, my head not right, that faulty wiring thing again. Until, that is, I discovered that I am autistic. I had never even considered it, felt far removed from what I believed autism to manifest in human form. I am extroverted, a crazy and colourful dresser, excellent at showing off, talking to strangers and one who loves physical contact. However, having read the book recommended to me by a doctor, called Unmasking Autism by Dr Devon Price, I found myself. There she is, all out-there, noisy, loving people, colourful, high functioning and not wired faulty at all. I never was. All those decades of counselling, of studying ‘self-help’ books on how to be a better fit, all those days and nights of angst and self-doubt, gone in the very moment I heard the diagnosis. I felt relief and immediately, because at last I am seen, recognised, respected. I felt my strength returning, even if I had almost no knowledge of what it means to be an autistic.

Overnight, it seems, I grew more confident in my my decisions. I know, now, that my dislike of chaos is perfectly fine, and the fact that I lived inside chaos for years and had small chance indeed of changing that, tells me how resilient I am and was. I know that, although I love people, that people are my absolute passion, I don’t like a whole load of them all together, nor do I like anyone coming too close, unless invited by me. I know that I need more rest times than ‘neuro-normal’ folk (who is ever ‘normal’?), that I don’t like being forced to stay when I want to leave, that my independence and solitude are very important to me and so on. All of these fit. I am not wrong. I am not disabled, but more unable to be what the world expects of my out-there, high functioning, colourful self. For the very first time since I was five years old, I am free, freed from the chains of stereotypical human-ness. I am unafraid of life. I can say, and with confidence, that I am looking forward to my travels, whether abroad or just into the little harbour town for avocados. I am more definite in my No and my Yes. When I wake each morning, the day is not a challenge, not a bank of potential troubles and worries, but a fascination of hours within which anything can happen, and so be it. Even when I meet a female adder in my garage, I feel excitement rising (as she did for a strike) for she is beautiful, all 3 feet of her, her markings breath-taking, the work of the Master Painter. She is lethal, yes, but only if I upset her, so I don’t. Nonetheless, I will be wearing thick gloves for weeding, just in case she still lurks.

It thinks me a lot. To find myself, even at 70, to know how well I lived inside a life that never really fit me, despite the depression, self-harming, insomnia, self-doubt and self-abuse, I know I am a strong and powerful woman, and not the misfit I had always believed myself to be. I feel no blame, no regret, no wish to go back and to do it all again, because it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that now I am found and the glass is no longer dark. I am deeply thankful for all that research on autism and all other mental health states that now free all those of us who have felt trapped and faulty, perhaps for a whole lifetime. Understanding of Difference and the subsequent exposure of those differences to all people is progress. Recognition of how uniquely we are all wired and the acceptance of such will ripple out into work places, schools and colleges, homes and communities, changing lives as it tickles every shore. And I am glad of it.

In my youth, we were ignorant. Anyone showing ‘alternative’ behaviour was judged as mentally dodgy at best, shunned, marginalised, abused and hidden away at worst. Labels were handed out like sweeties. It wasn’t right but it happened anyway. Nowadays, a curious and questing person or two has dived into a probably aggressively resistant sea of research, and come up with treasure. We all are needed in this life, all of us, no matter who we are. People broken down by impossible expectations need to be seen, not judged and dismissed as weirdos. It is coming and there’s a looking forward to it. So, if you ever wonder who the hell you are inside a life that fits like a hair coat, I get you, and, sincerely, I hope you can find out who you are because the best freedom of all is to have the answer to that.

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Island Blog – A Big Warm Friend

Once I get to know my mammoth, I find I like her. She presents as a threat, or so I perceive, but she is a big softy inside. I know about this presenting thingy, I do it myself, always upbeat, the cheerful one, the clown to smile away another’s sadness whilst my own nudges against my outer limits like there’s a whole me in there, longing to be seen, heard and acknowledged. It thinks me. However, thinking is not an action unless I I give it full attention, unless I sort the melodrama and sentimental tiddleypom from the core truth of my thinks. Hiding who I really am is often required and even appropriate at times, out there in the world. Was I to moan out my inner angst at, say, a birthday celebration for a friend, everyone would be stultified, embarrassed and at a loss for words. A meltdown on the 10 am ferry crossing would spoil the day for many folk, leaving them feeling emotionally confused and full of questions as to how I feel, at our next encounter. So, like you, I present as if my exterior is a perfect match for my core truth.

However, and there is always one of those, this can become an unhealthy way to live, this cover up choice, until even I, and in private, do not acknowledge how I really feel inside, desperate to fit in to the shape I ‘appear’ to have, and for all my life. My mammoth, who is fast becoming a good friend, has literally softened as I sit before her hugeness, her tusks, not to mention that, unless she budges, I will never see my sitting room again. We talk. She teaches me about her as I teach her about me. Our languages are not the same and we both need to learn. Sometimes we say more to each other by saying nothing at all, just watching, using eye contact, body language and smiles. It is hard for a mammoth to smile, yes, but, as you know, a true smile is really seen in the eyes, a true one, that is, for we can all turn up our mouths, in rictus, in grimace, and it means nothing if it doesn’t reach our eyes. Eventually, we communicate through thought in sentences that wind, like ribbons, into a flow.

Over days and evenings, we grow closer. She reminds me of my inner self and I suggest to her that she doesn’t need to roar quite so much, and at everything, because listening is key in this world. Sometimes we listen for so long that one of us needs to check the other hasn’t died in the process. She tells me that to feel broken and beaten down is okay. But to feel unheard and unseen as the true person I am, even if my presenting as the world expects me to present has dulled my wits somewhat means I must take action. I bristle, a little, at that, even as I know she is right. So what is the answer, I ask her. She watches me watching her, our eyes locked. Ah, she says, we need to be friends. We are friends! She nods that gigantic head and suddenly I laugh at the ridiculous scene, me on the floor, she taking up the whole sofa, a mammoth in my home, a huge and hairy mammoth! She, sort of, laughs too, but its more of a forest shaking roar that blows my short hair into spikes, knocks over the candles and rattles the window. We must be friends for ever, she says, once we all calm down and I have checked the window for damage and righted the candles. Any time you are not paying attention to whom you really are, being open and honest about it, mostly to yourself, I will block your doorway, I will be your stop-and-check checker. Ok, I say. And as I say this, I see her grow smaller, just a bit. She doesn’t seem to mind, so nor do I. After saying goodnight, watching her lie down to rest, I cover her considerably smaller body, with a big blanket against the chill of the dark hours. See you in the morning, I whisper, stroking her long soft coat.

Maybe, she says, her eyes closing.

In the morning, she is gone.