It’s windy. and rainy. This is so not news, not on the way-out-there of us on this almost most westerly point of the UK. Wind, rain are a thing here, loads of both. I can see it in faces, wrinklewrapped but in straighter lines than those on mainland skin, as if continuation actually fixes anything in place. Which it does, when my thinks think me. If somebody continually focusses (too many esses) on gloom, doom, disaster, failure, then guess what manifests? I remember an ongoing conversation way back about being a realist as opposed to a ‘fantasist’. The latter was the term applied to a positive thinker. It laughs me now, but it was a furious one-thing-or-the-other bargument back then, as if there was no opportunity for the in between. Nobody then, nobody at all ever even considered the power (definitely not that) in the electricity of the mind, the fact that it only needed a human decision to fire up the electrons, particles and all the other stuff about which I know zip. I learned it early and I am glad of it.

Anyway, back to lines on faces. I meet the curved lines of dissatisfaction, the downturn, the defeat, the settling, mostly on visitor features. I also meet the ‘scars’ of women and men who have lived here, faced down the wintersmith and laughed back into a hesitant spring and for decades. We can notice, if we care to notice. Life is tough and for all of us. However, and here’s a thing. In any conversation between two ‘solids’, there are many opportunities to divert. There is a wealth of colour, tone and hue between black and white. It’s about belief, and belief is a choice and a confidence and a decision. I’ve made such choices often without a scooby, no idea what might come down on me, appear for me, many, many times. I recommend it.

Flick the indicator. See what happens, and then deal with it, holding tight to your own song, because if you don’t sing it, who ever will?