They all came together today, in bits and bobs, at different times, but now when I look back over the day, they all merge into a lovely flow, the punctuation being the full stops and unwanted commas, the question marks and semi colons. I remember telling my English teacher once that I hated full stops because, well, they were stops. It’s all about breathing, she said with a kindly smile, but to be honest I had plenty breath left for at least four more points which required making, with all appropriate adjectives and adverbs and spins-off into some tributary of the main river of it all. She taught me well.
It began with a lovely morning walk with two men of whom I am inordinately fond, with their two girl labradors. As we walked around Tapselteerie, the sun dappling the soggy track, the dogs weaving, the conversation flowing easy as syrup, the connection so refreshing between us, we shared our takes on life, our knowledge, the questions flying overhead and pulled down the answers. We walked over coppered beach leaves, through puddles, the petrichor strong, the chiaroscuro momentary in the cloudal shift and twist. Rain coming. There is always rain coming, but look, look now, see that quicklight, that sudden brilliance, as if the sky is looking at us……Look! And we did.
It is the annual Mull Car Rally. I give it capitals because it deserves it. I know, I know, that this weekend there is a huge invasion of car enthusiasts, boy racers in souped up noisy small vehicles that will irritate and infuriate the peaceful balance of this beautiful island. I also know that the above don’t give a hooha about the beautiful island. They are here for the race. And I get it. I was young once and I can remember the euphoria of this weekend, when my own children were in that race, over a whole weekend. I remember trying to find somewhere for folks to stay when every single place was already booked. I remember the buzz. Something wild and completely crazy is happening here, this weekend, right now, and even from a distance, I am feeling an integral part of it.
I know, and already see that the roads are challenged, loads of off-road skids, mud everywhere, the crazy lifting into wild. On Monday it will be done, someone the winner and, please no disasters. These roads are skinny and curvaceous and cliff-topped and it’s all done, or most of it, in the dark. I hear the grumpy on all this, and then I look at them, the grumpies, and get it. There’s a choice to be made. I want to ask, Do you remember being young and alive and euphoric? But I don’t. When olding sets in, and it does, it can begin around 60. There’s a time when curtains get closed early, when light is too much, when someone who won’t pull over to let you pass, or who won’t back down on a scoopytwist of a hillback and you have to reverse like a dervish into a muddy passing place, causes a tsunami of olding.
Dont’ go there. Keep ahold of the Euphoria, smell the Petrichor, hold on to the Chiaroscuro of who you were and still are. And choose to stay there.
