Island Blog

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Island Blog – Someone or No-One?

This is something I performed once. It begs a performance. There is rhythm, rap, and begs a reading out loud.

Wherever you grow, bloom strong and petal wide, don’t hide but spread your colour, blue is it, or red, or butter yellow, white? Be right with it, your colour, it is yours alone. Hold your own, make it known, alone, not lonely. Only you know your ground. It may be rocky, maybe rich and soft, a mountainside, a beach path, garden, grey street, river bank. Give thanks for wherever you find yourself. Hold out your petals, reach and reach up to the light, breathe right. Your breath is life, in joy or strife, breathe on. In shade or sun, you are the one.

Make a difference. Have fun and look around you. Who grows beside, or over there? Another soul with hopeful roots just pushing through in fear, perhaps, delicate heart, easily broken by careless feet or the lash of punishing rain-words, to die in silence. Cry out in anger, but stand your ground. For those who stand will remember the ones who fall. All of them.

And share your light, your bright, your coloured heart, still beating like a drum on the battlefield, and there, don’t yield, but glow with life and, tender-fingered, lift a drooping head. Warm a faltering body. Say ‘I am here, and I will not leave you’. Share your mystery, your very soul. Hide nothing, let nothing cold you, hold you fixed in ice or fear, as if the end is near.

Notice every season, but not too much. Touch another, lift, don’t drift, for Time moves on, fleeing like a thief in the assault of misbelief, no crime committed in the touch. Some of us long for touch, not much to ask, small task, withdrawn through fear and that worldly slime, the snake of self-doubt, out with you, damn spot, you are not the true voice, my choice, I touch.

Hold each blooming moment, roots in the earth, head in the sky. Let pain go by, toss it to the wind, the changeling wind with stories on her back. And, remember this. Never miss the chance to lead another to the dance. Show your light. Be curious, like Alice, and leave your smile among the trees for the bees to honey up and sweeten. Reflect the sun, the rain, the moon. And do it soon, because you know that a winter of the soul will come, and, for some, it is already here. No matter your ground, make it better for your being there, nourishing, flourishing, sharing, caring, thankfully placed just where you need to be to learn something. Let laughter fill your throat and let it fly out like birds or butterflies to smile a flagging soul up and out of sadness, and to spin their own bitter into glitter. A million rainbows lie within you. Let them show, because you know, no matter the chatter, that you have the power to choose.

Am I someone, or no-one?

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Island Blog – So Who Am I?

Answering for myself, and honestly, I am reckless, spontaneous, loving, able to say sorry, aware, intuitive. I make endless mistakes, move too quick into situations, pull back too quick as well. I am naughty, looking always and everywhere for the chance of harmless mischief, wherein, I have noticed, only I ever get sent to the corner. How is it, I ask myself, that this still defines me at almost 72? I have no answer for that one. I think that, finally, I have come to terms with what seems to run like blood through my veins. I just can’t not be who I am.

Controlled, or so it seems, by these qualities, and as a youngster, I found myself often having to apologise for my, well, self, because in those days I heard, until it almost took me out, the rules by which it was acceptable to present oneself, and they just did not fit. Music began, my feet tapped into jig; someone said something and I was unable not to respond. I moved away from encounters, situations, circumstances feeling like a blue alien all the way up to when the rulebook annulled me. I remember that time, the compliance strangling me like a corset, and it was the same as a young wife. Oh, a lot of me was ‘acceptable’, until it wasn’t and the ‘wasn’t’ came from someone else. It was like living in a constant storm. Funny, is it not, that our past continues to trigger things in our present? However, and notwithstanding all that learning and behaving and feeling corseted on the way to strangulation, I now believe I have held on to me.

The wind is high tonight, red in the weather app, but that app isn’t promising 70mph gusts, as of last weekend, scary as hell. These gusts are coming in from the other direction, and at the most, 40mph. Piddling, really, in a land and history of a great deal of gusting. It thinks me. Sideswipes come at all of us throughout our lives, gusts which could, if we let them, take us down. I don’t like being down. So, what do we do to prepare for that which might come, and often does? Now that is a good question, a very good one. My belief is that we all have the power to stand, as a self, against any constrictive or blasting force outside of who we know we are. We cannot control the weather without, but we most definitely can control the weather within. No matter the corsetry constraints of youth and beyond, we know who we are. The hard part is stepping out in those boots. It’s worth it, I promise you, no matter the battle.

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Island Blog – The Light

I have to see it. Light. In the dark days, I switch it on. I scurry among the mice in my cupboard under the stairs, to pull out twinkly winkly skeins of golden light. I weave the wires around pretty much everything that stands still long enough to allow this weaving frenzy. I plug in. To heck with batteries which tend to last about five minutes in the tall tell of time, dimming so fast as to become an apology. Light needs not such apology. Light is bright, she is sunlight, moonlight, starlight, and if I need to play pretend inside my home with a plug and a switch, then I will. Locals tell me that, when they walk by in the slipslide of a winter’s day as it moves into night, when the Winter King grabs tight hold of our earth and spikes ice into souls and water bodies, into nights and days, just loving the hold he has on us, and for months, the lights in my home spread like warmth and hope as they pass by.

I seek it, Light. The first dawn lift, lifts me out of bed as if someone had shot me from from a gun. I cannot remain inside those cosy covers for a minute longer. I must arise to say hallo to the newing light, the illumination of a garden, a life that still breathes, still lives itself. As the day slides off her perch, in the darkling time, I see others draw the curtains with a swish, turning in. I cannot do that. As long as there is light out there, I do no swishing. It is as if I am some strange creature, even I don’t know. I don’t say anything, of course not, as the dark comes in too soon with that swish, but I feel it ripple through me. I am all confused and suddenly required to conform. Well, I know that conform thing and who doesn’t? Parents, teachers, partners and so on. But I can feel a turmoil inside. I want to watch that light until it is entirely and completely gone. I have no interest in cutting it off. I’m probably weird, but I feel it, so strong, so sharp.

Once the natural light sink has sunk, I am woohoo about twinkly winkly lights and switches. The flames of my fire uplift me. I watch the flames, the way they wiggle and lift, the way the blue meets the red. I see it all. I could watch a fire for hours, the light and bright of it. I see a new moon, the ice blonde of her back curve, the slide of a plane heading somewhere, first white light, tampering into a catch of pink sundrift . And still the curtains are open. It thinks me.

If we really study light, out there, inside ourselves, in the eyes of a stranger, the power of light just might catch you too. Watch it, notice it, find it, hold it, don’t let it die. Light is life. Could be a new understanding, a new choice, a new direction. All exposed by light. Have a couple of thinks about it.

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Island Blog – A Yellowing,Rebellion, Fairies

I see my indoor plants. They missed me, obviously. There’s a yellowing in their leaves. A falter, a down thing. I watch them, the three of them and we talk. You are fine, I tell them. You don’t need me. You are yourself. Even, in my experience, mismanagement is not a finite thing. Even children bounce forward after such. I’m being polite here. There is an orange tree, the one Himself ordered when I was far away and which has produced succulent fruit, albeit randomly. There’s an inherited Ficus Ordinarious, not her name, and the very last geranium from Granny. She worshipped that mother plant. She was very protective of her geranium. I, to my shame, wanted, and often, to set fire to the whole damn plant. I never did. When she died in 2002, and I moved back here on my own, back to the island,an island which had scooped up my heart and thrown me into a confounding, a conjoining, I now know, of my matriarchal ancestry, and of my gypsy soul, I just had to come home. Best choice ever. It seems to me, that where mum is, is home.

In these days of all that history, all that survival, all that I have learned from my own ferocious forbears, I can see that the rebels appear voicy. It seems to me that survival in whatever conditions, is a challenge. Only the brave. that’s a quote from someone. And it is true. The lives we live now, the rising costs, the affect that has on families, the darkening of light in an, heretofore, ordinary life, means a lot of cold and a lot more of the more of cold.

Rebel here. I cannot accept the gloom. There are. always fairies, stories, magic, always.

Always.

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Island Blog – And So We Run

It is still today, like the sky was exhausted, the winds gone. The sea calmer, the illusion complete. T’is an illusion. We, who live out here in the wild of the wild, know this. But, we have always known this. There are wilder places, and I have heard of their experiences, of torn off rooves, a disputed plural, hallo Dad, mid storm, of sheep out there, hopefully somewhere, of cattle on the cusp of cliffs, of subsidence, of trees falling on pretty much everything, of no power, no neighbours able to walk to help, of all of it. But when the still comes, we run with it. No, not that for those of us who know that this is how it is, and how more it is. I am not one, anymore, one. whom lives in the way beyond. Actually, I never was, not really. The Outer Hebrides are, well Outer. The storms they meet are huge, no, HUGE. I wonder if we ever think of that? Or, are we caught up in the ‘inconvenience of winter storms, because, what, they limit travel to something or someone? Loss of power for 24 hours, for 3 days, loss, btw of any chance of communication, so dependant are we on those who seem to own us now.

It thinks me. It might think you. I notice that, once the still comes in, after the biggest storm in ages, apparently, which, I must confess, laughs me, as there have been so many storms within those ‘ages’, we run on again, chasing jobs we hate, running after things we really don’t want to align with just because someone in authority wants it for us, or just running from what is no longer happy. I wonder, as I write this, if someone, who has survived whatever they survived in this storm, is now questioning the running?

Well, if you are, be brave. I know that sounds impossible. But, it is your freedom. You’l have to stop and turn. You are change. A rare leader.

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Island Blog – The Void and Music

In the last 24 hours, we were there, weren’t we. Not a question. We knew a storm was coming in, not unusual for we islanders, and argyllersand that there might be limitations, such as no ferry runs, such as possible power cuts. I have more power cuts under my belt than may seem acceptable to those who don’t live out here in the half way to space but still under complete control of the Mad Atlantic and her insouciant storms. I just know she works with the under and over skies to turbulence we humans, to ascertain her control. It works here, anyway, or she does, and by the way, she spreads her velvet and ferocious self all the way around the frickin world. Just saying. I have no idea about the Pacific, or the Indian, or any of the active others. Oceans, mountains, moons, skies, they confound me.

The wind was coming. The warning was red, the first for Scotland. Scotland is a big place by the way. There is the East, there is the West, there is the South, the North and the Middle. We almost don’t speak the same language, so different are our life experience.s Different winds, different seas, different a whole flipping lot. And a gale, a big storm means different things to us. There are those way out there in farmhouses, stock in the thick of serious gusts, the fear, the cold, the cut off from everyone else. I am not one of those, but I did feel the cutoff. That word, in my day would never have been a word. Just saying. Hallo Dad.

I’m resisting, I know it, It was hell. It was dark. I was alone. The 24 hours without power was long and scary, as wee bits of my home crashed down with a loudness that so didn’t befit the size of each piece. But, as they fell, in the candle dark, I bigged them up. My chimney? Slates? Like ancient slates? Even worse. I went to bed, slept fully clothed, pus blankets, with a candle and with the damn frickin electric phone beeping all night in a whiney moan. Battery losing power. Like I could care, with my two hot water bottles and no communication with my family and wind shouting and blattering and making noise and shout .

When the ppower came on, I almost danced. Warmth, tunes, connection. Tick. So very important. My landline is dead. But, I have contact with my kids. However, there may well come a time when that connection won’t come back. I know this. For now, I am just loving the reconnection, and playing my tunes, music always loud in my home, always was.

Probably overdoing it. Thankfully my house is solid stone build.

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Island Blog – Wet baskets and Thinks

I have returned to the most wonderful artwork in my home, on the ceiling above a recessed window, in the halfwayupthestairs wall, in the bathroom, no longer (and sadly) containing a bath. The colours are eliptic, shaplular, interesting. I know why they are there, and what they would mean to anyone but me, obviously. They show water ingress. But I have lived with water ingress for most of my adult life, all of it, actually, and have become friends with it, interested, even. In a home 117 years older than I, expectations are definitely a mistake, particularly in our current world of covering every damn thing up with paint and walls and pretence. In those old days, sentient folk followed water courses and with respect. They just knew what they were up against. Nature. Now, well, now that intelligence is considered obsolete.

I’m watching the ingress right now. It comes every winter, and every spring when the winter king has finally let go of control, I call a plasterer to cover up what will always be there in this ancient stone build, my home. Through my windows, i am watching big cloud talk and I am not surprised. They know there is a huge gale coming in on Friday, and they are bunching up, holding tight, shouting it out, running for cover, for those who recognise sky conversation. Fishermen may not be out on Friday. Ferry may not appear on Friday. But those of us who live here, who know the gales will come, who know that, accept and batten down. The wood won’t burn. The rain comes in. The wind takes your wheelie. And, and, there is shared laughter in that.

When I come into my ancient home, all tripled glazed and with underfloor heating, I smell wet baskets. I think. Or, is it mice? I think mice smell like wet baskets. I don’t like opening my door to the smell of wet baskets, nor mice. I want to come in to fresh and welcoming. Too many years of this place smelling like an old folks home, and I so wish I didn’t have to say that. Maybe that’s an ingress, maybe from the old bones of the old stories, I don’t know. Perhaps rain ingress smells like wet baskets, or mice?

A lot of thinks. For now, I’ll go with finding supper.

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Island Blog – Pants and a Laugh

There’s a thing about pants, and I’m noticing it. The thing. I’ve hung many of them on lines, on pulleys, on the side of doors, mirrors, radiators, and not just mine. I know the bottoms they contain, and I wonder. The yawl and spread of these do not comply with the computation in my mind. It’s as if another country has been added, thus compromising my understanding of a person’s geography. They have forgotten themselves. It leads me, inevitably, to a check on my own underpants. I can see, as I bend to eyeball the drawer of such personal items, that I am living in the past. I bought this pair, well, obviously, years ago, just look at the stretch that once kept me in, and which, now, spreads like a new planet no matter how much I fold and scroll. Have I thus spread? I have not. It is just that I don’t need more pants. Oh, really? Is, then, it so, that I don’t need a new bra either? No, I’m fine, same tits, well, a tit and a half to be honest now, but it works and who’s looking anyhoo? Hallo sisters, so not the point, and that laughs me now that I have one tit that is intent on the sky, thank you marvellous cancer surgeon.

Back to pants. I am home now after the most invigorating and uplifting time in Africa. Yes it is rainy, and so what to that, and there are potholes and there might not be adequate salt spread on the single track roads and there will be winds and so flipping what? Some people are fighting for their lives right now. Which is pants. My thing here is this. We can get all caught up in pants, literally. I know I do until I decide this pair has to go, I deserve new, even if gravity has altered my flesh, and a new bra, even if one tit is heading one way, the other, the other. They used to agree, but that was when they did and now it is different and I believe that those who survive, not the longest, but the happiest, are those who just buy new pants, new bra, each time life slams a dunk, whatever the hell that means. And then there are those who are so caught up in the loss of buttock control or whatever, that you just know they are not paying attention.

Hallo those who can laugh at all of this.

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Island Blog – From Gimcrack to Newbuild

Arriving back in Scotland was a right shock. From 34 degrees to minus 8, and overnight. Doesn’t seem possible. All those sleepless hours inside a huge metal bird, squashed and fighting for leg room and elbow room as we all hurtled through time and space, over countries we may never set foot in, delude us. We left in shorts, well, I didn’t, still buzzing with holiday flutter and fast departing tans, breathing in many other breaths and emissions, only to land in a cold, dark, very early, winter morning, wishing we’d chosen thermal longs instead of cotton shorts.

Outside the terminal, folk with fast departing tans, shivered, puffing steam like the Hogwarts Express and stamping. I didn’t risk the stamping thing, having only light plimsoles on my feet, one of which threatens a hole. I just stood in awe, watching the excited departees, smiling at the caved in faces of others like me who wanted nothing more than to run back to the plane demanding a return ticket. It’s winter, for goodness sake, I hissed to myself, teeth chattering something I couldn’t catch. Get over yourself. You’ve made it back, after all, no damage done.

Met, as I was, by my daughter and granddaughter and hugged warmly, my shivers abated. The car pulsed heat, the snow was stunning, I was safe. As we drove in lines of traffic, all going somewhere, I presumed, I felt many twinges of sadness at my leaving Africa, the son, the sun, the heat, the music, the warm sea, the ease with which anyone can live in a place that never gets cold at all. Of course, to live there would be a very different thing. Perhaps the heat, sometimes rising into the late 40s, might cause problems with working conditions, with comfortable sleep, with mental alertness. I didn’t have to be alert at all, had a fan blowing me almost out of bed each night, didn’t have to work. that’s not real life, however, that’s a holiday, an adventure every day with company, laughter, games, walks, moments that lifted us almost off our feet and nothing mattered, not even the threatening hole in my shoe.

Slowly I acclimatised, very slowly, and particularly so as I had managed to land with extra baggage – a novovirus bug, always a risk when travelling, when inhaling other breaths and emissions, no matter how clean the recycled air professes to be. The virus is brutal. Don’t catch it. Then I gave it to my daughter who missed her 50th birthday as a result. So unkind of me, but what control do any of us have over the invisible? I am happy to report that, it seems, nobody else in the family caught the devil, and today I begin my journey back to the island in sunshine. It’s still going to be winter for a long while, I know that, but I feel as if I have moved from gimcrack to newbuild. Plans for self-improvement, for more fun, for more adventures, all just waiting for me to press ‘play,’ and I am ready.

Whatever we go through, whatever befalls us, cannot break us if we refuse to break. We may lose confidence, bodily parts, outward beauty and all control over flesh gravity, but this olding generation is a tough cookie. And, all we have to do is to keep getting up, keep looking out like excited children, who just know they will catch a falling star. One day.

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Island Blog – Travelling in Light

Last full day, today, under an African sun, and, although I am (always) sad to leave this beautiful country, I am ready to fly back through space and time, to land in my own country, my own life. Visits to Africa heal me, help me move forward in renewed hope, and also allow me, by some magic, to let go of whatever gave me ants in my pants during the year before. This time, I had some tough shit to go through, the legacy of which rippled on through my body and affected my mind in ways that surprised me. I was, I thought, quite in order with myself. Then, when I fell very ill, and cancer was discovered, I still felt in order with myself. I am strong, a warrior, I can overcome this, or so I thought, and, to a high degree and with the assistance of an excellent surgeon and tremendous medical support and expertise, I did, or we did. But the body holds the score, as we all know, so that, even when a mind is made up to survive and thence to thrive, the body lags behind. In turn, this lagging thing affects a mind, so that, although I had moved on, I was constantly reminded of a new frailty. And a new strength. It was confusing, as if a fight was on between body and mind. No matter how clear I was on my decision to move on after such a trauma, I was often reminded that a new compromise was required.

This visit, around family, under sun, inside adventures and conversations, I rise. Not by mental force alone, but with a gentling of body and mind, as if they now move together and as one. I said I knew myself before, but was still aware of anxieties and hesitations around my new limits. Now, I work with those limitations as if they aren’t limitations at all, but just who I am now. And I have learned from this change, this rather strange pretence that I can force a collusion between mind and body, regardless of trauma, as if it was nothing much and blow it away on the winds. That doesn’t work, I know it now, even if that determination has held me up and bright in 2024. What I needed was time to heal and the patience to accept that truth, to walk with it, open and humble, until all of me finally got together again.

We have had many wonderful adventures, all the while sharing ideas and jokes, plans and observations. We have watched the wild Atlantic and swum in the warm Indian Ocean. We have seen humpbacks breach, dolphins burst the waves wide open, colourful birds flying overhead; we have dined and wined and picnicked and walked through Fynbos, Fleis, and across miles of white sand ,peppered with an array of spectacular shells I never see back home. We have seen the sun set the ocean on fire, stayed with friends who live between mountains so high as to disappear into cloud. We have wandered among shops in Capetown, laughed at the terrible driving whenever it rains, and stood in awed silence beneath the upside down stars. And all the while, I could feel the gentle hand of a natural healing.

I know I fly back into winter, but there will always be a winter. I know I don’t have enough warm clothing. I know I will have to drive back to the ferry through tricky weather and that the ferry may not sail through gale force winds. I also know my wee home awaits me, the wood burner, the candles, my friends, my community. I return as me, but renewed, re-jigged, at peace with my life, because I have travelled in light, one that is strong and sustainable, one that tells me who I am, and who I am is just fine with me.