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Island Blog – Susurration, Perhaps

Outland, Outsea, this unpredictable giant of salt water, gluttoning on random rivers, streams and a million other acolyte trickles of water, bursting from deep, deep within the belly of earth, all desperate to conjoin with the Outsea, the glorious escape from endless confinement. They cannot resist the ancient call, no matter how Man levels and compromises, poisons and redirects them for new housing, for a wrong forestation. No matter the poles thrust deep, no matter the planting of invasive species just because nobody educated us in time. These bodies of water will find a way, however patient they might need to be.

I watch it all through a reach of glass. Gannets slipside a wind I cannot feel, sitting here behind a double shot cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles. I cannot sense the slant and shift as they rise and float so close to an unforgiving granite cliff. Below I notice seaweed flopped over the stony rocktops like mermaid hair. When the tide rolls back in a great big yawn, the patient weed will lift again and float away, always on the move, a survivor in a deeply awkward life. And then cometh another storm, or the oceanic and angry response to the way we humans are making life very difficult for the flow of water, and that weed will look like a victim as it is blattered onto rocks by the fist of gravity and into new places. But don’t be deceived.

Ice white spume froths around the rocks, falling away, back into the green. Under-sea blow sends shadow pulses then takes them away. Catspaws echo each puff of wind, a feisty wind, footsteps. Gulls crowd on a spit of rock, a jagged tooth. They look like jewels from here. A shag stands sentinel right on the end, sea-facing, wings out like a black angel. None of these know I am here, high up on the cliff. watching the wind taunt the water willow, the scraggy grasses, watching the long reach of every wave push across the sand; watching each one retreat, return, repeat. Across the poppling water, the Outlands are clear, striations on their rocky faces. I can count them and see a peppering of cottages, a mast or two, a ship hugging the far shore. The gulls weave a sky web, the gannets dive, the shag stands dark sentry, and up here, behind the double shot cappuccino and that reach of glass, I can hear nothing. Susurration. perhaps.

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Island Blog – Fly Safe

There’s a thing about an upskittle. It, well, upskittles. And that’s okay because life is no straight line, no matter the planning. We do have to plan, of course we do, but then, all of a sudden, the incoming is not friendly. So be it. Sleepless nights ensue, the buggers, and in those hours of not sleeping, as I might imagine everyone else is, I walk through the fog, the mist of it all, and I accept. I believe that to be key. Key to what? Key to the door of acceptance.

I had a commitment today, a hair cut, a meet with a dear friend. I was cold, shivery, after all the night fog, the walking about, the cold unhug of such a longtime, and considered saying I Can’t Come Today. It’s a give-up to me, a mistake, at a time like this. It isn’t always that way. If I had scarlet fever or if the mountain river had broken its banks and flooded my home, then such a retraction would have been absolutely correct, and appropriate. That was not the case this ditzy morning, when my eyeballs worked independently and I could barely pull on my knickers, let alone the rest of my kit. Even applying eye makeup was a challenge, and I will go nowhere without that.

Time ticked on. I watched it, tick, tick, tick, the minutes not minute at all. Each one was loud and thorough with contradiction and discombobulation. To go? To not go? And then it came, as ‘it’ often does. Oh for effs sake, get on with it! Boots on and go. No excusing the fog, the missed, neither of them. I heard a sound, one I recognise, but haven’t heard for a year. I twisted up to look, as this sound came from the sky, I knew that. Five Whooper swans just outside my window, in a tight formation, in the rain, the windthrust, in the wild, in the now, going somewhere, going on, going on.

Hey, Lizzie. I said that, spoke it out loud, my breath flickering an early candle. Fly safe.

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Island Blog – Means a Lot

Today was one to get through. It took hours, long hours, long as snakes. We all get them, I know, but in our western culture of not admitting to anything sad, most, if not everyone, says nothing, as if to admit to being completely human suggests a structure broken, damaged, faulty. I don’t buy into that. I will say when I feel (and here even I falter for wording) sad, angry, lost in the tsunami of what just happened. It is as if there is something wrong with admitting (wrong terminology) to a weakening. Even that is wrong, somehow. How odd that, with such a vibrant and expansive language within our grasp, the aeons of culture control stultifies. We are a people of denial. To seek the help of a counsellor is something whispered, reluctantly, to a best friend, if mentioned at all. I am happy to say that I have had counselling for most of my life, and thank goodness for the lot of them, for they have been my helpers along my always tricky path. When I did admit, way back to seeking such a wise helper, I do recall my body language showing shame, my eyes averted, my body somewhat cowed. What ridonculous nonsense! That’s what I think now. We all need help along our tricky way, at some point. It is so damn British to think we don’t.

Today I felt the death of my friend harsh as spikes in the soles of my feet. I felt it in the way I didn’t want breakfast, nor lunch, even as I ate both and tasted nothing. I felt it every time I rose from my chair, awkward, stiff, sore. I felt it when I made myself do the 100 pulls on my rowing machine, miscounting, lost in some cut between time and untime, an airy space of nothing, of no sound, no feeling, a nothing place. I felt it when I went upstairs to read in bed for an hour, barely following the story, my eyes ever looking out to the hills, the sky, the gullfloat into a scud of clouds. I felt it when I swept the floors, watered the orange tree, watched walkers walk by. Beneath it all, I have gone away. I function, but the ordinary makes no sense. It used to. It had depth, gravitas, a point. Not now. And, this is crazy because she has a husband who adores her still. I haven’t seen her face to face for years. I know very little about her daily life over decades. And, yet, this is how I feel. We met at 6. We share a birthday year.

And that means a lot.

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cIsland Blog – Boundary Clouds

I see the smurr moving in. I watch it veil the hills, cloud the sea-loch, tamp down trees into stalks, conjoin with the cloud-controlled sky, as if we down here become one with the up there. It moves slow, this smurr, rolling in. It has little power beyond itself for a short time. But, in the moment it disappears the beyond, even the immediate beyond, is surprisingly discombobulating. I know what’s over there. It is always there. Now, in this smurr, it invisibles. It takes a minute or two to re-orientate, particularly so had I been walking to the pub, which I am not. Just saying.

When a known boundary clouds, when a well known path shifts out of focus, it is unnerving. We all know this place. It falters us, halts our forward step, but more than that, we wonder what the hell we are doing with this path walking thing. And, there’s a jerk, for sure. What to do? I cock my head at that. What I have done, have learned, is always the same thing, It’s a question. What do you want? I hate that question, because I didn’t know, or couldn’t say, more like.

The smurr is a coverall now. The sealoch is cloudy as milk. There’s a claiming thing going on here, between sky and earth. The un-leaved trees stand tall and unleaved. The hardly there daffodils point to the stars in hope. The snowdrops bend in compliance. The beauty of this is almost an answer. Almost.

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Island Blog – The Disordinary

I’m on my ordinary list. Got through a few, a lot, in fact. I emptied the compost bucket, said hallo to an obviously newborn toad, for all the blinking and not moving thing he or she did on the step into the woods. I brought wood in, welcomed a friend for soup and a delicious afternoon of chat about everything to do with life and notlife and everything in betweem which is a hoor of a load of years and fears and tears and joy andchildren andregrets and gains and loss. I went to church, read a prayer, hugged, left. There are a couple of didn’ts. I didn’t do my 100 pulls on the rowing machine, nor did I walk. I feel bad about both. But, there is always the morra. I moved cash to cover incoming bills. I decided what I will wear to my friend’s funeral in a couple of weeks, and I felt good about the lunacy of my outfit.

Last thing is to sort the drain smell in the shower room. It used to be a bathroom, with a bath long enough anbd deep enough for a whale. It was a fabulous bath. However, times change and so on, and because we needed no bath, no chance of disaster. A wet room, a shower, hold handles and a non skid floor. A big change. The piping of this new song is too thin. The shower, still a good one, works fine. The drain requires constant attention. I have no idea what changed. Perhaps the old pipes didn’t fit with council rules.

Anyways. I went upstairs as the dusk dusked to pour some soda down the smelly pipe. Added some boiling water, just a cupful, to leave till morning. I was listening to an audio book, lodged safely on the radiator, atop my flannel. Somehow, and I don’t know how, I moved something and the mobile slid down between the radiator and the wall. I thought, oh shit. Here I am, alone, old, in the dark, and this audio book has at least 30 chapters to go and my phone is well charged. However, I am me. grinned a bit, moved downstairs to find tools, thinking all the way. Slim, grab, push, that sort of think.

I did all of that. We are together again, but it did think me of the disordinaray. It comes.

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Island Blog – Lonely, Again

Here’s a thing. That is a ridonculous phrase, but, nonetheless an invitation to stay put and listen. At least that’s what I hope. I am upside down right now. If I cast my eyes back to what has happened over the past forever, particularly the most recent past, I can allow myself this. However, and But, why would those events be knocking me off my feet now? Well, when I ask such a question with absolutely nobody here to engage with, to consider, to respond, t’is only me who answers. She, actually. She is so damn sensible. If I could catch her, I just might incur damage. And, yet, she is the one who walks with me. In this lonely life, and it is a lonely life, I must be cautious around death threats to the one who is always right beside me. I know this.

My day is organised to a great degree. There are many hours in a daylight day, and, as I write this, I chuckle. I remember endless days that seemed to nibble up the hours, condensing them into what I decided was a conspiracy, a plan set to falter me, to confound, to bring me down. Now the hours move like a snail on morphine. I wonder on all the others who might nod at that, although it isn’t always, so. If I have managed to set encounters in place, such as meeting a friend for coffee or lunch, or deciding that valeting my mini is an opportunity for huge laughter and fun, or to decide to drive very slowly over the switchback, setting off very early, noticing ducks and buzzards and white-tailed eagles, flowers, other drivers who do know about island road. I might park and watch, look, pay attention to the ripples on a hill loch, watch a cow lumber away, see her calf jink and bounce. I might play tunes as I ride. I might clean my wee home, marvel at the view, know I am safe and warm and free.

Even then, I am lonely. And, I don’t think it is just me. I remember feeling lonely in a crowd, around friends, in a marriage. Lonely is a thing. And a very big thing, a thing that doesn’t leave just because I don’t want it, or when i try to swat it away in all my pretending. It has a voice, a presence. It is solid and here to stay. Oh, I could fill my days with endless meets and commitments, jobs and nesessaryness, but lonely lurks in the shadows, well fed and just waiting to slide into the room. I don’t feel gloomy. I feel furious. I think, that, as any new shit hits the lifeline fan, the lonely, like an unburied ghost, finds opportunity, and grabs it.

My oldest friend died. Oh hallo lonely. I refuse, btw the way to give you a capital beginning. I know you. In you come. Again.

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Island Blog – Cloud Shunt

I’m watching them. The big cumulous rising behind the Blue Ben, across the loch, wherein the tidal flow is one hell of a sassy. Must be a new moon a’coming or some other disturbance in the multi confusional vortex. It’s something, anyway, enough to strange the skies, upset the clouds and cause a load of upturned eyes in places like this one, glorious in its lack of fumes, and the noise of people, who, in my observation, would much rather not be under the control of the perceived rigidities of a worldly expectation, domination. Back to the clouds.

The cumulous were big puffs, highlifting, and like candyfloss but super white. No sunset yet to paprika their tips. Perfect virgin snow. I looked away,but for a few moments, to bring in wood, answer a call, light a candle, moments. When I looked again, there was a straggle,a shunt, I could see it, almost feel it, a slide of grey, like a teachers line through dodgy text in a presented essay. I watched the grey move, split, absorb the ice cream clouds, divide, consume.

Now, the hills are flamingo tipped, the sea-loch pinking, the sky above already bored with the artist. It will darken soon.

Obviously, things change. Sometimes too quick.

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Island Blog – Dividing Walls, Yesterday People

Today was a strange wandering. I’ve been here before, in this strange wandering thing. Dreams are interrupticating, waking me in a surety, which becomes a questioning, which then becomes a cold reality. What I left behind as I fell asleep, is there to greet me on waking. It’s as if I have wandered through many doorways, many dividing walls, meeting, as I do, those who no longer need shoes, nor do an earthly walking, the yesterday people. I rose, as ever, made coffee, triangulated my thoughts, pulling them into a shape I could manage, although I was never good at triangulation to be honest, even as I completely got it. However, I knew this day would be a day of challenge. I am up for this, I said, out loud, as I sipped coffee and looked out on Venus and heard the rise of another hooligan. that’s island speke for a big gale, btw.

I touch my skin, my throat. I know I still have voice, still am upstanding, still competent, still strong. Looking out into the darkling and recalcitrant sunrise, I begin to release the night, the dreams. I am here. Many are not, and I won’t be some day. However, I know how important it is to acknowledge these dividing walls, t’ween the dead and the living. I still meet my husband in doorways. I still find what I’ve lost in doorways, I remember things in doorways. The symbol of a doorway transects worlds. Have you ever walked through a doorway and felt an immediate desire to run? I certainly have.

I remember music in doorways, no matter the noise within the house, music which impacted me way back, a cathedral perhaps, the entrance to a theatre, the turn through an arch and the switch left to see African dancers on a street, the duck under an arch to find candles and a warm fire in a welcoming cottage. I remember. I know that, every single time, I walk in other’s footsteps, many thousands in some cases, a few in others, but. I feel it.

Today, as I went out, as I always do, to greet walkers with a dog or two, I was barefoot and stood on a thorn. The wind was a slam dunk, the rain cold, slicing. We laughed, talked, and I turned back to the same doorway that brought me all those smiles, that dogfest, minus the thorn.

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Island Blog – Woman Gone, Pineapple Chunk

It’s weird. I eat, sleep, rise, clean the loo, sort the wood burner, fill the bird feeders, puddle through the rain, buy veg and cheese and a toothbrush at the local shop. I play online scrabble with friends, drink coffee, wonder when, if ever, the dream cleaner will come to crush the dust with some poisonous spray in a schmancy bottle, a load of squirts rising into the corners of my spidery home. I wake to find hours and hours ahead of me, even though I love the waking thing, the morning offer of opportunity and chance. I decide to make a coffee and walnut cake. Lord nose why. I don’t eat cake, any cake. It’s a thing to fill the hours, and this one proffers me 45 minutes plus another 60 of baking. It helps, the thought of it. The cake, once retrieved from the oven, is beyond help. I fling it, as my darling Granny would say, in the bucket.

I have only connected with the Woman Gone, now and again over the decades. I married as a teenager, birthed my beautiful first born son at 20. She, the She of this, was already rising into the world of music, and she soared. Her voice. More than that. She, and I remember this, was good at her piano practice. She stuck when I wanted to build fireballs and to run. She stuck, she held, when I lost myself in the running thing, going pretty much nowhere. And then one man held me safe. I had no longing for a career, unlike her. I just wasn’t steady enough, I know that. If the running is in you, in your feet, you probably need someone to, not stop you, no fricking way, but in a gentle hold, breathe, wait, let’s talk, thing.

I have known death, watched it come, and often. But this, this woman, too sudden, too fast, too much. I know how well she was loved, how shocked those who thought, as I did, that there was no chance Death would softly take her. There will be a funeral, memorial, of some sort. And, to be honest, I am glad I will be there. The confusion of this whole frickin awfulness may, just may, find solace in a gathering.

I remember us at the bus stop right outside her house. I walked to it. I’m a primary girl, 6/7/8/9 and on. It was bloody freezing, the frost thick, the snow holding the cold, pushing it into anyone who passed, and particularly into feet and fingers. She laughed at me as I trudged towards her. As I moved closer, I noticed her fur-lined boots. How did she manage that? My mother had read the rules (always), and my shoes were regimen. No fur. My toes were threatening gangrene even then. We boarded the bus for the 25 minute ride to a school I hated, in a uniform that didn’t fit, was grey and puckered in all the wrong places,for me. We moved to the back, as we always did, being early birds on the pickup list. She dug in her lovely schoolbag, coloured and soft, whereas mine, of course, was a hideously rigid satchel, and pulled out a pineapple chunk.

I will never forget that.

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Island Blog – Hallo You

I’m watching high-flying gulls cant in the wind. The gusts are punching down here, pushing over open-mouthed wheelies or sending them into a scuttle down the track. Trees bow and bend, whipping around as if to protect themselves as they feint and duck as best they can. Unlike gulls, eagles, anybirds, they, like us, are somewhat pinned to the earth. It thinks me, as I look up at the majesty of soaring. Even the clouds look bonkers, scudding like ducks, splitting from cumulus into wisps of rejection, only to disappear into the white light. What thinks me is this. How strong we are. How tough, how resilient, and how we can rise from any threat to our lives. Even loss. Even bereavement. Even the darkest of times.

This is one of those times for those I know.

I know we aren’t birds, we can’t fly, we can’t lift nor dynamically rise as if not caring a jot, nor would that ever be a human thing. We are grounded, thus we care. We are rooted, thus we care. Enter confusion. Sorry….Confusion. Someone precious was just there, weren’t they? Wasn’t she? Well, hell yes, all loud and bubbling over with music and energy and fabulous clothes and a feisty mouth and the look of a pixie with mischief on her mind. And, now, she has lifted away. I doubt she is flying with gulls, although she may be, but she is definitely a flyer. Where might she be? Over forest, mountain cold, desert hot, or skimming down an ordinary street somewhere, juking, diving, canting, lifting? She leaves so much love down here, a rising warmth to lift her into the whatever. I don’t know what I believe about the next bit, but the big shut-off idea does nothing for me. I’m a hoper. And, as the sun pushes the damn wind away, for now, shining my windows into a murky embarrassment, I smile.

Hallo you, darling you.