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Island Blog – Lucks Penny and a Mouse

There is a time in my day which isn’t what it was. Once, it was flaming chaos. Now it is chaos for endless others, but not for me. The time spans, approximately, the 4.30 to 6pm tilt towards lunacy. It was home from school, food preparation, feeding dogs, lambs., children, workers. It was welcoming guests back home all drippy, flush faced, possibly contused, all requiring reassurance, warm guidance, hot bath, drying room, dinner by the fire. All of that. I don’t miss it, but I am so glad I was there with the drippy, questioning, angry kids, food, endless food, thing.

That thing is no longer active. And, does anyone get this, it’s a huge empty space? Oh, we fill it with rememberings but there is small, if any, gravitas in rememberings. None of us want to go back, to relive, but and, that but is a butt in my thinking, there is an empty. In approaching this, I know about fixing. I know about that Elastoplast being totally inadequate when faced with a scarple of a wound. And I don’t just talk of my long family experience. What of the loss of a relationship, the abandonment? What of parental rejection? What of a whole lot more? The Gap is there. What we did, once. What filled this space, gone. It is scary, and we have to fill it all by ourselves. Well, that is so shit, btw. I recall running like a hare through the tilt towards lunacy, knowing that, eventually, it would calm, to a degree. Food. Always works.

So what to do, what to think, as that damn gap moves ever closer, as the clock ticks on? Well, I am no guru, but, I have found that being thankful for the laugh memories in my life, pulling them up, has changed my thinks. We did have such fun, such naughtiness, such crazy. Such lucks penny.

Today, I went to pull out a big pan to cook a curry. I pulled out the drawer. A wee mouse, raised, terrified, looked at me from within the big pan. I pulled back, whispered, I mean you no harm. She, it will have been a ‘she’, (only the ‘Shes do the hunting, just saying) rose up, her wee paws held together. A few seconds before she took off. Obviously, I scoured the pan and cooked on, but there was a gift in that encounter, and I call it lucks penny. Which, I have learned in this island place means a gift unexpected. I like that.

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Island Blog – Light Amends

The light is longer. I watch the sun swagger in a higher sky, almost refusing to dunk into the dark. It thinks me. I get it. After all, who would want to dunk into the dark when there’s a swagger in those hips? I was talking to a dear friend just today about hippiness, the pair of us altercated by a thing we cannot control. However, we can mediate, upseticate. We, not the sun, earthly grounded, yet equally controlled by the ultimate gravity, can take action. We can walk, we can make damn sure we walk, we can bend a bit, we can do bloody something. Or we can fold. I don’t do fold. Nor should you. Sorry for that wee bitty lecture.

The thing about getting into the Oldness Enclosure, is that, I have discovered, folk comply, give up, ask for alms. That’s a very old term. Google it. However, it fits. People do, people did, people don’t. I’m in the ‘don’t ‘ team. I walk out into a skimmingly freezing nowhere, the nowhere of my girlish soul, not girl, ancient, over 70, still me, still. Although, thanks to my children and the allowance of aging, a confoundment to me, I can still hover between the light and the dark. I can still wonder, feel lost around all the stars in my beautiful life, still ask, what now, what when, what if? And find no answers, and that silence speaks loudly. I won’t say volumes, because, even as an avid reader, volumes sent me running for a milkshake, a cup of tea, a coffee, a brandy.

We ponder this, you young folk. We lie wondering about how we will be, who we will be. Know this. Oh, we will say all is fine, everything’s fine, but we need you to coorie in, to gentle questions, to which we have buried answers for a whole lifetime. Don’t leave without answers, kindly gentle. Give your time.

We move into Spring. We see new life. How about making amends?

I have no idea why I ended here.

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Island Blog – Knickers,Triggers and Dreams

Life is such a funny thing. Funny. Now, in my day, that meant fun. A captivating laughter of a word, an invitation into something less boring than the rest of life, an opportunity to be ready to go, to dance, to step out into a new lift, like a birthday, when it wasn’t. Nowadays, it means different things, a few of them, and the ‘thems’ both shrivel the word into something odd, weird, dangerous whilst adding the extra ‘ny’ as if that softens the meaning, which it doesn’t. It seems to me, as I grow ever older and not much wiser, is that the shiver and sliver of words and their meaning, as I knew them, grow roots in a day. I meet them, get them wrong, am laughed at by my young, adapt, even as I untangle myself from the unexpected twist and tumble of them. It thinks me.

I was thinking about knickers. Now, when you put ‘knickers’ into spellcheck, the kicking K is banished. I liked the K. There was a kicking thing about it, about knickers, and I have a lot to say about knickers. Too big, too containing, too long, too fierce, too much, way too much elastic. As if, as if, this containment was ever going to ‘prevent’ anything. How blind, how controlling were our forebears. That thinks me too, and I remember having a beautiful and dynamic daughter, way back. But fierce knickers were never going to make any of a difference to anything. We need fun, we all do.

Today, in my now life, with my now friends, we can laugh about knickers, with a K, We can remember the triggers, the delish of fun, of funny, and, to a great degree we still have all of that. We can share a table, warm and safe, talking of our times, times of fun, of funny, of ghastly knickers, of times of elicit freedom, never spoken of, our dreams, so soft on faces across the table. Actually, I don’t think that has zip to do with age. I have seen across much younger tables and watched dreams spill out, lift, rise, dissipate. That triggered something in me. I remember that urgency, that yearning face over other tables. T’is life. And, then, fun arises, laughter lifts to bonk its head on the ceiling, and return to flutter hope down.

I remember the damn knickers with a K, and those dreams.

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Island Blog – Moon Heavy Dreamer

I’m watching the sky today, just now, cloud capped, closed. I’m remembering the Snow Moon pushing them away with her bright breath over the past few nights. I woke with her, heavy across my bed, the loud of her a steady night voice, colour, timbre, the whole firking orchestra, around 2, 3, 4 am. Days gone by, nights gone by, as is always. There’s no holding them. I love the moon, the new and the full, because they make me uncomfortable in my jeans, in my life. There’s a holding, a containing I fight, as I always have, and yet, and yet, it thinks me different because, precisely because of this discomfort, I honestly don’t want it to change. If everything set simple, like a milk pudding in my life, then so would I. Disturbance is essential. Yes, it does upset me, feels me contained and restricted, sends me in a spin for easier jeans, thinks me that I am finally achieving what my mum always feared, an increase of bodily self. Funny how that still has a voice.

I know I have choices, always had, always will. However that knowledge is a truth, and not a feeling. It’s the feeling bit that confounds, surrounds, compromises a day, a night. Without the belief that I, or anyone, has a choice, the right to choose, we can be caught up in the twizzle of a twister, a disturbance we deny, allowing outside control. I think that life is a dance, and I think that being energetic, dynamic, is essential, to say no, to say yes, to move, to stay put, and so much more. Trouble is, that the old thinking gets tangled in our knicker elastic, halting movement. I remember it well, the confusion of it all. And, although I am hopeful that times have changed, see in so many ways that they have, I still notice a holding on from my generation of parents, and beyond. Such judgement, no allowance for flick or fancy. It saddens me. All people have choices, and, better, the opportunity to change a deeply rooted belief that says…….what you look like decides whether we approve of you, or not, how you speak, how you present yourself, your qualifications (on paper), your family background.

I get that so many slide down into the swamp of unbelief, and, that others rise up into shapes that don’t fit them at all. You can live a whole life, the only one you have, in that unfit shape. To a degree, I did that too, hoping for approval, for recognition, for acceptance. It worked pretty well. However, at this end of my life, widowed and in the evening time, I do hope that one day choices will be for everyone, for men, women, children, and all of those choices will be welcomed, discussed, guided and supported.

I may be a dreamer.

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Island Blog – To Be a Lighthouse

I love them. Lighthouses. My something grandfather was Keeper of the Lights around the Inner Hebrides and I didn’t know that until recently. I think of him and my something grandmother, living on Tiree, setting out with supplies and jokes, encouragement and connectivity, bringing food and light and weapons and seeds for the growing, books for the learning, candles for storm lights, patches for waterproofs, new wellies, whisky, tea, and more. In the days when people peopled the stone cylinders of hope and light, where all furniture had to have a rounded back, like old women, and the long days and nights felt like forever, the boat delivery was a glorious landing. In the between it was only us, only me, with my carrot seeds, my tangled beard, for it was a job for men, of course, being the stronger sex, the men who could cope with weeks of storm-blasted isolation, whereas women could never have managed such a thing. Women, who were never asked, might have loved such, and managed just fine had they ever had the chance. A personal trainer, less corsets, less parental control and muscle building excercises, would have proffered the actual chance to show how strong they could be, and which just might have upset the abacus, in a good way.

I hope I have been a lighthouse to my children, and not a boss. All I wanted was to be a light for their own chosen journeys. I want to save turtles on Zakynthos. Goodness! Ok. I want to go to a shaman centre in the Eastern Province of China. Goodness! Ok. I want to move to South Africa. Goodness! Ok. Just three of many. Other parents may have heard, I am gay, trans, I want to be known with another name. I want my baby, even if I am 15. I want to join the circus, I want to be a policeman, a trumpeter, a dancer, a market trader. I get the parental questions, of course I do. But, but, what about your degree in law, politics, medicine? We paid for it, it cost us! This was never our case, but I hear the disappointment. I honestly don’t think their dad, nor I ,ever felt that. This life is tough and tougher for the children of privilege. Expectations can stop easy breathing, so heavy, so limiting. I sincerely and fiercely believe that all those historical corsets have been burned on a bonfire, a red sunset preparing the dark for a sky-thrall, a gasp of freedom in that soft breeze.

To be a parent who really wants to be a lighthouse, who can say, when confounded by a stuttered revelation from a young thing, one who, and I quote, has no idea about life at all, is challenging. There will be sleepless nights and worrying days because we seem to think, wrongly, that we can control our children. Weren’t we children once, with dreams beyonding us from the corsetry of parents? Yes, we were. And what did we want? Acceptance, wisdom, help and a lighthouse.

Be a lighthouse.

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Island Blog – Quick Light, Quick Dark

When I write a blog about stuff and things and thoughts and whatevers, I am cautious. Oh, yes, I do boundary swipe, shift wordings, alter the cations of things, I am guilty of all of those so called crimes. However, as the languages around us change, challenge, and then become a part of of what we say out there on the street, in the grocery shop, between ourselves, I adapt. Sentences morph into new creatures, verbs become nouns, adverbs and adjectives (still well over employed) sprite their unspelling into sentences, or comments. T’is the way of now, and we had better get the hang of the new hang, or we just might end up without a single visitor. Just saying.

That aforeness is nothing to do with my theme. However, it might be. This is about a friend. My age, my friend from the age of 7 or thereabouts. Reluctant boots tapping up the metal steps and onto the school bus together, pulling back as the driver moved off too quick, steadying, moving to the back, or near as dammit, every single day. Fixing school packs, settling into gammy seats, talking, looking out, facing the day ahead, and then the coming home. We all had trouble in our hearts. She was a good student. I wasn’t. But we still stuck together. I met disapproval everywhere. She never did, but I knew and still know that she was as wild as I, but could control her wild, her language, her longing for freedom. I never asked her about that. We grew apart, over choices, over timelines, over hundreds of miles, but the connection doesn’t bother with any of that shit.

And now she has gone dark. I’m watching her. You went into the quick dark my darling. There is quick light awaiting you. If that is your choice.

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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.