by

Island Blog – The Present

There you are, on a train, a bus, a plane, heading to in-laws, friends, relations, and with so many thoughts in your head. The delay on the train, bus or plane. Do iI want to be doing this, going there, at all? The confuddle rising in your head. What will I find beyond what I found before? How will I be judged, accepted? Do I have the right gifts, or, horribly, the absolute wrong gifts, and how will I feel if I see that disappointment? Oh I remember all of this.

And then I grew up. Took me 50 odd years btw. Christmas is not about scoring, even if it still sings that song. I wonder if, with old age, I learn things I wish I had learned at 40,50. In the childhood of a parental life, in the scurvy of tradition within a family, we can become lost, feeling fat and inconsequential and almost invisible. I remember that, too.

Thankfully, I am now beyond all of this, but, and but, again, I still want to give the right thing. This year I cannot, like most of us. I do think of those young parents with wide-eyed children who hope for a new bike, an iPad, roller blades or whatever is the thing out there now, and I wince for you. You know about January and February bills, you know the cold, the trimester of the year, all ice-toothed and with no compassion.

But, and however, for now, we have Christmas and it’s all about lights and fun and Father Cristmas. The aftermath will be as it is. Let us dance in the Present. Salut. x

by

Island Blog – Alpha Zeta

I quote……’ What’s the greatest thing a woman should learn? That, since day one, she already had everything she needs within herself. It’s the world that convinced her she did not.’ Rupi Kaur

Trouble is, we, born with vaginas listen to worldspeke. We do, and it can confound and punish and confine us. I so wish I was 20 now and not 70, because I would have been a frickin menace. I had, I confess, hoped, that somewhat more of a freedom would have become a norm as my own daughter moved into the world of man control, and it has changed, but not enough. Perhaps, as our planet sucks her gasping breaths, the old structure might just collapse into a new alphabet. 

It oftentimes struggles me that the allowability to shout out truths only seems to come at the time when there is a load of ‘there,there’ in our ears. We can be ridiculous, inappropriate. How come it’s not ok when we are 15? The world says, ‘It was the Time’ as if that makes it alright. They turn away at that point, I have watched them do just that, as whoever ‘they’ are, or ‘is’ move or moves onto the next painting, choice of pudding. I have felt absent all my life, as if the norms within which I lived missed letters or numbers, as if the alphabet and the math would never find solution. I still do, but in the now of my now, because I have become an old frickin menace, with a vagina, I can say what I like. I have seen what I have seen over 70 years, and I am often pissed off with the whole alphabet. A is alpha. Z is Zeta. Are we saying that one is greater than the other? Are we even bothering with all the letters in between as if they have no significance? Think of the in-betweens in your life. Do it now. Those sitting on the pavement in the face of a night right there. Think of the waitress who is slow to serve you because she is on minimum wage, feeding kids and holding tight to her meagre home. Those, as you walk by on the way to a concert, theatre, a film, dinner, where you plan champagne, a proposal, those who unnerve you, swerve you. 

Shouting out is good, but that way of thinking can become a thing. What we need, and I hesitate to use that word (history), is inclusion, (too wordy), love. Might we forget the old alphabet and move, regardless of letters, word shapes and sentence approval? All good things are wild and free. (not my words) ‘The fire inside me can either warm or destroy. The choice is entirely my own.’ Thoreau. So much of life is about words, the way they are stroyed, the random way they stray, the weight of them as they land. Words. All constructed and constricted by the alphabet. 

I have learned this. I can go from A to Z without the rest of the alphabet knowing. Again, not my words. Writers, painters are nothing if they don’t pinch bigger ideas.

by

Island Blog – Lightmare and My Wee Sister

I feel absent from myself. Unnerving, at best, but this is where I am, finally alone here in the placeI love best, alone and just me and that’s that on the whole alone thing. I had family, a husband, dogs, distractions, a massive to-do list and now……..nothing. Well, not nothing, because I still have me, and my kids somewhere out there busy with their busy lives, but in the day to day living of this alone thing, t’is just me. I love it and don’t like it at all, in wavy curves, an anomaly, a conundrum, an apogee, something wordy, anyway. But, and there is always one of those, life lives herself on and through me and I am glad of it, for she still wakes me, aways before Dawn even gets her pyjamas off. Life, the liver, the giver, the one who (not that/grammer, people) shiggles me into life and out into the glory of herself, no matter the utter shit of whatever is going on. And that, is a gift, even if the me of me is absent and silent, lost and alone. The wotwot of this place presents, not as breakfast in the dark alone, again, but also as a rocket up my arse. I feel it. I invite it because without that rocket I could easily fall. I have always walked on the edge of things, felt the pull of madness, of the tipping that might take me over the edge, and I did look down, I did, and was tempted, but no, t’is not for me. I know this edge, my bare toes feeling their way along the ridge, the cusp, and there’s a thrill. This place. I can see others come here, chaotic and unthinking, and I can be the thinker. I can hold and hug and comfort and stable. I can question and settle with them on a rock and tell them no, not now. Let’s go for a coffee. I know a place.

All of that might sound weird to those who never go into the depths of themselves. I know it. But I do, and I know so many others do, even if I don’t know them. We appear as chaos, and we are chaos, but in the understanding of chaos, there is a resolution. Chaos cannot sustain longterm. It will always resolve, and into something beautiful. The waves of the ocean speak volumes, they flow and crash, pull out and into something much greater, the snatch of the wild, the moon, the winds, the everything we cannot, nor will ever explain.

I watch my gnarled fingers dance the qwerty keyboard. They look wizened and yet still dance. Words still flow down my arms, the dance begins and, again, I am absent from myself. I chuckle. I have always been this way, and, even without family, husband, and now, faithful dog, I am still me, like me or not. So, in this state I drive to the harbour town for this and that. As I swift down the curve and into the downfall of one of the two downfalls, I spot a lightmare. It is just after nine am, (I refuse to say ‘in the morning’) and these multi-coloured lights are abundant and flashing. I wonder if they did this all night. I wonder about the other residents in that big block of flats. I move on, and by. And, i am thankful that, in my absolute solitude, one that trips to cusp me and often, is my home with no lightmare.

Thank you, my wee sister.

by

Island Blog – Zeitgeist

It’s been five days. I miss and I don’t miss, the Miss. I miss her excitement at seeing me, even if I had just been away for a pop to the shop. I miss her huge brown eyes, looking, looking up at me, for reasurrance, guidance, love. I miss the kisses, cuddles and the way she spoke to me, opening her mouth to emit wild sounds, upward inflections, disappointment in me, curvaceous lifts and falls to communicate her needs. I miss the way she hurtled in crazy dashes around the rooms, up the stairs and down again with a bear in her mouth, and all of a sudden, as if the joy of living just got the better of her. I miss hearing her tappy feets on the floor, her skittering and slides, her absolute ability to live in the moment. Her zeitgeist.

I don’t miss the wakeful nights of late, as what heralded dementia began a heavy tread across the delicate tipperies of her brain. I don’t miss the tension in my gut every time I went somewhere for more than 2 hours. I don’t miss her barking, even at my voice as I questioned and answered myself, or opened a door that squeaks (they all squeak), or Alexa suddenly burst into life for no damn reason. I don’t miss the anxiety of walking in the fairy woods, wondering if I might meet another dog, another human attached, one that the Miss might rush up to, barking like a forest of trees in a state of war. She never volunteered attack, but it might have seemed that way.

However, now I walk without her. No more sticks to throw and to chase, no more of her fun and she always wanted fun, play, nonsense, games, sparkles. Even when the mud chased us, the stones wobbled us, the weather bashed us about, she, naked, me, trussed up like a polar star, we, we, we, had laughing fun, returning drenched and shivering and with mud up to our bellies. Still I walk. I drove to the most beautiful beach in the world alone and in fronds of rain, soft it was and gentle, the waves loud and I could see why. Out there, way out there, the crash of wild spontaneity, the sudden, created a dynamic random percussion, its voice travelling many miles. My wild, my ocean, my home. There was nobody else on that wide curve-mouth of a beach, one that once knew families that lived off whelks, seaweed, seabirds; one that held, momentarily, the ship that became a coffin for those ‘cleared’ from their ancient lands. I stand awhile in the soft wet, tip my face up to receive it, feel the cloud-cleansing. I recognise this place, this place of seeing what was, feeling it, and of moving on. A zeitgeist. To accept, or to absorb, accept and engage with the spirit of time. Zeit, means time. Geist means ghost or spirit. And, although the term, as we know it now, refers to an era, a culture, I claim it as mine.

The Miss is gone. I am here. My zeitgeist.

by

Island Blog – Poppygon

Polygon, 3 or more sides. Hexagon, 6 sides. Octagon, 8 sides. Poppygon, multiple sides. Whilst I bother, somewhat, with all the other gons, which never got a mention, I can’t go with that thing just now. I look out at her grave, the fresh earth light and obviously from the deeps. That is where she is right now, deep and dead. My wee companion, the dog I fought not to have, became my love. She insisted on walks, her time clock set for 2pm, and, no matter that I really needed rest after her waking me at two, three, four, am for a going out that resulted in nothing more than barks at the stars, she would still dance around my hopefully sleeping form, lifting me into action. I confess, I do, that irritation was arising in me, and I hated that. So, I watched her dance, looked into her huge brown eyes that looking like a piercing, the wild in her and it would smile me. Okay, I said, let’s go, and the dance became a fiesta, her watching me rise, the excited twirling, her making sure I decant the stairs, pull on boots and jacket and then she would bounce and huff and bark with excitement until I was finally prepped. Holding out her collar and lead, I suggested, with my open palm, for her to sit. I could see her arse jig. She managed an inch above the mat, so excited, to be out there with me. I know it was walking with me, her thing, because others had invited her for a walk before, sans me, and found her resistant, looking back. She was mine, and I was hers.

Buried, she was yesterday. My friend, the vet, came softly and sweet. The ground was frozen. I’ll bury her for you, she said, and she did. I could never have done that, don’t have that strength anymore. I ordered Poppy tubers to plant above her. They’ll arrive soon. A remembergon. I see her big brown eyes and the looking of them. Her beds and rugs and food and snacks are now moved on. Needs must, on those sudden sharp jerks. But, when I walk, without her, I still look back for her, running behind me, having sniffed a gazillion things I just walked past without a care, and I say, hallo, my poppygon.

by

Island Blog – Nature and Form

I felt overwhelmed yesterday. Stuff came in, calls and wotwot, like a collision. I am not good at that, this, it. I confound at dawn, no, earlier, because the beloved old frickin dog wakes me at o400 when I am finally asleep, btw. She means no ill. I know this, deal with the rag of this, and she still rises me with a smile as she squeaks and dances around my sleeping form.

Form. We all love this. It has a geometric shape, can solve an equation, can create a whole frickin building. I love form too. But today had no form, nothing form about it. My overwhelm took over. it was a spread across a peat bog. All those acres of apparent nothing. Generally speaking, I love the nothing, the gasp of cold air, walking out there into the sparkle of ice.

It thinks me. I take me and the dancing squeaker out for a walk, feel the cold hit my face like an energising gift, stopped to hear the thrust of an incoming tide and looked up at the skinny branches cutting the sky. I watched my little dog bounce through the ice-crisped leaves, saw he pick up a stick, long as a fence post and a definite threat to my legs when she scoots into the lead. I chuckled and felt the expulsion of air blast out all the overwhelm. Among the beauty of nature, things simplify. Fallen bracken stalks create a twinkling mound beside the track, all covered in ice and flashing in the sunlight as I move onwards. Ghost trees stand like sentries either side of me, and through the evergreen pines, the sky is a cerulean blue. Tiny clouds, miles above me, look like they’re painted on with a wide and wet brush. Ahead, snow clouds puff up behind the hills, a sort of ariel bonfire, ice white, sun-tipped. Will it snow, I wonder?

I meet nobody at all. Cutting through the woods, I look to the beyond. It seems to go on forever, and however hard I stare at it, this beyond, I will never get to the end of it. I realise that I have been staring at the ground too much, scurrying like a frightened mouse through my small concerns, and allowing them to create my state of mind. I watch a sea eagle slide through the sky, wings wide, slow and easy, and decide I need to get myself up there, to let my small concerns remain on a page or in. my diary, small they are, very small, and I am at liberty to alter or change any or all of them. I am unsure driving in icy conditions so, once I am home again and have rebooted the fire, I call to organise new appointments for a hair cut, an MOT, a shingles jag appointment. I settle to some sewing, eat lunch, switch off the phone and go upstairs for an hour to rest. Perhaps I will sleep a little. The walk into the wilds has given me form perspective, as it always does. Always.

by

Island Blog – Find your Guide

On the theme of Help, I have something to say. We, I ,have discovered over endless years, that everyone resists it. I can do this all by myself, they say, or indicate with a shovel full of all that they have achieved before this Help thing moved in like a drift of autumn leaves. Not welcome. But we change. Of course we do. I remember himself saying to me, more than once, bless him, that he had never changed, refused to change, would not change. I was too young to see this as a serious condition, latterly I did. We all change because life changes, life changes us. Our power lies in acknowledging this change, this transformation, this dynamic twist and swirl to the person we believe we are, a challenge to transist, new word. Mine, obviously.

I found my hands less able to lift and stack wood. I looked out, asked for help and it came, big time. All wood lifted and stacked and also the joy of half an hour over coffee with a delicious young man, friend of my lads. However, and there is always one of those, as my eyes scan the past, my past, when I was all NO! I can do this all by myself, I can hear the offers of help. So, why did I resist? Why did I do the everything of everything until it made me ill, depressed, anorexic?

I have no answer to that. I also notice that my young, my extended family young, all say the same thing. I can do this, no help required. Perhaps it is a human thing, or, perhaps it is all about our current culture of succeed or fail and the pressure is immense, in a career, in being a mother, a father, there’s no escape from any of it. It’s like a push to your back, a hiding from what is not good, a protection from loved ones, a split from reality. But how can our young see this reality thing, so far from gathering whelks, firewood, fircones for kindling? So very far. In an urban situ, the roads busy, the boss bossy, the troubled teens online upstairs, money the driving force, what hope? Well, I ask this, but don’t you ask this because I believe that a gazillion youngs are working this out. Just be there. Doesn’t matter where you live. Where they live. They are brilliant human beings, loving, caring, watching, learning. And, here’s Granny……

Ask for help, for guidance, if that works better. We are a human team. Find your guide, for now.

by

Island Blog – I Need Help

Today I loved the crispy cold, the conversation between ice and sunfire,walking out into the woods, the sky gathering clouds like a coverlet. They would disperse, I saw that, as did the sky. These are days and night I remember, expected, in the olden days. Frost snaps and traps, cold folds and colds, stars rise and hold, moon calls like a loon, or a luna. She woke me, the starry tramp, swirly, twirly, but it’s ok. Ok because it tells me I am here, I’m alive, pissed off and thankful.

Today I received a ton of wood. In a bag. In the cold, dry, welcome of an afternoon, I barrowed out myself behind the barrow, to bring in the wood. Gloved up, to avoid the splinter attack, I managed three loads, my hands not obeying me, my fingers weaker, my back shouting, and knew I should stop. That whole stopping thing arises the feisty in me. I could do all of this and more. I could deliver lambs, feed guests, manage children. work with anything, anything.

Not so, now. And, it is up to me to accept this. And I do. I was who I was. I am who I am. The only one who will ever make this messy, is me. I have offers of help, many and random. We are a team, people. And there is so much thankfulness in saying this.

I need help.

by

Island Blog – Indigo and Goose Shit

I’ve been blue for a few days, I admit, and blue is my favourite colour, but not my favourite way to feel. Although I don’t show it outerly, this feeling, I still feel it. It’s like a trudge in my heart, filtering down to my legs and up to my thinking. And I did trudge, all of me did this trudging thing. Each task felt like a frickin bore and a half, more. I kept going, automaton switch on, but felt almost absent from proceedings, even if I did proceed. Sleep was bumpy and ebullient with odd images and chilly moments. But, now I have moved on to green. I also love green, the growth colour, the one that heralds change and the promise of astonishing colour. I went to church today in astonishing colours, my boots and one of my layered frocks, the colour of goose shit after a korma, and my underfrock green with white flowers and yellow interiors, the teeshirt below a washed out blue, a concession and a wink to the blue of late. My socks were wildly striped, my coat blue/grey with red hearts. Nothing matched but I read the lesson quite the thing, acting it all out in my voice. A definite improvement.

It thinks me. Sometimes, actually many times, when I remember the gazillions of counsellor guides who have gifted wisdom, revelations and inspiration over most of my adult life, there has oftentimes been the invitation to colour a feeling, or a state of being. As I am me, with my instantly curious mind, I wanted to know ‘which shade of this colour would you like me to name?’ There was a silence after that until, I’m guessing, strength was gathered along with an eye roll, pre responding. If asked, I might explain the difference between shade and hue, between the wisdom of naming a colour as a single thing instead of the many, many hues and shades of that particular colour, depending, naturally, on what other colour/solution/medium was added, and in what proportion. Have I lost you?

I walked today in the wild place. It is right outside my gate, a few steps, slew right, and I am on the right track. Always the right track. The air was a gasp of what might have been a snow warning, had the clouds told me so, but no. Damp held in fists as I breathed in the smell of Autumn’s stand against the Winter King. He’s a bugger, so he is, arrogant and confident and blowing early shards of ice at people when they’ve only just got the hang of those awful wooly stockings, only just thought about packing away all their summer kit. The trees wave at me, spindly now, ghost trees, sap sinking into roots. The snipe are in, the hedgehogs snuffling about for a place to hibernate, the stags are silent, dead, or triumphant, but wary. Grass is held in stasis and will soon be dead, but the moss and the fungi still stand tall, an arrogance in their standup. Thats an island word.

So, if asked the question today, What colour are you? I would grin, avoid doing the shade, hue thing, and answer, still blue, but with green. Blue but with a touch of rose madder = indigo. Green with a touch of cadmium yellow = goose shit.

Sounds like confusion. That’ll do.

by

Island Blog – I Can Do This

I heard from the surgeon and all is gone, for now. No chemo, just radiotherapy in the new year. The three cancer buggers, all small, have been removed plus three lymph nodes, all of those free of cancer. A precautionary tale. My African son flew over to be with me for the aftermath, which wasn’t ‘math’ at all, and we were cavorted back to the island by my eldest. Prior to that I was with my sister who made me feel important and loved, as we went for pre op needlepoint and an information overload, well, for me, with my head tucked under my wings and my brain like spaghetti, but not for her.

Then, home, back to my beloved island. Not mine, of course, but this wild place homes me, grounds me, safes me. However, for over two weeks I was not alone. Africa was here, and the sharing, the kitchen dances inside his arms, loved me up. I don’t know how long it has been since I felt that warmth, enjoyed that spontaneity. In a loooooooong marriage, things get boring, disappointing and, although the light of love can spark, it is just now and then, or even just then.

So, he is gone. Back home now with his lovely wife and animals and into 35 degrees just like that. I spoke with him today. Too hot, he says. I cloak up to walk the four legs, blustering on, like Winnie the Pooh, beneath wind-creaked limbs, big enough to take out a whole mansion, the leaves flipping around my face, and with mud underfoot. And I snort at the ‘too hot’ thing.

I miss him. I miss hearing his footfall as he rises from sleep. I miss his voice, the sight of him filling a doorway, our shared laughter, the play of words between us over a scatter of candles. I miss the feeling of complete safety because he was here.

I am here. I am alone. It is winter. I am IT. And I can do this.