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Island Blog – I Still Am

Well, who would have thought this? Not me. How can one day feel like a funeral march and the next as a beautiful thing, a day awakening after a long sleep. Nothing has changed, the circumstances are just the same, the day just another dawning. I still face surgery, a lumpectomy, a full mastectomy, I don’t know. And, yet, not the same at all.

I woke once in the night, ignored the dog bounce, chances are, at my peril, and re-awoke at 6.45. A lie in for me. And the day just kept her colour, her bright shining. I just flowed free, happy, light and full of ideas. I will knit. Who said that? Not me. I have wools, I have paints and texture ideas for a canvas. I have wires for stringing beads, I have the wisdom of a textural artist. Well, I did, ten years ago. I looked around me. The birds, the sparrows, flutter like gorgeous all around my feeders. They have learned, even with their fat beaks, to grab nuts from the feeder, and I do help them a bit with seed in a carefully placed place, limiting (no offence) the dives of sparrowhawk and goshawk. I just want to watch them, not offer them as prey. It has taken me years to work out the best location for feeders.

I wander through my day. I found Radio 4 Extra, plays and series. I listen as I knit nothing, just knit. I watch the New Moon finally give way to the Ordinary, that space between Tricksy New and then the even more so Full Moon, when the tides are slow to lift, slow to rise, kind of flat a lot. The big ass full is coming, but we, up here, the fishermen, the island women, and some of the men, enjoy a reprieve in that ‘slow’. I walk my small four legs twice around the short loop. We have ‘The loop’ one most people walk without thought. I used to do that. The weakness from being nearly dead has changed that for me. I know my footing here. I love it, the every step of it. I never thought about my steps before. Now I do, so I walk the short, twice a day. I am not afraid.

When i leave my beloved home, dog, island, on Monday to go to Edinburgh and then to the Western General for my consultation, for the decisions on surgery, on the next bit, I feel some fear, of course I do, but the NHS up here is fantastic and the things they have learned and perfected over just the last ten years is so encouraging. i don’t have the mind that knows everything about everything, nor about anything much, but I know I am supported by those who do, family included.

I remember a day in Barcelona, my tiny granddaughter fearful because her mum left her to go for a pee. She clung to me. She is now ten and quite the thing. But I remember that moment and how valuable I was in the moment.

And still am.

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Island Blog – Hallo and Thank you

Today I woke too early, my head full of monsters. Will I have major or minor surgery? Will I be strong enough to deal with it all? What will be the treatment after? Will I forget my headphones? (locate my headphones), or miss the ferry because the milk lorry has capsized in the Glen? Will I arrive, as I did for the Nearly Dead hospital visit, with one nightie, no cardy and no tweezers? Tweezers? Seriously? Will my little beloved dog fall ill when I’m away, and how long will I be away? Will the chimney sweep come, will the garden go to riot because I’m not watching it? Okay, you get the monsters. They all say YES, to all of the above, of course they do, the negative bastards.

Right, you lot, I said, startling the small dog into barks and a leap from her bed. Right! No, Wrong! You is NOT getting me in a right fankle at 04.30 whilst still inside my nightie (take 3, maybe four, do I have four?) and with my eyes barely focussed, you is not. We all rose from the tangle of duvet and I did try to leave them upstairs but they had a different plan. We watched the early birds, the light spreading over the sea-loch, over my garden, over the land, like a new story. Heretofore, this has given me a new vision, a new day, a new dawn, but this morning, no. The damn monsters of fear and anxiety, of a still resident exhaustion in my battle to be undead, kept up their clatter-chatter. It is a longtime since I had to fight them in this way. I tell myself, it is okay to feel these feelings, but it isn’t okay at all because they give me indigestion and backache and a squiffy head and no inner peace. I tell myself that anyone else would feel this way, but that doesn’t help either.

Do I not appreciate the support and love from my family, friends and blog readers? Yes, I do very much. So, why isn’t that enough? It thinks me, a lot and those thinks lead me to the (possible) conclusion that, no matter how many are around us, surround us, we ultimately sail alone. We need to manage our own craft across all sorts of dodgy oceans. In the knowing of that, I managed the hours of today, just. I rested a lot, read a whole book, walked into Tapselteerie and met not one soul, something that would normally delight me, but not today. Today I wished for an encounter, just a wee hallo and a passing chat. I went to the shop for a few bits now that my ‘recovery’ and ‘preparation’ demands a whole load of dark green vegetables, pulses, seeds and probiotics. I didn’t even know what that meant before now. I just cooked and ate.

I have decided that this living alone thing is not much fun, not when you want a Resident Familiar to proffer balance in the face of inner monsters. That smile, that joke, that ‘come on, let’s go out for coffee’, or to the beach, or something. Although my Resident Familiar left the relationship a long time ago when dementia arrived to take up residence, he was still here, a sometimes warm, living Familiar. I don’t want him back, but that is not the point. When a girl is swept off her feet at just 18 when she still has no idea about life beyond the parental home, she can be forgiven for feeling somewhat lost after 50 bonkers years of marriage to a dominant male and on the adventure of a lifetime. Being alone means I have to instigate everything and others, who have a Resident Familiar, are, well, busy until next Tuesday. I get that. I was always busy till next Tuesday, and for decades. But, on the other side of that, being alone is marvellous, so freeing, so uplifting, so damn new. How bizarre.

I am not moaning. Tomorrow will come and will proffer a new set of ideas, new feelings. Today is just today. So why do I write a blog? Should I not, instead, keep all of this to myself so as to spare whoever reads these words? Possibly, but I have been a polite girl/woman for a very long time and right now I feel raw and bloody and honest and congruent. I don’t want phone chats, don’t want visitors, don’t want anything at all, in truth, other than for these feelings to melt away. I am effortlessly positive as a rule because that is how I see this gift of a life. Perhaps, then, I am simply in a place I do not recognise, one that upskittles me, tries to trip me right over. Yes, that’s it. I don’t know this terrain and it is hostile. Simples. And it really helps to write and to post. Really, it does. In writing out my feelings about whatever is going on, and to send it into the ether, whatever that is, my spirits lift into a reassurance, that no face to face contact can give me. I think of you all, in Canada, In the States, in Englandshire, in Scotland, on islands across the world, and I reach out, saying, through my own stories, Hallo and Thank you for being there, for clicking on the ‘follow’ link to my blog, for reading my words. I also imagine your lives, tough at times, maybe many many times, easy here and there, the infuriations, the lifts, the shocks, the abundance and the lack. The bones of a life, the flesh and the guts of an ordinary/extraordinary time on this goodly earth. Life, I love you. I truly do.

See? I feel better now, just writing this. Hallo you all. And Thankyou.

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Island Blog – Thanks to a Horsefly

I’m here, back home and in the wealth of warmth. Well, warm, eventually, as the mornings can be sharp and bitey, requiring jumpers and leg coverings and a very good attitude to the shivers that challenge a mug of hot coffee. The afternoons sprawl wealthy on the bed of confidence, no leg coverings required, in fact, bring on the fans please. T’is weird and the way it is. By noon, I am overly clad and fighting my morning garb for the sudden, and somewhat desperate freedom from all that morning hoo-ha, which I abandon on the stairs. Jumper, leg cladding, even wrist warmers for the day is in pieces up here. Where once, we knew how the day would be, might be, the wise cautionaries telling us to keep our semets (vests with buttons and much restriction) on for months to come, now there is disarray and not only in the vest, leg cladding, jumper department. Weather steers moods. Cold rain, warm rain, just rain. Promise of sun, hope of sun, arrival of sun. It all guides us from pissed off to delighted, from a confirmed ‘there’s no hope’ to the one who is alert and watching the cloud shift, is accepting climate change, is actually the one in the game. And the game is more than weather. The game is one we play together and alone. Many of us have been assaulted by massive loss, like a sudden death. I almost cannot follow that sentence. It is too catastrophic. Too alone.

I find this next bit quite hard to say, as if I feel that what is going on with me palls by comparison to the catastrophic and sudden loss, one I have been close to this last week, and a timeline I can never be a part of, beyond the paltry can give.

But I am saying it. My time in hospital, whilst I fought to be not dead, has thrown up something important. With Cellulitis, there is a lot of swelling and one lymph gland remaind high despite the massive doses of antibiotics that saved my life, and after which, my consultant, Isobel, God bless her, sent me for a mammogram and biopsy and ultra sound. She was right. I have breast cancer, an unusual one, called Invasive Lobular Cancer. She, the cancer, is quiet, not necessarily presenting in lumps, although they did, eventually find one, the half size of a frozen pea. She appears in the right breast for the first time, as I have had at least five no problem lumps in the left.

What I feel is scared, unsure, and thankful for a horsefly bite. Beyond all those intitial feelings I am unsure about being in the garden. Thankyou friend Winnie for guiding me to big ass protection. Thank you to my ex breast cancer sisters who guide me to probiotics and dark green veg. I will leave island in a week for consultation and biopsy and mammogram and MRI and a whole load of questions and decisions. I don’t know whether it will be a lumpectomy or a complete wheech off of breasts. But what I do know is the strength of my family, my siblings.

I am suddenly cautious coming downstairs, cautious about walking out without a kick ass protection slathered over me. I am aware of my age, and that seemed to come overnight. Slower to move, all of that shit. But, for now I am watching eider duck on the sealoch, divers, geese, and the sun is creating diamonds on the salty surface.

And I am eternally grateful to a horsefly.

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Island Blog – There is no Silence

I walk after the rain and into the silence. But it isn’t silent at all, not once I move further in, because, although the pitter and the patter has stopped, there is an aftermath and that is where I am, me and my wee dog on an empty track, which also isn’t empty. How strange it is to discover a new depth of understanding, new ears for listening, new eyes for seeing, but only when a curious person moves deeper into an experience. At first sight, on first hearing, something is an absolute. It has stopped raining. There is quiet out there. The track is empty of people, there is just me here. Then the absolute begins to dissolve, to reshape, to sharpen my wits and my awareness, becoming something unending, evolving and wide open to change. Within this dissolving absolute, I move on, wide-eyed, open eared, listening, looking, feeling, using all my senses. I am not powerful here, not the only ‘It’ in the situation, just a small part of something magical.

A drip falls on my head, a fat drip, one that has gathered other drips into its belly whilst hanging from a leaf, one I didn’t notice at all, what with that massive canopy above me. It is heavy, a kerplunk of a thing. It lands like timpani on the sound box of my skull, a beat, just one. I feel it break, travel down my neck, a tiny river, down and down until the small of my back tingles and I shudder. It is warm now, courtesy of my faithful skin cover, and it disappears into the cotton of my knickers and is no more. But I felt it, I noticed it and we, for just a moment or two, were together on this wander. The rain has left rivulets along the track, tiny lifted ridges awaiting a squash from heavy boots. Beetles wander, indigo blue and quite unable to remain upright, it seems. I right a few. Puddles reflect the lowering sky, the complication of clouds, stratus, cumulous, thisicus and. thatitcus, the nauties not visible and I long to see the nauties. High, they fly, way way up there, but this sky, this fluff of cloud mates are busy taking the stage for now. The sun peeks through in a spreadlight, slices of glare, pushing through the skinny fluff, determined to shine, much like me.

The floor of the fairy woods are dry, the ground bouncy beneath my feet. Mosses, wild green, almost luminous, abound in the dark which isn’t dark once you walk into it, and I do. I pause and look around. How many people over hundreds of years have paused here, right here, with a story to tell, a heart full of joy or pain, a thousand questions unasked, unanswered? How many decision made and what was the aftermath, how wide the ripples? What trysts were sealed, what lives begun or ended on this beautiful Tapselteerie land? I will never know, nor does it matter. T’is enough to wonder.

Lont-tailed tits work the trees way above me. A heron flaps lazily overhead and a sea-eagle yips from far across the loch, yelling abuse at an irritation of gulls. Wild grasses tip into seed, no less beautiful in their dying. A single hind across the sealoch mounts a rock in order to browse the leaves of a tree whilst her faun curls snugly inside a bed of bracken. The wind is soft on my skin, the cloud-sun warming to my bones, the birdsong elevated after the rain. There is no silence in nature, only a shapeshift, for one who is alert and aware. And, in the melee of a human life with its troubles and wotwots, nature keeps a conversation going, one soft voiced, uplifting and always ready for whatever comes.

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Island Blog – We are Life

Today, a week after leaving hospital, I head for the island, not without apprehension, for any transition brings her followers. For this whole week I have had to think of nothing at all, nothing domestic, nothing practical, nothing beyond rest, the dive into yet another book, (four this week) wherein I become an observer of another’s story. The books I chose from my son-in-law’s vast library of excellent reads all take place beside, or on, bodies of water. Rivermen, Sailors, Explorers, and all told out in a state of transition, be it banishment to Australia or simply a change of river. From flooded quarries to garden ponds, from vast lakes to ice fields, from floods to severe drought, all of them awash with water, salt, brackish or fresh from a mountain spring. It wonders me and yet it does not. I am a pisces, I am a woman who must be close to water in order to breathe freely. I consider this, in my new state, my revival, no, my re-birth into life, as if I am a part of some yearly cycle, a young elver facing that huge journey back to the sea, a sea I need as the life blood in my veins, not that there is much of that left!!

I am nothing but thankful. For this week of non-thinking, the freedom as a child has. Dinner is ready; the fridge is stocked, the fruit bowl full. The dog is walked, the rubbish taken out to the bins, the kettle sings on the hob. I have rested as never before, not even after birthing, cherished and nurtured and safe. And now it is time to return home to my wee dog, my new support programme, my home a welcome as she always is. So, how do I feel on the edge of this transition? Apprehensive, yes, a little, although I will be driven all the way by my eldest son and into the arms of a dear friend, one who stepped in over 3 weeks ago to look after all that I suddenly had to leave behind. I know there are plans for me not to be alone for a while yet, me with my slightly cloudy eyes, my extra caution when rising from a seat or when descending the stairs, as if I was a toddler just learning to walk. The world, or the bit of it I can see, the one I inhabit, seems new and different. I am always curious about pretty much everything, the questions, what, where, how, why, always in my mind, tumbling into my mouth and oftentimes spilling out in a right jumble, but this time I am slightly at odds with myself. My body is one I know well, and yet I don’t know it at all. I am old and yet I am new. I look at my hands, the canula bruises fading now, my feet, taken for granted as my steadying and dependable stands, and I feel, not a disconnection but a re-connection with old friends. Everything still works as it did, but as in a cautionary tale, my new tale, my new story.

I walk the shoreline and into the fairy woods, all green with a dozen different mosses, the great old trees laden with leave cover, delicately fingering the breeze and blocking out the sky. Along the shore, Thrift and Scurvy appear like surprises between the basalt and granite, opportunists all. Seabirds cut the sky. My eyes follow them as they head inland, for what, and why? What is their plan? I have no answer and it matters not one jot. Seaweed humps cover the high tide mark, gold, copper, a luminous green, awaiting the next lift off. Where will you end up, I wonder, as I breathe in the salty tang? On someone’s potato patch, on another shore, another island, your story still for the telling? The sky is soft with cloud, this wide sky, this canopy of colours so delicate, so deep, so alive. Like me. The tide ebbs, the tide flows, an endless cycle. Life flows in, life flows out again, no matter what goes on in the world, and just to watch it, to marvel at the power of it, is enough. Ask me no questions, it says, just notice, observe and live in the moment, every moment, for you are part of me and I of you. We are life.

We are life.

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Island Blog – Forward into Life

It feels like ages since I last wrote a blog, and it is, ages. So where have I been? Into a strange world, one I have never visited before, one I cannot locate on a map, a whole new country.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Two, or more, weeks ago, I felt weary and lethargic, two feelings alien to me, two that begged investigation and not by me alone. I was aching and sore, my arms unable to reach for anything without a wince of pain. I was un-hungry and found it hard to get comfortable in bed. A friend drove me to my doctor’s appointment and within minutes she called the local hospital to admit me. As a thankfully healthy woman with little experience of hospitals beyond the birthing of babies, I was surprised but acquiescent, feeling as unwell as I did. Once there, the doctor checked me out, focussing on an insect bite on my back, around which was a raised pink swelling. Two days later I was moved to the mainland, to a bigger hospital.

Over the next 4 hours the red spread and I was pretty much out of it. Pumped full of super strong antibiotics, drip fed, and trying to get comfortable, the days and nights passed in a blur, interrupted only by regular checks on my state of health and the nightly delivery of other souls into a hospital bed. These women, frightened, most of whom had fallen, all who lived alone, were quieted eventually by the excellent and compassionate nursing team.

After five days, I came back to life, having no idea how seriously ill I had been. Everything escalated so fast, too fast for me to comprehend but not beyond the understanding and medical intelligence of the doctors in charge. I remember walking to the window to see the pretty garden beneath, the trees, the flowering shrubs, the wheel and scatter of swifts and house martins cutting the sky in half as the bugs rose from hiding and becoming lunch. I remember feeling upright and not so sore, the joy of it, the thankfulness rising in me, a mother hug. I remember hot porridge for breakfast, the excellent meals served daily. I remember the cleaners, their smiles as they washed down the ward eveery day. I remember the can-do attitude of the nurses (lordy what a job!) and the bright light laughter from each nursing shift that skittered along the corridors, spilling into each ward to make the vulnerable smile. I remember talking to other inmates, hearing their stories, holding hands that had held so many other hands over so many years. I remember the sadness and joy of visitors around beds, the muffled conversations, the concern etched on family faces. I remember quiet conversations with a night nurse, waking me yet again for a health check, the administration of yet another drip. I remember the smiles, the reasurrances, the gentle touch of a confident hand on my own wobbly one. All will be well, the hand said, in the end. Keep fighting. Gradually, I became mobile again, walking around the hospital carpark, up to the helipad, seeing goldfinches feeding on grass seeds, their unique chatter like champagne bubbles in my ears. Everything felt new, as if I was a newborn and seeing all this life for the first time. I suspect anyone who has faced down death will know what I mean, even though I couldn’t, and still can’t, really believe it to be true for me. Severe cellulitis is dangerous. And all, it seems, from an insect bite on my back. That tiny creature, that random bite nearly did for me. And, yet, I thank it. How else could I know what it is to be newborn at 70? T’is a rare and beautiful gift indeed.

Now, as I recuperate with family, resting, building new strength into momentarily wasted muscles, while I move around the sun dappled garden, watching the dogs play and hearing the laughter of happy girls on holiday, all I feel is a daily upwelling of gratitude, for life herself, for the medical care and affection, for my family’s support and love. When I am home again among the beloved hills of the island, watching the tidal dance, hearing the sea-birds call as the fish rush in, I will remember this time, all of it, all the tiny details of such a strange journey. From nearly dead to very much alive, a moving forward into life, a new one, a gift, a second chance.

It will take me sometime to process and a forever to forget.

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Island Blog – A Good Day for Rebellion

A good day, productive and engaged. Washing up at the Lunch Club in the village hall for two ours is a pleasure and a craic. You non Scots might need to look that one up! Fun, basically, engagement, mischief, shared stories, or snaps of them, whilst dealing with the ordinary. I now believe that this is how a real life is lived. I remember it at Tapselteerie, the chaos of it all and yet we danced through it all, me and my fabulous support team. Well, team is a bit of an exaggeration as there was only one strong woman beside me whilst the men did what they always did, expecting food and respect and room for all sorts of things such as a young ewe who needed lambing, or room for a ‘very important’ chainsaw to be serviced. That sort of thing. It didn’t matter that I, and my strong woman support, were juggling children, phone calls, guests wanting another drink, or that dinner, my cooked dinner, a dinner that won awards, required a focus which had zip to do with ewes in labour, nor that flipping chainsaw.

However, those days are gone forever, even as the memories laugh me now. How I did what I did is beyond my understanding, at 70. Maybe that’s the point. I was in my 20’s and 30’s then, strong and bloody minded and nothing was going to fell me. It did, eventually. We all have a limit. These days, without that life, my children all gone, my grandkids growing and blooming, I have only my reflections. This is olding. However, there is a miasma of nonsense around we, who are already at our 3 score years and ten, urging that we should stop everything that we loved and enjoyed before. We must be CAREFUL. Of what? Of everything? Fear is a good friend but only when it comes from an individual in danger. The culture of fear makes me want to blow the whole thing up. The wisest and funniest people I know are ‘old’ (and should be CAREFUL) But I remember them out there, dancing in the street, laughing, sharing stories, memories. Ok, they might not be able to dance physically, but they turned up anyway, until they stopped. Doctors appointments pepper their diaries. They stay behind their front doors. It just is not right.

Be careful when you walk, where you walk, says Fear. But I will not let the fear of ageing control me, even if Fear has many legs, is fast moving and as tenacious as a swarm of midges. You will not escape, not once the Fear has been allowed in. So, I get it, feel it, know its presence. An unwelcome guest for sure. I think we all do, at certain times of our lives, certain circumstances shoving us into the Fear room. Could be well-meaning children, could be loss, could be anything at all. But, people, you alongside me over 70 and wondering who the frickin hec you are right now, remember who you are, who you were, what you achieved over decades. Sit with that and feel proud because you did well, you fought battles, daily, you made food, brought in cash, covered the massive expanse of ground you had to cover just to bring one child to independence.

I bow to you. Now, YOU bow to you, too.

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Island Blog – I’ll Meet You There

I have been away. Just for a few days, but what larks we had! Old friends, they are, sharing a long history, music, and song ribbons that connect us, plus a shared sense of humour. Nothing beats such times. We just know each other and have done since we were young and strong and with no thought of ageing, nor loss. Our hairstyles, remembered visually with the help of old photos were, well, of the times, big and long and slightly ridiculous. We moved differently then, thought differently, lived spontaneously and without care. We laugh at it all, whilst we remember that we had a million cares back then, as we fought our way towards our dreams, only to find that dreams are just dreams. We felt the setbacks like kicks to the gut, the disappointments as unfair and unwarranted, whilst the realtor of our lives flicked his/her whip at our reckless flanks, taking us down paths we never really wanted to take. Ah, t’is life. For all of us.

And then I came home, bobbing over the water on the old ferry, seeing old friends, also bobbing, looking older than I feel, but still bright with a smile and a welcome. All was well, is well, in my island home, my safe space, my beloved solitude, but. But that time I had away, those nights of laughter till 2 am, the music and reflections, spin me. I know the party has to end. I know that my life is not their life, still working their jobs and much younger than I, but it is very hard to settle. My normal is this shape. Days of just me. Days of either talking to myself or to my dog, or shouting at the radio when some presenter racks up my irritation to level 1. I have conversations with my Indesit (no fulfilling conversation there) washing machine, my linen cupboard who tells me she needs a tidy, the compost bin, which is worm-absent #worrying, or the trees I walk under, or the sparrow nesting under my tiles, or the neighbour’s cat. But I have to answer, too. It’s like playing scrabble with myself. Nobody wins, nobody loses. This is not communication, and that is what I miss. That is what I have to accept, somehow. It is gone, that chat with the Old Chum who abandoned me almost 3 years ago, the ordinary, simple, often infuriating conversations we take for granted until Death shuts the mouth of it, tight, and forever.

I know it is the same for all of us. The same story, whilst each story is wildly different. There is no Standard for this one. It is chaos, mess, random and, it seems, tenacious. I am told it is a process, a word that indicates progression, a sequential list of boxes ticked and sorted. That is a lie, all of it. The loneliness of loss has no process. It is a lion waiting to pounce, a giant with a Fee Fi Fo Fum in his mouth, a lightning strike, a tsunami, and it comes and it comes and it comes. Just when I think I’ve got this, ticked all the get-on-with-it boxes, a chaos moves in, a turmoil of darkness and doubt, of fear and, yes, terror, sweeping me off my pins. I recover, we all do, and get on with the day, with myself, with my commitments, my face bright as a polished apple, my eyes light, my words cheerful and sunny, and with the dissonance a jangle, only in my ears.

So, to all of you who are experiencing this, I send my love and respect. If you are facing a newbuild of your life, be patient. I am not patient, but the advice is good. You did a wonderful thing, lived a wonderful time, shared, gave your heart, sacrificed much, let go of so much more. Now, there is a new you. Scary as hell, I know, I know. He/she is there somewhere, deep down, not forgotten. I think of building. I watch birds taking one bit of grass, one snatch of sheep’s wool, at a time to create a soft nest for chicks. I think of when I painted. One strand of raffia glued to a canvas, a dried grass, seed from a wild poppy, a thread, a tare of material from a little girl’s frock, a feather, some shells, dried seaweed. Once the glue tied these down, I would paint over, soft, watery watercolours, to create a ground. I miss my work. Perhaps I will build this way again one day. My point is, it takes one thing, then the next, then the next along with the patience to wait for each stage to dry, to affix.

The sharing times come and then they pass, be it family events or friend visits. But when they end, when the time of fun and sharing and laughter morphs into what might, and often will, feel dull and ordinary, I will meet you there.

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Island Blog – A Story for the Bridge

The birds wake me, for there is no other disturbance here. I know, I know, many hear the bin lorry, early traffic, noisy neighbours, those heading for work or those heading home from work, but not here, here where the biggest sounds are from Nature. And I am glad I live here. However, it is not always a treat. The sun doesn’t always shine big, bright and warm and oftentimes the birds are punched backwards by the gales that can rise in Spring, Autumn, and definitely in Winter, and Winter stays way too long. Always has. But we who have lived here longtime, have learned to love the whole of island life. We might turn blue in the endless months of rain and chill, but we know that our weather, an unique weather pattern, will, in time, turn on the sun to warm us. And we have learned how to bring a smile into any day, even if it takes a lot of physical strength to remain upright when moving from car to shop.

The garden is dry, the island is dry. A rare thing, and not so rare, historically. There is talk of a water ban. I remember one, way back in Tapselteerie days, when bowsers came over on the ferry, their big rotund bellies full of someone else’s water. Not for us, though, with our independent flow of spring water, but for others on the mains. Holiday cottages, bed and breakfasts, hotels, all flapdoodled without water. Water. The {almost} only thing we need to survive.

I am watching weeds thrive in this mini drought. It thinks me. If I had to come back as a plant I would come as a weed, a pretty one, mind, but a weed, nonetheless. These creatures are tough, survivors, invasive, yes, but they survive. What does that say about me, I wonder? I believe I am hot-wired for survival, and not just a wimpy sort of almost there sort of survival, but a pushy, strong and flowering one. I meet many of my age and on into their 70’s, and see myself as fortunate, indeed. Others have not been so lucky, as weedy me, I see, walking with sticks and supports, with hair that hasn’t seen a hairdresser for some time, who are out of breath and melting in this heat. I put up a big thank you, and pull down a blessing for each one of them. These folk are my folk. We danced in village halls together, not so very long ago, but there will be no more dancing for them.

There is a bridge over our lives, one we all must traverse, at some point. It’s a swing bridge, one we don’t really trust. Half-way across, exactly, is the keystone. It lies in the middle ride, and without this keystone, we would all end up in the water. I am on it, we all are, once we hit our three score years and ten, and, because I can still dance, i can help, encourage and support others around me. Together we can laugh at the inevitable, remember our younger days and lift our long memories into play, batting them back and forth between us like shuttlecocks, because we have shared a history on this island, through all the difficult days and through all the happy ones. Only our circumstances are different. Our sense of fun is the same.

I just went to the shop to buy compost for the dry earth, readying it for a sluice of goodness. Prior to this, I had walked the hotdog to the shore for some coolth and a tiddle about on the rocks. I found a tiny shell, a twizzley one, like a minute snail. I also picked up wire, plastics, rope and twine, which would, had I left it, have rejoined the ocean at high tide. Having only two hands, I pushed the tiny sea-snail shell down my front. I would find it again, eventually. Forgetting it completely, I drove to the shop, smiled everyone up and lugged my compost into the boot. Once home, something caught my attention and I burst out laughing. This snail shell had migrated into just the wrong place, so that it looked like one nipple stood out and proud. I thought the shopkeeper had looked at me, a tad abashed.

I wish I’d had that story for the bridge.

by

Island Blog – The Difference

When anyone asked me if I was looking forward to some event or other, such as a visit or a trip away, (why is it called a ‘trip’ as in a falling over?) I couldn’t find any feeling of anticipation, nor excitement. And this has been the case for years. Although I longed to reciprocate the thrill in their eyes or their voice, all I saw were the problems around leaving home, even for a day, even, back a few months, when I only had to go shopping for food supplies. In short, I looked forward to nothing at all, even though I felt certain that I was not right, my head not right, that faulty wiring thing again. Until, that is, I discovered that I am autistic. I had never even considered it, felt far removed from what I believed autism to manifest in human form. I am extroverted, a crazy and colourful dresser, excellent at showing off, talking to strangers and one who loves physical contact. However, having read the book recommended to me by a doctor, called Unmasking Autism by Dr Devon Price, I found myself. There she is, all out-there, noisy, loving people, colourful, high functioning and not wired faulty at all. I never was. All those decades of counselling, of studying ‘self-help’ books on how to be a better fit, all those days and nights of angst and self-doubt, gone in the very moment I heard the diagnosis. I felt relief and immediately, because at last I am seen, recognised, respected. I felt my strength returning, even if I had almost no knowledge of what it means to be an autistic.

Overnight, it seems, I grew more confident in my my decisions. I know, now, that my dislike of chaos is perfectly fine, and the fact that I lived inside chaos for years and had small chance indeed of changing that, tells me how resilient I am and was. I know that, although I love people, that people are my absolute passion, I don’t like a whole load of them all together, nor do I like anyone coming too close, unless invited by me. I know that I need more rest times than ‘neuro-normal’ folk (who is ever ‘normal’?), that I don’t like being forced to stay when I want to leave, that my independence and solitude are very important to me and so on. All of these fit. I am not wrong. I am not disabled, but more unable to be what the world expects of my out-there, high functioning, colourful self. For the very first time since I was five years old, I am free, freed from the chains of stereotypical human-ness. I am unafraid of life. I can say, and with confidence, that I am looking forward to my travels, whether abroad or just into the little harbour town for avocados. I am more definite in my No and my Yes. When I wake each morning, the day is not a challenge, not a bank of potential troubles and worries, but a fascination of hours within which anything can happen, and so be it. Even when I meet a female adder in my garage, I feel excitement rising (as she did for a strike) for she is beautiful, all 3 feet of her, her markings breath-taking, the work of the Master Painter. She is lethal, yes, but only if I upset her, so I don’t. Nonetheless, I will be wearing thick gloves for weeding, just in case she still lurks.

It thinks me a lot. To find myself, even at 70, to know how well I lived inside a life that never really fit me, despite the depression, self-harming, insomnia, self-doubt and self-abuse, I know I am a strong and powerful woman, and not the misfit I had always believed myself to be. I feel no blame, no regret, no wish to go back and to do it all again, because it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that now I am found and the glass is no longer dark. I am deeply thankful for all that research on autism and all other mental health states that now free all those of us who have felt trapped and faulty, perhaps for a whole lifetime. Understanding of Difference and the subsequent exposure of those differences to all people is progress. Recognition of how uniquely we are all wired and the acceptance of such will ripple out into work places, schools and colleges, homes and communities, changing lives as it tickles every shore. And I am glad of it.

In my youth, we were ignorant. Anyone showing ‘alternative’ behaviour was judged as mentally dodgy at best, shunned, marginalised, abused and hidden away at worst. Labels were handed out like sweeties. It wasn’t right but it happened anyway. Nowadays, a curious and questing person or two has dived into a probably aggressively resistant sea of research, and come up with treasure. We all are needed in this life, all of us, no matter who we are. People broken down by impossible expectations need to be seen, not judged and dismissed as weirdos. It is coming and there’s a looking forward to it. So, if you ever wonder who the hell you are inside a life that fits like a hair coat, I get you, and, sincerely, I hope you can find out who you are because the best freedom of all is to have the answer to that.