children

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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That thing is no longer active.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 – A Spangled Lacuna

In every life a little rain must fall. The trouble is that we, as negatively wired humans, tend to collect up all those rain days until the sunny ones get tired of shining, and all but disappear. Folk around us can say ‘Look on the bright side’ until our ears deafen, but it makes little difference. They can also suggest that we focus on the positives, but blind inside our fog or darkness, we just cannot find them. Am I a ‘glass half full’ person, ‘glass half empty’ or ‘no glass at all’ person? Oh please…….too much platitudinosity! In truth, we are all three of those, at times, all of us, even the ones who exhaust us with bounce, their faces always lifted, the lie a cloud in their eyes. None of us are Either, nor Or, Black nor White, for we are both at times. A million colours and a million greys at others. And to feel disallowed when wallowing in black is to feel corrected, fixed and re-routed which does little, if anything at all, to help. We long to be heard, listened to, accepted, befriended, our injuries noticed and respected, and only then can we decide to lift our heads from the ground. It is not easy to find such support outside of a counsellor’s cocoon, because, bizarrely, we all feel the need to elevate a ‘fallen’ one, seeing it as encouragement and inspiration when, in truth, it only serves to highlight the state they are currently in, stuck in mud, pale and lost, beaten down by life.

When I, rarely, flip through social media, I notice there are a gazillion ways to lift my spirits, wisely worded, some ancient, some contemporary, and they all make perfect sense. To my mind, that is. But this is for others, surely, not for me down here in the oubliette. I can see the daylight, yes, long for it to surround me as it seems to surround everyone else in this whole coloured-up world, but I cannot reach it. I am unworthy of this light, obviously. The platitudes and uplifting phrases are as irritating as bluebottles around my head, buzzing out my failure to keep above ground. Until, that is, my eyes adjust to the dark, until I can smell my own decay. I might look back on my life already lived and recall a flash of rainbow, a shift of perspective, and remind myself that I played a leading part, and I played it to the very best of my ability. It was I who made that choice, that decision, took that first step, activated a change. Nobody else did. It was all mine, and still is. Yes, I made mistakes, some ghastly, but I made something happen from nothing. My head lifts as the sun glides overhead and I feel the warmth brush my face. My shoulders soften, my mind gentles, the tanglewire now compromised. Yes, I have been weakened by this decline, but I am stronger too, because I am done with this darkness, and it is I who found my way here, and I who will raise myself up again, with new thoughts, a new energy, singular and vital.

It is precisely because I have become lost in this lacuna, that I have learned just how strong I am, how resilient, how much I want this one life to be all it can be. Others’ lives impact on my own, of course they do, and some have taken all I can possibly give, too much in fact, I gave too much. What was it that led me to give myself away, to believe that, in doing so, I could ‘fix’ all their manifold human problems? We are taught to give, are we not, that to be ‘selfish’ is to be a ‘bad’ person? We are also taught that everything healthy grows from self-love, without which we cannot effectively and wisely love others exactly as they are. If, however, we build ourselves from the amount of love we are given, and that is often lacking, we tell ourselves we don’t deserve it, anyway. We are easily hurt, put down, can feel judged and misunderstood, awkward, unseen, unimportant, invisible. Just as in the oubliette.

I see a rope, one I hadn’t noticed heretofore. The spangle-light dances off rocks, footholds. I rise and stretch my limbs, turn my face to the sky, and begin to climb.

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Island Blog – The Beyondicous of Me

They do it all. They use every single minute of their time in their ‘home’, connecting with their roots, roots none of us knew about until fairly recently, and roots which have explained the feeling of being HOME when on this Hebridean island. For them, t’is obvious. They were either born here or came as wee smouts, one still in terry towelling nappies. Good lord they were a struggle to force into anything beyond huge lacy knickers under a skater dress, which tutu-ed no matter how much mother ironed the skirt. Boys (in blue) just looked ridonculous, all bottom and with a bow-legged gait. I digress.

Family have been here. I’m guessing you guessed that. Just a week, but not just a week, because of all the moments they filled with adventure. Come on, let’s go! I heard that many times even if I was just beginning on a bacon roll. Just bring it, just get on, just hurry up. I am, at heart, an adventurer. I love spontaneity, and the let’s go of most things, and this dynamic wondered me and remembered me, the me who experienced this bonkers and, mostly inconvenient, adventureness, and did I go back then? Maybe, but maybe not. I would have been shackled down to dinners and guests and the endless wotwot of hospitality, not that I felt hospitable a lot of the time. Did I miss my children’s rise into the wild, or did I, somehow, by waving them off time after time, with bacon butties or cake or a kiss, teach them what was always in my heart? Go, go, go my beloveds, go, and have the best fun. Perhaps.

This time, those ‘children’ are fathers and mothers, with their own adventurers, and, I am delighted to say, this adventure thing is very encouraged. Seek, Ask, Search, See, don’t just look. Stop, Notice, Challenge boundaries, Find opportunity and connect. Seize the moment, the sunset, the sunrise, the call of the wild, and follow, follow, follow. They’re like wild creatures when they are here, my kids, and they bring their own kids to catch the scent of it, the catch of connection to adventure delivered down the line, colouring the hearts and minds of young absorbers.

They caught the tide and found ‘out there’ beaches for a barbecue. They watched the sun sink into the Long Sea as oystercatchers, curlews, many gulls and whitetails cruised the pinkling sky. They traversed woodland walks, walked the machair, swam, dived, paddle boarded, fished for crabs in the rain, picked blueberries, raspberries and blackcurrants from the lovely community garden. They caught newts and released them. We talked about clouds and rain and colour and sunshine and how steam clouds granny’s glasses when she checks a pizza in the oven. I watched the grand girls, backflip, drive my quad barefoot, show me a better way to do this, and that.

They beyondicous me. And it is a joy.

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Island Blog – Cut or Glue and Paste

I remember rejection. We all do. Could have been, and most likely was, in the teens. Teens, such a bright, light, upbeat word, which has flip all to do with the horrors it brings. I remember it before hormones and bodily changes assaulted my questionable equilibrium, however. When I allow my thinks to think me, I remember rejections most painful at primary school, when the ones I so wanted to accept me, sniggered and turned away along with all their sycophants, not that I knew that word back then, aged 11 and a bit tubby and a lot lost. I was imaginative, a newbie storyteller, a believer in fairies, in the otherness, in any and every possibility in other worlds, and bright. Re-read that as deluded, mental (…..) distracted, easily lead (what the hell does that mean?) unfocussed. Result…..needs more discipline.

Nice.

Thankfully, or so I am told, school teachers have more emotional intelligence nowadays. They, so I hear, are taught that 25 children in desks going way to the back of the room, are not numbers, not a collection, not lab rats. They are people, the future for all of us, the deciders within a complex world, one in more disarray than I ever was, even in my best moments. And yet, and yet, it seems the old ways still climb, still clime, to the top of the tree, where he or she wants to be along with the most number of cohorts or sycophants in order to gain medals . How completely off-pissing is that, and how desperately lonely it is to be down there on the ground as they all elevate! Later, much later in life, as the learning seeps into my skin, I recognise the pain in those heretofore beacons of light. I know, now, they needed to be reflected, wanted mirrors, adoration, because at home, they didn’t have that. Which is super sad. Sad more that it played out in venom and exclusion. Played out? There’s no ‘play’ in there.

When I meet, and I do, teens who don’t want to go shopping, sneak shots, wobble on ridonculous heels, talk boys or girls, play football, wear the latest fashion, compare biceps or snigger at old folks, (anyone over 30). I celebrate. They are those who are different. These teens might want to build online cities; they might want to climb Monroes; they may foster a talent and a longing to be a dancer, an hot air balloon pilot, a horse whisperer. They are moving out and beyond, they are questing, curious, keen to connect with the world right now, in the state she is, and, giving creedence to that interest and curiosity and the ken for learning, tells me our world has a lot of hope for their future and then. some. And yet, they face bullying by their peers because they don’t want to fit in. It is as it always was, I know that. Still bugs the hell out of me.

Thankfully, their parents (oh lucky them) are right there beside them, and, thankfully, again, with the inclusion of all sorts and every type of sexuality, colour, shape, size, and more, we may be coming into a new age of thinking, if and if again, the powers that be get with the way the world is blowing, going, showing. That may be a big ask. When something doesn’t have to go to committee#control, I reckon we might be free to be wholly human. Just saying.

Meanwhile, our teens are living in their world of judgement and, yes, committees And it means everything. The derision has taken lives. There is no changing this, for it is ancient as ancient. However, we can, all of us, be aware, be kind, be a listener, ask ourselves in, give support, be there. Where they were Cut

We can Glue and Paste.

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Island Blog – Finites, and Tell your Children

A finite ending, a thing we all have to accept. Solution, Dissolution, Dilution, and, without the U, Definition. Without the T, Conclusion. All finite, all aaah, endings. I do not believe in such. I know, I know, that, in the wonderful world of science and fact and all those other finite endings, we, on the ground with our weekly schedules and demands and troubles, must, it seems accept. However, things shift along with the world and change and la la. There has always been the La and the La, and I would know, being a septuagenarian. Another damn finite. Like you should stop dancing, now, btw, because you might wet your knickers. That sort of finite. I don’t hear that from anyone, not no-one, just from my own head. Thanks and spanks to the last generation.

I don’t like the online dating thing. It isn’t for me. In the bios that I read from Marco, or James or Captain Marvellous (seriously?) and so many more, 90 something, who clocked me and sent me so many lips it was embarrassing, I pulled out. I felt invaded, pushed against a wall, imagined them all at a dance. Now, let me see……You are beautiful, at 50. That’s a No. You say you want who-she-ever, to look after you. Blow that. You want to meet for coffee. but live in Buenos Aires. Let’s talk about your brain, first. All the older men seem to think beards and big bellies are attractive. Okay, okay, I am new to this, but am a tad disappointed. So, I am gone from this. Instead, I volunteered for work at the charity shop at the island hub. It’s busy, dynamic and fun even though I know I will fup the till. When I worked in then Sealife Surveys Centre, back in the day, I managed to charge a delightful old (my age now) man £450 for a keyring. We both startled. I tried again and managed to upgrade his keyring to £4500. Confounded (another, but welcome finite) I said, Please, Just Take the Keyring for Nothing. We laughed at lot, and when the real Captain came in after a whale watch, he just smiled and said, Good takings today, Ma!

Thing is, nothing is finite. There is no one solution, dissolution, dilution, because life is always moving on. We listen to olding words, olding fixed finites and they can trim us like hedges, perfect, uniform, unable to sing. There is old wisdom there, but it is both finite, as long as there are bright minds alive, and fighting for a new freedom.

Tell your children.

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Island Blog – Scrambledom and Showing up

There I was, bobbing along with life, knowing just which way was up and which down, gravity and flight both behaving appropriately. Breakfast was at the usual time, a usual accord t’ween avocado, poached egg and ryvita with Pond Water. Coffee, already strong and lining my stomach like an entire defence corps of marine snipers, buzzed me and the morning. I swear, as I jounced outside barefoot to squash the wildflowers and to administer nourishment to sparrows, blackbirds, robins, Siskins, greenfinch, goldfinch and collared doves, that my soles were just off the ground. Could be tricky at my age but what with my rowing machine and my endless dancing around the kitchen, I am yet confident in the uprightness of me, body at least.

Pond Water begs an explanation. One of my sisters who is a top chef and who eats so healthy I barely recognise what’s on her plate, guided me towards this daily green drink. I adopted the habit after cancer and now this green stuff is an integral part of my morning. These days it is added to, thanks to my gorgeous nutritionist who is monitoring my elevation. Celery, carrot, root ginger, spinach, broccoli and apple form the basic. Add to that, for those, like me, short on protein and other complicated things, bring in pea protein powder, Brazil nuts or other nuts and pumpkin/sunflower/chia seeds. Whizz it all up with water, sieve, and there you have it. Pond Water. At first, with my sister, I wanted to spit the whole mouthful out. Now, it is a pleasant drink, not least because there is so much goodness in it.

The ordinary, the familiar, are easy walking mates. I know them and they know me. And so, on we go through the days without pause or cause for much thought. Then something happens, coming in like a dart, a sideswipe and the legs go out from under me. This thing didn’t happen directly to me, but to one of my children, and then not even directly to them. They are all well, alive and in the same place. But, for one, the windows have blown out, and they are rocked. I feel their pain, their turmoil and, being the mum I am, I know where I must be. And I will be there. Just working out the massive palaver of travel from the island, what with the ferries being dipsy at best, for now, and the timings of a bus, a plane.

During the daylight hours of this day, I have considered my knees. They jerk. A lot. Always have done. I respond in the immediate when my beloveds are in pain. I go to, regardless of where we ought to be in ten minutes, or whom we might upset with this go to thing which is often messy and always thoroughly inconvenient. We were all going left, bobbing along, muttering and grumbling and then ‘boom!’ a sudden slews in like a sparrowhawk and grabs someone by the wotnots and everything changes, for me anyway. I know where I need to be and will be, and all this I learned as a mum, a mum who has oftentimes refused to comply with what appears sensible and logical. I like myself for that. I know scrambledom, and we have worked together before, many times. What our children remember is not the material gifts from a parent, but that one time when they were broken and mum or dad just showed up.

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Island Blog – The Snow and a Wink

It came down, the snow, yesterday when I was washing up dishes at the twice monthly Lunch Club, organised and devised by the best soup and pudding makers, surprises always a happening, like the profiteroles this time. Who on earth makes them? S’not me, not never, but there they were all perfect and breathily awaiting that chocolate rum sauce. The folks attending scraped their plates, begged for more, loved every mouthful. The snow fell on, warmed just a twist, slushed up into icepuddling and then kept its mouth shut as the next freeze blew in like a breath. We, the kitchen staff checked the window, the out of it, The snow and ice checkers. Our guests are tricky, need sticks. I’m washing and rinsing and watching the snowfall. The buzz in the kitchen is warm and laughing, alltalk, village, community, life, health, loves, all of it. My back is to the room, but I hear it all, the glorious buzz of friends, of community. 

I rise, or my trusty mini does, up the twist hill to the gape of the road. I swing right and then take the slide right and down into the village. Down always works, no more hills, no matter the slide shift of snow and ice. I will get home, even if it is a sort of sledge thing. The snow falls on, and, later, I walk with a stick, just in case. I keep walking daily even if it has scant fun without the wee dog. I purpose myself, watch everything, notice each change, check footprints, see the chunnels of slewed freezing rain trying to find its way back to the sea, halted by fallen leaves, sticks, sludge. I cautious my boots along the slippy track, keeping middle ground where nobody walks and where the road fill has elevated like the ridge on a badger.

And on it snows. We don’t know this non stop snow thing, not here on the west. I watch the morning, the garden birds zing and slew around the feeders, as the snow lifts the ground into a new level. I crunch out in sand shoes and almost disappear, or they do, to check the mailbox. This takes me a wheech and a fight with the flip lid catch thingy, gloves on, to reveal nothing much. The sky is a wildscape. I see highrise winds luffing the faraway clouds, a reveal. There is argument up there, so far up there. Closer, the snow clouds fluff up like boys at a disco, all puff and promise. I walk out and stand to look up. Whatever is coming will come and I, me, small unimportant old woman, am here. I say this out, and just as I do, there’s a skedaddle in the clouds and the sun winks at me.

Ha! I smile, and crunch my way back home.

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Island Blog – Did You?

Love someone to the bitter end? I don’t mean death. There is an end in a relationship, one we really wan’t to ignore, wishing it away, and, yet not. We know our hearts. We know this. What we find wanting is courage, and, in my experience, it will lack, be wanting, unless just one bigger, more confident and older person, one we trust, has told us we have courage, and, more, that it is ours and that we can pull it up as a new employee. That was a long sentence, I know. However, according to my English language tutor, I am alowed this dance across the floor of regimental grammar, but only if there are well placed commas, hyphons, apostrophies, colons and semicolons and wotwot. Sounds like surgery.

So, did you? I did. When love breaks into shards of itself, at the time when we are placed in a home, placed in a role, sugged down in routine, money worries, debts, fears, routines, over many years, we may become a sludge of ourselves. We used to dance to Footloose, did we not, like yesterday? We grabbed chances, opportunities, we laughed loudly and wild. All this does not end in a Full Stop. No Way. Living life to the full is not only for the young, in fact, the young just do that living thing without many thinks, when the biggest chafe may be from parental jurisdiction. The next bit is supposed to set itself in place, which probably means this young person with Footloose dancing in their hearts has to ‘settle’. Hmmmm

I didn’t. I did try, honestly, but I am a wild card. It is not a comfortable persona. So, I loved him, until not. However, there was a strong historical build of companionship, and it worked. Much as I would have loved one of those big loves I see in my sisters, it wasn’t for me. And, there is a learning in that. My children (I can say that now without a reminder that they are ‘ours’, which, for me was a given) are strong, loving, kind, giving, astute, intelligent people. I have no idea how they burst from the turbulence of their parent’s breaks, but they did and I am so proud of them, just the surviving bit, never mind the rest.

So, are you at the bitter end? I’m saying nothing. You know your heart, Scary, yes, (another bloody comma) but this is the one life. Relationship, work, something. Could be neighbourhood (ridiculously long word btw) could be any connection that is fighting your heart. Courage. We don’t feel it, do we, nor know it for we don’t remember who taught it to us? In our childlife we watched compliance, obeisance, bowed shoulders, quiet voices, servitude. But we can change that, and not just for us, for our children and their children.

That’s a whole load of thinks. Happy Friday my friends.

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Island Blog – Rings

Today I called a nurse, took my kitchen compost up to the bin, felt the wind slap dunk me, the smell of other climes, other stories, blustery like Winnie the Pooh. He was pretty cool about winds, bees and troubles and he is my guide when I feel worried about pretty much anything. Calling the nurse was just about the jojo of jags for old people, covid, pneumonia (tough spell) and shingles. I said No to shingles. She said you’ve already had it twice, which makes you more susceptible. I had thought my trusty immune system had this. No Shingles Allowed. Not so. Anyway, I now have, it seems, to check with the cancer team about everything. Those jags, a simple visit to the dentist for a teeth clean. It rings me around.

Rings. I Love rings, oh I so love rings. Rings are the firsts in my looking as I press towards a jeweller’s window, the dynamics of a ring, the gold, the silver, the copper, the rose gold, the jewels, the dynamic twist and swirl of the modern artist. It all halts my breath and my feet. I think of the meaning, the intent, the power of all that ringing around. Then I remember control and I walk on. However, I have bought rings for myself, rings I try on, now and again, but rarely hold for more than a day. What is this ring thing? Capture? yes. Oh…..maybe I rest there.

This day, the ring thinks were loud in my mind. There is no reason for it. It just came. I laughed as I recalled a day on the island ferry, en traverse to the mainland, and himself angered me beyond my reaches. I was aloud and not allowed. I was at the end of my reasonable thinking. I was done. On the upper deck of the ferry, I turned like a wild animal, and took off my wedding ring, dramatically, and threw it into the sea. It was like taking off a whalebone corset, or, in my experience, removing a liberty bodice. Ghastly things, trust me, and inaptly named for sure.

Today I was moved to check my jewellery box. I kept one ring from my mother-in-law, an eternity ring, gold band, thin as wire, with, I think, battered dark sapphires as a surround. It made me look for my own, gold with five dark sapphires for five beautiful children, and I tried both on. My own will not fit me on my wedding finger, but my mother-in-law’s slim band fits nicely. It’s loose and easy. Maybe I can wear it, bear it. Nothing on that wedding finger has ever felt easy before. Rings contain, control, or they did it my life, even as I love them. I still love them, even though I cannot wear them for long due to my perception of ring control, as if it was a restraint, which it never was. My fingers have memories, it seems and one finger in particular. As I turn the ring around, I wonder what it meant to the old girl, and I make smile. It is a lovely thing, that ring, as is my own, which goes back in the box, too small, too tight.

Thoughts of my surgery rings me around, although I distract well and keep occupied. How can it not? I have a date now, not far off and welcome indeed, because this perceived restraint, the whale-bone corset of it, the ring control, is not for eternity. The surgeon is confident, thus am I. A short period of discomfort is just a short period of discomfort, and thereafter I will celebrate my freedom every single day, in this wild place. On the return ferry voyage, as we pass the lighthouse and carve our seaway home, I will stand on the deck (not burning) and throw the ring of cancer overboard. Not in fury, as I had when sending my own wedding band down to Davy Jones, but in joy and gratitude.Today I called a nurse, took my kitchen compost up to the bin, felt the wind slap dunk me, the smell of other climes, other stories, blustery like Winnie the Pooh. He was pretty cool about winds, bees and troubles and he is my guide when I feel worried about pretty much anything. Calling the nurse was just about the jojo of jags for old people, covid, pneumonia (tough spell) and shingles. I said No to shingles. She said you’ve already had it twice, which makes you more susceptible. I had thought my trusty immune system had this. No Shingles Allowed. Not so. Anyway, I now have, it seems, to check with the cancer team about everything. Those jags, a simple visit to the dentist for a teeth clean. It rings me around.

Rings. I Love rings, oh I so love rings. Rings are the firsts in my looking as I press towards a jeweller’s window, the dynamics of a ring, the gold, the silver, the copper, the rose gold, the jewels, the dynamic twist and swirl of the modern artist. It all halts my breath and my feet. I think of the meaning, the intent, the power of all that ringing around. Then I remember control and I walk on. However, I have bought rings for myself, rings I try on, now and again, but rarely hold for more than a day. What is this ring thing? Capture? yes. Oh…..maybe I rest there.

This day, the ring thinks were loud in my mind. There is no reason for it. It just came. I laughed as I recalled a day on the island ferry, en traverse to the mainland, and himself angered me beyond my reaches. I was aloud and not allowed. I was at the end of my reasonable thinking. I was done. On the upper deck of the ferry, I turned like a wild animal, and took off my wedding ring, dramatically, and threw it into the sea. It was like taking off a whalebone corset, or, in my experience, removing a liberty bodice. Ghastly things, trust me, and inaptly named for sure.

Today I was moved to check my jewellery box. I kept one ring from my mother-in-law, an eternity ring, gold band, thin as wire, with, I think, battered dark sapphires as a surround. It made me look for my own, gold with five dark sapphires for five beautiful children, and I tried both on. My own will not fit me on my wedding finger, but my mother-in-law’s slim band fits nicely. It’s loose and easy. Maybe I can wear it, bear it. Nothing on that wedding finger has ever felt easy before. Rings contain, control, or they did it my life, even as I love them. I still love them, even though I cannot wear them for long due to my perception of ring control, as if it was a restraint, which it never was. My fingers have memories, it seems and one finger in particular. As I turn the ring around, I wonder what it meant to the old girl, and I make smile. It is a lovely thing, that ring, as is my own, which goes back in the box, too small, too tight.

Thoughts of my surgery rings me around, although I distract well and keep occupied. How can it not? I have a date now, not far off and welcome indeed, because this perceived restraint, the whale-bone corset of it, the ring control, is not for eternity. The surgeon is confident, thus am I. A short period of discomfort is just a short period of discomfort, and thereafter I will celebrate my freedom every single day, in this wild place. On the return ferry voyage, as we pass the lighthouse and carve our seaway home, I will stand on the deck (not burning) and throw the ring of cancer overboard. Not in fury, as I had when sending my own wedding band down to Davy Jones, but in joy and gratitude.

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Island Blog – We Got This

And, then, today. Children, including Little Boots, to school for nine (the older girls), and a new nursery for LB. A new nursery, strange people, other kids, unknown space and all, but she was in like she already knew the lot. How must it be for someone so wee? Looking up noses, level pegging with knees and hip bones. I don’t remember it, thankfully.

The day, as it does for young mums and dads, pulls away like a bolting horse. There is breakfast to wash up, a dicey floor food scrap mosaic for Henry to guzzle up, two cats to feed, washing to wash, dinner to consider and prep, plans to make for later, the swim lessons some miles away, the snacks to make for the journey to appease tired girls, hangry girls. We found the swim pool, swimmed, came home again, home again, jiggetty jig. There is allotted time for ‘devices’, an allotted time that is always way too short for the players, then a wee snack, a peek at the Night Garden and off up the stairs to bedlington. In theory, there’s a night of sleep ahead, but this is never guaranteed, for there be dragons in the dark, as I remember well. Life rolls on, bolts on, lurches from dance class through swim, play dates, parties and athletics, all a drive away, all with a timeline. The time these parents spend in parking slots waiting, and waiting is just a bit part in the huge production of young parenthood. I watch it, and I remember, but vaguely. At Tapselteerie we had no television reception, no devices, no computers, no mobile phones and, do you know what? I am so very glad because I would never have had the patience for what is the norm today. Never.

Cooler now, and I think of home, of my friend up there living in a home with underfloor heating off, a range off, looking after my wee Poppy dog who looks quite the thing on rocks by the shore, all fluffy and not bothered with the coolth of these days. It is as if I left in one season and will return in the next, which is true, I will. The missing of that change in my own place, my home place, my bone place, my roots, always comes like a stranger to me. It did in those times I went to Africa one month and returned 2 later to snow boots and waterproofs when I only carried a light jumper, sneakers and a piddly jacket to cover my upper echelons. Waiting for the bus at Glasgow airport, I stood out like a fairy in Buchanan Street. It laughed me somewhat, through the grinning shivers.

As I do this waiting thing, I laugh and chuckle with a scatterdore of children. I watch the parents duck and dive, consider, negotiate, and sensitively, oh so sensitively, work with the new generation, to grow them into strong, unbiased, feisty individuals. I, perhaps, did the same, we did, because it took mum and dad to do this, at least, for us and for ours. It sure looks like we did ok, as I observe the five results out there doing this living thing, in the now of now. I wonder if he noticed this, the dead dad of 3 years tomorrow. He didn’t talk much about it, about how our children ‘turned out’, but I believe he was impressed with the way they grew far beyond us, way outside our understanding, our ‘norm’. He smiled a lot around our young, got grumpy with the noise of young-ness, felt, I am guessing, de trop with a lot of their lives, as I can myself. Too many girls, he would growl. 8 of them and just one boy, nine girls now and only 2 boys. A fractal world in his mind.

So, tomorrow, old sea dog, we will remember the day you died. It was lunchtime, ish. The boys laid bets on the time. It was gallows humour, and anyone who has witnessed the dying of a parent will understand that humour.

And then we move on. We got this.