Island Blog – Questioner. Answerer.

I walk today through soft air, breaking into it, splitting the atoms then turn to watch them come back together at my back, as if I was never there at all, leaving no evidence of my passing, not even footprints for the track is mostly dry. This is a relief, the dry track I mean, after months of slopping mud, the backlash of mudfreckles peppering the backs of my legs. Larch fronds dangle, long green fingers, the sycamore blossoms buzzing with bees. They sound like tiny airborne motorbikes. Coniferous giants, evergreen through the coldest of months push out just a little, bright lime against the winter-tired needles the colour of wine bottles. Even the fallen trees push out hope, in parts, still working with the sun, still holding on to life. These huge giants, felled in some vindictive gale, remind me of another giant of a man felled a few days ago, gone. Somehow, when a person I know goes down and stays down, one who lived a few doors away from my own, it feels sharp, needle sharp. He was about my age and always out walking, always full of craic and laughter. Although he will not know this Spring, not from this earthly place anyway, I will think of him whenever I walk along the little track, one he loved as well as I do.

I wander on, noticing with my usual gasp of delight followed by a greeting spoken out loud, new buttery primroses along the bank, more leaves coming here and, oh look, over there and even way up there! Violets too, tiny delicate lilac petals peeking out from behind the protection of a rock or a drystone wall, sudden lifts of pastel beauty, wood anemones too, or their foliage at least. Tree ferns fall from on high, way up the bellies of the great old trees, like tiny green waterfalls. They tremble as a luff breeze tickles them. I can almost hear them giggle. Rounding the apex of my walk, I watch for seals hauled out on the rocks, listen for their song, but they are not here this day. I say hallo to a beech tree who began her answer to the questioner sun by pushing out as far as she dared before turning her face upwards. She is a force indeed to be admired for her belly is wide, her backbone strong and she is a fine match for the others who grew straight up from a straight up beginning.

It ponders me.

The sun poses the question. He sends warmth and nourishment. He calls out the bees, the butterflies, the dragonflies and all the other buzzing things of which we are not quite so fond, the answerers. He rises the earth, eats it up, challenges it, is relentless yet life-giving, pulling up life from the nearly dead, just for one more summer, just one more, don’t let go yet, the Mother needs you, you and her little clueless people. And we, too, are answerers. We rise into the new warmth with smiles that need cranking up a bit as Winter finally feels the threat of meltdown and begins his retreat. We change our attitude, become more open like petals, delicate but trusting. We risk vest off, open more windows, sit awhile on a tree stump or a bench to listen as passing talk tells her tales of other lives, other hopes and dreams. We catch moments, moments that didn’t seem to exist behind our winter walls, sounds drowned out by lashing rain, sleet, and witchy winds.

Soft now. Let it be. Let us and others be. Questioner or Answerer, both are we. We can shine light in places without light. We can be curious about how someone else thinks, how they live. We can show that we care, that someone else matters just as we hope we do ourselves.

Island Blog – Little Giants

As the rain and wind continue for us on the island, I hear of sunshine weather on the East. Conflicted am I in my response to this for we are so very sick of soggy sheep, no grass and battered daffydowndillies. We are now officially up-fed of jumping in muddy puddles. They have, quite simply, lost their first flush. Our wellies are as wet within as they are without. Now just listen to me! I have lived 40 plus years on this, my beloved rock of ages, and the weather has aye been thus. I say that the weather doesn’t bother me. I speak it from my mouth, let it spurt from my lips. I snort derisively at all weatherly complaints, but there are times when what comes from my mouth bears little relation to the words in my heart. This, I tell myself, is living positively. My filtration system is strong. I am in control of my words. Feelings come, despondency comes, hope escapes to warmer climes, vision blurs and I can sink into the circumstances. But not for long and this is why. I see myself. Look, there you are you eejit, with your insidely wet wellies, all puddled and, well, stupid, that’s what. First I chuckle at the very sight of me. Then I grab my puddled self by the oxters and heave. Get the flip up, and right now. The little giant in me is back in charge. I apply more mascara, blusher and liner to remind myself how I can look when I de-puddle. Not bad for an old girl. Not bad for a little giant.

I like feeling little, with potential. I don’t actually want to be a giant on the outside of me but I am more than happy to nourish the one within. She, btw, is uber strong, indomitable, open and beneficent, even to herself. She has weapons but rarely employs them. They are more for a swashbuckle show to be honest but she loves the whoosh of a razor sharp blade cutting through the air. She loves to hit bullseye. She enjoys leaping fences and boundaries if someone else is in trouble. She loves to be ready. On the outside of her, she looks as she always looked but within…….oh the within is busy honing hope into ploughshares, ready for every twist, turn and puddle of life.

However, it is very important for her not to waste time wishing she never puddled in the first place, for she is as likely to catch a chill as anyone else. It thinks me, well, both of us. We could do with getting closer to each other but not to make anyone else feel they have got it all wrong, that an innate giant comes as a gift to some and not to others. This is bullshit. The thing about the inner little giant is a simple decision to believe there is one in there somewhere, no matter how much puddling has gone before, no matter failures, mistakes, regrets, shames and lost opportunities. It makes no odds to this sleeping power how long it has been required to sleep. In fact, the longer the sleep, the more refreshed is this inner self, the one who can always be called upon, once awakened. All that matters is to awaken it, to awaken her, or him. To say a tentative ‘hallo……are you there?’ To believe in her. And, the wonderful thing is that, once awake, this little giant needs no further sleep. Not never.

‘Little’ suggests potential growth and development and this is the best news of all. We all begin little, peering up at big people, watching their every move, learning daily by example. The little giant is the same but with a twist. This little giant has already learned whilst asleep, has absorbed every single thought, feeling, action we ever made in our whole life and her only purpose is to build on our strengths. The giant is not interested in wasting time over failures, regrets, shames and lost opportunities. Poof to that load of whatever! This inner power is ready, only, to educate us in who we can become from where we are right now. We might to begin by sharpening a pencil and writing one sentence. We might choose an online course that excites and terrifies us. We might decide to embark on a healthier way to live. But whatever we choose begins with an idea, a tiny baby of a thing, with no surety of success, whatever that means. We will still puddle, we will still hear the skittering of past failures, regrets and shames across the attic of our minds, but once the little giant gains purchase, they will just run away, because there is no point remaining if they are never listened to. They will just scoot off to find someone else in a puddle.

So, the beginning is now. For me the beginning is every morning. I can still flip from puddle to sky and back again but the little giant is one hell of a woman and I want her at my side. The skitterers can not helpful to me anymore, if, indeed they ever were. Oh, I still hear them in the attic, little feets across the boards up there among old black cobwebs long devoid of living spiders. I roll my eyes and smile at my giant and, together, we frock up and descend the stairs into a new day of god knows what.

Island Blog – Cloud Stories

Waking each morning in this grounded world I take myself through the normal routines, pulling back the duvet, opening the curtains, dressing, finding sneakers for a barrier between my night-warm feet and the cold floor. The only bit that isn’t rooted in this grounded world is the moment I open the curtains. Now I am connected not only with the physical world but also with the cloud stories. They tell me weather, for one. They show me looming hailstorm or a blanket white sky cover depending on their spread, their individual shapes, the plans they have for me. I may have been able to guess their plans prior to that curtain opening ta-da! I would, after all, hear rain slamming, trickling, falling straight or slanty. A cloud dump of hail is deafening, scary even, making me wonder just how strong the panes of window glass are, how much they can withstand. An overnight fall of snow brings a silence like a long held breath and we respond by holding our own, for snowfall is gaspworthy. But, there are none of those shenanigans this morning. Just weather silence, as if there was none to be had this day. No weather at all. Perhaps after endless storms, days and nights of fighting between heaven and earth, everything seems quieter. I feel like a child consoled into peace after a long parental row.

The sea spreads out before me, wide and only a bit rippled. Seabirds split the air, rising, wheeling, keening like lost souls only to land in lines on a rocky bluff, their heads facing the sun warmth, their white chests bright and round, puffed out for preening. They mutter quietly to each other, lifting now and then to perch beside someone else for new conversation. Rainbows appear all the time, their pots of gold lying ocean deep, unattainable. Other island appear and shrink back as the light changes. What looks like an old broch shines, illuminated until the sun shifts round a bit to show me some other natural marvel of basalt and granite. White spume bursts against the coastline even now, even when all I see are a few ripples. Submerged rocks, the pull and thrust of the tide and a living, breathing wind make sure of this; this spectacular explosion of bright white water hurled ashore, snatched back, worked up to a new froth and hurled again. Over and over and over. Ships have foundered. Ships have drowned. Get these hidden rocks wrong and your connection to the world is cut like a ribbon at a garden fete. You are now open to the sky. A part of a new cloud story.

In the evening, as the sun sinks into the sea, the clouds show me castles, pink-tipped, scallions turning into rapunzel towers in minutes. I lift my thoughts into the storyline, guessing, imagining, seeing dragon shapes, eyes watching me, wild horses running free, a baby reaching up, a turtle, the sharp outline of a wolf. Sometimes when the clouds touch the distant island I see whirlwinds, spinning tops. A line of hail greys the distance, moving like a murmuration of starlings, lifting, flowing, at the wind’s bidding. I want to take a photograph but I know that by the time I get outside the palette will have changed completely. Those pink-topped towers, that deep grey face of a beneficent giant, those capering children will have been turned off by some captious old god. So I stay still just watching the weave of a storyline, letting myself lift into each moment as it passes. Then, as night begins to steal the day, bit by bit and the cloud stories are left to themselves, I turn back to the grounded world, a supper to cook, a fire to light and curtains to close all the way up to morning.