hope

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Island Blog – Just a Belief Away

You know that thing, when some thing happens about which you feel you can do no thing? The ordinary path, walked each day, a surety underfoot, possibly a foolish surety, suddenly twists into a knot you can’t undo and you’re down there looking up at the frickin hooha of it, with only the sky as guidance and in the wrong boots for a tricky climb. It can appear as if the world has got herself into that now because this situation (a peelywally name for it) means I can’t see beyond the knot. It’s huge and a definite halt in the skinny path, a blocking out of light, an earthly gasp.

Then, as hours go slowly by, each day like a foot-dragging teenager who doesn’t want to return to school, each night a tumble of sheets, the unwelcome dreams flensing skin, infecting thoughts which, so they tell me, just want a rest from this whole thinking thing, a little hope pirouettes in. Then a little more. Never have hours felt so bloody minded. They trudge like prisoners in chains, exhausted. I watch the raindrops, listen to the soft wind, walk through it, bat away sluggish flies, see the windburn on our trees, smell Autumn and there’s a welcome in this place and a lift. Autumn is here, a bit early, yes, but here nonetheless. The swing between that knot and the open sky proffering a higher view uplifts me, even if I am well stuck on the ground of it all.

I know all the platitudes. In my opinion, the lot of them should be removed from every voice. When disaster slam-dunks a person, any platitude, bar none, is offensive, and why? because the one who delivers has not taken time to think before speaking. Just saying.

So, although we are in the thicktwist of the thing, there is always the power of choice, and choice is a power. to decide to focus on hope, on a positive outcome, to visualise it, every damn minute. All a choice. I have met too many sinking souls who decide to sink. No matter the matter, no old creed residing, no matter the odds, nor the ends, Hope, God bless her, is just a belief away. Always.

And she is mine.

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Island Blog – Family, time and A.I.

They barrelled in, the girls, all grown up now, or so they think. I remember barrelling in with just that belief, even though I was always dodging the parental thumb. They’re like butterflies, the really colourful ones, dipping and diving, fluttering, spinning bright sparkles around the room, any room, so vulnerable. I smile a big welcome, ask questions because these girls now think they are adults, autonomous, certain. They have opinions, strong ones, a surety that I have definitely lost over time. For now, they know the world. It’s round, and contained in space within a gravitational pull, but they’re not, with their piecings and tattoos and that certainty that the world is just waiting for them to cause a wow. A really big Wow. One is heading into performing arts, another to the science of human geography, another to animal whispering (it’s not called that, but she is definitely a student thereof, already). And there are more plans for futures. Forgive my forgetting. All these teens are alight like fireworks, grasping life, opportunities, fighting for space within the inevitable confines of peer judgement and parental disappointment. What the parents wanted and hoped for, even planned for, was not what this teen had even imagined. No, Dad. No, Mum. Teens can say that these days.

I am, at first, momentarily surprised at how short I am. They were babies, toddlers, kindergarten deposits, when…….a few months ago, weren’t they? Now they are tall, strong girls, all made up perfectly, in lycra, toned and svelte, excited, fit, adventurous, wild, aware. I don’t mind being short btw. It works, for a granny. They look after me, help me unscrew a wine bottle or a jar of pesto, open the door for me. I am loved and I can feel it. Actually, the surprise thing continues. My quad shoots by loaded with girls, all squealing. I know they have walked into the wild Atlantic from Calgary beach, swung on tree limbs, investigated deer tracks, not a moment of boredom. And they are doing all this right here. Although I may only see them in quad passing, I know they are here, and it thinks me about moments, which is really all we have. Although I am alone on the island, I am not alone at all. Family may not live here anymore, but they come back and those explosions of the familiar are welcome, so welcome. Even when they are here, they have their own agenda, their own plans, of course they do. Even their parents, my kids, move to a different beat from the one of their childhood.

I get this glimpse and then they are gone again, but I have watched every given moment, listened to hopes, dreams, plans. I have watched faces alight with hope and faith. II have given over my kitchen for cake-baking, have watched my quad roar by way too fast, loaded up with girls. And I think this……

Go girls. Make a difference. Be canny, aware, safe and, oh, another thing….Artificial Intelligence can never be human.

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Island Blog – Thinkscape

I’ve done a few things today. In an elemental olding, I am guessing a few things amount to much. It thinks me. Some, no many, don’t get this far and there are times I wish I hadn’t. Not many, though, to be honest. I meet and greet young people, and I see my own young life, the way nobody can take this away thing. I love to see the tipsy don’t-care attitude. I remember it. Nobody should ever tamp out that flame.

What I have learned, through copious reading in a zillion genres, in talking to others, has taught me fire. I meet, and daily, awful stuff in my age group. I see, and did today, in a short, happy conversation with a woman who dressed so sassy, so wild, so beautiful, that I could not guess her years nor that she is facing a lot of something. We lit a fire between us, like we were young again and checking each other out. It was a few minutes, but I saw her and she saw me.

In the waiting, the olding, there are a lot of Thinks. Time rolls slow, or it can. Those of us previously agile and in some way compromised and let me say this out loud, and as a challenge to them, youneed to stretch more, to reach more, to find more, to do more. It is so easy to sit and to give up, ‘bring me this, get me that’. If the ‘more’ is not an option, that’s good enough. It has to be enough for me in a day when I am doing little else. And the reason for this doolittle, not-much bollix? Ah, now there’s a thinkscape . A tinder burn of a long life, a fire burn of memories, of dances on sand, under moonlight, with a band who never knew when to stop; when the morning arose long before me and brought a ferry in to lift me over a bumpy tidal flow, when i honestly thought this would go on forever. I like the Thinkscape. Takes me above land, under sky, halted for a few moments in memories.

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Island Blog – Someone or No-One?

This is something I performed once. It begs a performance. There is rhythm, rap, and begs a reading out loud.

Wherever you grow, bloom strong and petal wide, don’t hide but spread your colour, blue is it, or red, or butter yellow, white? Be right with it, your colour, it is yours alone. Hold your own, make it known, alone, not lonely. Only you know your ground. It may be rocky, maybe rich and soft, a mountainside, a beach path, garden, grey street, river bank. Give thanks for wherever you find yourself. Hold out your petals, reach and reach up to the light, breathe right. Your breath is life, in joy or strife, breathe on. In shade or sun, you are the one.

Make a difference. Have fun and look around you. Who grows beside, or over there? Another soul with hopeful roots just pushing through in fear, perhaps, delicate heart, easily broken by careless feet or the lash of punishing rain-words, to die in silence. Cry out in anger, but stand your ground. For those who stand will remember the ones who fall. All of them.

And share your light, your bright, your coloured heart, still beating like a drum on the battlefield, and there, don’t yield, but glow with life and, tender-fingered, lift a drooping head. Warm a faltering body. Say ‘I am here, and I will not leave you’. Share your mystery, your very soul. Hide nothing, let nothing cold you, hold you fixed in ice or fear, as if the end is near.

Notice every season, but not too much. Touch another, lift, don’t drift, for Time moves on, fleeing like a thief in the assault of misbelief, no crime committed in the touch. Some of us long for touch, not much to ask, small task, withdrawn through fear and that worldly slime, the snake of self-doubt, out with you, damn spot, you are not the true voice, my choice, I touch.

Hold each blooming moment, roots in the earth, head in the sky. Let pain go by, toss it to the wind, the changeling wind with stories on her back. And, remember this. Never miss the chance to lead another to the dance. Show your light. Be curious, like Alice, and leave your smile among the trees for the bees to honey up and sweeten. Reflect the sun, the rain, the moon. And do it soon, because you know that a winter of the soul will come, and, for some, it is already here. No matter your ground, make it better for your being there, nourishing, flourishing, sharing, caring, thankfully placed just where you need to be to learn something. Let laughter fill your throat and let it fly out like birds or butterflies to smile a flagging soul up and out of sadness, and to spin their own bitter into glitter. A million rainbows lie within you. Let them show, because you know, no matter the chatter, that you have the power to choose.

Am I someone, or no-one?

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Island Blog – A Yellowing,Rebellion, Fairies

I see my indoor plants. They missed me, obviously. There’s a yellowing in their leaves. A falter, a down thing. I watch them, the three of them and we talk. You are fine, I tell them. You don’t need me. You are yourself. Even, in my experience, mismanagement is not a finite thing. Even children bounce forward after such. I’m being polite here. There is an orange tree, the one Himself ordered when I was far away and which has produced succulent fruit, albeit randomly. There’s an inherited Ficus Ordinarious, not her name, and the very last geranium from Granny. She worshipped that mother plant. She was very protective of her geranium. I, to my shame, wanted, and often, to set fire to the whole damn plant. I never did. When she died in 2002, and I moved back here on my own, back to the island,an island which had scooped up my heart and thrown me into a confounding, a conjoining, I now know, of my matriarchal ancestry, and of my gypsy soul, I just had to come home. Best choice ever. It seems to me, that where mum is, is home.

In these days of all that history, all that survival, all that I have learned from my own ferocious forbears, I can see that the rebels appear voicy. It seems to me that survival in whatever conditions, is a challenge. Only the brave. that’s a quote from someone. And it is true. The lives we live now, the rising costs, the affect that has on families, the darkening of light in an, heretofore, ordinary life, means a lot of cold and a lot more of the more of cold.

Rebel here. I cannot accept the gloom. There are. always fairies, stories, magic, always.

Always.

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Island Blog – Twenty Twenty Thrive

And so, here we are, landed in a new year, onto an empty canvas, into a story yet to be written. What will you make of it, I wonder? Some of us feel ‘meh’ about the whole thing, some have made a plan of action, resolutions, even, although it is a truth that most of the latter are set too high and dissolve around February 1st. So how might we approach this new land, begin our own new story?

We have talked much on this, here beneath an African sun, and, although ideas are manifold as stars, each one is apposite to that person’s development and growth. To become more healthy is to initiate a plan of action, perhaps to walk each day, perhaps to run, a ghastly idea to me. I could run to save someone or to catch a bus, but all that bounce and jiggle is not a thing I would ever choose to undertake. However, I respect and admire those who do. But if this plan doesn’t get begun, it only serves to bring a person down so that they berate themselves enough to give up on what seemed like a wonderful idea. We are so good at self-flagellation.

Personal growth – now there’s a good one. It could mean noticing everything and everyone: could mean searching out the work of someone who has studied the subject, spoken on it, made it reachable. For me, one who is always hungry for learning, I listen to what others say, how they feel about what they say, and I ask questions. To keep a mind off moans and grumbles and selfies, it’s essential to feed that mind, no matter how old that mind might be.

Connectivity is another option, more of it and among those who uplift and encourage. There is enough gloom and doom out there already. What the world needs is more bright thinkers, those who, in spite of their circumstances, in spite of their fears, choose to see the world as a place of of hope, beauty and opportunity. When I hear moans, I can feel the irritation rise in me. When I hear ‘Well, what can anyone do?’ I want to say ‘A whole lot,’ because each one of us has that power, if we so choose. We can’t change everything, but we sure can change something, and that something is actually ‘someone.’ The self.

Achievements, personal achievements are listable for all of us. They don’t have to be huge. Why do we plant seeds in Spring? Because we can, because we love beauty and that blaze of colour. Why do we smile at each other in passing? Do we, smile at each in passing, or is that ‘self’ so caught up in minutiae, that we just don’t bother? To decide to smile at everyone. A good plan. To pick up litter instead of judging whoever dropped it. Another good plan. To allow someone else the parking space we were heading for. Excellent. A real achievement. And there are many more ways to make a difference whilst moving towards our goal of independent choice, of control over self.

Jimmy Hendrix said ‘ When the power of love is greater than the love of power, our world will find peace.’ I may have misquoted him, but you get the gist. And it begins with one person, one with a resolution that is free to us all. We can all thrive this year, by setting goals or plans or resolutions which connect us to each other, which take our self-centred thoughts up into the sky, to blow away in the winds.

Let’s do this. And a very happy new year to you all.

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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 – 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 – Hope, Louders and Centre

Whatever happens, whatever, or whomsoever, comes my way, I have learned how to centre myself, to remember who I am wherever I find myself, even in a lost place. This learning thing has taken me decades of honing and remembering and I still can shout abuse to the stars. Why, I bellow, is it all down to me? Can’t the gods sort me out, or God, or the High Heejun from the beyond? Just damn well once would be grand. And, then, I settle my mind, or try to, my face resting into its usual shape, my arms stilling. It is then I hear the voice of Hope. She’s a keeper for sure, always available, but quiet, like that kind person who doesn’t say much but is always there for me, for you. It thinks me, so I had a wee dance with Google. It told me a thing or two beyond the acres of fluff and tripe and cheap counselling promotions. I want origins, me. I want to go back thousands of years, and am bored stiff with quick fixes costing a whole Lexus.

Pandora, we know her, or sort of. Just for your information, she was the wife of Hermes, the messenger of the gods in Greek mythology. I’m not sure she was happily received, even by Hermes, who, by the way, was also the god of trade, wealth, fertility, animal husbandry, sleep, language and travel, which is quite a load. I am amazed he could fly at all. And, as I consider the list of his duties, I can connect with what happened next. He gave her a jar, said Never Open This, and then took off, possibly for months, years. She is stuck and curious, and one day in boredom she opens the jar. In a rise of chaos, every ghastly thing shoots from the jar, greed, evil, and so on, flying out into the world. She manages, eventually to push the lid back on, leaving the very last power. Hope.

What is Hope? I believe she is the one who, no matter the what, nor the whomsoever of anything, is always quietly there. She has our backs. In any situation, if we remember her, we can always find a way. Trouble is that her voice is but a whisper, whilst all the other shits shout like Louders. Failure, greed, control, dominance, power over others, judgement, denial, pretence, dishonesty and more, all can deafen us. But we all have experienced one or more of these Loudies and have listened. Me too. I don’t listen anymore. The Louders never last long. All fur coat and no knickers. No need to engage.

However, I know the fear of lack, of need, of the temptation to be less than I am, in order to gain. It never lasts, as none of the others last, the Loudies. Perhaps it takes decades to get that. Hope whispers, Hope is always there, Hope has a strong back and powerful legs. Good to know and to believe in.

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Island Blog – Fire, Full Stops, Fun and a Pirate

I . just lit the fire. Please excuse the full stops in anything I write. It seems there is a grammar pixie which, or is it who, which, or is it that, has infiltrated my laptop. Nothing to do with my dextrous fingers. I have typed for many, and fast, and the only damn full stops which, or is it that, ever appeared were because my non-ring finger punched the relevant key. Glad I got that out of the way.

There is a chill in the air. I won’t say ‘unprecedented’, the most overused word since Covid, in my opinion. The raindrops are beautiful as they cling to wilding creepers, all a-bluster in the thing of the wind, so, to be honest, I have no complaint, not with that beauty all there for the looking. In the mainland town today, pre. boating home, (another damn full stop) I saw people blind beneath umbrellas, all waterproofed up, crackling like fires beginning, and I thought, this would not be me. I would be out there, walking, laughing into the rain, drops stopping my eyes, soaking my jeans, sogging my skinny sand shoes, or whatever you call such footwear these days. Have I escaped a full stop…..?

I was on the crazy, busy, push and pull of people contained, and, hopefully, continued, mainland for an eye test, long overdue, but not because I was doing the overduing thing. It seems I need eye surgery and soon. So, I’m off again to see an eye dude on a higher pay grade, and then to surgery. To be honest, the whole surgery thing doesn’t phase me, as the travel logistics do. And then, my beautiful family appear from the wings. It all becomes simple. I know, as they do, that eye surgery is not something anyone would put on their bucket list, but what this brings to me, as did the cellulitis, the breast cancer, is an open sentence, no full stop.

And, right now, I am researching a pirate eye patch and an inflatable parrot. Well, come on, there’s always the opportunity for fun. Always and always.