tales

by

Island Blog – And……Rest

Ok, so I am tired of all this resting, now. Extremely tired of it. Since June 27th, when I first had cause and orders, to rest, I have read around 15 books, a record, even for me with my fast eyes and my ability to take in a huge amount of info at a speedy glance. Of course, I retain none of it for long, hence the mesolithic Scots ending up in a cafe with the litigation lawyers, somewhere in D.C. It doesn’t seem to matter in the end of the end, not that I can recall the endings of those stories but I do remember the ‘wowser’ as the twist twisted itself into a bunch of snakes on the penultimate page. I felt as if I was falling off the end of the story into some empty crevasse, quite devoid of wordage or footholds. I just found another book, another tale, another winding path to wander down, resting, resting resting, resting so much that my mid section is no longer a section, more a spread of blubber and fold, gravitation led. My tee-shirt needs to be a small marquee and I will be having words with those medics who said I was too skinny for surgery, or words to that effect. It had better go, along with whatever else gets removed, or there might be a conversation ahead.

Spending hours, sometimes days doing this resting thing has not been unpleasant. I love to read and read and read but I do wonder if I am, unconsciously, immersing myself in any story but my own. I don’t think so, but there’s a ‘maybe’ skittering about inside my mind. How much and how often do we respond to a big impact in our lives by hiding in the wings? A lot, I guess. I have spent many hours in the wings, literally, whilst the action was played out on stage, watching it, a peek through the curtains, breath held, no moving, silent, waiting for my cue. Whether lead or chorus, the wings are safe, short term, but in that tension, lines can be lost, sweats can shine a face (and ‘make-up’ has a fit) and corsets can pop. I remember that. Anyway, I digress.

So, in theory, I am fatly prepared for whatever surgery lies ahead. I am thankful for the resting and for all the stories that merge and muddle, flit and fold inside my soul. They enhance me. I have wrestled with lynx, been burned at the stake, or almost, fought legal battles in L.A courtrooms, ridden a wild horse bareback, fought a waterfall, and won, and danced with fairies in a magical forest where dragonflies sang soprano and all the goblins were banned for life. I have been welcomed, cooked for, wonderfully, cared for, wonderfully. Celebrated, in fact. My scan is on Tuesday, I return to my beloved island on Wednesday and then I will pick up my ordinary domestic tasks in order to redraw my body map. I will also relocate my clothes drawers, having left home with a couple of thisses and thats, all of which bored of I am. In fact, they are so washed as to be considerably thinner than when any of us set sail for my future.

Which is a lot more than I can say for me.

by

Island Blog – Agape

We have wind. Not personal wind but an agape wind, one that loves all, right across the nation and then way down into Englandshire and way beyond. Actually, that thinks me. I know, I know that there is a divide tween Scotland and England, one that was defended and attacked for decades with all sorts of big gallant men, wearing armour or tights, wielding swords way too heavy to hold, lunkering across fields in armour that took hours to affix and moments to penetrate. Horses were a by product, their faithful lives given without permission, and in their thousands.

Moving on. Back to the wind. It rages as I write. The last blooms are like old women I have met, old men too, only men never tell you how it is for them, which, by the way, is infuriating for we women. Just saying. Wind, on the other hand is wild and without care for what anyone thinks about it. It just fires, flows, rants, throws hail and alarming gusts and thinks it’s ok. I am kind of envious of that.

So, this agape wind. Let me elucidate. Agape is wide love without judgement or the need to control. As we watch the new storms coming, and the ferocity, we are allowed fear. Allowed? I cannot believe I wrote that. What I mean is nothing to do with permission. Why do I think Agape? Well I just do. We all know, or are aware of what is happening to our world, the one we had so much confidence in. We still should, for it is not gone, no way, but our eyes need to be on it.

Stories speak the truth. From Grimms (ouch) Tales, to the memories of a grandmother who is happy to speak out, when welcomed. They get lost, stories, buried with the teller. But they are the roots that root us, the ties that bind, the interweaving of agape love. In our island lives, our personal island lives, inside a non stop city noise, our new lonely flat, our new digs, a new school, a retreat, a safe house, a scary landscape. We land like an albatross in Piccadilly.

The storm rages on, but it will fade soon, after a last night of crocodile teeth and the pounding of a prize bull against the triple glazing. It’s just a night or two. So nothing. I think of those out there in the wild raw of life, this cold, the sleet, the judgement, the aggression. And I wish I could send out Agape.

Maybe I can.

by

Island Blog 123 Freedom is all in the mind

 

World_Scotland_Scottish_Heather_007815_

 

My favourite word is Freedom, and I have no doubt written about it before now in my blogs. I have also changed my thinking about it over the years, of all it encompasses, of where and how it is grounded, where it finds settlement, sinks its big old flag and stakes its claim.

It has zip to do with place or time, with Mr or Mrs Right, with money or lack of it, new sofas, kitchens, bathrooms, or even the four stone walls that surround me, and everything to do with that airy fairy head of mine, and yours, although I won’t presume to know the percentage of airy, or fair,y in your head.  We are taught, or do we just learn……..that the acquisition of a good education, of a good grounding in common sense or many worldy belongings should be our main aim as we walk through our life; that, if we haven’t succeeded in surrounding ourselves with all those things expected of us, that we ourselves expect of us, by a certain age, we are idlers, bad planners, twits.  The odd thing, though, is that not one single one of us finds fulfillment or deep happiness in any Things and yet, still we seek them out, stack them up, protect them with a ferocious zeal, and then plan our next move to gather more in and more.  In doing so, we imagine this Freedom thingy will come too, eventually.  The more we own, the free-er we will become.

In a word, this is pants, because Freedom, real Freedom is all in the mind, all of it and it always was and ever will be till the sand runs out.  I have read many tales on this, tales told by people who own nothing, who are locked up and enslaved, and they speak of Freedom. And yet, how can they?  Just look at their lives lived, the restraints and fences that locked them behind another’s barricade!  They were never free, were they?

Oh yes, they were.  And all because they refused to allow the fences or the bars define their state of mind.  They chose, in the face of extraordinary and unbelievable constraints, dished up daily for years, for a whole life, perhaps, not to see the mud, but to see the stars.  Most of us, so I am told, live lives of quiet desperation, trapped in some way, or many ways, and we have no real tangible understanding of these lives lived in circumstances only ever described to us on the news or in newspapers.  We ordinary folk, living however we live, may not imagine that Freedom is in our grasp.  After all, aren’t we tied in to our work, doing a job that demands most of our allotted daylight hours, and don’t we have partners, children, homes, all of which require our devotion to varying degrees?  By the time all those calls on our so called Freedom have been met to a good standard, what is left for us?

Well it all is, because Freedom is not limited unless we limit it.  I know that it is considered selfish to take for ourselves when we ought to be giving everything to others, but I don’t agree with that concept, if, indeed, it ever was a real concept in the first place.  We learn to love our neighbour as ourself.  This meant nothing to me for many years, as I most definitely did not love anything about myself.  So what does it mean?  It means I must give to myself all that I give so readily to another, and that means an equal share of Freedom, not freedom from whatever my life requires of me, but Freedom to myself.  Freedom to think, to love, to create, to consider my actions and their consequences.  I may live inside another’s boundaries, but that person cannot control my thoughts, my times of reflection, my understanding, the passions that keep my heart beating, my hopes, my dreams…..in short, my self.  No-one else can control these, and these together make me, and I am unique.  I don’t need to step on anyone else to do this, nor put another soul down, for life is not a race, but a journey.  Although we may sail alongside each other, we all sail alone.

So, when I feel controlled or constrained or forced or entrapped by another, let me understand this.  I have chosen this domination and therefore I can bring to bear the same power to change it.  And I don’t need to say one word out loud.  All that squealing and whining, all those ‘how could you’s’ just tell me that it is now I who try to dominate, to change another’s way of being, to make them more like me, and this is merely a power struggle, one nobody ever wins.

If I want to be free, I just decide I am (and read good books on the subject) and get on with my day, my life. If I find chores dull and demanding, I can either sigh and moan or sing and laugh.  There is fun, even in washing dishes and I can work up a great percussive concerto all by myself, my arms sud deep, my mind entirely my own.  And my first step is to understand, and then decide, to believe that there is enough Freedom going, ad infinitum, to free every living soul.

Who out there can tell me I am wrong?

Freedom.  It’s a way of being.