What we all have in common

One of my fellow islanders died suddenly; his passing led me to reflect on what I knew of him and his life, and what he helped me to know about myself.

He wasn't a person I would choose as a friend; his moods were unpredictable, he was often difficult to be with, and there was something uneasily cautionary about him: if you don't clean up your act, that's how you'll end up.  Yet he reached out to each of us, in his way; the daily question of "what are you making for tea tonight?" was his way of establishing contact and fellowship.

I'm glad that he got to spend his last years somewhere that offered him some kind of peace and a sense of place; because in a community as small as Rum the passing of each soul is keenly felt.  I'm glad of all the small kindnesses I showed him; the small things you do, even the simple remembering of a birthday, have an effect far greater than the energy you expend in doing them.  I regret that I didn't respond more fully each time he attempted to make a connection; perhaps this will be the gift from him that I carry to the other Normans I meet in my life.

Being here, now

There are times in life when things click neatly into place, sure signs that I'm on the right path - my right path.
A place to live, a job, a car bought from a friend.
I discover that my needs are simple: shelter, an income, a means of getting around.  I also discover that it doesn't much matter where I live, as long as it's warm and dry.  It doesn't much matter what car I drive, as long as it goes.  It doesn't matter what I do for a job, as long as I do it with my whole being, and as long as doing it doesn't cause harm.

Leaving

Endings are a good time for reflection.  Moving house can be stressful; moving away from the island which has been home for three years and nine months incredibly so.  Particularly when there are strong winds, high seas and continual ferry disruption to contend with.  What I have learned is that it's almost imposible to remain present and mindful when stressed.  Even so, there are moments within the madness when I am aware it is mad, when I step back just for a minute and touch base with that inner calm, that calm certainty which led me to make this massive change.

The last visit to a favourite beach, accompanied by friends and a slightly unreal feeling, as though I am floating just outside my body.  There but not-there.  As though I've already left & only the ghost of me remains.

The last night, an empty, echoing house; just as it was when I came here.  Suddenly the tears come without warning; a terrible, overwhelming sadness.  The end.  To sit quietly with it, to fully accept and feel it, is difficult, but necessary.  Then the wheel turns on, the depth goes out of the sadness; there is always something to be getting on with.

A sense of closing my eyes and stepping over the cliff-edge, with nothing more than a deep-seated conviction that this is the right thing to do.  Fear and exhilaration in equal measure.  I am on my right path.

Saudade

I'm experiencing nostalgia for the time and place I'm actually in.  Searching for a word to describe it, I found the Portuguese Saudade (saw-dadi); a profound melancholic longing for the present moment, an acute awareness of the impermanence of everything - of life itself.  Each moment I'm aware that this moment will never be lived again; every time I visit a favourite part of the island I'm aware that this might be the last time.  It's a longing tinged with joy, though, a kind of stress-free cognitive dissonance.  I am both vividly here in the moment, and simultaneously aware of the transient nature of this moment, of its passing even as I'm experiencing it.  It's a facinating feeling, one I would love to hold on to, since it makes life so vibrant, so immediate, but one I know will pass, as all feelings do.  I'm not the first to feel this way:

"How could she feel nostalgia when he was right in front of her? How can you suffer from the absence of a person who is present?  You can suffer nostalgia in the presence of the beloved if you glimpse a future where the beloved is no more" ~ Identity, by Milan Kundera

"There are a few moments in your life when you are truly and completely happy, and you remember to give thanks. Even as it happens you are nostalgic for the moment, you are tucking it away in your scrapbook" ~ When The Nines Roll Over and Other Stories, by David Benioff

"It was the first time I’d ever had the feeling of missing someone I was still with" ~ The Coast of Chicago: Stories, by Stuart Dybek

Seasons Greetings

I like Christmas for the pretty lights, the brightness during the darkest days of the year.  I like giving and recieving gifts - things chosen with thought and love.  I've no time for the crass commercialism that usually passes for Christmas Spirit - "Buy loads of stuff nobody needs, but don't spend too much on anyone!" seems to have been the marketing message this year.  It's easy, living simply on an island away from the rush and fuss, to make this time of year mean something different.

For me it's an inbetween time; a time to reflect on the year past, and to think about what I want from the year to come.  A Christmas Day of stillness and blue sky was a little gift from the universe amid the rain and wild storms of December.  Long Loch, as charming as ever, reflected my own inner peace back to me.  The separation between me and the landscape falls away; I am a part of it, as it is a part of me.  So the quiet space within my heart contains the entire universe. 

 

Winter Sun

These bright, crisp, blue-sky days are like precious jewels in winter.  We walk a little way along the Dibidil path and up to Corrie nan Grund to get a different view of Hallival.

Even on days like this the sun feels half-hearted, barely dragging itself above the hills before giving up and sliding back below the horizon.  The light is always welcome though, and the long shadows make everything a little bit surreal.  I can pretend that I am my shadow; long-legged and commanding.

Fun Guys

Last week I took a reflective walk in the Otter Hide woods, appreciating our autumn colour before everything is blown away by the October winds.

 The fallen tree was like a bridge to another world, dotted with fungi.

I asked the trees what they thought of winter's approach - they responded in typical tree fashion: "comme ci, comme ca".  We could learn a lot from trees.


Lingering in the remains of the old blackhouse, I wondered what it might have been like to live there.  The light was so low and sweet it made my teeth ache.  Is it possible to feel nostalgia for the present moment, or is there another word for that?  A desire to remain here, now, alongside the knowledge that nothing ever stays the same, and that before I know it I'll be swept away again in life's drama.