St John

today - the feast of St John - the midsummer fires, the rites of passage, the out breathing of the northern hemisphere - the half year until Christmas eve. for he who walked in the wilderness baptising in the river - no few sprinkles but a taking you to that edge of drowning, of not quite drowning, of opening the eye that suddenly sees and understands when it is that close to death. And as it should the sun shines, the sky and heavens are blue, the sea a great sweep of reflection, of glinting silver. I sit on the beach watching the blue, watching the patient oyster catcher mine the rich seam of the shore - I remember fires for this day, moments of lighting torches to mark some passing - some moving on - graduation, from student to apprentice - even in the Brownies I flew up to Guides, the moment given special ritual. I remember the salute, the few words and the 'flying up' - not with fire but rite of passage all the same. I remember long haired seeking cotton shirted men, with guitars and Cat Stevens songs around fires. And stories. And being mesmerised by flames and how it can touch a melancoly place that simply sits and stares, not thinking about anything and at the same time digesting everything; the changes, the births and deaths, the places been and left, the friends. Give into the fire whatever in you needs to die, someone said. And Rudolf Steiner of midsummer said 'loose yourself to find yourself.'
Burn. Like the whin bushes on the brae to make space for the new.
glorious summer to you xx

one midsummer's morning

As I walked out this midsummer's morning I saw bright coins of fortune birl on the glass surface of the sea, and the local fisherman's red boat make wakes. I saw three shages stand on a black rock, like tall thin ministers in tail coats with their bony hands behind their backs, looking out upon the still midsummer's sea for a sign. Maybe this day - when the light is stretched to her fullest, the day the Sun stands still, maybe on this solstice Jesus will again walk towards them over the water. I saw tall pink foxgloves sway ont he grassy steep sided brae over the sea. I saw a thrush on a stone wall, alert, speckled breasted, watching the dog warily. I heard the cry of gulls braided into the accordion music drifting from the fishing boat. It is still. Hardly a breath of wind. As he hawls up his creels, tantalising gulls, petrifying lobsters, the radio plays the sea. Now with some country and western song, at odds with this scene and also adding to it, giving it that dimension of funky celtic blend. Oyster catchers, with young somewhere, make a din. Sand pipers send Flora, my collie dog, on a merry tour away from their young. The bay is alive with bird song, wild flowers, and sea, sky, one fisherman and his radio, me.

Make a wish, she says, the solstice, the flat sea. I'll carry your fortune, I'll transport your dreams ont he solstice tide to a place where dreams are planted to flower the coming year.

Then later fire. Fire and sea.

Happy midsummer

so much walking

There was the slow uncertain kind of walking, that takes you in through the hospital doors and upstairs, leaning away from the cold blue, the old linoleum, the smell of wards, and into ward eleven. And there he is, sitting up already. Whatever the thing was in his intestine is now out, the protruding stomach is back to its slender self and my father seems well. Hospitals. The man opposite tells his lyrical story - of wires and tubes dancing round his body, of how the man in the ward last week shouted call 999, of how if he bends too much one way the tubes will come away. How the next day he says exactly the same and it saddens me. That we humans are so fallible, so strong yet so able to be forgetful, repeat ourselves. We who held down good jobs. We are all going there in our different ways.
Then there is the walking at the treefest - round the grass and under the summer sun. The wafting in and out of the right on tents - nodding towards recycling, build your own tree nest, hippy clothes, tarot cards, mountain bikers leaping over jeeps if leaping if the word for flying on a bike. This walking where my darling nephews are buying nineteen badges. Where my cousin and his children are swinging. Where my sister is buying pale blue nuggeted jewellery and my other sister is enjoying falafel and pita bread. Where Si is dressed up medieval style and carving wooden spoons. Ah, here's the life.
Then the walking through the New Town in Edinburgh. The sort of walking I often did and when i'm down in the city, still try to do; the slow ambling through the elegant streets, the gazing into the opulent rooms, wondering that those lemons are still sitting in that wooden bowl in that basement flat. Then finding my cafe. The classical music, the cappucino, the croissant, the dreaming. And for those few days the sea is far away. When I return north I am surprised and even a little frightened by her strong persistent noise - those waves crashing just yards from our bedroom window. All through the night the waves come in, and go out.
I bless them. All of them. Those people who walk with me, even some of the way, and each in their different ways. And I am blessed in return.

flowers for youth

June. And cold. Yesterday I picked wild flowers quickly, white headed cow parsley then to break up the weed feel, pink faced bright ones (red campion perhaps), thniking as I tore at the stalks, breaking them, not always cleanly, sometimes yanking them out by the root, that the act of picking wild flowers in the morning should not be rushed. Being June the grass up from the beach is not only green but cheering and swaying with colour, albeit it mostly the white headed carrot family. When had I last picked flowers? The daffodils that I had filled the kitchen with were all dead. Once, some years ago I had this idea a writer should know the names of things so I scavenged the headgerows near my mother's cottage and came back with an armful of wild flowers. The next day the cat was dead. Reason of death unknown. I suspected some poisonous belladonna or some such killer. So I'm slow to bring in the wild flowers. We, the generation who have forgotten our floral healers and balsams and poisons. But my rushed pickings before jumping in the car and heading off to work were not bound for the kitchen table but the heads of fifteen year old boys.

An hour later I twist the wild flowers into crowns for their heads. The boys help. 'Bind them' I say, 'with elastic bands.' I watch their slender fingers take the red elastic and fumble to tie a bow. I stop myself from saying 'don't bother about a bow, just tie a knot' because there is something beautiful about the attempt, the effort to tie a bow. This small act is one of beauty. A garland of flowers asks it. They have not wilted - the flowers, nor the boys. I wrap them in white bed sheets and they are ancient Greeks. For moments some Gods of goodness and beauty bend close.

beach

I live by it. Can hear it. Globules of oil have been washed up along the shore, spillages from off shore rig. No great hoo-has considering how many wings may stick together, fins turn black. This simple image is a stretch of the planet I will look back on and my feet will remember; the white stones, bracken that hides the rabbit burrows even though the dog still sniffs them out, the primroses, daffodils then later a whole host of pinks and white and purples and yellows. Golden sand under white limpets that gives under bare feet, darken under rain or tide. There is a great and ordered breathing here, nothing small or afraid about it though my own small snatches at air yearn to be like it - and also am afraid of its greatness, its absolute truth to its own deep nature. Edge. The place between. The teetering point the writer knows and pitches her tent, saying OK teach me how to swim, how to clean, how to make waves, how to trust. walk slow

You could see them transform out of school unifrom and into white sheets and laurel wreaths, these teenagers in the sun. Plaiting weeds then wearing these crowns of summer, speaking sophocles' words I am drumming into them - sometimes a relief to taste another's words working our lips, forming and sounding in the air - you crawling viper, lurking in my house to suck my blood. Then later I find myself dying several times on the school stage and rising up like a zombie and scaring them out of their wits. They seem to love it and I don't mind either. Then off I scoot to the next job - teaching creative writing. Teaching? Trying to get the hang of third person subjective - you know, the 'he rose and twiddled his thumbs, wondering whether to buy himself a toffee or not. Oh dear, better not. Think of those dentist bills. He sat down again, breathing deeply till the urge passed.' Agh! Help - an adverb. Are they allowed anywhere? Can the ly's find a place in language without being completely naf? Hesitatingly she crossed the dimly lit hallway, gently calling his name. Imperceptibly at first, the kitten, meowing softly, appeared. Is that so awful? Scrub them off, I hear myself say, because that's what the creative writing books insist upon. I see the faces of students fall. What? All of them? Yes, away with them all!
She crossed the dim hallway, calling his name. The kitten appeared. Ah, there we go - economy. Think I should end there lest I twitter the afternoon away.
May whatever needs to go well for you today go well.
xx

and flowers at my feet

we have them this far north - flowers. But shy ones, wild ones, flowers that take root by wind and tenacity and blend in with the braes, the beach, the shore path. I intend to take my 'Scottish Wild Flowers' and learn their names, I mean beyond buttercups and daisies. The rain it raineth - not everyday. In fact not for six weeks but here she comes, stitching the grey with silver, getting rid of the stench of sea-bird shit that was beginning to pervade the cliffs and stacks and smoothing down the track that was beginning to resemble the after-math of a horse and cart race in a two bit town. Here is the rain and we all nod and say the earth needed it - but I was enjoying the stink and the dust and the cracked earth and the yellowing grass and the laundry left out overnight and the scent of coconut from the gorse and the dulse coming up from the beach. Smell and having some is like living in a hot country. Unless it's the smell of grass after rain, the smell of green. mmm

the virtual shift

on the suggestion of a dear writer friend I have moved - from freeblogit over to her garden where I'm hoping, more souls come seeking herbs and flowers and the way words move, wince, jar, express. as i walked out, except of course here I am sitting, hen watching, dry stone dyke watching, grass growing noting, sky change seeing. June has brushed the warmth away. On this wild far northern tip the nights and mornings are light light light. Wild flowers ambush the braes and we have the rare oysterplant doing its beautiful thing, all pink and violet flowery, on the beach. There are a pair of hard working oyster catchers who work the seaweed beds. A pair of fulmars have taken up perch on stones in the river. The wild work hard. These hens, for all the grains I chuck at them, still scour the garden constantly in search of worms. If the cockerel comes upon some morsel does he gobble it down all for himself? Not a whit - he nods his handsome red and white head, gabbles a bit and indicates for his girls to get on over. He looks after them see. And when dusk falls he gathers the girls up and makes sure they're all in for the night. I have not had a television for thirty years so watching hens is still good viewing.
greetings from the north, from sea and Highland river, primrose and nights opening out like an accordion. xx