poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
Poems from the Scottish Islands
Walk at the boundaries of the tidal lines!
Liminal space
The in-between spaces are sometimes the easiest to walk.
The sand is compounded here.
Not lose like on the dunes, or soft and wet, like quicksand.
Walk the line.
Hagezusse
Children leave deep imprints in your soul
No matter how long they were with you
Or if they only ever were:
could have beens,
almost theres,
come and gones
Their traces
Last forever
Alienated or empty nest
A wish unfulfilled
Or an attempt gone wrong
There are deep footprints
In an empty space
When we were on holiday, I was experimenting with writing in nature–or writing with nature. The ebb and flow of the ocean, having to relent to the power of the water, made me contemplate the ever changing nature of our environment but also our selves. I thought what if we just relent, let go, let go of pain, fear, guild, shame? Let the waves wash them away? Wash away hate. Wash away your sorrow.
I tried to write down the themes that often burden survivors of trauma.
Verlustangst = fear of loosing, usually a loved one
Unzulänglichkeit = the feeling of inadequacy
Pain
Shame
Sorrow
Fear
Then set up a time lapse of the incoming tide washing away the writing in the sand. Wash away the pain. Wash away the sorrow. Wash away the shame.
Long evenings on the beach created an unfamiliar amount of time for introspection, breathing, watching, and then watching some more. The sky, the water, the sand, the animals. At some point the Gospel song ‘Oh Happy Day’ became stuck in my head. Mainly the phrase ‘he washed my sins away’. Exploring issues around trauma, there are some things we have been working with themes, phrases that seem to be taken on by the survivors: such as shame, guilt, worthlessness. In some workings phrases such as: ‘this is not my shame to carry’, ‘I am worth it’, ‘I belong’ became significant. So I tried to remember the main themes and words from this and wrote them in the sand on the beach, and let the ocean wash them away.
Incidentally while I was exploring these issues, the alienating parent called and insisted that the kid needs to be brought home immediately for a life and death medical appointment (literally: you are putting his life at risk). When trying to suggest that surely such an emergency would mean we should bring kid into closest hospital that was refuted. A flight was booked and the alienator flew all the way up to the Outer Hebrides to pick up kid for what turned out to be a routine follow up appointment after a course of antibiotics. Which a) could have waited until the end of holidays or b) could have easily been done at the medical centre, which was literally 10 minutes from the camp-ground. Sharing-agreements here in the UK mean the doctor would have had access to all records and also could have easily consulted with family doctor. Interestingly the alienator called once they had boarded the plane on the way back from holiday, so they were sure they could run through the whole ‘I am the hero’ scenario, and the plane did not have delays and would hamper the narrative. So after being convenient childminders for a week the poor kid was torn away from his dad to play their part in the story of ‘How I save my son from a made-up drama’.
It was on our last evening together, everyone was really sad and we tried to squeeze in as much of the favourite activities as we could. When walking along the beach, we found this heart made of shells. For me this was a sign: love always wins. And I made the little drama installation to ritually wash away the drama for our second week of holiday, the kid had to miss out on.
The other words and film snippets will follow over the next couple of days.
Again this one does not quite fit yet.
Discarded wet suits
Drying in the breeze
A sad looking bag of charcoal
Crunched up
Holding the potential for one more BBQ
But not here
Not now
Not on this holiday
ANYMORE
Sadness creeps up
The simple life
Of our ever-so-slightly moving abode
Will soon be packed away
For another summer
August has just begun
But for us the summer is over
100s of emails looming
I have 48 hours leeway
And mentally push
Against the tidal amplitude of work-life
I love my work
But the constant pressure
Like currents in the sea
I have rowed against
Had become too much
I hope my learning
Will last and like my kayak
I will only put the paddle into the water to steer into the right direction
Occasionally
And not dispense all my energy rowing against the swell
I won’t fight
Against the tide
Anymore
Two hills
Rocky
Scraggy
Shaped by the last ice age
Suddenly we see them
One at 60˚
One at 210˚
Effortless
They just spread their wings
And catch the thermals
Spiraling upwards
A seagull tries to interfere
No competition
Like the zombie
She eventually runs out of steam
The eagles
However
Soar
The kayak moves in rhythm with the waves
We are far out of the bay
As we paused to sort the fishing lines
The swell became stronger
Pushing us out even further
I do not like this
I do not like relenting control of my kayak
Letting go
However, control is an illusion
The water pushes me on steadily
I can steer a little
Keep direction
But when a rogue wave hits
I have to let go
I have to relent
Otherwise the kayak topples over
We can but put some safe-guards in place
Life jackets, wet suits, throw ropes
Emergency whistle, knife
But life has its own mind
And often our direction changes
Without much choice
So there is nothing left
But to let the water carry you
Where ever it seems fit
Grandparents:
A boy wrapped in a thick towel,
After playing in freezing water.
A young couple:
refusing to declare defeat
against the evening’s chill.
Two women:
Spending time in silence,
With beers.
Little girl:
Carrying sibling piggyback,
Down sandy dunes, too short legs dangling.
Elderly man alone:
Cannot get his tent set up,
Younger man walking over, helping.
There is hope,
Always hope,
Where love is.
No matter what love looks like.
My thoughts are scattered here
Like the cloud cover
Dark grey
Anthracite
Patches of blue
Like the landscape
Screefields
Bald patches of rock
On otherwise green hills
Like the crosswinds
Pushing my kayak
Changing onslaught of waves
It’s hard to keep direction
I can’t find a story
Only snapshots
Of temporary manifestations
Whose inherent truth
Is as fleeting as the ever changing sky
But I know
Just know
Somewhere
Within
Outwith
Everything is connected
Bare rock faces
moss, lychen, heather, hard grass stalks
glacial lakes, loch, lochans
The sky never ending
Meeting the waters of the Atlantic
In a distance hard to estimate
Desolate
Our first reaction
The landscape
Violated
Forced into shape
By layers of ice
Slow death
Creating new life
We see eagles, dolphins, seals
Wildflowers
Insects
Birds
Not so empty after all
Sheep are bleating
Poetry by Nathalie 