A couple of months back, in the short space of four days, I was able to rekindle that warm, soulful realisation.
With friends, I travelled to one of the many western peninsulas of Scotland, to a small cottage overlooking Loch Sween: a narrow stretch of water outlining several inlets. There was a jetty; from the rocks there I watched the tide come in, and absorbed the painted, raging colours of the ephemeral sunsets that soon enough, faded away into a deep midnight blue. Before the light faded each evening, for what seemed like a fleeting moment, everything in view was etched with a delicate, golden lining of light. Everything in those moments was still.
We swam in the freezing cold sea, saw seals, went on long walks in wellington boots, laughed in the rain, found an abandoned boat shed hidden in the overgrown verdure of early summer, ran and stumbled on rocks, saw the mountains of Jura (the island where Orwell wrote 1984!), got left on an island travelled to by boat; it was pure wonder, and I would not have changed any of it for the world. And for that, I am most grateful.
After a long while of not being able to remember the reasons why I enjoyed writing on this blog so much, it has finally returned to me.
There is no reason to hide here; no reason to obscure emotions that I may feel discouraged to discuss. Essentially, for me, this space exists as a result of a yearning for an output of internal zest: bodily marginalia, that on a day-to-day basis, seems feckless and unavailing by the likes of constant disconcertment. What we feel is commodified; we are not told to value what should be valued; upwells of heartfelt, tender emotion is stunted.
Here, my words and emotions can reach and stretch horizontally and vertically. There is no path. There is no end. Time and space are boundless here.
And I am so thankful that such a space exists.
It would be naïve to think that everything I think and say is readily accepted by people, but that is nor my aim or intention. I want people to be stirred; inspired; moved; to feel something, anything. And if my blog doesn’t do that, it’s still okay.
Writing for this space; clumsily, hastily – typing the words that accrue from the depths of my mind is a wonderful feeling. I float skywards, and across the land.