In Case The Dream Blows Sour

It is crazy o’clock in the morning, I am sitting in bed with a cup of tea and a Kit Kat. The sky is in the process of declaring that she will be cloudless and perfectly blue. It will be a lovely March Sunday.

“Chin up, the sun is shining” Sorry, at this moment in time “No can do! Perhaps I am being a diva, over embracing my grief, but its shadows will not leave me. It is there reminding me of disappointment. I may not be experiencing the terror and trauma of living in a war torn country, I may have a roof over my head and my health relatively good, but surely, when it comes to emotions there is no space for comparison and grief can have many faces.

We all suffer disappointment and I myself am no stranger to it. However, my disappointment over Arran seems different to my experience of my many other losses. I feel as though I have been felled by a sharp upper cut to the solar plexus and I am lying breathless on the ground. I still have not bounced back, there is no smile on my face.

My little green bag packed for several weeks, ready for my journey warmed my heart as it sat in the corner. Anticipation and excitement bubbled in my heart; I was waiting for the February rain to cease and the wind to fade and after a period of restriction, my whole essence was ready for a ferry journey. I was like a child waiting for Christmas. Moreover, there had been a great deal of organization in planning the evening of storytelling. I was realizing a dream; I was going to be spinning stories on a magical island and for someone like me it can’t get better than that.

My heart rejoiced as I engaged repeatedly with the sailing in my mind. I tasted the tang of the wind, which danced, on my tongue. The sight of snow-capped Goat Fell a feast to my eyes. Oh how! I longed to walk through the purple heather and mustard coloured gorse of Glen Rosa and maybe if there was time, take a trip to Blackwaterfoot, — perhaps, the Old Bakery was still there. I recalled early morning strolls to the bakery for fresh morning rolls, a hearty breakfast, of a crunchy warm roll and a straight from the farm egg to start the day. Oh, life was good, simple but good.

However, my anticipation and excitement crashed into shards of brokenness, sickness fell upon me and my trip to Arran had to be cancelled, Instead, all I could do was spend endless time watching mindless TV.

I suppose, I never really got over the grief of leaving Arran. A marriage fractured by an ex-husband who did not enjoy island living and the responsibility of nurturing three young children gave no option but to move back to the mainland. To this day, I still remember that numbing throb that occupied my heart as I sailed back towards Ardrossan. Another life lesson, that fairy tales remain fixed in books. There is no such thing as happy ever after.

Haven’t, I only got myself to blame for my current feeling of wretchedness. Surely, I ought to have learned by now that magic does not exist. Don’t dare dream in case it blows sour. Oh how easy it is to become cynical but I quickly elbow that sentiment out. Got to be careful of brittle lines of bitterness taking root in one’s face. Haven’t , enough people demanded I should remove my head from the clouds and face life as it is. Finally, the ‘weird’ girl is leaving her land of myth mist, but here is the rub the girl is no longer a girl and I am still not willing to leave.

Maybe, it is there, my place of true Hiraeth, the longing which I cannot express. Perhaps, it is there in Arran and in a world that can only be imagined. We are more than pure biology and psychology, there is also a spiritual element at play, and that is something we just can’t rationalise. In a world of reason and empiricism perhaps we just don’t appreciate that the world still holds mystery and emotions have their own story which takes its own time to tell. Thus, grief is human and very much real. .

There seems to be no place in this world for my type of grief. ‘C’mon it is only a storytelling gig, it will happen again’ I hear. But if it does, it will be different, for time moves but with emotions that have different shades of cloaks. Besides, I feel I let the landlady of the venue down, she had her vision for the island too. I am unsure whether I can face her.

I feel I ought to apologise and assure that I am not depressed. At this moment in time I just want to be with my thoughts. This is the time for me to drink tea in a café or two, but I am also reminded that I have a commission that is due this week so my grief won’t wander down too much.

Besides I understand, we are all busy and burdened with high costs of living, rents, mortgage payments, fuel costs, bringing up children and over-stretched by work. There is just not enough emotional time to be giving out. Life is fast paced and time is limited. There is no time for grief or mourning. Alas, there seems to be no time to ponder, to slowly breathe and re-imagine a softer world.

I am naturally slow, and may I emphasis — slow as in movement not stupid. I cannot operate in speed. It confuses and makes me uncomfortable. It seems that life has become stringently planned and mapped from the time of birth. Follow the squares in the game, do well at school, keep your head down and get a good job, buy a desirable house. It will serve you well in the end. Focus on the goal but somehow, in that process we can forget to come into who we are. I am not suggesting that is wrong to work hard — not at all, because it isn’t, but it seems to be a one fit life plan for all. And me, I just don’t fit. I prefer a more simpler life, I would be happier to live in a hut with less, but experiencing all what life offers. Unfortunately there is an aloneness in that and as I age with the loss of friends, loneliness seem inevitable. Why! because. whether we like to be reminded or not the wheel of life is capitalism and many individuals prefer to be friends with people who have similar cultural signifiers and aspirations. It has to be said that those who do not conform can have negative labels placed on them, for example — not normal and weird and that becomes tiring.

Its many years since I left Arran and no doubt, the island has changed. Maybe, I have foolishly perceived the island through a rose tinted lens, My sense of anomie could have been intensified because I was thrust like us all into a period of intense restriction. My hair grew wild and communication via a screen was my only interaction, a world far removed from well-being. Yes, I coped, I baked bread and made soup for bodily sustenance and sketched for mental stimulation. I participated in a political comic which gave me a sense of achievement through the gloomy months of winter. However, I have admit, I had lost who I was as I struggled to make sense of life. Perhaps, I needed something to cosy into and Arran offered me a snuggly comfort blanket.

I was seduced by the thought of spinning stories on Arran, I probably imagined it to be more that it could be. I saw the stars, sparkling over the bay and the warm fire of hearth. After so many years of treading a stony path, I believed I had arrived at my destination. A place in this world where I could fit. However, it was not to be and the road ahead is still stony. Maybe I am over analysing, and that could be so but at this current time, all I understand is that I am subdued, and there is a sorrow in me, because I am still in that Not Yet Place.