Music is teaching me to approach others with an active ear, to pick up their unique vibrations. It is as subtle as striking a tuning fork and feeling its resonance stirring inside, like interpreting welcome or warning in birdsong. It strips away superficialities, artificialities, and lays an intention bare. I am noticing how some folk emit true notes that resonate at a higher or middle frequency. They draw you closer with a warmth of tone that helps your own unique vibration to harmonise with theirs. I notice how my eyes lift, my voice brightens, my jaw relaxes and my limbs soften. Others’ voices sound thinner, off-key or discordant, belying what their words or faces are signalling. Some are strident and overtly push you away. It changes the way I think, feel and respond to others. I am not only hearing the sounds, I am listening more deeply. And I notice how that draws kindred lives closer to mine. And in the midst of that musical dialogue, I am learning the sound of my own wild call.
I remain shyer and more wary than I used to be. I rarely go out, and spend my days on the croft alone. Sometimes it makes me reflect on how profoundly and irrevocably our experiences can alter us. Sometimes it just makes me sad. I remember how, when I first came to the island, I was worried about this happening; that Rab and I might become different from the people we knew ourselves to be. Sometimes, when you have lost or forgotten a piece of music, you have to go back to the beginning and teach your fingers to play it again.
Trust is a golden, haunting note. Happiness is a strong, dominant chord, one of the most beautiful I know. It holds the possibility of resolving uncertainties, hurts and worries. It brings an uplifting end to darker, restless, minor chords. I am still improvising when it comes to forgiveness. I think that is in a key I am still learning. I am trying to let the past go. It is difficult, but over time it gets easier, and that encourages me. But some things take more time. I am hopeful that one day I will be able to be as confident and outgoing as I used to be. Sometimes you have to roll up your sleeves and just keep trying to improve at what you find the hardest.
As I light the lanterns, the moon is rising over the mountains. It glows pale, luminous on the freshwater loch below the croft and the silver sea beyond. A cluster of dark heads is gathered around the firelight. Their silhouettes are etched clear against the flickering, golden flames. The gorse is crackling within a huge framework of sticks and branches. I am on the top of the hill, beside my favourite ash tree, where, not so long ago, I kept vigil as other flames purged me of the trappings of my past life.
Tonight I am circled with music and laughter, by harmonious voices, fiddles, a whistle and guitars. As I look at my tree, I am sure it is listening, gently rustling its leaves. Behind us, the ewes are cropping the short grass. At my feet, Maude’s eyes are bright, reflecting the amber-lit flames. I think, everyone and everything I have is with me now in this moment, here. I smile as I tuck my viola beneath my chin and lift my bow. These friendships are still forming, and I am still inexperienced and young in my bowing, but I have journeyed a long way to find this bright constellation. I hope I will always be able to add the light of my own star to its shimmering pattern.
7
Sun and Moon
My fingers fan the knot of tiny roots. They are pale, translucent, covered in fine cilia. I breathe on them softly. As my fingertip nudges warm soil gently against the slender stem, I whisper, ‘Live beautifully.’ And then I mist the leaves of the silver birch tree with a fine spray of fresh rainwater, and place it in the sunshine. Its rising sap will be nourished by its being planted just before the mid-month. It is one of many that will one day stand in a great circle of silver and gold variegated birches beside the cottage on the croft. Its bright bark signifies hope for the future; its seasonal shifts represent trust in the natural movement of the cosmos and the great wheel of life.
I plant now according to the natural rhythms of the sun and the moon. The sunshine is hot on my bare skin as my hands weave soft ties in and out of a fishing net. It is thick, gnarled and coarse with wind and weather. It smells of the creels, salt and a cold, moving tide, even though these days it is washed with freshwater showers. The sweet peas are already thick with foliage, and the first flowers are opening as I thread old willow cane supports through the tangle of curling stems. At their base, I earth up the tiny plantings into the soil, pressing my fingers down around the roots that will bring nutrients to its growth and flowering.
I am learning how to live in closer alignment with bigger, unseen rhythms. As I tamp down the soil, I reflect on how all of life, its germination, growth, fruition and dying, is influenced by water and light, how all of it would be impossible without the sun and moon. Planting seeds in the right phase of the month makes all the difference to their growth. I feel so firmly anchored working like this. Swimming in the sea has immersed me daily in these rhythms over two and a half years as its ocean tides swell and ebb in harmony with these lunar phases.
A year has passed since I took possession of the gift of my viola. It is seven years since Cristall was killed on the road. As I look up, a swallow falls out of the sky, and then spins, twirling, lifting gracefully on its wingtip into the barn. The return of the swallows is magical. It feels like a promise. There is something wonderful about seeing those bare nests filled.
Springtime is always a hopeful time of year. The croft has never looked so beautiful. That day something that has been clouding my vision falls from my eyes. I have so much here to offer, I think. Fresh air, a beautiful home, a calm environment. Friendships that, whilst still young, are supportive, true and to be trusted. Above all, I know I have love to give. I cannot think of anything more I could need to make the dream I have held close to me all my days a reality. Years have passed and I have still not let go of that dream. The sense of longing has hemmed in my life and altered its structure and shape.
Years before I tried to have a child naturally, I made enquiries about adoption. Having suffered serious injuries previously, I was worried that, even if I was able to conceive, I might be unable to carry a baby to full term. Later, I decided I wanted first to see if I could conceive and carry myself, but in my heart I was still anxious. I invested years in this struggle for motherhood with nothing but a lot of heartache to show for it. Not long after we came to the island, I made an overseas adoption application. I chose China, whose one-child policy left female babies at risk of abandonment, infanticide or the orphanage. I had taken a close interest in a friend’s successful overseas adoption and had watched her daughter grow from a toddler into a beautiful teenage girl. I learned first-hand of the risks, difficulties, challenges, successes and unknowns of this route. It upset me that it involved disruption of a mother’s bond and culture. Yet, at the time, the orphanages were desperately under-resourced, lacking basic supplies, medication and care. The long-term prospects of children not adopted by local families or overseas applicants were unthinkable. I did my research at every level. The day I was approved to adopt and the long wait began, my dream of being a mother became a firm promise in my mind.
I wrote a diary for my child recording the beginnings of her journey to us. What was important was not the words themselves, but the feeling they awakened. Each night I would whisper, ‘I want you to know, all this time of waiting, that you are not just a thought. You are real to me.’ I planned one day to give this diary to her and read it with her, so that she would always know she was planned for and loved.
I did not mind that the process was slow because it made me confident that the stringent legislation in place to prevent the system being abused was being followed. I expected it to take at least eighteen months, and I was warned that the wait might be indefinite, but every year my application was reapproved and renewed. After five years, however, I grew anxious. I did not want to give up, for fear that I might find I was just months away from a placement. Having waited so long, I could not bear that thought. I consoled myself that eventually it would happen, by which time, if I was lucky, my daughter might already have a sibling born through my infertili
ty treatment. I had always wished for more than one child. Only that was when my relationship began to implode and I lost every embryo. After Rab left, I hoped still to be able to adopt as a single parent, but sadly, my application was then rejected because of the change in my circumstances. It was a devastating blow. I had waited nine years for her when I had to let her go.
By then my little girl was tightly sewn into my heart. Suddenly I had to start unpicking those stitches. I struggled with this. It was too painful. Nearly four thousand threads – one for every day I waited for my child – now embedded deep in the tissue. When stitches have been in fabric for so long, their outline remains even after they have been removed. My heart still bears the white scars of that stitchwork, and what bound her to me, and tied me to her, is indelible.
I never imagined having a child would be this difficult. It seems to come to others so naturally. I have always forged close bonds with small children. ‘There are so many ways you can be involved in other lives,’ I tell myself. Yet the longing for a child of my own does not abate. ‘You would make such a wonderful mother,’ a friend says. ‘Go with your heart.’ And I know she is right. That is all you can do in life. It is important to live without regret, to keep trusting and stay open in the knowledge that nothing that is meant for you will ever pass you by. These days, I live by this creed.
I start exploring local adoption agencies.
‘You live too far away,’ one tells me. ‘You are outside our one-hour catchment area.’
I ring another. ‘You are not a first-choice candidate,’ they inform me.
‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind being second best.’
‘It’s just that in most cases two parents will be preferred to raise a child.’
‘I understand. But I have a lot of love to give and a beautiful home.’
We make an arrangement to talk further. I am hopeful. There may be only one of me, I think, but I have more than enough love and energy, and a strengthening support network around me. And it is true. Those hard, lonely years are gone. I discuss my decision with a close friend. She has three young children, whom I know and love. ‘Here.’ One of them thrusts a piece of paper at me. ‘This is you.’
She has drawn me as a bird. I am feeding a young chick. ‘This is your baby,’ she says.
It is such a special gift that I frame it. Sometimes life is distilled to its essence when seen through the eyes of a child.
I decide to mark this time by creating something beautiful. I am making a quilt. One day, I hope I will wrap this soft fabric about my son or daughter. I have cut out the first square. It is a mother bird. I sew an appliqué on to a piece of lovely fabric, printed with swirls of leaves and berries, using a basting stitch.
‘Will you make a square?’ I ask my brother, sister, their children and a cluster of close friends. I have cut out the shape for each of them. I tell them, ‘It is up to you to choose how you fill it.’ Each of their pieces I will intersperse with others I am creating. When I throw out the quilt, I often look at its design and pattern. At its heart, I am leaving a space. I hope that one day that empty square will be filled and I will be able to sew down the edges permanently.
Every year, I plant a new tree on the croft. One day there will be a wood for us to walk through together, I think. One day, I will make a swing and hang it from the branches of these trees for the wind to blow. After I finish planting I walk to the hill. These days, I call it the Fire Hill. It is where I make all my wishes, for the sky to hear and the sun and moon to witness.
The wind is whispering through the leaves of my beautiful ash tree. I know this tree intimately. I come to sit with it each day and to reflect on all that is still to fill my life. I have its graceful shape and the rise of its sap tattooed on to my wrist, written into my body. It feels potent and healing to carry this symbol and bond on my skin. It will stay with me, be a part of me, for ever. I watch the wind brush the rippling skin of the water lapping the silver shores of the loch. The swallows are rising and falling in that fresh ruffle of glistening water and white sand. The sea shimmers all the way out to the horizon and beyond. I open my arms to the wind and cast my wish into its currents. I give my heart to the sun and moon. Beautiful things often come when we are least expecting it.
8
Wild
The deer are running, dark hooves rucking the earth, dislodging twigs and leaf litter, nicking loose shingle and grazing the stones as the tide turns around. In the moonlight, their shadows pour over the hillside an instant before I glimpse the beating life of them. They bound swiftly, tearing bracken, dense bodies hurtling out of the darkness before shuddering to a rippling standstill in the cold water. I inhale sharply, feeling the bristling presence of them, wet horns glinting, washed by the dark foam. A fine mist of breath sprays from flared nostrils as they stand proud, sinews pulsing at their throats with the blood of their running. Their taut flanks gleam darkly, glistening with sweat. I long to reach out and touch them. It is a tantalising moment that lifts me beyond the chill clasp of the sea.
In the water, I am indistinct, my hard lines and edges dissolved under the cold fire of the stars. Swimming at night feels like being reborn, some finer part of yourself wrapped in darkness and moonlight, cleansed by a cold, glittering amniotic sea. It instils a sense of wonder, offers a chance to tap into a wilder, braver and more beautiful world in which we are freed from all that holds us back or down. Swimming in moonlight is mesmerising. In the freezing water, you become so intensely locked into your physicality and yet your spirit is freed to journey expansively, beyond self-imposed limits or inhibitions. It is a beautiful sensation to feel my skin washed and salt-kissed. Like the birds, beasts lose their fear of you when you are in the water, and approach you differently; the part of me that is a predatory threat is neutralised. We face each other, and for these precious minutes, though I am alive and breathing in the waves, I am unseen. I gaze at the shadows of the deer etched starkly against the bright marbled shoreline. Their muscular necks flex as they raise their proud heads to scent the wind at the sea’s edge, baring their long, white-boned front teeth.
I have never before seen the deer so close. The water is dark, shining and velvet-soft. As the sea laps and sighs over my skin, my human scent is undetectable, yet, with the breeze behind them, I can taste a trace of their fetid, musky odour. It is sweet, strong and acrid, like damp leaves fermenting into a rich fine dirt. I can hear their breath rasping, scorching the air. It is a high, coarse, feral sound, seeking any hint of danger. I wonder if deer can smell human breath as well as our skin.
A single doe halts, ears flexing, lips puckered, eyes rigidly fixed, and for a moment watches my pale skin floating in the water. What does she see? I do not move, just let the waves lift and hold me, so that only my dark head and eyes are visible, resting on the lip of the tide. As our eyes meet for an instant, she flares her nostrils, mouth parted as if to snort an alarm. I drop my shoulders calmly, relaxing my gaze. It is not enough that it will convey observation rather than vigilance but that my intention neutralises, so that she will not sense my presence or interpret it as a threat. As I exhale slowly, lungs emptying, my buoyancy dips and I slip softly under the surface. Slowly, she lowers her head and crops the silver grass on the shore. As I bob quietly with the tide, I see that she is suckling a fawn.
For years, I have been fascinated and eluded by these shy, beautiful creatures. They draw me closer only to dart away to reconnect with their secret hinterland of soil, leaf, snapping twig and springing heather. I am in awe of their resilience. This year there has been a brutal, bloody cull that has decimated their numbers; a privately organised killing in the interests of protecting new plantings of trees on a marginal number of small crofts and farms. A herd of thirty has been reduced to a meagre four does. I am lucky to see these escapees. In the aftermath, they are wary.
Once, the island was covered in trees that shielded the deer within their rich thickets. I have taken a sharp blade and carved my
own way through the forgotten or lost paths that lead back to a different world of myth, legend and folklore. Old texts eulogise the antlers and horns of the native deer as sturdily rounded, spiralled with growth and as magnificent as those of the elk. In ancient times, the deer were the sacred keepers of this island, revered for their shamanic strength. Their antlers lifted towards the sky, crowning the earth, they were a symbol of spiritual authority. As the trees were felled, burned for timber, fuel and manufacture, the deer lost their habitat. With it, the island arguably lost its older wisdom and ancient heart.
These days, when the deer swim back to the island, they find themselves outlawed. They run shy, fearful. In my heart, I welcome them. ‘Come,’ I whisper. ‘The old ways are still here.’
In the years I have spent following their quiet tracks, gleaning clues and searching for glimpses of their hidden yet bold presence, I have come upon them at sunrise, picking furtively through the island’s heartland, dipping in and out of the gloaming, foraging openly, fired by a fierce hunger. A rare sighting is over in minutes, as too often they spook and take flight, although they can be studied for longer if you seek them deliberately and quietly, and from a distance.
Sometimes I tease a bristling snag of pelt off the barbed fences and run my fingers along its rough tussocks. The hair is coarse, thick and stiff, ivory and peaty black like a wire brush.
It takes practice and perseverance to follow deer through the landscape. A deer’s hoof is divided into three parts – the compact horn, the sole horn and the cuneus – but the footprint it leaves is simply a crescent moon facing another crescent, in two graceful halves. Their tracks are larger than a sheep’s cloven cleats, littered with dark, swollen pellets, larger and harder than those of other ruminants. It takes me a while to realise what is suddenly obvious. In daylight, my eyes are closed to their secretive forays, whereas after dark, the island comes alive with the soft rustling and thrashing of brush and fast-drawn flaring breath. On my night walks across the island, I pad quietly, ears pricked, eyes peeled for a glimpse of their dark shapes. Now that I have learned to acclimatise my eyes to the darkness, night vision has become a tonal score of shadows, resonating with a porous sound.
I Am an Island Page 26