When I’m actively writing I immerse myself in whatever art and humanity I can find. I talk lots. I fill up with music to wallop my right hemisphere. Notably, for mid-project fuel, I rarely read.
I do a thing with accents and writing; I unconsciously temporarily meld with whoever’s engaging me. It’s a chameleon-like habit since childhood – we moved a bit and Scots accents vary a lot. Maybe I’ll develop immunity as my writing voice gets clearer?
For now, I remain, the worst read and most accidentally ambiguously accented writer in Scotland.
This week’s photographs were taken in and around the beautiful garden at Oxgangs Neighbourhood Centre. Curious about #52and40? Read more here.
2015 has been the year for highly serendipitous experiences.
No sooner have I thought one thing then related things have happened, leading my thoughts to necessary places or confirming hunches that what I was thinking was right or wrong after all.
This last fortnight I’m hit repeatedly by thoughts of mismatched perspectives. Two people can experience the exact same thing and recount it in jarringly oppositional or wonderfully eye opening ways. Our eyes have different filters, our minds apply unique emotional processing, memories and logic.
Everyone has their truth – and their stories.
This post is the very last in the 52and39 series. The first post in the series is here. Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, shared and read these posts that have given 2015 such subtle but powerful writing purpose for me. Watch this space for my new blogging series for 2016.
Slainte, Heather xx
I’m feeling festive in fleeting bouts that buzz like wee jingle belled flashbacks, all present and sparkly then, gone.
Nonetheless, home is hyggelig at this time of year.
Following prelims, my son’s deciding what to do with at least some of his future. My head tells him to go with his heart. His heart says he mightn’t be good enough.
Watching someone struggle with a truth that you can’t wrestle to the ground… it’s hard, isn’t it? The future will have to wait a little. For now, back to the (Christmas) present.
Then just like that, there’s only 1 more week to go of #52and39. Read all about it here.
Years ago I read that the things we struggle with in other people are usually the things we most need to work on in ourselves.
I think we all have a thing or two that we do which doesn’t serve us well, is easy for others to spot and yet rarely (if ever) bleeps on our own radar.
I spend regular time trying to see what’s in my blind spot. When my mood is balanced and objective, with energy for the exertion of the mental trip, I dare to go there.
Triple-thinking is (to me);
- Thinking about something and failing to make a decision.
- Thinking about the something again then making a decision that’s carried out with rumbling uneasiness.
- Regretting the decision and thinking about how I should have done it differently.
It’s an inefficient cycle I started at a time when high stress collided with an enforced period of time on my hands and in my brain, resulting in diluted mental acuity.
I worried too much about being wrong rather than being. Now I get more head space for doing.
Strangers are stranger, in someone else’s city.
The smokey stains that gather on stonework seem darker and the chewing gum stuck to the pavement seems stickier and more defiant, in someone else’s city.
The dirt that collects in dried tide on walls, windows, bus stops and doors seems dingier.
People seem colder, ruder, less helpful, too forward or just never quite right when they’re not your people.
Cities are untrustworthy, frightening and to be hurried through by people who don’t love cities.
Like life, cities live up (and down) to expectations.
We chased the light yesterday, finding it first in Helena Emman’s incredible work from Skye in The Line Gallery at Linlithgow, then leaving it at the Forth.
We stood at Port Edgar, freezing, looking up and out at a world of massive Lego sets, listening to the ba-doom, ba-doom of traffic crossing the joints on the road through the sky above. We said occasional hellos to life-jacketed people from yachts and the distance between Scandinavia and Scotland felt tiny small, in those moments.
Then we drove home, chasing warmth this time.