I watched a programme about hypnotherapy on the television at 0330 in the dark. I failed to note the irony. Padding back to bed I tried not to hunch up to keep sleeplessness out, and I succeeded, waking at about nine. My life is not comfortable. We are experiencing a global pandemic. I have had the disease and tended it by myself for three weeks before calling an ambulance. I am better now but untrusting about everything I previously knew about my own safety.
My days are dotted with small incentives, like weymerks (ancient Scots coins reinvented by sculptor John Behm as kists of small coin rewards hidden along the route of the Southern Upland Way). So yesterday I had the umph to make a new batch of muesli, with roasted coconut shavings and quality organic oatmeal. This morning I reap the benefit of that. Yesterday evening saw the last proving of my batch of focaccia. So lunch with good bread and will be another weymark. I have slowly been tackling an overgrown section of the lower part of my unruly garden. I filled 6 sacks with pernicious weeds and couch grass. Those bags were leaning together at the bottom of the garden - my garden is on a perpetual slope. But yesterday I dragged up these sacks to a more accessible place for the bin collection on Monday - another small weymerk, as I do not have to tackle the whole slope with them, all six, this evening.
These small boosts to the well being of the current moment fetch me onwards through the day, the weekend in particular, hand over hand like a human chain passing on a precarious package. They are talismen against loneliness and loss.
It’s difficult for me to settle to rest, living by myself. I certainly cannot sleep during the day, but today I do not need sleep. However, I do need rest, how shall I manage to achieve that?
It is mid September and we have an Indian summer here in Scotland where my wooden home quietly regards the Islands of Bute and Arran over the long silver stretch of salt water which is The Firth of Clyde. How can I be so fortunate? You cannot breathe in good fortune every single day, however, and allow the exhalation of pure joy. Humans grow quickly jaded with one joy and soon start the restless search for the next.
I can sit outside and let the fresh sea air do its age old work, and I have my soup here and my focaccia - on two new lovely pieces of Danish pottery which I recently bought. “I am resting here, “ I hesitantly think, because it is warm, I am comfortable, I have my lunch, glasses and yesterday’s newspaper. I could stay, I could stay….
In September, wasps can be a bother. Being a flicker and a swatter, it occurs to me to preempt that by placing the flat side plate on top of the soup bowl, to obliterate any temptation towards the soup dregs to the wasp which is careering around.
There is to be no resting, I flick and swat, and to my horror, swipe the side plate off the bowl and onto the concrete slabs of my verandah. There is no saying the distress which this causes me. I lean forward, put my head in my hands and groan out loud.
Abruptly I leave and go indoors to do some ironing. Then, just as quickly, I recover some sense of proportion.
I pick up the plate which has a coin sized piece chipped out of the rim. I center myself and seek out my sketchbook. I sketch the plate with its chip and its beautiful pale lines hand drawn by the potter. And through the drawing of it, remember who and what I am - or who and what I now am.
I remember the pieces of my old leather jacket I was cutting up and stitching into a new piece of research for my next exhibition, and resolve to bring them out to my resting station on the verandah and reclaim my mood.
Then I write this blog.
