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Winter is coming

30/8/2013

3 Comments

 

Winter Begins

Sat 4 - 11 Jan - stay in a castle in Perthshire with friends for a post-new year celebration of tea, beer, walks, fires, whisky, games, and talk. 

Back to Mull after that, after almost a month off, possibly…

Another holiday - a long train journey with some books to Italy or Greece and back, stopping where I find the sun. Writing letters and notes to myself. Musings and wondering. Alone? With a friend? Meeting people?


A lot of bed time.


Watching shite television and wondering what the point of it all is. Feeling ashamed and worried about the future. Doom impended. No way out. Go back to bed. [Keep bring seaweed up to Celia & Philip's croft; Keep the fish and chips and pizza nights going, somehow; climb a mountain; call a friend; let myself cry; more bed time.]


Wonder at going to the doctor, increasing dose of cod liver oil. Stay away from people. Try and be around people. Run back to bed. Hate myself and bed and wish I didn't need to be there. Wish I didn't want to be there. Watch all of Game of Thrones in one sitting. Eat the entire supply of Chocolate Tree goodies. Feel sick. Go to bed. Can't sleep. What's the point. Sleep in until 6pm. Feel bad so watch crap film to feel better. Feel worse. Realise I've not drunk any alcohol for two months, or listened to music, or laughed. Call Tashy who encourages me to write a list and to go for a walk. Call Pete who tells me to read the letter I sent him. Call Mum who tells me to just come home. Call Becky but she can't listen to me anymore. Email you but not have any words, and feel stupid. 


What is the point in boe, the ceilidh collective is finished. Bunessan Bakehouse is another joke and RoME preposterous. I'm a non-starter. A layabout, just talks and does doing. Now can't even talk.


Go for a cycle but get off after three minutes and cry.


Why am I here. What am I doing? Why the hell is it exactly the same as last year. Why the fuck can't I Fuck It, and walk away. Shrug my shoulders. Leave the black dog to go bark at trees or go for a swim instead of constantly pulling me down. Why is it so strong, so big and mighty. Bastard.

 

Days, weeks and months go by. My room is horrible. What's the point of tidying. What is the point of trying. I still do the seaweed runs. I still fry fish, I still form the dough. But why? My savings from the summer are running low.


Low, low, low.


Then a visit from a friend. I make a cup a tea. Find myself sitting down. Interested in what she's saying. Like the way she explains, has opinion.


I wake up early the next day and find myself making another cup of tea. In a Mich cup. It tastes, well, it tastes good. I can't believe it and see a light, a reflection in the window. I stare at the reflection and see outside. Nothing is stirring.


But I am.

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    Robin Naumann

    Now down by the sea in our own house. With Anna and her kids, and Moey, Six Dinner Moey.

    The sea waves crash as I type, the wind howls and daffodils are slowly opening on the windowsill.

    I cycle up the river to work at the top of the hill, where I help other people with the scones, cakes, puddings, soups, loaves and more. We celebrate festivals and teabreaks, developing rhythm and structure through the year and the day. We grow fond and old together.

    The ceilidhs breathe life, and I can't stop turning, burling and spinning to the next one. Not long now to Valentine's.

    I get married in September, when it all steps up a gear. Stepchildren. Long term commitments.

    The pulse of the men, and the steady pace of hope in a world going slowly crazy. Inside feels a little more peaceful, a little more sane, a little, just a little, content.

    The wildness is not far away, however, and so is the pain.

    I'm still here. Me. Robin.
    ​
    __

    Living in Roslin, in a beautiful flat with two wood burners, two minutes from Roslin Glen. I cycle into work, 35 minutes to work. There I help about twenty adults with extra support needs to bake organic cakes, scones, puddings, biscuits and oatcakes. We laugh, joke around, even attempt to sing. We go dancing on Thursday mornings. 

    Back in Edinburgh, the ceilidh collective is growing, and boe is starting to stir again. The men are powerful, family are close by, and love is all around.

    I'm still here, just me, Robin.

               -   -

    Working and living on the Ross of Mull, in Fionnphort. Pondering on the sense of it all whilst baking bread at the Bunessan Bakehouse, co-ordinating the Ross of Mull Community Cafe, gardening at Leob Croft and with greenleaves, planning ceilidhs with the ceilidh collective, and trying to come to terms with decades of cyclical clinical depression. A life of flitting from one thing to the next, of starting many things, and finishing quite a few. With highs of event management, and lows of endless bedridden days. A life, say some, of the butterfly mind. Who knows what happens when we flap our wings...

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