come away to a quiet place

This weekend, I took the train to Perth for a silent retreat at St Mary’s Monastery, Kinnoull. 

It was a trip with two intentions: One.) to take focussed time out of my regular routine to be still, reflect, re-centre; and two.) to pay close attention to the sounds, textures, light quality, atmosphere etc of living in the house itself (...research for the novel. The monastery is an example of neo-gothic architecture and shares aspects with the house in my story).

Sitting on the train up – suitcase on the seat beside me, my journal open on my lap – I felt slightly apprehensive. Travelling alone is always – I hesitate to say ‘nerve-wracking’. That’s too strong. But there’s something different about going places alone. There’s no one to hide behind or lean into. 

You have to pay attention in a different way than you would if you were with other people. You have to stay alert – stand boldly and speak up. I also wasn’t at all sure what to expect. What was I going to do when I got there? What would I say? Would I have to explain myself? What if I went that shy way I go when I’m nervous? Why exactly had I decided to come again? (etc, etc.)

My worries, though, were unfounded. Such a restorative ‘enriching’ weekend (which went far beyond simply being ‘useful’ for gathering authentic story details). It was beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful.

Birdsong filtering through the wind as I wrote by the window in my little room. The sound of footsteps scuffing on the stone stairs. The warm smell of varnish as my fingers slid down, down, across the wooden banisters. Light silhouettes from arched patchwork-glass windows falling across the carpet in the oratory – appearing and disappearing, appearing and disappearing – as the priest read aloud psalms in the morning in his deep voice.

The smell of roast chicken filling the whole house before lunch. Eating in silence and tasting, really tasting, each burst of flavour. Whispered ‘thank-you’s in the kitchen. Plates clinking in the sink. Walking in the gardens, sticks and pinecones cracking underfoot, apple blossom branches dipping and bouncing in the wind. My fringe blowing across my face. Closing my eyes: the feel of air rushing against my skin, the force of the wind almost knocking me back, back. 

Back inside – the sound of someone whistling in the hallway. Golden light causing the trees below to glow. Sweeping crumbs from homemade scones into my hand. Daylight fading as we – me and nine other women – sat together in silence. Latin words sung without music. The window in my bedroom rattling, shaking, at night. Waking, after a deep sleep, to the sound of birdsong. Again. Their song coming gently through the wind.

Ah, it was beautiful. And interesting how refreshing just being quiet was. Being quiet, and listening. Not checking my phone every three minutes – not trying to think up chitchat while eating dinner – not playing music full volume while I got dressed. Just being – paying attention and finding space to think and let words from the day properly soak in. I want to leave more space for silence now that I’m back home. The world is noisy, but there are moments of quiet. I just need to listen out for them.

(Pictures taken on my iPhone throughout the weekend. My phone is the main reason I am unable to be still and rest most of the time. It beeps and purrs and flashes and whistles and I have very little self control when it comes to leaving it alone. It is a great Time Waster. But I am grateful for the camera. It helps me see ordinary details as artworks.)

forbidden music.

It’s late when I leave the library tonight. By the time I finish writing and gather my notebooks together – stuffing them inside my backpack – the moon is out, the streetlamps are on, the campus is quiet. Pulling my scarf close to my skin, I hurry along the street, towards the coffee-shop where I’m meeting a few classmates to discuss a literary journal we're putting together.

               

It is freezing. A woman waiting at the bus stop in front of me tries to light a cigarette. She shields the flickering flame with her cupped hand until - a flash, a flash – it’s lit. The smell of smoke winds towards me as I turn the corner, heading down the hill towards George Street. Red and white lights from cars speed past. Their reflections bounce onto, and then slide off, the black walls of the building on my right.

 

Men's voices, a little way behind, on the other side of the street, start shouting – swearing at each other. Instinctively, my fingers fasten around the phone in my pocket. I start to walk faster, trying heat up. But this air is icy. From the train into Glasgow this morning, I noticed snow on the mountains, and now my knuckles are stinging. My nose is stinging. My neck.

It’s because of this – the cold, the creepiness, the dark etc – that, when I see the lights are still on in the building beside me, I move towards the door and – pushing it open, my wrists clicking a little with the weight – slip inside. Warm air on my cheek. Dim yellow light. The door swings shut behind me, muffling the sounds of the street.

This building – I start walking again, slower now, not feeling such a need to rush – joins into one of the oldest buildings in the university. I walk past the front desk – it’s empty – down a small flight of stairs, through a set of double doors, and I’m here: the Royal College. 

Stone staircases, marble tiles, stained glass windows, peeling wallpaper – this building has always been my favourite in the university, because of the stories it seems to whisper at. If I go down enough levels, if I take the right turnings along its labyrinthine hallways, I know I can leave the building on the ground floor. That’ll take me out to George Street, and keep me out the cold for a while. Brilliant.

I start heading down a long corridor lined with dark blue lockers. My shoes squeak as I walk. The lights seem duller than usual. I glance behind me, biting my lip. Usually there’s the sound of footsteps in this building, the conversation of cleaners, the odd “mad-scientist”-looking lecturer darting about in a white lab coat. But – I check the time on my phone – the place is deserted. I’m starting to wonder whether I’m even supposed to be in here this late when, all of a sudden, I hear something. I stop walking. I listen, frozen to the spot.

Music.

There is music coming from a room close by. I hold my breath, trying to catch the sound. Piano music. It keeps stopping and starting. Someone seems to be practicing. All thoughts of ‘am I allowed to be in here?’ vanish as curiosity takes over. Where is it coming from? I start walking again – my heart beating a little faster – moving in the direction of the song, following its sound. It leads me along a narrow corridor and up to an enormous wooden door.

I tiptoe closer, vaguely aware that if someone were to catch me, to open the door suddenly and - blinking, furrowing their brow - find me, lingering here, I would be stuck for words. I wouldn't know what to say, how to explain myself... 

I put my ear close to the wood. It’s definitely coming from inside this room. The door is ajar, and I peek through the crack, trying to see inside. I can’t see much: a high ceiling, a balcony, wooden floors, long rows of desks laid out. It looks like it’s set up for an exam. In fact - a memory triggered - I think I had a Victorian Literature exam in this room a few winters ago. But I can’t remember there being a piano in the room. I still can’t see it. The musician remains hidden.

I stay here, in this dark hallway, for quite a while. A line of yellow light slipping out from the doorway, landing on my shoe. A warm glow growing inside my chest. I stand here, just listening. Just being.

When I head back out into the night, I can’t seem to stop smiling. The cold doesn’t seem so biting. The dark a little less ominous. I can’t put my finger on what it is about this small discovery that has made me so happy. But that’s how I feel. Happy. Quite inexplicably happy.

It feels as though I’ve stumbled across something important. Something beautiful. Something secret.

(*p.s. A tiny clip of the music is meant to appear above these words. If you're reading this on mobile, find it by clicking: here. 

Pictures by Yelena Bryksenkova. The dreaminess in her pictures kind of links in with the words...)

♥

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a veil of quietness

I thought I’d post up a recent article I wrote about the novel Unless by Carol Shields (probably the author that has had the most influence on my development as a writer over the past few years. My mum found her, quite serendipitously in our local library about eight years ago; often the best things are stumbled upon by accident). 

The article came as part of a series in the arts section of the paper, where different writers wrote about their ‘essential read’ each issue. It’s not so much a review, as a reflection... so have a read, if y'like.

♥ 

Essential Book: Unless by Carol Shields

(From the Strathclyde Telegraph. Edition 6. May 2013)

When I first read Unless – the little-known, but quietly powerful last novel of Canadian author, Carol Shields – I was sixteen and realised, almost straight away, that this wasn’t like most other books I’d come across. It wasn’t just ‘a good story’ or ‘an interesting idea’. It wasn’t simply escapism, or a nice alternative to television-watching. This wasn’t going to be the sort of book that would slip in and out of my life, hardly leaving a trace. No. Before I was even halfway through, I knew that this was one of those rare novels that (to borrow a phrase from Pablo Neruda) would somehow, softly, ‘befriend my existence’.

Unless tells the story of Reta Winters – writer, mother, translator, wife – who finds the rhythm of her life disrupted when her nineteen year-old daughter, Norah, drops out of university without warning, choosing instead to sit cross legged on a street corner wearing a sign that reads: ‘goodness’. Norah’s withdrawal from normal life distresses and perplexes Reta, and the narrative follows her attempts to come to terms with the new shape her life has taken, and her struggles over how to live now.

Muted, reflective, and often lyrical, the novel engages with a number of powerful ideas; the notion of ‘goodness’, for example, comes up repeatedly. ‘I don’t know what that word really means,’ Reta writes in the first chapter, and finding out becomes a preoccupation for her, leading her to question how ‘goodness’ compares to the notion of ‘greatness’, an ideal more commonly sought after in society. As well as an exploration of this word, the novel also meditates on themes such as the life of a writer, the loss of innocence, and women’s place in society, a society which seems determined to treat them as if they are invisible.

While the themes in the novel may sound heavy, the book is never pretentious or ‘preachy’. Instead, Shield’s deceptively light, and often very funny, prose is honest, at times even wise. What I love about Shields’ writing is the subtle way it affirms, without sentimentality, the value of ‘ordinary’ experience. So much of her writing – both here and elsewhere in her fiction – is about ordinary people doing ‘ordinary’ things: going to the library, buying a scarf, taking the train, going out for dinner. All seemingly small activities, and not very ‘literary’ perhaps, but Shields’ treats these subjects with an element of quiet dignity. It is through her focus on ‘the everyday’ that she reveals what is important in her characters’ lives, and here that she touches on truths about what it means to be human.

While Reta openly admits that she is ‘going through a period of great unhappiness and loss’, her voice never rises to the pitch of gushy self-pity, nor drops into cold cynicism. Instead, her tone throughout is muted, hushed, honest, even hopeful. The novel seems to acknowledge the idea that unhappiness is not a ‘thing’ set apart from everyday life; instead, it is something which happens in the midst of it and Reta’s reflections on this, and her continued engagement with the ordinary details of her life that make her such an engaging and authentic character, one with streak of gentle courage.

One word, one thought, I keep coming back to when trying to capture the essence of Unless is: ‘quietness’. It is a quiet novel, one that causes a veil of quietness to fall over you while you are reading. The title itself – ‘unless’ – seems to whisper, to hold its breath. ‘It flies like a moth around the ear,’ Reta writes, reflecting on the word, ‘you hardly hear it, and yet everything depends on its breathy presence’. I have read Unless numerous times now, and each time I come away feeling a sense of renewal. Unlike other novels where, after putting them down, I find myself wishing I was living a different life – one that was a little bit more thrilling, a little bit more wild or romantic – after reading this book, I find myself more attentive, more thoughtful, more curious about the life I am already living. It is a beautiful book, one that deeply resonates; if that isn’t the definition of an essential read then I don’t know what is. 

♥

(Pictures: various snapshots from around my bedroom recently)

"a romantic wee ballet"

Last Thursday, my sister and I met up in Glasgow in the evening for an impromptu trip to see the Scottish Ballet’s performance of Matthew Bourne’s Highland Fling. It was fantastic: funny, rock and roll, beautiful, horrible, clever, engaging, very tartan (a whole bundle of adjectives all at once). I always like going to the theatre (expensive though it may be) and over the past few years (and really since forever... since reading Noel Streatfeild) I’ve become particularly enraptured with ballet. 

Not the old fashioned sort (i.e. the ballets full of stiff tutus and tight tights, punctuated by lots of look-we’re-very-clever-because-we-can-do-twenty-piroutettes-in-one-go moments). I’m more interested in ballets which use dance as a story-telling medium; the ones which let slip prettiness for expressiveness, precision for fluidity, tradition for narrative drive. The ones I love are less like self-conscious dancing and more like plays without words. 

My favourites so far have been the Scottish Ballet’s Romeo and Juliet, Alice, and Matthew Bourne’s Sleeping Beauty (which we went to see for my Mum’s birthday in February, and I think it’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever seen in a theatre. Full stop. So beautiful... and exciting).

♥

(Picture from: here)

passing shadows

As university draws to a close - how strange to write that - deadlines have stepped up a notch. 

So, in the interim period... I thought I’d pop another one of last year’s columns for the Strathclyde Telegraph on here (p.s. This was the very first one I wrote):

♥

Something I’ve Noticed: Peripheral People
(From the Strathclyde Telegraph. Issue 1. October 2011)

I try to live with my eyes wide open – partly because walking about with closed eyes is kind of dangerous, but also I don’t want to miss anything. I am a third year English and Creative Writing student, and I’m looking forward to writing for you over the coming months. What can you expect from this column? A collection of ‘noticings’: anything from overheard conversations, to observations from the bizarre world of public transport. Hello, friend, and happy reading!

I thought I’d start by telling you about the man who walks past my house every day. He is stout with a rather gruff expression, but what’s particularly fascinating about him is his hair: it is striped. A white stripe runs from the back of his head down into his moustache, almost as though someone painted it there. My sister spotted this soon after we moved. ‘It makes him look a bit like a skunk, doesn’t it?’ We all peeked out the window, and - ‘Yes!’ - it really did! Since then, we have always (rather fondly) referred to him as ‘The Skunk’.

I walked past him recently. He was on his phone, and didn’t look up. As I was walking, it suddenly struck me how odd it was. I have seen The Skunk nearly every day for the past thirteen years – I have had conversations about him, I have worried that he’s ill when no one’s seen him for a few days – and yet he probably doesn’t even know I exist. It’s almost surreal to think how he has been going about his life for years, not realising that he has somehow become a part of mine.

It made me wonder how many people’s stories we all stumble into, unaware. Do people on my street notice me running like a maniac – buttons bursting open, scarf unravelling – to catch the bus? They must: I do it often enough. Maybe I have become part of their daily routine. (‘What’s the time, Marge?’ ‘It must be nearly half nine, Phil. That strange girl just ran past.’)

It’s easy, especially in the city, to feel like we’re invisible – to feel insignificant in the midst of a crowd. It can be frightening – mixed in among a-hundred other faces on a train – to feel like we have lost ourselves, like we have become nothing more than passing shadows.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot, though, about all the people who have quietly affected me. I don’t mean friends, or even acquaintances. I mean the peripheral people – people like The Skunk, or the couple in my work who always order white coffees, or the lady I saw once lifting her little boy up to the post-box so he could pop the letters in. 

I’m thinking about people like the boy with the blue t-shirt last week who played the harmonica while crossing the road; he  left music trailing behind him as he went. I'm thinking abut people like the old man on my bus a few months ago who I overhead talking to the lady beside him. He was telling her about his wife – about how she ‘made a great Shepherd’s Pie’, and how she was from the Highlands, and how she was a ‘good lass’ – and he was laughing. And then, his face suddenly fell and he became very quiet. And he whispered in a hoarse voice: ‘I’ve lost her now – I’ve lost her.’ And even though he wasn’t even talking to me, I found myself crying into my scarf.

All these people – they make up the story that is my life. They may not be major characters – I might not know their names, or even remember their faces – but something about them, the essence of them, has stuck with me. Maybe my life wouldn’t be dramatically different without them. But it wouldn’t be the same.

Our lives are constantly overlapping. We might not realise the effect we’re having on other people, but we do have an effect. We don’t pass though life unnoticed; we are connected. 

♥

(Pictures from: Will Freeborn - a Scottish artist. Quite a lot of these pictures are from familiar places)

the moon's never seen me before.

(A sneaky little post written in whispering letters just to say: hope you all had a lovely Christmas and that next year is full of many delightful things.   

The promise in my last post of writing ‘soon’ fell to the wayside when the dissertation took over – nine days till it’s due in, and counting.

 

 

I’ll not leave you with empty promises, though. Instead, here are some pictures of light I've been noticing while going about my days - most especially the twinkle lights in my room.

 

 

 

 

I’ve recently fallen in love – all over again – with the lovely, wistful light they cast, with the way their reflections dance over every surface they touch.

  

  

And now, of course, you must listen to this: by Sam Philips. Goodnight.)

 

doppelgängers.

In work on Friday, around dinner time, the cafe started filling up. It had been quiet all day (like, tumbleweed kind of quiet). In the space of about half an hour though the place was buzzing.

Taking orders, setting tables, scraping dishes – for the next few hours, we were all scurrying about trying to keep on top of everything, trying to make sure all the customers were happy. And then, as always happens, (practically) everyone decided to leave at the same time.

one

(I actually think customers plan this out before they leave their houses. They probably send each other secret messages via some sort of underground ‘customer communication’ system.

‘Right, folks,’ they say to each other, ‘come the stroke of seventeen minutes past eight, we will all ask for our bills, we will all pay our dues, and then, without looking back, we will all vacate the premises, leaving a daunting array of dirty tables behind us!’)

two

We tried to clean up the mess as quickly as possible - stacking teacups, gathering napkins, wiping down tables. While we tidied, two ladies sat sipping their tea and watching us.

‘You’re doing a grand job there,’ one of them said to me while I was tidying up close beside them.

three

♥

Later on, when the place was much tidier and the two ladies were getting up to leave, the other one took my hand and said:

‘I know where your double is in the world.'

‘Oh really?’ I said, expecting her to say that she knew my sister, or my mum from somewhere.

four

‘Yes,’ she said looking me straight in the eye. ‘Munich!’

‘Oh!’ I said.

‘Yes,’ and she raised her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘They say that everyone in the world has a double out there, don’t they? Well, yours is in Munich, and she’s my niece. The two of you... so similar. Beautiful!’

‘Thank-you...’ I said. And she squeezed my hand, then let go of it to button up her coat. And away she went.

five

♥

People are always telling me that I look like other people. Some obvious ones like: 'You look so much like your Mum!' or 'You and your sister must be twins' or (weirdly) 'Your brother and you look exactly the same!' I have also been told by quite a few different people that I look like all of the people dotted around this blog post.

six

In order: 1.) Rapunzel* from Tangled, 2.) Amelie Poulain from Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain (this is actually my favourite film, and character-wise I think I am quite similar to her), 3.) the character Alice Cullen from the Twilight series (not a big fan), 4.) Carey Mulligan (...apparently!), 5.) Bonnie from Toy Story 3, and 6.) Katie Holmes.

Funny!

♥

(*oddly enough, my spell-checker didn’t recognise the word ‘Rapunzel’. Obviously my computer is quite uncultured!)