Risk

I've been reminded again of how fragile life is and how unexpectedly short it can be.  To paraphrase John 10:10, we have been given the gift of life so that we may live it to the full. There is such beauty in a life that has been lived to its fullest, where every moment has been taken advantage of.  It's rewarding not only the individual but to all those who are in turn truly blessed by that life.

Here is one of my favourite poems that conveys this idea well; It's inspired me over the last number of years and in the last few weeks I've been able to share it with  some of the youth when I've led reflections.

To laugh is too risk appearing the fool

To weep is to risk appearing sentimental

To reach out for another is to risk involvement

To expose feelings is to risk exposing ones true self

To love is to risk not being loved in return

To place your ideas, your dreams before the crowd is to risk loss

To try is to risk failure

To hope is to risk despair

To live is to risk dying

But risk we must because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing

The person who risks nothing, has nothing, is nothing 

-Author Unknown

 

Céilidh

Céilidh [ceilidh]/(pronounced Kay-lee): a traditional Gealic social gathering, which usually involves playing Gaelic folk music and dancing.

I've now officially been to one of these things they call a "céilidh." I now feel like my Scottish experience is near complete.

So I found myself on an Scottish isle (Iona), off the coast of another Scottish isle (Mull), sitting in a community center filled with locals listening to a pipe band. Yes, I said a PIPE BAND, as in a group of bag pipers all playing together in kilts. So fantastic! And then after the pipe band a few people got up and sang some lovely folk songs about having high cholesterol and loving their homeland.

And if this wasn't Scottish enough afterwards they cleared the chairs and we danced. And dance we did. It's very similar to a hoe down (except for the fact that there is no caller and I had no idea what was going on for most of the time...actually, that's no different than when I've been square dancing either.) and because kids tend to learn these Scottish dances while they are in school, it is generally assumed that one knows what they are doing. (and if you are one of those who didn't learn the steps in school and thus are really really confused you are expected just to catch on- or stumble around and entertain/get in the way of those that DO know what is going on.)

 

After we all stripped the willow, circled the room 'till you nearly get thrown to the ground, randomly clap and do a little jig for your partner and whatever other sorts of nutty square-dancingesque type dancing you can think of one of the most surreal moment in my life occurred.

Seeing as many of the pipeband members and a bunch of the people there were from Mull and the last ferry between Iona and Mull there was a midnight shuttle boat arranged to get everyone back to their homes. So as a farewell to our beloved pipeband everyone in the hall followed them in a pipeband led procession down to the docks.

I'm going to repeat this for you. I strode alongside a bunch of Scottish people in a PIPEBAND LED PROCESSION on a tiny little isle down to the docks under a beautiful starry night sky. And THEN all of us who were staying back waited on docks to wave them goodbye as they sailed away in the moonlight with their sound of their bagpipes slowly faded away. It was magical, pretty near brought tears to my eyes!

 

 

Treasured Islands

You may have heard of this guy called Robert Louis Stevenson. He  was a Scottish bloke who liked to write, and he was pretty darn good at it.  He spent some time around the very island I'm currently living on. (Which is the Isle of Mull in case you're wondering. Sidenote: I learned the hard way that I've been pronouncing "Mull"  wrong for a long while. I was wondering why when I told people when I was traveling around Scotland where I was living for the summer they would look slightly confused and then about 2 minutes later would ask me if I had heard of Mull; and then I would be confused and slightly affronted. I was later informed by my Camas friends that indeed I have been pronouncing "Mull" like "Maaall" instead of "mUUUll" - or "mauw" as some Glaswegians have recently informed me.  I'm still pretty sure I'm not pronouncing it entirely correctly, but at least now I am aware of my "confusing" accent. BAH! That’s a joke. MY accent is confusing. Seriously? Man, I take back what I said earlier about understanding 40% of what Glaswegians say to me; it's more like 20% actual comprehension, 15% assumption and 75% nothing. Sidenote to the sidenote: I don't mean to specifically pick on the Glaswegians- who are by the way folk from Glasgow-  because this could apply to many a Scotsman, but the Glasgow people are just a notch above the rest. But I digress.) So, Mull has been an inspiration inevitably for his stories. "Kidnapped" in particular as the hero of the story is washed up on Erraid. (which is a tidal island off Mull) And being here it is obvious why Stevenson was inspired to write adventure stories. Everything about this place just screams adventure. It's fantastic!

The other day for our evening reflection I read a chapter out of Kidnapped as bedtime story to the group. It was a great chapter where the hero is shipwrecked on Erraid and spends a few miserable days stranded on the island before he learns that Erraid is merely a tidal island and thus could be escaped from when the tide was low.

"A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod, or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shellfish—even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones there, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat."

 Great stuff that book!

The Flow

We are now into "real Camas." What I mean by that is now we steadily getting in groups of youth from central Glasgow (and a couple from central Edinburgh). This means that things are getting a tad interesting around here! (It also means that I can understand about 40% of things that are said to me -even after asking people to repeat things at least once- and then afterwards if I still don't understand and just resort to either the "smile and nod" or the "guess what was said and say a vague response that hopefully makes at least a bit of sense." These methods work about 50% of the time- or so I think- I'm basing these statistics on the reaction I get to my chosen response. If I don't get a blank stare I count that as a win. So basically verbal communication is a bit of a struggle a large majority of the time.)

I must say that my vocabulary is expanding. (Not only with words like "courgettes" or "jumper" - which by the way sound stupid when said in a Canadian accent- but also with other sorts of words that I'm not going to repeat on here. Partially because I can barely understand the words enough to know how to pronounce them let alone spell them and partially because they are a tad "colourful.")

Despite the challenges that come with these groups, it is fantastic. Nothing like a little dose of crazy to keep life exciting!

Speaking of words and such I'd like to share this poem that was written about Camas. It's a gooder. Gives you a taste of what its like to be here. 

The Flow

It's the way you've survived over and again

It's the way you float up, through your pain

Still smiling, under water, your soft beluga grin,

Opening your arms, to let the raven fly in.

It's the way you try to shower yourself, in full

It's the answer to the deeper pull

It's walking through the bog cotton

In the evening light, last night

The friends in front of us, vanished like the snow,

Hand  in hand with the flow

- Debbie Hal

PS: you know the sunset photo above here? It was taken on Canada day night; I thought I'd be missing some fireworks and good times, but this was a pretty darn good alternative. I was content.