Dùthchas: Geese & Sharing the load

 

In this Dùthchas series, learning from the land, I reflect upon the geese that are migrating South from the Highlands this week, and how they share their load.

We often see the V-formation of the geese, the stronger one in front creating a windbreak for those behind, much like a cycling team. What you may not stop to notice is that every few minutes, the geese break formation to allow the next in line, or behind, to takeover. In the photo above, you can see two geese on the bottom left about to do just that.

The leader is constantly changing, in a rota, so that no one bird carries all the burden. Each bird shares the  collective responsibility of reaching their destination, and as such, each shares the group's common vision and direction.

Like the migrating geese changing course for better weather, if we are working alone, the sole responsibility of the group on our shoulders, then we will burnout. We will never reach our goals. If, however, we share the burden of leadership; each taking a turn, talking, picking up the load, and learning to relinquish power and pass it on, the load is shared.

And the vision is more easily realised. Think of your own job: what tasks are you hoarding? What can you delegate, share? Is there mutual trust? A common, fluid vision? A common mistake about power is that it can't be shared. And yet sharing only increases one's effectiveness.

Be like the geese during change: share the load.

Dùthchas: Watching the horizon

 

🌊 Have you ever heard someone say, "they've got their sea legs"? You're on a boat at sea and it seems that some people don't feel the waves and swells as much as others. I was on the Isle of Lewis this morning in the November winds, and some were laying down ill from the quakes of the vessel, no queue for the canteen.🤢

 Others were reading, having a bacon roll or on their phones.

Years ago, a captain going to St. Kilda shared this secret with me: he never watched the sea - he kept his eyes on the horizon.

It's not that he didn't get queasy or feel sick at times, he wasn't 'born' with sea legs; he just kept his eyes on something still. Watching the waves and swells and tumultuous waters, like many visitors do, will make you sick. Your body, your mind needs to rest on something stable, even if it is in the distance.

The horizon on the sea is like hope during troubles. You know you are not there yet, but you can see that over all of this chaos, there will be a steady line, solid ground on the other side. 🍃

Dùthchas: Trees, members of the family

Decades ago, the Forestry commission took out many of the Ash trees in a small woods by our home because of the 'Emerald Ash Borer'. My mother cried for days. For her, the trees were a part of the family. She would walk by them every day, stroke them, stand under them during a rain. The trees themselves would raise baby birds and squirrels in their branches, wrapping their arms around new life so that it might grow. They were always there, standing as a part of Mam's home. Yet someone had taken their life.

Many people don't realise that the Gàidhlig alphabet, its 18 Ogham letters, evolved from the Indigenous trees of our land, the Ash (Nuin) being one. When the Otley oak tree (Dair) was slated for demolition, or when the Sycamore Gap tree along Hadian's wall in Northern England was viciously cut down, there was an outcry. Why? These were living members of people's lives; a part of their home, markers along their routes in the world. To some, sentient beings. For Hebrideans, the clearances removed many of our original trees from the land, a further act of violence in an already scarred past.

If you do not spend much time in nature, you may not realise this relation, but you may recognise it in other ways. For those that have bird feeders, for example, the same birds tend to visit you daily. You look forward to their arrival. They become members of your world. And when a cat kills one, or you find a dead bird, you mourn its loss. Sheep on the croft are members of the family to crofters. They see them into the world from their birth; feed them, vaccinate them, dip them for ticks, and assist them in life. They talk to them daily, and the lambs and sheep run to their crofter caretakers when they see them. That is why there are such strict laws about 'sheep worrying'. A couple in Easter Ross were just convicted of this. To let a dog off its lead, is an act of murder to a long-time family member of the crofter.

Like trees who stay with us most of our lives, we expect grandparents to grow old and see out their days. We have time to say goodbye. When a younger person, like my mother's Ash trees or the Sycamore Gap tree, suddenly dies of cancer or a heart attack, we are left stunned. They were cut down before their time. This November 11th, we remember those family members who, like the Nuin, were cut down during war and conflict. Lives suddenly taken from us without the time to say farewell, to thank them for their part in our days. Trees: the members of our Gàidhlig land families and lessons from the land.

Dùthchas: Everything underneath is not as it looks

 

In this Dùthchas series, I describe small lessons gleaned from the croft here on the Isle of Lewis. A common feature across hillside and seaside walks is the heather overhanging the hillside gneiss. 

From above, as you are walking along a coast, or over the hills, the ground appears solid. It is a rich, thick green, with small purple heather, But walk too close to the sides of the hill, a stream, or bog, and you fall straight through, right down. It is deceptive. If you don't take the time to look from below; if you aren't critical and paying attention to where you are walking, you will injure yourself.

When choosing a new working puppy, or dog for the croft, the advice people give is: choose the one that is alert. Select a dog that is watching. One who pauses to see what is happening first, then acts. Don't choose the one that just rushes in without thinking. They are difficult to train, and won't last the course.

I remember reading about comedian Robin Williams years ago. On the outside, in public, he seemed social, happy, always full of joy and laughter. But obviously underneath, he was suffering, barren of mental health. I have been thinking about the overhanging, deceptive heather of the hills this week. Without the critical skills of evaluation - pausing to think, reflect, consider, we are in danger of falling or being injured. Something that may look lush and attractive on the top, on the outside, draws us in. But look underneath: is there anything actually there?

Consider what's hidden. What is not being said? What happens behind the scenes? Who is looking for evidence of a strong footing?

These are the Fraoich lessons.

Dùthchas: Evolving from the Rich Nutrients of our Past

 

Dùthchas: Evolving from our Past

There is a fir grove in my yard. The newer trees have shoots that rise through the centre to the sun, and the older ones lie out to the sides, almost parallel with the ground. These older trees are vital to the survival of future generations. As they decay and return to the earth, they create the rich, biodiverse soil needed for new growth. They have served their noble purpose, and now nurture the next generation of fir to continue the path.

   This past week, I was in Manchester for work, although there is certainly no croft there, a parallel circle of life was being built all around me. At every corner, at every arch and bridge, there is visual evidence of a foundation of Roman roads, beneath Victorian industry and rails, and today, stalagmites of photovoltaic shiny new skyscrapers shooting through the centre. Manchester's symbol is the bee: always working. It is not a typical tourist city, but a city that continues to nurture the young through improved housing, social construction, and economic biodiversity. Chetham's Library is a metaphor for Manchester. The first public library in the UK, it changed and evolved as a school for youth, a study centre for clerics and scholars, a hospital during wars, a jail during the civil war, even Karl Marx completed his Manifesto there - always evolving from its rich roots to be of service to Manchester's community.

   What better lesson from the land can there be than serving our youth? To provide the fertile foundation they will need to continue the path in life? Indigenous communities act in ways that will provide for 7 generations. The least we can do is, like the fir, is provide the ground for the next. Think of your acts at work and at home. What type of foundation are you leaving? Are you leaving a footing that others can learn from, develop from? Or is your stratum a concrete where no new life grows? What will be your purpose as you travel the path ahead of others? What will be your contribution to the biodiversity of your community?

As George Bernard Shaw said, 'my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatsoever I can. I want to burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.' 

Dùthchas: the Wisdom in Ancestral Age

 

I. "Our memories are quiet wells, 

Deep rich waters, echoing bells, 

Love tokens, smiles and summer smells, 

Our minds expanding in their shells, Our brains protective citadels 

Not almanacs for casting spells.

II. The oak tree wears its outer coat With pride, shows off each gnarly knot, Each grasping root, each liver spot. Young saplings grow from mulching rot-

Of elders' bark we owe a lot,

To ancestors beneath their plot."

🎭Shakespearian Harriet Walter, in, 

#SheSpeaks! (2024, p.30)

Dùthchas: The Mirror Image

 If you have skied or snowboarded, you will recognise the waves of snow in the clouds above. Travelling on an airplane to the mainland, and looking down at the clouds below, it looks like a frozen Canadian landscape. In parts of the World, earth and sky are mirror images.

    That is what Lochs, on the Isle of Lewis, is like on calm mornings: many mirror images of the earth at its side. The croft and machair is reflected back onto itself from the fluid, dark waters and wells.

   Living in the human world, we reflect back upon ourselves as well. Children learn this early in life. They learn the sounds of their first language (L1) by having them mimicked back to them by a parent, carer or sibling. They learn to input connection and engagement with the people around them to see what they get back. In this way, they are seeing a reflection of what others think of them. They are creating a database of who they are based upon the mirror image from the loch of society.

   When I was first married, the advice my mathair gave me was: 'you need to give love to get love'. I like to think I have followed this, but sometimes the lessons mirrored back are not always what we put in. Sometimes you are giving, serving, but the image you receive back is very different. It might be one of neglect, disrespect, even distain. Yet, it is still useful information. In these cases, you learn this is not a pure reflection. This is a tainted path. The 'loch' reflects your intended needs, and if it is disturbed or altered, you need only reflect on the lesson ahead. Where can your work be best received?

   Watch the waters. Learn from the reflection you are broadcasting, and the lessons the audience is sending.

Dùthchas: Opportunities in the Calm before the Storm

 

Lewis and the Outer Hebrides is no stranger to a storm. Winter gales of 50-60 mph are common:  disrupting ferry travel and blowing roof tiles about the moors. Yet just before a gale, like today, is a quiet calm. The loch is a looking glass, reflecting back onto the croft. This calm before the storm is a gift of time. It is the Land's way of providing a day to organise and rest before what is to come. There is time to put garden furniture away; check on the sheep up the croft; stock enough peats and candles in case the electricity goes out. It allows time to bake, store milk, dry washing - all of the things a Hebridean would need to coorie in and wait out the weather.

    This lesson from the Land applies to life as well. There are moments during a career or work life that are gentle, where the daily routine takes on a meditative rhythm. These are the times to rest, reflect on what you have done, on the work gone by, on the work to come. We are provided these times in life for a reason. Without stopping to calmly rest, to celebrate a milestone, or to speculate on the pathway ahead, we are left out in the storm, blowing any way the gales of popularity send us. We are untethered to our life's purpose. The calm is a runrig of opportunity. It allows us time to consider. This gentle reflection back on our life, just like the loch back onto the croft, is the occasion to navigate and prepare for the calling ahead.

Today, before the storm, take a moment to re-calibrate your future, before the gales blow you astray.

Dùthchas: Honouring

 

A great deal of our work in Hebridean research is concerned with honouring voice, honouring environment; sustaining voice, and sustaining ancestral lands. There is a horizon of hills where I live in Lochs on the Isle of Lewis known as, 'Sleeping Beauty'. She is the matriarch of the mountains; and the cailleachan of stones known as Callanish rest in her forefront in Ach Mòr.

   This weekend, the minister read from Ephesianach 6:2, 'honour thy father and mother', the first commandment. And then a reading of Moses on Mt. Sinai 'honouring' God at Yom Kippur, and honouring the covenants we make were also discussed. Reflecting on these two, where we live, I think it's foundational to the narrative that this was the first commandment.

   The act of honouring ancestors, of being the stewards of our lands, may also be what is meant by 'honouring our fathers and mothers'. The environment and the ancient knowledge attached to it is passed down first by our mothers and fathers. It comes first. We cannot separate ourselves from the land; without it, we cannot live. To honour the mothers and fathers' Indigenous wisdom connected to our land, our 'Sleeping Beauty' of hills, and the old women of Callanish, we protect and care for the generations to come. Perhaps this is what was meant by honouring. To honour is to care.

This week, honour the mothers and fathers - their stories are a guidepost to carry you forward.

Dùthchas: The Bridge

 

Dùthchas is a series about learning from the land. I have been reflecting on the daily lessons placed in front of us, each day, in the very environment in which we live, work and worry. 

At the bottom of the croft where I live on Lewis, there is a land bridge. You can only really see this bridge at low tide. At high tide, it looks like the land is completely separate, independent from the wee island in the middle of Loch Erisort. Occasionally, sheep will wander across at low tide, grazing on seaweed and continually looking for that better bit of green grass. When the tidal waters return, they cover the connection and trap the sheep on the wee isle, but the sheep aren't worried. They know there is solid land under the water, and that if they only lay down and wait, with time, they will cross back again.

The waters - like the politics, conflicts and gossip that we are flooded with daily - segregate us. Underneath, we are one. We are all human. We all live on the same underlying bit of land. If we remain in high tide, in a state of turmoil, we will never see the solid ground beneath our feet. Conflict requires time. Time to reflect, wait, and reconnect to the whole that we are. 

This land bridge is a reminder to me today: to reconnect, to reflect on what makes me whole beneath the moving waters.