In painting, 'it's the spaces in between that create the picture.'

 Years ago, our Erieau neighbour, painter Carol Bowman described her process with water colours. She said: 

‘It’s not the objects that are important; it’s the spaces in between that create the picture. You spend your time in the spaces.’

This has always stuck with me. So much of life is the space between.
In literary criticism and intersectionality we are told to, ‘Pay attention to what is not there.’ What has been left out? 

What has been left unsaid?

It is the rich space in between that is the foundation for community, for love, for life.

Attend to the spaces, not the objects.

3 Leadership Lessons from Canal Boating

 Three Leadership Lessons Learned from Boating the Oxford Canal 🛥️

1. The front always leads; but it is the stern, where you originate from, that will secure your ship to shore.

2. Work ahead while waiting. This will ensure a smooth transition through locks and changing waters.

3. Work with the natural rhythms of the weather: Pause when it is stormy; Sail as much as you can when the energy of the sun is shining. 

The March 2022 Lewis Heather Fires

 

50 Words: Lon Dubh (Scottish Book Trust)

 

Her mam had been sick with the consumption for weeks, and had taken to her bed, so Mina took the milk up to the castle doors. That morning on her way, Mina saw a black figure flying over her head, and looked back at the house. There, on her mother's window ledge was Lon Dubh, the blackbird. He had come for herself. Mina dropped the pails and ran back to the house, up the steps. Mam was sitting up on the edge of her bed looking bright, healthy. 'Can you fetch me a cuppa a' gràidh?' her mother asked. When Mina returned with the cup of tea, her mother was gone, and the bird no longer there.

[Image: Chatham-Kent artist Tracy Root's painting, 'Solitude of Silence' 2021]

50 Words: Quilt of Life (Scottish Book Trust)

 

 

I ran my hand over the wee stitches she had sewn. Touched one loop after another: one, two, three in time, space and rhythm onto what Granny had called the Quilt of Life. She was gone, but her fingers, the pieces of fabric of her days, were still here holding me.

50 Words: The Metagama April 21, 1923 (Scottish Book Trust)

 

Mina:

My best friend's tears on my face. A dark sky; and fire after peat fire burning along the coast. Villagers came down to the bottom of their crofts to see the Metagama pass. No one spoke. I clutched the black bhìoball the Minister gave me until the imprint was raw.