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.