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.