Dùthchas: Evolving like nettles

 

Like many gardeners, weeding nettles out of the vegetables on a Hebridean croft is an ongoing and frustrating task. They grow with little or no nutrients, in dry or wet weather, and can sprout and mature in a couple of days. 'Deanntagach' in Gàidhlig, or 'flesh soup', they sting and attack predators. They are formidable survivors. My red-spotted arm this morning is proof of my respect for my weekly gardening opponent.

In this chapter of Dùthchas, lessons from the land, the nettle's ability to blend in, assimilate and connect, much like humans, has helped them evolve. The nettle has learned to send out offspring and envoys to other rhizomes and roots. It makes friends. It connects. It shares resources and fuel, and expands its network. The nettle learns to fit in, and live in a very diverse ecosystem. As a human, they would get along wonderfully in a cosmopolitan, urban landscape. And when their roots surface, they look like grass, or perhaps chives, or a carrot - they look like any other recognised member of the garden. It's difficult to tell, really, that nettle is there until they are already entrenched and a part of your garden ecosystem. You can't get rid of them without losing the community of other plants that are so loved. And so, we put them in soup, and lotions.

As a Hebridean, you have to respect the nettle. It stays. It is communal; it puts down roots, and is a proper, nutrient-sharing part of the community. The reasons humans survived beyond the ice age was by establishing a connected, supportive community. Today, when we think about the environment and the circular economy, we can look at the nettle. What better example of connecting roots, and sharing resources within one geographical community is there than the nettle?

So the next time you find yourself in the garden battling a weed, think of the nettle: our premier example of survival by connection.

Ancestors of Declining Numbers

 

I'm living in a time where the institutions I serve are declining. Post-pandemic economies are decreasing, and budget shortages have forced many lecturers to accept severances. It has me reflecting on the story of St. Kilda, our island to the West. 

There is a core capacity needed to sustain any community. St. Kilda, which is in the middle of the Atlantic, survived with average populations just over 100 because there were enough community members to farm, shear and weave wool for clothes, gather birds' eggs and meat, and repair and build housing and shelter when needed. There were enough people to protect the survival of the isle. Yet, within a generation, from the mid-1800s to 1930, disease brought by visitors and youth emigrating to the mainland brought a shortage in the population to a critical low. There were no longer the numbers to store the food, clothes and housing needed to sustain the people. At 36 residents, the island was abandoned to the National Trust.

What is the vital number needed for a university to survive? At which point will dwindling lecturers herald the end to higher education and research? A few have suggested that any sustainable research project or group needs a skeleton team of four (see below); but what of a school? Is it 4? 36? more?

In ancestral language research, Joshua Fishman posited that a language has reached endangered status when it is disrupted, and no longer being transferred through to the next generation. Certainly that happened in St. Kilda, skills and work and culture were lost within a person's life. These are the lessons our cultural history has taught us: there is a point of no return. Who is your heart? What number supplies that heart? Will you know when that capacity is at risk?

Dùthchas: Ancestral ripples

Two ducks were foraging on the loch this equinox. Quietly resting, paddling below the surface. Their reflection could be seen all along the shoreline as the sun rose, and yet, when they poked their beaks below the tide to find food, a ripple rang out from their bodies along the length of the loch, and washed up on shore. They were only two. They were barely moving, and yet circles marked their presence.

A ripple is a common metaphor for how a small act can have gradually larger impacts. We see this all the time today in politics and war: a single sentence having devastating consequences for whole communities and nations. The 2010 eruption of Eyjafjallajökull caused air travel to cease in the UK, 1200 miles away, due to the volcanic ash and sulfur dioxide. Smoke from British Columbia's 2023 forest fires rippled out to Toronto, 3000 miles away. And waves can also have more personal, ancestral reverberations over generations and time.

My seanmhair use to say that the dreams we have of a familiar place, a familiar house, the same [unknown] people or event were not made up dreams at all, but the memories of ancestors passed down. That is, when I was dreaming, I was reliving the memories of my ancestors (although not understanding that this is what I was experiencing.) A great, great, great grandmother of my own was passing along support, life knowledge and instincts to survive in even the most basic of human interactions. I was the beneficiary of all those years of loving and learning.

 Today, with epigenetics, we find that this is true. Trauma that has occurred seven generations before is passed along through DNA cells to warn descendants of danger, or to allow them the innate understanding of love and belonging to a place. That is what the ripples from these two ducks teach us. The ducks, like our ancestors, may not be with us on the shore, but they are still connecting with us through the waves of time. Be watchful, and thankful, of those that have passed before you - they have honoured you with their gifts of understanding. And know that, when you go, the memories you contain, from this land, carry on in the continuum of time.

Dùthchas: Deep breathing to regain your wind energy

 

 As I write this, there is a gèile shaking my windows at about 65mph, definately over the national speed limit. In Orkney, where there is more of a Viking Norrœna lineage, they would say, 'it's blowing a hoolie.'

Gales are common in the Western Isles, and will usually cancel ferries and last for two to three days at a time. At least one trampoline can be seen rolling across the A857, unless it's bin day. Yet within this common Hebridean experience lies a lesson as well: breathe.

The Gèile is a long distance runner, it has to pace itself, draw breath, inhale energy to continue. If you listen carefully, every other minute there is a calming of the wind. As if it is pausing to consume more air; breathing in; hesitating before huffing it. It's a very human experience; a connection we can all make to our elemental selves. 

The ebb and flow of the wind is not unlike our other island element - the sea. Standing at the seashore, the waves roll in, breathe out. Then, they retreat, breathe in. Out and in. Out and in. In steady, consistent, giant waves - the lungs of the world - on display within the element from which we all evolve.

Singers use breath to fill a room with the sound of the song, puirt à beul. It is the source of vigour. We can use this wind. Stress and anxiety, at work or at school, can be slowed simply by breathing. Breathing slowing in through the nose, collecting new oxygen energy, and out through the mouth, 'releasing the bad', liberating the stress. I always envision Michael Clark's portrayal of John Coffey in the Green Mile (1999) here. With one great breath he expels all of the evil, all of the bad feelings and sickness of the world from his body and he is fine. Pure energy in, and powerful waves out.

In and out. In and out. In and out. In this way, we are breathing with the Earth. Pausing to inhale when we need energy -

and finding our 'second wind' to keep our power moving.  Be like the gèile: breathe. 

Dùthchas: Stone markers of desecration

    

There is something about rock foundations and mountains that transcend our lives. For millenia, Eastern temples have been built in mountains; people climb mountains to find wisdom, the answers to Life's questions. Mountain pathways are the source of pilgrimage for walkers around the World; drovers walked their holloways for centuries; and they are a visual representation of the original foundation from which all life flows, something indestructible. 

Witnessing something that has survived seismic shifts, wars, migration, flood and famine is to behold a solid part of the world. Holding on to something still, something steadfast feels safe. That is something very rare in 2025 as I write this. I think that is why so many visitors to the Outer Hebrides and Scotland stop at stone ruins, take photos, and reflect.

There is a stone croft house just down the road from my own. Not a cyclist or walker passes without a photo. It overlooks Loch Erisort on the Isle of Lewis - decaying corrugated iron roof, partially caved in, and a tree sprouting through the chimney. Visitors find such ruins aesthetic, an artistic expression of the land. But for us, they are reminders of violence, starvation and death. The stone markers of a family who once lived and loved in the village, now gone because of poverty. Those houses are the graveyards of families who were torn from their homes to make way for sheep. The household ruins depict lives lost. These photos are bones across the landscape of the Hebrides, a reminder of the desecration of colonisation.

And yet, still, the stone remains - our Earth's origins; witness to our genesis.

Dùthchas: Branches, Sheep & Keeping Gifts Safe

 

Dùthchas celebrates and describes our deep Hebridean connection to the land where we grow through work and play. The rolling crofts and rocky, heather hills where I live are family - to learn from, love and care for. A natural part of love is also protection. 

It's February here in Lewis, and despite the re-appearing sun, the tree branches have sealed their leaves and flowers in tight. Unlike the daffodil, known for its 'courage' to risk a second snow, or an icy death if it emerges too soon, a tree's roots run deep. It knows it must trust, be certain of the Spring before it can chance its delicate flowers, its raw gifts with the world. And so, for now, all it displays is a hard, outer shell. Its budding flowers and soft leaves remain reserved inside until it can trust they can be shared and grow, flourish without harm or damage from wintery weather.

It is the same for the hens on the croft that do not lay eggs during the month of January, for their bodies instinctively know that their young cannot survive in a hostile environment. Even the sheep do not give birth until late in March here, the lambs developing a thick coat quickly.

As humans, we need to take heed of Winter's lessons too: the most delicate, precious parts of yourself are not for everyone; they should only be shared with those few you trust. Healthy growth begins in a warm and welcoming environment, in safety. Yes, we need a resilient bark to survive a greedy world, but the parts of us that are sacred, our hopes, our happiness, our intimate dreams, should be protected until we know the weather will nurture and care for them. This is the Hebridean reserve. These small leaves of ourselves are the gifts we pass on. Like the Willow here on the croft: wait to trust. Wait for the Sun before sharing. Protect the colourful parts you most believe in as a human being; this way, when you do open yourself to a world you trust, you are sure to thrive.

Dùthchas: the Three Veg Sisters

 

[painting: Moses Ludham]

Dùthchas: the Three Veg Sisters 

In this entry of Dùthchas: Learning from the Land, I draw from the lessons of the Anishinaabe, and 'The Three Sisters', in Canada where I was visiting over Hogmanay. Winter is a time when I am planning, or dreaming about, my garden for the Spring: thinking of better weather, which seeds to order, and where to plant which vegetables for an Autumn harvest.

This is something we have all been doing a lot more of recently since the Pandemic, and with fluctuating global food security. In Canada, the three traditional vegetables used to sustain life are known as, 'The Three Sisters'. They are: Corn, Squash, and Beans - all full of both proteins and carbohydrates for energy and survival.

Corn, Squash and Beans are known as 'sisters' because, grown together, they enjoy a healthy, symbiotic relationship - each supporting and nurturing the other with their unique gifts. Corn, for example, grows tall and straight, providing a pole or support structure for Beans to twist around and wind up to the sun. Beans, while growing, replace nutrients into the soil and roots for the Corn; and Squash (or sometimes Pumpkin) uses its broad leaves to provide a living mulch for the other two, preventing the growth of weeds, and sustaining the moisture in the soil to keep the three safe. 

Individually, it would be difficult for any one of the sisters to live alone. Together, they combine their gifts to survive and thrive. In our jobs, or at work, the same is true. If we are always hiring the same type of person, never seeking out the opposite of our own gifts, we will not truly flourish. We need people who are organised, linear thinkers; good with forward planning and growth to support the structure. We also need creative vines of thought, ones that bend and flow with small seeds of nutrients and ideas, capable of taking different directions around the structure. And we need those that will protect our roots from invaders - colleagues, or a sister, that will spread her leaves so that the family or organisation feels safe.

Look for the symbiotic sisters in your own life: Who acts as the support structure for your growth? Who is the creative vine of ideas and dreams in your life? And who would lay out her leaves to protect your roots, be your base so that you feel safe to grow? Which sister are you?

These are the relationships that enrich and challenge our own growth as humans. Want to evolve? Look to your sisters.