157. ...jelly in a flimsy bin bag...
(morning thinking)
When I came into my living room this morning there were people on the beach. From my window I could see indistinct shapes lit by what little orange glow there was from a small campfire. There might be three people. I’m sure last night there was a fire in the same place and I wonder whether it’s the same group. Or whether these friends (they sound like friends) have come along and inherited the fire. Kept it going with driftwood. Or maybe it is the same people and they’ve set themselves up, provisioned with logs, to outlast the night. On the beach all night in December is brave. The little fire can’t be giving off that much heat. It's so small that when one of them stands between me and the flames I can’t see it at all. I hope they have warm coats and thermals.
While I’ve been writing, typing, eyes on the screen, the fire seems to have died and now, in it's place, there’s a pin prick of white phone light. A fallen star twinkling on the sand. If they’re waiting for sunrise they have a couple of cold hours yet to wait.
I wonder if it is the same people from last night. That's a long shift on a chilly Scottish beach.
Their words don't reach me with any meaning intact. Only hoots and lazy, rolling, indistinct wa wa remain. Like Charlie brown's teacher talking from the far end of the class. There's an occasional whoop but no shrieks or screams.
They seem to be having fun.
I think about the times when a younger me would have stayed up all night drinking, talking and laughing. Do I miss that time? Is there less laughter in my life now? Or is it a different kind of laughter?
It’s certainly less raucous.
Life, when I was younger, seemed harder to understand, harder to fit into. I would drink and laugh out loud, bellow my laughter into the world. Maybe I was trying to push back the unknown and assert myself more fully into that present. Perhaps I was finding joy in a momentary connection with other explorers discovering, uncovering, experiencing for the first time.
Maybe we were creating certainty. I knew we were happy because I could see and hear it so clearly in the people around me.
Is there more knowing in my laughter now? Is that why it’s quieter? I already know I’m here and I could probably even say why.
There are so many people around me dealing with the hard problems of living. Elderly parents, lost parents, friends and children. Social problems of addiction or broken families. Careers.
Depression in my youth gave life a weight that felt undeserved. Unfair.
The weight now seems to have substance.
Does substance makes things easier to hold and make sense of? Easier to carry?
The all pervading uncertainty, depression and anxiety of my youth felt like carrying twenty five kilos of jelly in a flimsy bin bag toward an undisclosed point beyond a far away horizon. Constantly adjusting the load. Held out in front, cradled to my chest, balanced on my head, swung over one shoulder then the other, dragged for a while when energy and will were depleted.
The weight that I carry now still feels heavy but it’s evenly distributed about my person and contained in purposefully designed, well thought out bags. The accumulated freight is slung on harnesses and reasonably comfortable straps. It’s heavy and I’d rather not have the burden to carry but it’s manageable. I’m capable.
The line, “We can be knowledgeable with another man's knowledge, but we can't be wise with another man's wisdom.” has been in my head. It’s the French renaissance philosopher and statesman Michel de Montaigne. In looking up how to spell his name I discovered that he has a book called “How we weep and laugh at the same thing”. Lets read that one. Lets not digress too far. The book Summer with Montaigne is a good read.
The quote above seems relevant to whatever it is that I’m thinking about these young voices and their laughter, rippling up from the beach.
Some things need to be experienced. Wisdom is the accumulation and application of knowledge gained through life lived. As it gathers slowly about us it changes the pace and pitch of our lives. Makes our laughter... different.
They seem to be giving up on sunrise. The white phone light has gone and I think I can hear a more subdued conversation approaching. They’re walking below my window. Heading toward the high street with it’s buses and taxis. In fact, here’s an Uber. It’s almost seven. Now that they’re closer I can hear what I think is Chinese. They sound bright and happy. I expect they’re students. I wonder if they’ll take their giggles and chat back to halls and doze off in arm chairs.
I’m going to take myself to my armchair and read a book with the cat.
I’m glad perspectives shift. Learning is good. Growth is good.
I’ve spent some time this week, for various reasons, collating all these blog posts into one document. Turns out I’ve written 113,400 words on Substack this past year. It has been a profoundly valuable experience. It wouldn’t have meant as much without your company and I’m very grateful for the time and energy you’ve given me.
How are you doing? How well are you carrying your various weights?
I feel strong and a bit tired but there’s comfort in knowing I can do this. If you don’t feel that way, if you’re not sure you can bear the weight just now, you can borrow some strength from me. I have a little to spare right now and I’d be glad to share. Shout out. We could have a little quiet laugh together.
Take care.
Paul.