land/sea margin

We picked our way below the hightide line around a Galloway headland. The cliffs at the tidal zone were polished like jewelry. It was as if the headland was proudly wearing a necklace. Every crevasse offered a space for small crustacea.

The tidal zone became impassable and we had to clamber up on to a cliff path. It wasn't just us clinging on to the rocks, trying to stay vertical. This was a tough environment, where only the strong would win, or where different elements could find a way of surviving together.

The contrast between the solid, high land on one side, then the vertical mass of cliff surrendering to the ever-moving, shimmering sea and sky below and above, was dizzyingly unsettling.

This was a place to make up myths and imagine the past. The slowly-evolving changes, layer upon layer, folding back upon itself in waves. Some a few seconds as the sea crashed at the base. Some, like the tide, twice a day. Others, like the moon, once a month. Others, like the plants and trees, every year or two years. Some decades, as crumbling abandoned workings, others millennia, as in the rocks.

turning year

The winter solstice is past. The moon is waxing again. We've come through Christmas and now New Year with great revelry, and that time has come round again to look to the future. It will be without some familiar faces, but new companions will join us. I say "us", although I write this alone. That's because I predict a further shift of values away from the material sphere and towards the social sphere. We shall take comfort and pleasure from the people around us, and give love and support to each other, and to our ideas and dreams.

Recently, walking around the wintry hills, I've been struck by the erosion caused particularly by the combined energy of wind, rain and ice. This surrounding state of entropy reminds me once more of the fragility and transience of the material world. It reinforces the belief - as if there was any doubt - about living in the moment

It was sad to see that the smelt chimney above Dorthgill Force has collapsed. I'm just pleased that I spent so long making a careful drawing of it a few years' ago.

econologics

some of the moss of Yad Moss

We need to get used to it. Our experiences and expectations of profligate living are unsustainable. And as global economics continue to seethe in turmoil, concerns of the world's ecologies are eclipsed. We need to remind ourselves that the root of both words - economy and ecology - is the same.

deep in Tyne Bottom Mine

 Over the course of two centuries, as capitalism as a driving force has dominated almost every aspect of human existence, ecology has been marginalised. Now that we're at the brink of capitalism's collapse, we should consider how we can live full, happy and enjoyable lives through the celebration of, and partnership with, our local ecologies.

ice-jaws

I make no excuses for returning once more to this topic. It may take time, energy and careful thinking to nurture a close relationship with one's surrounding natural environment, but it is tremendously rewarding in terms of wellbeing. Whether it be moss and lichen, underground minerals or layers of morning ice, there are stories to reveal, rich veins of understanding to mine and to apply to the widest range of situations imaginable, and simple reasons to celebrate complex life. It's as much a topic for artists as it is for scientists and technologists. Brought together, a third force exists, where our understanding is increased and broadened, and where we will discover and develop strategies for full and enjoyable lives. For me, at the heart of this strategy, lies the Adaptive Cycle. It seems particularly appropriate this year when there have been so many tipping points and sudden changes.

To get an outline of the adaptive cycle and how it can be applied, visit The Automatic Earth blog. This describes the thinking of Buzz Holling, a Canadian ecologist and one of the conceptual founders of ecological economics. In his own introduction to the concept, he wrote

"The bewildering, entrancing, unpredictable nature of nature and people, the richness, diversity and changeability of life come from that evolutionary dance generated by cycles of growth, collapse, reorganization, renewal and re-establishment. We call that the adaptive cycle."

Below is the diagram from that blog:

the Adaptive Cycle

I like the 3-dimensional relationship of wealth, connectedness and resilience that is applied to the model. The relationship provides a large space for wonderment and imagination.Yesterday the cloudless sky led to an overnight frosting, followed by a flood of bright morning sunlight. I walked out from my home and up to a ridge. From its height I could see with perfect clarity for more than 50 miles in two directions - three if you count the sky. At my feet, someone within the last year or so had adapted a crumbling stone wall to create what appeared to be a small cist with a turf roof. I speculated on its contents. I was standing amongst the Adaptive Cycle, with release at my feet, surrounded by incidents of exploitation, reorganisation and conservation, with a sense of connectiveness to more than a hundred square miles of terrain, augmented by a wealth of understanding and ideas of resilience. It was a moment to count my blessings.

cist on Yad Moss

the enduring struggle

It's been a long time since I last wrote, so forgive me and indulge me this passage of introspection. I've been trapped on a roundabout, blearily morphing between a lost driver and a fairground reveller,  but never quite managing to realistically fit into either role. It seems that even when I look as if I'm on the inside, I'm feeling on the outside.

When, as a young man, I used to wander the roads of Europe with just a change of clothes rolled up in a doss-bag, I'd savour walking into a small town as it grew dark. Before the curtains were drawn, you could glance into people's homes where they might be gathered around a TV. They'd be looking out on the world through the TV as I'd be looking in. I'd walk past a pub, bar, chip shop or brasserie and savour the sounds and the smell of cooked food, alcohol and cigarette smoke. I'd go to the docks or the harbour (coastal towns are the most memorable) and feel the cooler air coming off the sea, tinged with fuel oil, fish and seaweed.

I would always, always, find some company; sometimes just to share a smoke, some stories, a joke and a bottle, sometimes for a night of intimacy. This felt like real-life living, partly because of the immediacy of the experience, but mostly because of its transience. There was enchantment in the moment.

Then I learnt about commitment, career development and strategic planning. This, I was assured, was real-life living. No slot for enchantment.

But real-life living on this roundabout blurs the background and becomes a repetitive experience. The painted ponies lose their lustre and the lights' robotic changes lose their significance. The strands of coercion, collaboration and acquiescence become twisted together in a single rope from which to hang one's free will and intuition.

No enchantment. Too many friends, family and acquaintances have left this world with scarcely-hidden regrets that they never experienced travelling barefoot into a wild unknown territory. Without real-life living, you can't imagine real-life dying. I hope I can still remember how to go when the time comes. Until then, I shall continue to wonder at the continuing struggle to find harmony and balance amongst the chaos of existence. I shall continue to be enchanted by being a human being on a planet of others' beings.

As a coda, I need to thank a nephew, Sam, for posting the below to his Facebook wall:

Loch Long

We've been exploring Loch Long by boat for a few days. It's best explored by water. There is only a road on one side, which is winding and bumpy, with dense forest on the other side. It's a deep fyord with very few anchorages and unpredictable winds, ranging in the space of a few miles from flat calm to violent squalls, so not much visited by sailing craft. However, it has a very special character. The shoreline consists of huge boulders covered to the tideline with knotted wrack. It's an environment for crabs, starfish, mussels, heron, seals and cormorants.

Above the western shoreline margin of boulders is the forest, then the grassy glaciated valleys, and finally the nunatak  peaks of Ben Arthur (The Cobbler) and the rest of the Arrochar Alps.

 On the eastern side is the road, and above that, the West Highland Line, where goods and passenger trains clatter their way along the wooded mountainside.  At Finnart is the Ocean Oil Terminal. The huge ships that discharge their cargo of oil into the complex of storage silos and pipelines make the strangest of contrasts to the wild western shore.

We sailed to the entrance of Loch Goil, then followed the western shore back to our mooring at Ardgarten. Almost next to the fire tender that is permanently stationed close to the oil terminal is the remains of a traditional Scottish 'but & ben', surrounded by some beautiful wild Caledonian Forest.

The Caledonian Forest is the most alluring feature of Loch Long's shores to me. For the forty years that I've known this area, It has always felt to me that it absolutely suits the local mild micro-climate, where sunlight and rain dance together. It can be described as temperate rainforest, containing native Scots pine as well as Atlantic Oakwood. The plantation conifer forests that surround these pockets of wildwood are a terrible and overbearing distraction. Where one is a fragile but sustainable ecosystem, rich in biodiversity and a key feature of Scottish cultural and natural heritage, the other is just a monocultural cash crop. The lorries hauling this timber thunder day and night along the main road that goes along the northern end of the loch, connecting the west of Scotland to the central belt. The Caledonian Forest needs all the support it can get. I want my artwork to promote interest in it.

ultimate release?

Arriving home from Arrochar late yesterday afternoon I received a message from my father.
David, my twin sister's husband, had died a few hours earlier. He had died with Diana at his side with their daughters Mel and Zoe. Duncan, Mel's twin brother had had to return to Dubai. David's sister, Isi, had come over from Canada. Diana says that she is blessed by having her daughters and grandchildren with her. I want to give them all some comfort, some relief to their sad loss, but only time will possibly do that.

It's a cliché but one that may be of some comfort. Life and death share the same circle. Duncan and Sam are expecting their next baby in the next few weeks; Diana and Dave's fifth grandchild. Ross and Mhairi are getting married at the end of the month. July is shaping-up to be a momentous and emotional episode for the Cadie family.

Most of the time I don't fully understand what's going on around me. Above is the foredeck of my sailing boat.  There is muddle, confusion and paradox. I'm happy with that. It's material and content for wonder; an opportunity to find new relationships between ideas. Below is a strange glass jar reflecting and refracting sunlight and foliage.