bridget martin

There is a slight breeze, just enough to stir the surface of the sea, a faint rippling that slowly moves ashore, smoothing and creating an edge on which I  gather shells. It is quiet and the light is soft. Pilot whales were seen in the loch over the weekend and suddenly crowds were here in their 4x4s with their binoculars and long lenses. All desperate to capture a moment. Today however there is no one and the only sounds are the birds and the sea.

Be quiet and listen to the world.

There seems to be a lot of certainty in the world at the moment. Certain people who are certain about what other people should do, how other people should behave. You probably know what I mean. 

These people who are full of certainty are certain about the fate and future not only of their own country but other countries too. They are certain about the fate and future of the planet. They are certain about everything. You probably know what I mean. I want to tell them, 

be quiet and listen to the world.

I sit on a rock and look out across the sea. A ferry is crossing the loch, there is a white sailed boat in the distance, the horizon is misty, the hills shrouded in gauze. The sea swirls and laps, constantly moving, shaping the rock on which I sit, an eternal conversation between land and sea. As human beings spiral out of control and the world is shocking and frightening and compassion and empathy are eroded, I listen to the song of the sea, the call of the wild.

Be quiet and listen to the world.

It is in the quiet spaces that we come unstuck. The places where the world softens and the clamouring stops and we can hear ourselves breathe. We need these quiet spaces not only to be able to think but also to be able to feel. And we need more feeling in the world, more heart. Coming unstuck means not knowing, and that opens up the realms of possibility and hopefulness, curiosity and conversations, mess and magic. Coming unstuck is walking without a destination, it is planting a garden, listening to music, writing a poem. Coming unstuck whispers,

be quiet and listen to the world.

The wind picks up as I walk back to the boat, a low melancholic moan that mingles with the cries of gulls and oystercatchers. I clamber over rocks and up into the trees, following the path back to the road where day is slipping into night and there is the smell of woodsmoke. I call out to the wind hoping my words will be blown to a place where they may be heard.  I wonder and I worry and I call out to the birds and the sea and the trees and the earth. And I hear their whispers,

be quiet and listen to the world.