Bringing it all back home . . .

This week, I have a returning guest blogger, Mr Roy Macdonald Murray. He is a collie of no profession, and shaping up to be a great voice in social policy and community politics. Here, he muses upon the issue of where community ownership interfaces with the disposal of waste:

Myself and the Blone were out for our constitutional at Traigh Mhòr the other night, and I had to answer a call of nature. Instead of letting it go at that, she started this weird ritual that I’ve always been meaning to ask her about – she collected my . . . ahem . . . leavings . . . in a bag, wiped her hands with some wee cloth that smelt of strawberries, and then put the bag and the hand thing into another bag. Obviously the look of incredulity on my hairy face was sufficiently eloquent, because she tried to explain.

‘It’s okay, balach’, she said (‘balach’, indeed – I’m eight years old), ‘it’s not a weird hobby; we’ll take it home and bin it’.

Yeah, see, she’s said this before, and I’m still no clearer as to the thinking behind it. Maybe it’s just a sign of the vast difference in our upbringing – me on a farm in Sandwick, her within a stone’s throw of the Black Water, probably in a tent – but I always thought that’s what servants were for. What is the point of having minions to clear up after you if you do it yourself? Why have a dog and bark . . . but I’m going off topic.

The more I thought about it, the more it bugged me. I mean, when I do a poo, I don’t really want to see it again – that is rather the point of me leaving it on the machair. Then, the people whose lot it is in life to gather other people’s waste will come along and sort it. Actually, she could find herself in trouble with the Servants’ and Minions’ Union for taking work from their members. Extraordinary, really, that I should have a better grasp of how socialism works than she does., when you DO think about the difference in our social spheres.

When we got home that evening, the cat was sitting on the windowsill. She looked marginally less murderous than usual, so I thought I’d canvas her opinion. I pointed out that the Blone is always poking about in her litter box as well, with a sieve shaped like a shovel. The cat continued to stare at me.

‘For me’, she eventually replied, ‘it is less disturbing to see her remove my droppings into a bag, than to watch you treat it as your own personal snack tray’.

I wilted a bit at this. The cat can be very cutting.

‘But’, I persisted, ‘it’s the job of the servants to pick up. We leave stuff, they dispose of it. Everyone knows their place’.

The cat sighed. She closed her eyes. There was a very long silence. I almost gave up, and was about to walk away when she spoke again, in a bored voice.

‘The Blone IS the servant’, she said, ‘that’s why she picks up after us. It’s the lot of those further down the food chain to pick up after cats, and keep things nice for us’.

This was really no help. It explained part of the predicament, but not the rest – yes, cats are superior to almost every living creature on the planet, except the man who makes Schmackos; but why would she pick up my waste when there are people for that? It made no sense.

I thought and thought until I went cross-eyed. Sometimes, she takes me to places where the sniffing is new. There’s one, with a whole lot of trees to pee on. If I poo there, she does the bag thing and sometimes we take it home, but other times she puts it in a wee box next to one of the trees. Probably the fairies collect it. Or the servants. Either way, it’s not our problem, and we don’t have to take it back in our nice car, all the way to Tolsta.

She must see how illogical this is – the woman has a degree, I believe. It comes back down to that Stornoway Truss again. Remember, I explained it to you last time? The land belongs to everyone in the whole community. That means if your dog poos on Truss land, it’s not your problem, it’s theirs – that, apparently, is what ‘community ownership’ means. The Trussees own the poo, and they, or their slaves have to get rid of it. Frankly, I think it’s such a great system that I might have to become a socialist myself, if that’s how it works.

Come to think of it, the machair in Tolsta belongs to the community too, so I suppose the Truss should really send their servants there to pick up after me. Then again, it’s common grazing, so maybe we should let the local shareholders have the privilege. It’s either that or some French multinational will sweep in and take advantage: coming over here, helping themselves to our waste . . .

I don’t know how to tell her that she has not properly understood what community ownership means. She bangs on about collective responsibility, and everyone doing their bit. She hasn’t grasped the fact that what it ACTUALLY means is that whatever happens on Truss land, becomes the Truss’s problem. My poo is their poo, and I just get to walk away. It’s our land, but their problem. Fair enough.

It’s like the good old days in Sandwick, when I was a dog of consequence. And she’s spoiling that illusion by bringing the poo back home.

No sheilings in heaven

I recently took my dog – a gangly, daft collie named Mr Roy – for a walk out to the Pentland Wind Farm. He loves it for pretty much the same reason it appealed to the developer: Wind. Mr Roy loves to feel the breeze rumple his hair. Sniffing and lolloping about, he barely takes any heed of our surroundings, wherever we go.

990ED282-2CFC-4E20-8ABB-BEFA9E36FCBB

On the other hand, I find the place conducive to much thinking. Its solitude promotes meditation.

My mind went back to a conversation I had with my father many times, about his grandfather’s sheiling, out beyond Loch Lacsabhat Àrd. He talked about it often to me, saying that it had a special, peaceful atmosphere. It was evident that, for him, the site of that àirigh had an almost spiritual significance. It held, of course, the sweet fragrance of memory – of people he had loved, and a departed way of life.

I understand that better now. His own passing was the first breach in our small family circle. And I nurse special recollections of places that were dear to him, and where we were all happy together.

Place, and people, and love: they are impossible to separate from one another.

As I walked along the road with Mr Roy, I thought about that day, twenty-five years ago, when my father and I drove out to the Pentland Road – an impromptu spin on an evening in late summer.

4717433C-13E2-409F-B885-ED9EE3E8DACF

We used to spend quite a lot of time together. A walk here, a drive there, evenings on the croft at Doune. Our conversations were real – about the place, about our history . . . and always, in the end, about spiritual things. He lived his Saviour for long years before he professed faith as an old man. I see that now too. At the time, it was just part of who he was, and I was too blind to see why we both always longed to talk about God while out in His creation.

On this particular day, however, there was something different. Even as he parked the car, I could see that his thoughts were gathering in a particular direction. At long last, we were going in search of his grandfather’s sheiling.

It was no more than an hour’s walk into the moor. Being early August, it was warm, dry and full of midgies. They hastened our steps and made conversation difficult, but did nothing to dampen my anticipation.

Eventually we reached the place where the àirigh had once stood, marked by a few stones scattered across the green sward. We paused just long enough to take some photos and to get our breath back. As we both surveyed the scene, our eyes met, and I could read the question in his. I nodded. Yes, I could feel what he had described: peace and tranquillity of the best and simplest  kind.

All these years it had been a memory to my father, and an enticement to me. We had spoken of it so often that I felt I too had been there. He was obviously afraid that we might go there only to find an ordinary moorland glen, just like countless others.

It was far from it. These many years later, as I took an easier route through the moor, along a road built by progress, I recalled that other walk. With my father going before me, the way had been easy, and the destination absolutely sure.

Afterwards, we talked frequently about the evening we found the sheiling. Our conversation had changed because now I had seen for myself all he had sought to describe. It had been so beautiful in my imagination, but its loveliness was enhanced once we were able to share that memory.

I know that we talked about God a lot. My father clearly felt His presence in the places that he loved. Sometimes, even now, when I sit in church, I remember when we would go there together, and the talks we had afterwards. It’s only human, I suppose, to regret that I didn’t tell him then what the Lord was to me too. Of course, I didn’t really know myself that He was precious, or that I was His. But I know it now; I know that He walked with us out towards the old àirigh. He witnessed the conversations on which His own presence lingered and, as we stood in contemplation of the place, God held us in the hollow of His hand.

At my father’s funeral, a woman I didn’t know said to my mother, ‘he’s in the happy land’. Her words stirred something in me. I knew she was speaking of a place that my father had longed for; that he was standing there at that moment, looking around himself and swathed in peace.

I realise now that this was the beginning of another journey for me – towards assurance. It took almost four years, and another loss, before my eyes settled on that green sward of memory. Then I saw what had been true all along: God leading me on a walk, not to a transient summer dwelling, but homeward to my Father’s house, in which there are many rooms.

 

The Sofa & the Ghost of Christmas Past

Sometimes, you know, church can be uncomfortable. Oh, I don’t mean the pews: Calvinists are genetically adapted to fit those. If anything, the addition of those pesky cushions has interfered with nature. No, I mean more of a spiritual discomfort – the kind of thing that starts like a niggling little itch, but finally develops into a full-blown ache.

We like being uplifted by the preaching. Then, we can sing the psalms with gusto and pray fervently along with whoever is leading. And we go home feeling good and optimistic. When everything comes together and reaffirms that Jesus is everything and you are His, yes, of course, who wouldn’t be happy? Sometimes, you can actually see on people’s faces – their eyes shine – that this has worked on their hearts.

Other times, though, the sermon can prick your conscience. I had one of those moments this week when the minister accused me of worldliness, right in front of everyone.

Now, in case you’re imagining this is some archaic Wee Free thing where the black clad and be-collared minister fixes you with a fiery glare, and shouts, ‘woman, ye are a worldly sinner’, think again. That isn’t how it works in the real church, only in films and newspaper articles by people who have never actually been inside one.

In fact, when a minister is preaching, we are not really hearing the man. Yes, it is his physical voice, and words that he has chosen, but we are to believe that this is God speaking through them. Faith comes by hearing the Word preached and, as the Bible itself tells us repeatedly, faith is not of ourselves.

For me, a warning against worldliness was very timely. I cannot do the whole sermon justice here, but the counsel was not to become too attached to the things of this world, as John warned in his first letter. These things are, as we know, transient, and it’s a very bad idea to tether your life and soul to them.

Now, don’t laugh, but the reason I squirmed at this was because of my sofa. It’s a chestnut brown, soft leather chesterfield. I have had it two years and I have been very careful of it, gently vacuuming it each week, and wincing at the mere sight of people actually sitting in it.

Well, I don’t know who would want to sit in it now. Last Saturday, I trustingly and naively, left Mr Roy in his basket in the sitting room while I went to church. I came home, made a big fuss of how good he’d been, fed him a steak bake and then actually went into the room. There was a large puddle on the seat. Oh, he’d very thoughtfully chucked the cushions onto the floor (presumably so as not to ruin them), before urinating on the one seat in the room least able to cope with such an assault.

And I was livid. You know, in that unreasonable way that disregards the fact you’re addressing a dog and not a person who has done this to annoy you. I told him it was no wonder he’d had so many different homes, that he was unloveable, ungrateful, smelly, thoughtless (!) and even, with unwarranted hyperbole, that he was a ‘menace to society’.

It was several days before I could bear to look at him. I forced myself to pat him and speak civilly, because deep down I knew he had no idea what was wrong, but I was still very upset.

About a sofa. Yes, I do realise how shallow that makes me sound. By Wednesday, I had actually got over it, more or less, having started enquiries about getting it professionally cleaned. I knew that once it was clean again, I could forgive Mr Roy.

That’s why, on Wednesday evening, God accused me of worldliness. Well, not just because of the sofa, but it serves to represent everything else that gets too much place in my life. I recalled what Thomas a Kempis said in a book that has been a favourite since my teenage years, ‘The Imitation of Christ’:

‘To triumph over self is the perfect victory. For whoever so controls himself that his passions are subject to his reason, and his reason wholly subject to Me, is master both of himself and of the world’.

There is no one harder to conquer than yourself because there is no one more likely to allow you moral latitude. But I have begun an important lesson. Perhaps I need to see Mr Roy’s intervention like the visit of Scrooge’s first ghost who, frustrated with the old miser’s lifestyle, called him, ‘man of the worldly mind’.

It is fine to have nice things. And, it is good to take care of those things, being grateful to God for providing them. I do thank him for my comfortable home, and more so when I read of the destitution often faced by widows in the past. But, there is a disconnect between my thanksgiving and my attitude. My house, my furniture, my possessions . . . none of those should come before obedience to God, and trying sincerely to imitate Christ in a life of holiness.

Besides, I love Mr Roy for himself, as much as for the fact that he was Donnie’s faithful companion till the end. He is irreplaceable. And his little misdemeanour reminds me of something I must never lose sight of:

God loved me, even before the stain had been cleansed. If His forgiveness had been predicated on my being clean, I would have been beyond hope forever.