the Highlands

 
aviemore.jpg

This writing finds me at the old Cairngorm Hotel in Aviemore, Scotland. I have an outside table, under an awning that only just protects me from a flight of hale. I am thankful for my layers of clothing. I wished for a retreat and then forgot about my wish and then found the wish delivered, though of course not in due course of any expectation. I complained for a day or so when I discovered the temperatures below freezing and snow.  The hot water in my cabin shut off at 8pm, the heat at 10pm.  My room is barely big enough for a bed. No internet and sharing the space, first with a couple and then with a gent about my father's age. Not what I'd planned.

I am traveling with all I need for writing and recording. This is a good reason to travel. I hope to lengthen the distance between tantrums and the understanding that every circumstance brings me exactly what I need, if I can only manage look around a bit. My life has been exceedingly generous to me.

I am struck with the way worlds open or close depending upon how I see them. I am untethered. And I witness the way in which my reactivity, holds me hostage. At a certain point in any given conundrum, perhaps much much earlier than I recognize, it is time to stop trying to plan my way out and simply feel. I have been crushed by travel before, as my well-laid plans were waylaid and my expectations sideswiped. In retrospect, I see clearly that all was well. If I had seen it then, I might have accepted the life I was being offered.  With all of its unexpected gifts and strange perfection.