Since my departure from Scotland in July and my last post I have started writing three pieces which I didn’t finish due to time constraints and then, well, life moved on to another theme. Here we are in winter, I look out on the newly minted snow which has formed an icy shield around my new home and I am reminded that winter, and stillness is where seeds gestate unseen.
The world I observe has not changed radically for millennia. Winter arrives encouraging ever important rest. This is not the same as staring at a phone endlessly scrolling through Tik Tok, Instagram or Facebook live posts which simultaneously create mental vigilance alongside a kind of physical death as we remove ourselves from the living and breathing world around us.
We live in oceans of existence - swimming as we do in the deep echelons of our history, of other people’s lives, of geography, politic, and the day to day. Stay in one place and we are climatized. This allows us to identify what moorings to attach to- to rest, to connect, to build. Shift locations and it’s just paddle to keep warm whilst the internal mechanisms adapt to the new environs.
In other words moving back to America has proven more an adaptation than I had anticipated. Not good or bad. Just different. I lived in Scotland for 26 years. I established a life, a home, networks and friends there. It’s a different ocean now.
But to be clear here in America things are fine for myself and my son. Better than fine. The lad is thriving in his new environment. That’s all I will say for now. If you want more detailed info on the past few months let’s meet over a cup of (virtual or actual) coffee and dig into the depths of our lives. You can message me and I’ll arrange some time!
On the subject of bottomless cups of coffee I have been working in a diner.
My ‘new life’ includes very early mornings and lots of physical graft. It’s not unusual for me to rack up 17,000 steps in one shift, not sitting down for 8 hours on the trot. I like it though. It’s honest work. It’s direct service to a clientele, my earnings (tips) are a direct reflection of how I’m doing. And at the end of the day I leave my work, at work.
And diners are such a pleasurable part of Americana. Every kind of person comes in for a plate of pancakes as plans are made, reminiscences are shared and all differences dissolve over a smattering of maple syrup. It’s not so different to my previous work making dance on the streets of Glasgow. Getting to know people, listening to their chat, and giving them what they need. Which is- more often than not - a bit of cheer and attention. It feels like quite important work.
Diners are one of these wonderfully neutral spaces where life happens. It’s no wonder the location has captured so much of the imagination of artists such as Norman Rockwell who crafted so beautifully the tender moments beholden there….
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What I like about Rockwell’s pieces is that they capture a tenderness of the human experience - soft, genuine, raw. And there is a love in them. It emanates from the frame. I cannot help but think it is this compassionate gratitude for the ordinary that is missing in our fractured world.
I have often spoke of the human need to cultivate the world here and now. This is where life is made. Not in grand gestures, not in manufactured moments that we propagandise to the world, but in the small intimate moments of care and consideration. In the moments where we embrace the bold beautiful radical expressions of human flourishing in the everyday.
In the context of my new work we might see the elderly husband bringing in his frail wife whose mental capacity is deteriorating but who manages to preserve her dignity via their weekly meal. Or the groups of 12 year olds independent for the first time, ordering pancakes and counting out change like the little men they are. Or the first dates with tentative ordering of food and awkward limbs finding where to go. Or the gruff middle aged man who comes in and eats from memory but not because he wants it, but because he is holding personal tragedy and needs the company. The countless weekly meet-ups of senior ladies who order a full stack of pancakes with all the fixings cackling as they recount their latest health mishap. The man with additional needs who comes in and keeps his coat on ordering a hot chocolate at 7am on a Saturday morning. The new father with baby and toddler in tow also arriving at 7am to give his wife time to sleep, ensuring to bring a breakfast sandwich and home fries home for when she wakes. The cancer patient looking for an appetite after a dose of chemo. And on and on. The simple profound joy of humans doing simple human things.
This year I attended a quiet Christmas early morning mass with my family. The sunrise masses are a very different affair to later morning or evening services. The ambience is one of reflection and quiet. There is no music, just the communal prayer, readings and communion. The Deacon’s sermon gave me even more pause. He spoke about how God choose to come down to earth not as an ‘all powerful warlord’ or a ‘mystical God-head’ but as a vulnerable infant. An infant who would bring out the caring instinct of those around him. And it made me consider how the birth of Jesus heralded what God hoped for in us.
The reality of Jesus’ birth (whether you are a believer or want to think about it in a metaphoric context) is that its lowliness inspired the best instincts of those around it. Had Jesus been born in a palace or a grand home the event of it would have been (ironically) disconnected and become something to view rather than something to engage with. His vulnerability tapped into the most primal and best parts of the human soul. I believe it is this simple and present care that is our best human inheritance. And I hope for myself and for you who are reading that you find that today and in the coming year.
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