I see Me

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

A girl silhouetted at a window, gazing up at the moon.

I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland, where we lived in a tenement flat with an outdoor toilet. Soon after, we moved to what was called an ‘idyllic’ seaside town, though here I would learn of life’s paradoxes. Dad’s better salary was paid for in his time; I now had to wait until the weekend to bake fairy cakes from his trusted Be-Ro book. Mum was often unwell, but I didn’t know why. I did know that while I was at a friend’s sixth birthday party laughing at the spectacle of pin the tail on the donkey, Mum’s dad had died. I could also mention that I had two older brothers, but they were—boys.

I spent a lot of time alone.

I spent a lot of time by the sea staring out into the ocean, wondering where it was going. At night, my imagination would drift out my bedroom window and into the universe. Was my Grandad out there? By the time I was eight, I had—really—big questions. I could feel the cold, dark blue sky as I squished my nose against the window, looking for the moon. What was up there? Why am I here? I would ask. Why am I me, and not a rabbit hopping about? What is my purpose? When I dared to ask friends, their narrowing eyes and pointy brows told me that this wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about. I felt different from others. Yet, secretly, I wondered if I had a superpower.

I became a seeker.

A seeker of knowledge, of fairness, of truth. By then, both my grandfathers had died. Grief confused me. I had a tightening in my belly that was all—not knowing. The world felt unfair. Why did my granddads have to die? Why not Karen’s from school? She wasn’t even nice. One time, she hoodwinked me out of my sweets. “I’ve forgotten my snack,” she cried. Then, when she snatched mine from my hand...I caught the scent of beef crisps on her breath.

Life was not fair.

I didn’t know then that grief would come to everyone sooner or later. And to me, again, and again, and again.

And so it began that I took solace in reading. And writing.

Writing

lists,

lists,

lists.

Plans for the day that followed the times of tides, sunrises, and sunsets. My words gave life to inanimate objects. Stories of lands I had never seen; trees talked, pens could write by themselves. 

People were an enigma to me. What to say? I never knew. So then I was branded: shy. It scarred my forehead in dripping red indelible ink.

“Talking to you is like getting blood from a stone.” My teacher mocked to eight year old me while all of my classmates laughed. I barely talked in school ever

                                                                                                                                        again.

I liked pen pals. Writing about the changing seasons: ‘and tell me how is your weather?’ ‘Is it snowing yet where you are?’ Writing gave me time to think about my words; but what began as simple letters was laying the groundwork for something bigger. They became causes, lifelines, to a wider world. Letters to Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch. Prisoners who had committed no crime. It wasn’t just teenage angst; I felt compelled to fight injustice. I could give voice to those who were silenced, like me. Then one day, a letter from President Mandela arrived, thanking me for my support. The realisation that my written words could influence change was empowering. I had found my purpose. A voice in the world that mattered.

So there it was: Karen with her sherbet dib-dabs; me with Mandela in my address book. I think we know who had the last word.

“It always seems impossible until it’s done." — Nelson Mandela.

Is this my origin story? I guess?

I am the evolution of all my encounters. Like Ted Hughes’ needle sewing body and soul together. My past and present, my joy and pain, creating a single tapestry of my experience. Our common ancestor weaving the thread of connection, of all humankind, through time and space.

My spirituality is not outwith but within nature itself, rooted in my childhood spirit realm. In my listening moon. In my friend the sea, and the trees that cultivated me. I am the wind of freedom brushing through the Highlands that forever grounds my heart.

Today, I witness the steady fall of autumn leaves, touching the earth with new life, as I return once more to my self. Today. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

Yes, this is me.

I am enough.

This is my origin story.

From: In the Dark Violin of the Valley by Ted Hughes in River by Ted Hughes.