So we are hurtling through a wet west Lothian, past a landscape that today you could describe as dreich, because that’s just what it is- dreich; like 50 shades of grey in a meteorological sense.
But we are on a train that’s half empty, and we are not so wet that our damp clothes start to steam, like the witch in the wizard of Oz, after a bucket of water is thrown over her.
And we are on our way to See King Creosote at Edinburgh’s Usher hall. A night away in the capital to hear something beautiful. What a gift. When did you last receive a gift? When did you last offer a gift to someone?
What’s the best gift you were ever given? Was it something that put you in touch with your own life as a gift?
What was the gift that cost you most to give? I wonder, did it involve giving something of yourself, as kindness, as forgiveness, as poised attention willing to remain and listen, to the song of someone’s sorrow, a song of lost joy, the song of helplessness which you caught the melody of, and sang along?
I love song writing. But the life we live, is it’s own song. No one else can sing it.
Right I need to stop as the train is shuggling into the station and it’s time to join the capitals cacophony for the evening.