Mulling things over
Pardon the pun... Me (Emma) and my bearded ones are on holiday. After a truly epic journey, as we hotfooted it from Bristol as the snow came thick and fast, we are holed-up in Dervaig on the Isle of Mull. With stopovers in north Cumbria and Oban it was a beautiful white-out of a journey north.
I've reached a natural break in working full-time, after a six-month contract with the Brandon Trust, a learning disability charity, ended at the end of last month. It was an honour to support them with a range of consultancy services from project managing a photo shoot across several locations to media training and copy writing and advising on social media. It was also a challenging contrast to my other clients including Organic Herb Trading and Meat Box Bristol.
When running your own thing it can be hard to gain perspective and check that the direction you are going in is the direction you actually want to take. That the page on the map is the one you want. There are scores of reasons I run my own business, pitch for work, ride the rollercoaster and now and again you have to stop. Breathe. And remember what those reasons are.
So coming here - where the horizon is just so beautiful and the air is clear - has been an inspired idea. I actually have to give a shout-out to my human beard for that one as this trip has been his treat.
Life is pared down here; no mobile signal, no big city shops, no decent flat white (a girl can't have it all). But what there is gives me time to check-in on my plans for the business and what I want to achieve. I breathe slower, I walk slower, I look up more. I take pleasure in the simple beauty of my surroundings and can actually feel myself re-charging and I feel a plan coming on.
As I mentioned, I am here with both bearded ones
I'll sign off, and go and check the supper with this beautiful poem:
“Isle of Mull, Scotland”
Because by now we know everything is not so green elsewhere. The cities tied their nooses around our necks, we let them without even seeing. Not even feeling our breath soften as clumps of shed wool scattered across days. Not even. This even-ing, balance beam of light on green, the widely lifted land, resonance of moor winding down to water, the full of it. Days of cows and sheep bending their heads. We walked where the ancient pier juts into the sea. Stood on the rim of the pool, by the circle of black boulders. No one saw we were there and everyone who had ever been there stood silently in air. Where else do we ever have to go, and why?