Castle Urqhart sits on the rugged shore of Loch Ness in Scotland. If you’re lucky when you visit, you will go with a small guided tour. The savvy tour operator will drop you off before you reach the site, so you can take in the spectacular view of both the castle and the loch at your own pace as you approach it from the road above.
If you time it right, you will be there in the autumn. The weather will be blustery and unsettled. Threatening clouds will give way to unexpected moments of bright sunlight that eerily illuminate the landscape.
If you are very fortunate indeed, the wind will bring to you a faint sound. As you draw closer, you will discover the source—a lone piper circling the ruins, playing a dirge for the ghosts and mythical creatures that inhabit the place.
Twenty years ago I had the opportunity to spend a semester on exchange in Scotland. Travel is easy in the UK, so I did as much as a could. I loved exploring the countryside and galleries, but the college I attended gave me culture shock. The classes I attended were geared towards industry—I was accustomed to the world of fine art.
In addition to being out of my element, the fall of 1989 was a strange time to be away from home. A few weeks after the adventure to Loch Ness, I stood in the kitchen of my Scottish college residence, watching the Berlin Wall come down on BBC News. The events felt closer and more real, even on the tiny TV screen. I was only a few hours from Germany, and if I’d had more cash and more courage, I could have easily gone to see history being made in person. I still regret I didn’t take the chance.
Less than a month after the Berlin Wall fell, 14 women were gunned down in a classroom in Montreal. I was sitting in a studio when the news was announced on the radio. I remember the expression of shock and sympathy from the two students sitting near me. I don’t remember if they said anything, or if I said anything. There was an awful disconnect—I was an ocean away from home. Twenty years later, the anguish I felt is still there.
It’s easy to get jammed up over the inconsequential things that crop up in our daily lives. It’s easy to turn those molehills into mountains, to convince ourselves we can’t write that blog post, or email that gallery owner, or introduce ourselves to the person we want to do business with.
We can become overwhelmed with busy-ness and fall into navel-gazing. We forget we’re part of a much bigger world where momentous things happen, sometimes astonishing, sometimes horrific.
Sometimes the things we encounter in the world are small and simple. A few days before I returned to Canada, it snowed in Scotland. The temperature hovered around the freezing point, so the snow melted almost immediately, but as a lifelong citizen of the Great White North, I had to chuckle to myself at the kerfuffle. It was minus 18 degrees at home.
The next time you’re heading for a business freakout or about to paralyze yourself with dread, remember it’s okay. It’s really okay. Take a breath, take a walk, send your neuroses to their sandbox to talk amongst themselves. You’re part of a bigger picture, and while you may think you’re the only one stuck in the road, you’re not. There are lots of us getting stuck, and lots of us getting unstuck, too.
Possibly related posts:
I like your part how we’re part of a bigger picture and I like how you paint your stories.
It’s all relative and it’s the power of perspective. No matter how tough we think our situation is, we can just use the principle of contrast. I completed a loop around the US recently and people say, wow, that’s a lot of driving. I just think how easy it was, compared to the early days of the pioneers.
[Reply]
Stacey Cornelius Reply:
November 9th, 2009 at 2:21 pm
Thanks, John.
The idea of something often gets us way more jammed up than the real event. Dental work may be the exception.
[Reply]