quietly leaving Instagram

quietly enjoying life

At the start of this year, I felt drawn to silent, unseen worlds. Retreat, my instincts whispered.

Not from fear of being seen, but from a certainty that “in the silent cauldron of a moonless corrie” I would hear what “needed to be heard.”

Invisibility and Instagram don’t exactly mix, do they? I feel that delving deeper into my secret self requires silence. It requires stillness.

It means having the courage to disappear.

At least until you hear what needs to be heard, and know what words need to be spoken.

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Moments I’ve been enjoying offline

River walks: Straying off the path. Slipping down slimy steps and between ruined stone. Emerging at the river’s edge, rocks plastered with green. A tree peers into the river. I press my palm to its mossy flank and crouch to hear the gurgling water. I imagine living in the converted mill opposite. I imagine looking down at this very spot, where the mossy tree still contemplates its reflection. A couple of years ago, I would have rushed by, like a train keeping to schedule. Today I linger, dallying as my girl-self might. Next time I’ll bring strawberries, red and heavy as garnets.

Live music: How can a metal gig in the heart of Glasgow on a bustling Saturday night be slow? Perhaps when the music roots you in your native land. When melodies keen out like a snatch of cold air across a glassy loch, when vocals growl a battle cry, when the drums beat with the ferocity the Cailleach’s staff. Above it all an ethereal female voice is soaring, like a bird — or a country — set free.

Writing: Taking my laptop to the cafe. Turning off the timer and measuring progress by lattes. Sometimes stories clog, the sentences piling in a messy heap like a debris-choked burn when the meltwater comes. Only time can fix it. I leave the knotted words in damp hills, in the February cold, and try something new.

Cycle synching: Each month I’m overtaken by the lightness of spring and bask in summer’s power. Everything is possible in these weeks. Then there’s a tilt, a descent into the dark half of the year. Autumn’s melancholy grips me. Insomnia and endless why, why, whys. Then winter comes. If I allow myself to rest the sadness swirls away with the blood, and quiet reflection answers the whys.

Slow reading: Chunky tomes and tales from the wild moor, the kind of stories where you absorb delightful lines again and again until they fuse with your blood. Pages to treasure, not measure (goodbye, goodreads).

Slow answers: Live the question, find the answer. How many pages, hours, years are lost waiting for an answer? Better to begin with doubt in my heart than never begin at all.

Other tiny, small, slow things: brewing fresh coffee instead of instant, cooking porridge on the stove, basking in the courtyard, slow breaths, long phone conversations on meandering walks, pumpkin seedlings sprawled roguishly across the sunny coffee table.

How do you slow down? Or do you struggle to be still? I’d love to know your favourite slow moments this week!

Kate xx