My trip to Scotland was horrible.
For 24 hours, I waited for delayed planes, got ill in tiny bathrooms with surly Irish flight attendants who cut eyes at me after each exit because I got up yet again during the “seatbelts on!” time. There were crying babies and splitting headaches and an inability to concentrate on the work I thought I’d do in transit.
To make matters worse, I kept reading the news (food recalls, flood, no help in sight for many) and worried because the trip I planned 18 months ago now overlapped with extreme rain in my new city, not to mention the beginning of the semester.
I kept wondering if time away from the states would truly feel like a break, whether the extreme rainfall would do damage to our home, and whether I was causing havoc by teaching online the first week (for the first time in 8 years). In other words, for all my regular meditation, I was stuck in a bit of a neurotic loop.
I did my best.
After a pleasant Uber ride, I arrived with hopes lifting and found a heavy gate that took me to my destination. I couldn’t get in the apartment my friend rented, and the place I waited was next to restaurant dumpsters. My friend was delayed for days, she texted, as I went to war with a lockbox and WhatsApped the owners repeatedly, untill they finally answered.
After an hour, I got in. After another hour, I was an American zombie roaming the cobblestone streets and falling in love with Edinburg.
Not only did I meet amazing people quickly, but the apartment overlooked one of the main areas for street shows, so I was able to watch performers from my window. I saw people juggle fire, spin soccer balls on tall sticks, balance heavy latters on their chins and write poetry on command.
On walks, I passed dozens of singers, some better than others, and quite a few visual artists working in their chosen medium, from markers to dance to clay to paint.
Writers love to observe, to search for the depth in every smile, interest in every botched performance and successful land alike, and to wonder after onlookers’ boredom and awe.
After watching dozens of performances and audiences, I noted patterns.
There’s always a story, always a dozen repeats of one’s name, always audience engagement (“scream with me,” “clap,” “put your hands up,” and always—always, an invitation for people to get closer). For many, there was also a false start. A dropped ball or a close call with fire, for instance, so when the finale came and there were fourteen balls in the air, it was all the more impressive when nothing was dropped.
The audience was invited in. The audience was engaged and often stalled but always entertained.
Most performers do not make an income from Fringe; in fact, most take on debt for the opportunity. An artists’ plight is, all too often, to give their work and energy to others in order to feed more process.
While the crowds were a little overwhelming at times, Fringe was delightful, and it reminded me of the love so many have for art, entertainment, and bringing people together. And this trip started to remind me how valuable getting out of one’s comfort zone can be to reinvigorate a writer’s sense of wonder and novelty.
When my friend arrived, we walked forty minutes to the River Leith, which happens to be a family name of mine (though Leith means “damp” or “wet”, so the family connection might be less relevant than the fact that it’s a river).
This is where the trip began to transform for me.
As I admired the craggy trees and stumbled forward on cobblestone, I found myself less hurried and more aware.
Perhaps just enough time had passed or perhaps it was views like this. Whatever it was, I was no longer a disgrunteled US citizen who was underslept and Googling how much an average artist loses at Fringe (quite a lot). My home was safe, and I was here to enjoy myself (gasp!).
I began by appreciating the cool breeze and stopping near every craggy tree. By the time I returned to the faint, then loud, applause as we reentered the fray, I paused again, noting how much the artists give and instead of feeling bad for them, I felt a cheer well up in me.
I stood and laughed at jokes. I applauded as loud as I could when I saw talent, and I took in a lot. I looked around and saw the admiration of those who watched, and I realized the artists can be fed in a way that many will never understand. Support them (us), but also recognize the power of dealing in energy instead of numbers.
Cost rarely equals value.
If you are an artist (in any form), please know that I appreciate you. You create wonder. You create community.
You create, and that is what matters.
I think I’ll have more to say about this trip, but for now, I’m going to simply absorb. Friends, I made it to Scotland!!
An oldie but goodie: The Practice of You.
Thank YOU for your support and attention.
This sounds amazing...magical!
Love this! Thank you!