How’s this for a spiritual practice? At 5:15 this morning I became aware of a peep from the smoke detector which is lodged somewhere in the hall ceiling lamp of this cozy little cottage. Not startlingly loud but consistent in its twenty second intervals between peeps—yes peeps, not beeps. I tried to dismantle it but to no avail, so I decided to practice living with it--including it, loving it, ignoring it, and so on. I did okay, but it sure didn’t give me the sense of silence that a peeping bird might offer. What’s more, I don’t need to extend this spiritual practice into the upcoming night.
     Clearly this peeping had to be taken care of. The owner lives in the adjoining house but she is away until tonight, so my next step was to call the listed emergency number. But I don’t have a phone, so out I went in search of a pay phone, which I located near the bank and post office. Well, I am probably the first person who has tried to use that phone in over a year, and it wanted no part of my coins. Talk about obsolete!! Well, bless the  Bank of Scotland teller. She let me use the bank phone--even dialed the number. No one answered so I left a message. I’ve done my part for now. Stay tuned. In the meantime, I’m taking to the hills.
Five hours later: I just made another attempt to unscrew something and voila, peace and quiet--no peeping or even beeping. I'm going to bed. All is silent.
9/1/11 The peeping began again in the early morning hours. Now no wifi connection at the cottage. I'm going to get out in nature.
      I am peep and beep free. My delightful hostess and her delightful neighbor took the smoke detector out of the socket. It was still beeping when the took it away. End of story.

      Today was one of those days that couldn’t be improved upon. I just loved the whole thing! I drove down the one-track road B8083 from Broadford to Elgol at the tip of one of Scotland’s many peninsulas, stopping along the way at a chambered cairn and the Cill Chriosd graveyard. I was the only living soul wandering about either place. Um, why do burial sites give me such a feeling of silence, solitude and simplicity? It all comes together for me at those places where the veil is thin between heaven and earth.
     But don’t worry that I’ll get too lost in my own world; driving on a one-track road is a social affair. The road is only wide enough for one car, but along each side are “lay-bys” where one car lays by while the other car continues on the road. There are all kinds of unwritten rules about who lays-by, who may have to back up, who goes by, etc., all of which are acquired intuitively the minute you enter a one-track road. I felt in solidarity with each driver I passed as I lifted my fingers off the steering wheel to wave. Very subtle, kind of like a wink, but that’s one of the rules. It took me a couple of times to master the wave, but once I did, Aye, I knew I was one of them 
      Oh, I enjoyed homemade soup and a sandwich at a shop along the way. I sat outside in the middle of one of the many most beautiful views in Scotland. In Elgol I found out about boat trips across the bay to Loch Coruisk at one of the feet of The Cullins. A trip for another day.

     Back again in my cozy cottage after a ride on the local bus to Portree. I decided to try public transportation instead of spending money on petrol (very expensive here) and having to hassle parking my rental car once I got there. Portree is the capital of Skye, which doesn’t mean that it is big; but any town in the highlands has traffic and parking problems, at least for drivers from “across the pond” like me. An added bus bonus was that I could look out at the Cullin Hills instead of keeping my eyes glued to the road. I want to tell you, people drive fast, fast, fast on these narrow roads. Once a motorcycle appears in your rear view window, I’d say you have five seconds to brace yourself before it buzzes by.
     If you want to contemplate silence and solitude, just look at The Cullin Hills, or The Cullins as they are called, which we passed on our way to Portree. Actually they are mountains--huge, grey, lifeless mounds, often cloud-covered, and definitely not climbable, although people make attempts to hike among them and along their bases. Fifteen years ago I hiked a few miles along Glen Sligachan toward Loch Coruisk , and I may just do it again this trip.  It’s on my list.
        So, what compels me to return to see these hills (this is my seventh time), and to wander about their base once again? After all, they suggest the antithesis of the silence and solitude I cherish. For me, silence may not include words or speaking, but it often embraces the muffled, quiet sounds of nature; silence definitely  doesn’t mean there is no sound at all. The Cullins, however, feel dead, lifeless; they have no sound. As for solitude, I believe that solitude embraces aloneness, not loneliness. And yet, The Cullins exude loneliness.
      “Why go?” I ask myself. I don’t have the answer, but I do sense that there is something deep and honest for me to discern from these ominous hills.  Maybe I’ll discover it on my hike. Maybe not.
      Actually the hike is among rocks, heather, streams, where life thrives, where birds chirp. The Cullins are always in the distance. Of course, that’s where the discovery is to be made, in the in-between places! Worth a try on the next sunny day.
        (This is a view of Portree. The bus was going too fast for me to snap any of The Cullins. You’ll have to wait until my hike.)

  I made it with ease. The plans weren’t simple, but the execution was. There was hardly a hitch. The heather is vibrant and my cottage-near-the-sea is awesome. A little walk to the sea and then it is early to bed. Or should I say late?

          Everything fit in the suitcase and back pack, even all the necessary shoes. Actually, it’s simple to travel simply when you’re going by yourself, and not planning much, if any, socializing. However, it wasn’t simple getting through security at Logan. Nothing out of the ordinary, just too many people, too few “checkers”, “guards”, or whatever their PC title is. Now I’m at the Philly airport, or is it a mall?  Both, although everyone shopping had to go through security, so they have to be going somewhere by air. Everything you need is here-- minus Borders, which is boarded up. At the moment a Dixieland band is entertaining at the nearby food court. Certainly not silent, but convivial. People are happy. Oh, the band is going by as I type. I’m happy. Need I mention that the only solitude I feel at the moment is what I create within myself?

      This morning a friend emailed me, wishing me bon voyage and suggesting that my solitude might be deeper and more satisfying if I don’t email. Very appealing idea. I think I’ll go light on personal communication, but once a day blog away. My friends can read the blog, and as they know, they’ll get some pictures, as well. 

       Don’t worry if I don’t appear for a good twenty-four hours. It’s not because of the storm; I’m flying away from all of that.  But I won’t have wifi access until I reach my cottage near the sea on the Isle of Skye, and it’s going to take me most of tomorrow to get there.

       Nothing like the bank across the street preparing lunch when you have family visiting. That’s what happened on Saturday.  At 11:30 my husband  looked out and there they were, two employees setting up an awning, picnic table and chairs, and a grill. Just a little promo on a summer’s day for the neighborhood, and for those on their way to the library next door. It was a simple as that, at least for the five of us, who were the first to arrive.
      Those working for Salem Five, on a beautiful August Saturday no less, were delighted to have some patronage, Plus we attracted attention and soon there was a enough of a crowd to be consider a “critical mass,” --in other words to call the event a success. Menu: hamburgers, hotdogs, cooked to order, and chips, water, soda, and chocolate-chip cookies. Um, no fruit or vegetables, but no one noticed, nor did I until just now. A teller inside the bank was ready to answer questions and give out a tote bags filled with information, advertising trinkets, and, of course, candy.
      I wonder if they acquired any new accounts? Maybe not on an August Saturday, but when fall sets in….I hope so. I, for one, already have an account there.

      A week from yesterday, if plans go according the schedule, I will have landed at the Glasgow Airport, taken a bus to Ft. William, driven myself  through Glen Shield, one of the most beautiful glens in Scotland, crossed over the Skye Bridge, and arrived at the self-catering cottage that I have rented for two weeks. Before coming home on September 16, I’ll spend four nights on the Isle of Iona.

    My grandfather came from Glasgow, and my mom used to tell us that that made her father a “Glaswegian”. When I go to Scotland, I feel that pull that says,  “You’re home,” as I imagine myself standing in my croft door looking out to sea.

     I traveled to Scotland way back when with my parents and sister, several times with my mom after my dad died, and once with my husband. Then in 1996 I started taking my solitary trips there. This is the first time I’ve rented a place; I wonder what I’ll discover at this cottage-near-the-sea? Don’t worry, I’ll let you know; the place has wifi. I made sure of that.

It’s not my fault that I can’t simplify and get rid of all the “sitters” and “hangers” around here. Even the local consignment shop doesn’t want most of them, not even the good stuff. I stopped by yesterday to pick up the print-out of what they are keeping to consign, as well as the boxes of treasures that they rejected. The list is short, the boxes full. I’d say they accepted about a quarter of what I left with them two weeks ago, and, their choices sure are fascinating.

     The boxes in still in my car. What to do with them? A yard sale?— not simple and besides it would take time away from my solitude. Another consignment shop? The “Put & Take” at the dump? Sell on eBay? The church fair sounds like a worthwhile possibility. One thing for certain: I sure hope I don’t find myself unwrapping any of the pieces and putting them back on the shelves in this house.

It wasn’t simple getting into Boston yesterday. “What is this line of cars waiting to turn into the T parking lot? Oh, of course, the Red Sox, home for a day/night double header. Turn off the book-on-tape that you’re listening to, and think quickly. Yes, park at my sister’s house and pick up the T, crowded as it may be, further down the line.”

      I did just that and ended up standing and chatting with a couple from NYC who were on their way to a game at Fenway Park. I told them about going to Brooklyn Dodger games with my grandmother, and that got us talking about Brooklyn. Have you ever noticed that everyone you meet has some personal connection with Brooklyn?  Then we talked about having, of course, a hotdog for lunch. Have you ever noticed that everyone going to the ballgame plans on eating a hotdog?

     When we got to the Fenway stop, the car emptied out and I got a seat and my life became simple (and silent) again.