CONNECTION
19 August, Jeans Bothy.
Today at the photography group, in Jeans Bothy, which I go to, far too rarely, we sat in a room in cosy company. There is something about the company of people who have been through stuff whether that is that empty heart of depression, the stomach churn of the worry at what people think of you, the bluntness and awkwardness of being different, or a past that jabs at you when you are least aware of it. Sometimes, like yesterday at the writing group, we bring some of that pain to life and occasionally some of the pain of seeking help that is then denied. It can feel wonderful to talk of such things but more often we don’t do that; we mingle, chatter, drink tea or coffee and for some of us, this brings peace.
Today in the group there was nothing about the chasm of stuff that sends you sideways instead we were looking at the idea of connection with that warmth of knowing that this place is itself a place of connection.
I sat on the couch by the window and it was comfy and I did not need a coffee because I had just had one at home and, because I had drunk too much last night, I let my head lean back and slumped down into the sofa and let the conversation wash around me and wished slightly too late that I drank much less on weekends than I do.
The lap top was hooked up to the large TV screen; a first for us. We watched stunningly beautiful portraits of the food people from across the world but who live in Glasgow, love to have in their homes. I saw wasabi and flowers from Japan, borsht from Lithuania, salmon and maple syrup from Canada and figs and sweet pastries from Libya. There were fish and sausages and different drinks in bottles and jugs and glasses. There were flowers and candles and baskets of bread. There was a wee bit of commentary about each person who had provided them. It was as though some master of still life had brought their work to us in this very sitting room in Helensburgh. Somehow the backdrop was black but the colours of the foods and the flowers and the bowls; they brimmed with something so rich and opulent and wonderful. I wished I could have met each person from each country. I would have liked to have known how to cook their food and why they now lived in Glasgow and what they thought of it. I would have liked to have talked to the student who took the photos and found out how she persuaded the people to bring their food across town to the sitting room in which she took the photos.
And as the photos slipped across the screen we connected, talked, exclaimed at that octopus draped over a box, and that rich red looking drink in tiny tea glasses. While we watched, we played our own game. First one person took a photo with their phone, passed on the phone to another person who took another photo that connected with the first photo and so on until we had all taken a photo. Those went on the screen too and we talked about them. We looked at the photos we had taken the week before and placed on facebook and talked of that as well.
The photo I took was of the word ‘café’ from the top of a small clock which came from the pendulum of a grandfather type clock of the photo before. The photo after mine was of the sign advertising the Bothy Kitchen. The photo I remember I had placed on facebook, was of my Dad’s old stamp album. Someone said it was probably older than him and I thought he was right; it might have been three times as old as him.
Outside it was pouring with rain; bucketing it down. I was glad I was not out walking the dog.
When it was nearly time to leave, I walked from room to room taking photos of the light coming in through the blinds. I was alone in those moments but not lost. I was delighted in the light and the feeling that somehow, in some small way, I belong here and that people would notice after a while, if I didn’t turn up.
In the garden, as I was leaving someone asked me when I would next be back and I said I hoped I might be free next Friday but did not know if I would be working yet and she said it would be good to see me.
We talked about yesterday and some of the writing and how some of the sadness is hard to hear and yet how it is a good part of this place just as laughter and coffee and tea is.
(Photos: Jeans Bothy August 2023)