Small change

When I was a wee girl, I would count out my pocket money and walk down to the corner shop to buy pick and mix sweets or comic books. Sometimes I would get sent on an errand by my parents to buy a pint of milk or a Dundee Courier. The first corner shop I became familiar with was in Craigie Drive next to the local primary school.  It was run by a second generation Scots-Bangladeshi family. After having boasted to my parents on the first day of school that there was a little boy in my class called Farhad Motaleb who travelled to school every day from a faraway country called Bangladesh, my embarrassed parents made a point of informing me about the diversity of our neighbourhood. Farhad is now a paediatrician in Leeds and we’re still friends over thirty years later.

Then when our family moved up the hill to posh and suburban West Ferry, the nearest corner shop was a Spar on Claypotts Drive that also functioned as the video rental shop. Its carpeted familiarity smelt of newsprint and toffee popcorn. I’m not sure who owned the shop but I remember my brother’s friend Graeme had a Saturday job serving behind the till when we were teenagers. Some years later, the Dundee Courier reported that Graeme took his own life by jumping off the Tay Bridge. In my mind today, I recall the kind and shy, football-mad boy that joined us on family hill walks.

People, like places, change. Some much more than others. We don’t always spot the important signs until looking back. In loving thy neighbour, is it possible to pay attention to small change, to notice the details and let them be seen and heard?

IMG_8661

The big talking point this month on Constitution Street has been the renovations of the infamous Port O’ Leith pub.  After a final send-off party that felt like the last night of the fall of Rome, a large skip was swiftly filled with ripped out furnishings from the old haunt (Port Sunshine in Trainspotting) and the passing customers of newly gentrified coffee bars, design studios and ‘pop ups’ picked their way through the Port debris like lions feeding on the rotting carcass of an endangered species.

Neighbours have looked on with a mixture of excitement and anxiety in anticipation of what will come next and where the Port’s loyal clientele will now come to call their local. It may be a case of better the devil we once knew.

On an impromptu tour, new landlord Craig and his crew of workmen bussed up from Gateshead were keen to show me the newly installed teak bar top, the stripped lighting features and plans for a Mexican-themed street food menu. Gone are the Che Guevara flags, the juke box, the rusting ship’s bell, the sticky floors and with them, a good deal of soul. However, I’ll admit that the cleanliness of the ladies toilets is certainly an improvement.

I wish Craig well but advised him against telling other curious residents that he supports Hearts football club. He let me take an old, plain-looking mirror from the ladies’ toilets that had been spared from the skip purge. I’m keeping it to give to my neighbour Louise. Last women standing on the chequerboard dance-floor, surveying the structural and human wreckage at the end of the farewell party, she told me that now twenty years’ sober, there was once a time when she hadn’t expected to outlive the old boozer.


Things I have been reading/ watching/ listening to this month:

Nasty Women collected essays, by 401 Ink

Daunderlust ,by Peter Ross

Wanderlust, a history of walking, by Rebecca Solnit

Galician rhapsody, blues escoces poetry, by Oliver Escobar

Blueberry soup, the Icelandic constitution, by Wilmas Wish films

From Scotland with Love documentary, by Virginia Heath and King Creosote

Let Them Eat Chaos, by Kate Tempest


I enjoyed time for reading on a last-minute weekend escape to Lisbon away from the capricious pace of change on Constitution Street. Running errands between the street’s Post Office and bank on the morning of my flight,  I was offered some uninvited travels tips from the neighbours I bumped into, including from Wallace (of Wallace’s Arthouse, number 41 Constitution Street) who advised with all sincerity to “avoid eating any fish because they fry it funny over there”. I was ready to get on the plane.

It felt liberating to be lost and then found again in a big, sizzling-hot city. I watched the results of the French Presidential election on TV at the apartment of an old university friend, Alexandra Carreira. Alex is now head of press for the Portuguese Economy Minister and she had some interesting observations to make about constitutional change. On greeting me at the doorway to her apartment, she remarked that in her opinion I hadn’t changed a bit in fifteen years.

Changing or bending genres is the theme for a series of writing workshops that I have the privilege of being a part of. Acceptance onto the Essay Catalyst group led by Elizabeth Reeder (University of Glasgow) and hosted by the Scottish Poetry Library and the CCA in Glasgow has been a big personal confidence boost. At the first workshop day, we made artists’ books to find different entry points into a story. The paper-folded creations reminded me of the fortune teller games of the school playground. Tutors emphasised the value of cross-disciplinary collaboration and really enthused me about the potential to loosen up with scale, form and style in playing with a subject. I want to include Constitution Street as a character his/ her (?) self, responding to the residents’ narratives. Another take away from the ‘genre-bending’ day was the value of list-making and inventories. I have attempted this in a list poem. During the intense day of wordplay, myself and other participants learnt about the structure of song writing from Karine Polwart (an artist I admire hugely – her solo theatre debut ‘Wind Resistance’ was a highlight of my Edinburgh Festival 2016) and we heard from Max Porter about his highly original debut novel and soundscape, Grief is the Thing with Feathers.

On meeting someone whose work I admire, I have a track-record of clamming up to the point of rudeness, preferring instead to observe the aura of celebrity from afar rather than to join a book-signing line and utter the underwhelming words “great book”. I perceive the queuing and crushing, often accompanied by thrusting a phone camera into the trapped face of the cultural idol, to be oddly counter-ingratiating. Meeting multi award-winning author and senior publisher at Granta books, Max Porter, was no exception. True to form, I muttered only some pleasantries in response to his friendly hello and then cold-shouldered his interest in the Constitution Street project by leaving the post-workshop dinner early to catch the bus back home to Leith and my dog.

Fortunately, this record in crap public relations was finally dented by a brush with fame just a few days later. Nicola, or the First Minister, as she prefers to be known in her official capacity, said “Hello, it’s lovely to see you again” on meeting me and Bonnie dog alone in the car park of the Kirkgate high-rise flats one lunchtime walk as she took a pause between election campaigning and visits to local businesses (Location Scotland, no. 107 Constitution Street) and Konishi Gaffney Architects, no.88 Constitution Street). The First Minister is revered for her good memory but I am not a member of the SNP and we have only met very briefly before- at a parliamentary meeting when she was Health Secretary and more recently at an Edinburgh Book Festival reception- so I was duly impressed.

IMG_8028Unprepared for the Constitution Street VIP encounter, I responded to Nicola’s friendliness with an uncharacteristically confident welcome to the street. Dressed as I was in over-sized winter coat and chunky jewellery, I looked like some sort of (self-appointed) street mayor. Her officials took a photo of the meeting and my Twitter account subsequently doubled in followers. When I next bump into her, I’d like to consult the First Minister about crowd-sourcing a written constitution and to seek her thoughts on the relative merits of side by side conversations versus door-stepping on the campaign trail.


May is a beautiful time of year. The land visibly grows and stretches in every direction with new buds of green and longer days full of potential. We awaken to a dawn chorus and there are small changes all around.  This was particularly evident at New Lanark in the Clyde Valley earlier this week where I hosted our annual organisational Away Day at work with colleagues from across the UK and Republic of Ireland. World Heritage Site, New Lanark Mill, is interesting on many levels as a study in the early beginnings of the cooperative movement during industrialisation. The natural drama of Cora Linn falls in the Clyde Valley has its own progressive story, having been shaped and changed anew over 10,000 years since the melting of an Ice Age glacier.

The May night air was warm and sultry at the re-opening of Leith Theatre for Hidden Door arts festival. Last open to the public in 1988 (Grandma told me she saw a production of Aida there during the Edinburgh Festival in 1986), the theatre was a gift to the people of Leith from the City of Edinburgh in 1932 after reunification of the city boundaries in 1920. IMG_8616

Amidst the faded grandeur of the peeling paint and rickety theatre seats, Leith pulsed with excitement and anxiety as hipsters and Edinburgh’s cultural literati danced in the aisles, swigged from craft lagers and fell madly, freshly in love with old Leith. As I sit writing this blog post in the adjacent Leith library on Ferry Road, I can hear the bass and synth of the sound-check for tonight’s sell-out headliners, Idyllwild.

Walking back home to Constitution Street, I made a note of some small changes I paid attention to. Here are the people I met along on the way:

Louise (no. 59), keen to share the gossip after a night-out in the west end 

Euan (no. 68), collecting picnic items from Leith market with his miniature poodle called Nico

Claire and Chitra (no. 78), sun-kissed and happy on return from family holidays in Applecross

Linda (of Linda’s snack-van at the entrance to Leith docks), sat in a deckchair reading from her Kindle

Bill (no. 179), loading his florist van with deliveries

Gordon (next to the Queen Victoria statue), Labour councillor for Leith ward, rallying volunteers for General Election campaigning

The street is changing and we need to pay attention. In small ways, I will soon be doing this from shared office space at Corner Shop PR (no. 93 Constitution Street), beginning in July. Manager Susie Gray made the generous offer of a free desk “because we can”. This time, I’ll bring the pick and mix sweets and the comic book stories to the Corner Shop. I’m so grateful.

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Inventory of the street, 11 am

Inventory of Constitution Street, Saturday 27 May 2017, 11 am

Distance: 1.6 km, 0.5 miles

Direction of travel: east to west from the docks to the foot of the walk

Time estimated by google maps: 11 minutes on foot, 4 minutes by car, 3 minutes by bicycle

Time taken when walking with a dog and stopping to greet neighbours: 20 minutes

Crossroads: 4

Cafes: 4

Pubs: 6

Trees: 17

Police cars: 5

Bus stops: 4 (2 on each side)

Statues: 2

No ball games here signs: 2

Derelict properties: 2

Domes: 2

Trams: 0

Sets of traffic lights: 3

Churches: 4

Churches still functioning as a church: 2

Dock cranes: 3

Car garages: 3

Solicitor offices: 2

Tattoo parlours: 1

Ground designated as sacred: 1

Benches: 2

Restaurants: 3

Window boxes with flowers: 5

Florists: 1

Public toilets: 0

Graveyards: 1

Languages overheard: 5

Neighbours met: 7

Dog-related chats: 3

The View From Here

Well, it’s not been a quiet month here on Constitution Street, where all the women are strong, the men are good-looking and the children are above average….

An announcement on a further Scottish Independence Referendum, the triggering of Article 50, a surprise General Election to be held out with the fixed term of Parliament, and the closure of the Port O’ Leith bar in Leith, have all kept things interesting the past month. Only one of these constitutional changes has a certain outcome. And, this, from the same shock announcement that had grown men lining the street, in tears, at 1am, holding hands and singing passionately about home, place and identity.

It seems that in politics, as in the drinking game, timing is everything and only those with cool heads and warm hearts stay standing. We will soon have had two general elections and two referenda in the space of three years, with more votes likely in the near future. The Scottish Government was told by the UK Prime Minister that now is not the time for a choice on Scotland’s future as an independent country as it would be a distraction to Brexit negotiations. The electorate was then told that now is the time to hold a snap General Election.

March – April has also been a time for written correspondence. It’s nice to see the revival of letter-writing. The First Minister Nicola Sturgeon wrote to Prime Minister Theresa May setting out what she believes to be her mandate for a further referendum and of the need for people in Scotland to make an informed choice about their place in the UK and Europe ahead of the BREXIT settlement. The Prime Minister then wrote to the President of the European Council, triggering Article 50 and the UK’s departure from Europe. And back here in Leith, I wrote to my boss setting out my proposal for a 9-month sabbatical from the day job, beginning 1 July, to concentrate on the Constitution Streeters project. I’m delighted to have received a very positive, supportive approval for the career break from Voluntary Arts Scotland. My job will soon be advertised as a fixed term contract similar to maternity leave cover.

Nine months. Three seasons of the year. Five inches of hair growth. The full term of a human foetus. And perhaps, if I work hard and am lucky, time to develop a book.

The labour pains have been testing in these early days. A week off over Easter to read and assemble thoughts reminded me how challenging working from home can be and left me experiencing symptoms of nausea, guilt and worry about the inevitable fluctuations in creative productivity. All learning etc. But I recognise the importance, to me anyway, of a daily routine and breaking a big project down into small constituent parts. I am now actively seeking out a supervisor to help me prioritise tasks and maintain pace. And co-working space. I want the discipline of company and the quiet but reassuring hum of others in a room to keep witness to a working day. I have approached both Customs House (Scottish Historic Buildings Trust) on nearby Bernard Street and the Centre for Constitutional Change at Edinburgh University Law School about hosting a creative residency. They’re thinking about it.

My choice of timing reflects my wish to take advantage of daylight and community happenings in the summer months during the participatory research stage of the project and to minimise any potential risks to the arts charity I currently head up (funding and staff jobs are secure in this 9 month period). Office colleagues have all been very supportive about the change.

leith library

Leith Library, Ferry Road

I’ve completed my first interview. This was with a couple who recently moved their family home and architecture practice from no.63 Constitution Street. There was no particular significance attached to starting here first. It was simply a bright sunny afternoon and it suited me to join them for a dog walk in their new leafy location to the southwest of Edinburgh. As with all the informal conversations with neighbours thus far, the interviewees expressly wanted me to know their voting pattern (I would never ask) and seemed very happy to have been asked for their particular telling of the Constitution Street story.

What other things am I learning?

  1. To say as little as possible during the interviews to give respondents space to shape their own contribution and not second-guess my views.
  2. Taking my fold-out chair to the front door steps in the morning sunshine gives a special snapshot of the street-view. Masked by big sunglasses, a book and even bigger mug of tea, I can discreetly observe and listen to fragments of passing conversation, be warmed by the lightness of familiar greetings, notice the patterns of comings and goings and can trace the faint April sun’s journey east to west– my sun-deck at the front door steps of no.68 becomes a cold shadow by the afternoon and across the road is then the place to be. I sat like this finishing the sublime ‘Lonely City’ by Olivia Lang, a book I found myself underlining entire paragraphs of. Given her subject matter, it seemed entirely appropriate to complete while alone but amidst the street surf of people washing in and out the front door to the tenement stair.
  3. Beneath everyday household clutter, the table in my spare bedroom is an attractive and functional desk space.
  4. Retaining professional and social networks during a period of solitary writing will be important. If you’re reading this and are in one of those two categories, or any other category actually, please don’t be shy at picking up the phone!

People have been generous in their reading recommendations. These are my trail markers for the navigation of a broad subject. This month I have been dipping into or revisiting:

  • The Rings of Saturn, W. G. Sebald
  • Autumn, Ali Smith
  • The Lonely City, Olivia Lang
  • Lifetimes of Commitment, Molly Andrews

A welcome confidence boost came from getting a place on a series of essay writing workshops entitled ‘Genre-Bending’, tutored by some personal literature crushes including Max Porter and Karine Polwart. Experimenting with form and spending two days experimenting with other writers feels pretty jammy.

The sabbatical is unpaid and I only have three or four months’ salary saved. But somehow I’m surprisingly relaxed about that. I am fortunate to own my flat, to have a modest income from occasional yoga-teaching and to not have any dependents aside from a dog to feed and medicate. And regards Bons/ Guru-B, we have a literary collaboration of our own in mind too. I really do think everything is going to be alright.

It’s been far from an easy few weeks but I’ve made some small steps. It turns out that being on, within and of the street is all-engaging and that anything is possible. In the weeks ahead, I will be prioritising finding a mentor and a work space in time for the July start date. 1st July is also the date of the Barrathon Half-Marathon that I have been arm-twisted into entering by my friend Christina (see Halfway House poem). I love the isle of Barra (Barra bunting) and regardless of running ability, the surge of fresh air, exercise and good company will ensure that this new phase of life begins with a top-up of endorphins.

Finally, Leith library (Ferry Road) is a place of under-recognised grandeur, free book loans and undemanding company. At first glance, it appears a bit grotty like the street outside – old flyers on the community notice board, toddlers throwing plastic toys at one another while their parents negotiate broken computers and English-language lessons- but look closer and you see the black and white vintage photographs in frames depicting our streetview of yesteryear, the suspended reading lights that resemble planets in a solar system and a steady flow of fellow citizens arriving for MSP surgeries, settling into a quiet corner to be lost in one’s own thoughts with a good book, or simply wanting a warm, safe place in which to have a doze. We lose public libraries at our peril.

Word on the street.

 

Silver darlings

Three pieces,

Weighted, welded and worn together

– daughter, mother, grandmother

Linking and encircling like an umbilical cord

They say I’ve got her eyes

But when I look, I use my hands

To blindly cradle and caress

These metallic curves

-modern, solid, familiar

Silver darlings caught around a neck,

Reflecting light and handed down.

Welcome

Burns Night, 25 January 2017

I cross over the road.

Wind howling. Sleet slapping. Jaw clenching. Sky dripping black and blue. Knuckles flaring red raw.

Palms beneath the knuckles clasp around a bulging cylinder of vegetarian haggis. Its phallic sheath coating oatmeal, black pepper, nutmeg and nods to both heritage and modernity. Hands, grain, spices. Bound together and becoming one. This, my pulsing, transparent offering to neighbours.

Burns Night. January and the year still blinking and bleary. Our annual celebration of the national Bard. Ritually marked with a supper of sheep’s stomach stuffed with offal and washed down with drams of whisky. Then the re-telling of a long Scots poem no one can quite remember one year to the next. Something about a drunken man (Tam) riding home on his horse from the pub one stormy night and happening upon a witches’ dance led by the devil playing bagpipes, with one particularly beautiful, young witch (Nannie Dee) dancing in her nightclothes, her cutty sark. And all the meanwhile, Tam’s long-suffering wife (Kate) waiting at home, nursing her wrath.

A toast to the lassies and a reply. Tam and Kate. Tam and Nannie Dee. Kate and Nannie Dee. A conversation. A song. A quarrel to be soothed. Union and disunion.

At home here on Constitution Street, Leith, we women are gathering by invitation to celebrate exactly twenty years’ sobriety of our friend and neighbour. No booze, no meat, no men. For tonight at least. The best of times and the worst of times. And only just beginning.

Later, the fake haggis will be cooked in the microwave and its split insides served with a clapshot of neeps, tatties and tomato ketchup. Plates on trays on knees. Children and dogs tumbling at our feet. The TV volume turned low, providing an unsettling, constant hum from the wider world and the news out there that threatens louder voices.

While further along the street at the north/ south junction stretching parallel to the sea, a commemorative statue of Rabbie Burns bestowed in waistcoat and breeches, his hand raised over heart, hings his head wistfully toward the temptations of the Docks, the dancing girls, the honest poverty, the dignities and the hamely fare on which we will dine tonight. For a’ that.

I climb the eight slanting, concrete slabs of the steps to no.59 and chap on the door. Unfurl my scarf and flatten my hair. Shuffle back and forth, to and fro, tapping out a swaying rhythm in my heeled boots, trying to keep warm and to not drop the haggis. Poised. Ready. Hovering on the threshold of inside and outside, the day and the night. On the periphery. In between. The sky above and the ground below. Here and now.

I knock again. I’m late. Push open the brass letter box and post my ‘It’s only me’ into the slit of electric light. See my breath be absorbed into the gathering warmth of the hallway beyond. I wait. A dog barks. A pair of denimed legs attached to bare feet appear in the rectangular picture frame of the letter box, hinging and enlarging into view across floorboards like a half-shut knife.

‘Ah, it’s yourself” comes the reply. ‘Come away in’.

The Prove – constitutional change on a street called home

I’ve been reflecting on the particular spatial and temporal qualities of ‘in between’ times – the best of times and the worst of times. Anxiety and excitement are two sides of the same coin after all.

The dystopian reality of current global politics- Brexit, Trump, Europe’s utterly inept response to the biggest mass migration of people since the second world war, the era of fake news- combined with the over-stimulation, self-saturation and cult of instant gratification stoked by social media, has rendered us scrolling junkies jittery for a deeper connection fix. It can be comforting then, detoxifying even, to look up from small screens and grasp big, everyday acts of kindness where we can still find them. The hyper-local world view- the view of the neighbourhood, the street, or tenement stair- brings into focus that empathy and love are not finite resources that can be mined by short-term greed and narcissism. Active participation and face by face interaction is where we find meaning to the world around us and define the contribution we chose to make. This is the daily practice of think global, act local.


Streetview

My street is Constitution Street in Leith, Edinburgh. It is an 1800 thoroughfare stretching east to west, parenthesis explaining city and sea, bookending the port of Leith and the nation’s capital. A street where statues to the unlikely bedfellows of Rabbie Burns (Bernard Street junction) and Queen Victoria (Duke Street junction) are in awkward conversation and where maritime docks meet new creative industries. It is a place of faded grandeur, hidden vaults, perpetual gossip, light and dark, and general under-recognition by town planners. Comprising a medieval graveyard, Georgian townhouses, Victorian tenements, ’70s highrise and the Tram-track scars of post-recession Britain, this is everyone’s land and yet, still, a liminal land of constant dualities and curious misfits persevering side by side.

Const St entrance

looking east towards the sea

I have lived and worked on Constitution Street for the past decade. The last ten years have been a time of sustained political unrest in the UK, charting the Scottish Independence Referendum of 2014 and the European Referendum of 2016, alongside deepening economic and health inequalities. The average life expectancy of a woman in the Leith Walk electoral ward is 74, compared to 89 in more affluent Barnton, west Edinburgh, less than five miles away.


A commons and a parcel o’ rogues

Anxiety contains interesting information because it tells us something of who we are. A therapeutic response to feeling unsettled might be to remember where and who we are right now because the thing scaring us probably isn’t in the present moment but in fact a past scare evoked by something in the present. I learnt this analysis from my neighbour Claire, a therapist.

With the announcement of a further Scottish Independence Referendum now imminent and a voting date likely to be in autumn 2018, we are living in a heightened in-between, anxious/ exciting, time of constitutional flux.  A binary choice of Yes or No to ‘should Scotland be an independent country?’ doesn’t allow for de facto in-betweens of ‘Yes, hopefully’, ‘No, apologetically’ or ‘I don’t know’.  The intra-referenda period 2014- 2018 is the space for a more fluid, ambiguous settling and unsettling of our constitutional viewpoints.

“In anthropology, liminality (from the Latin word līmen, meaning “a threshold”[1]) is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete. During a ritual’s liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold”[2] between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which the ritual establishes.” [Wikipedia].

See also Mike Small, TEDx Portobello on Liminal Land: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNhoq-PNEvI 

I value the diversity of my neighbourhood friendships. I am invited by Tony (72, Scots-Nigerian- Leither) to adjacent Cadiz Street for a lunchtime bowl of soup and gossip, and across the road to no.59 to play dress-up with Maddie (12, Scots- English- Leither). Both have lived here longer than me and have taught me much. I am curious about Tony and Maddie’s futures on Constitution Street and their individual priorities for constitutionalism in a new Scotland.

With an ageing population and changing family structures and relationship choices, more of us than ever before live alone. Loneliness can be a particular side-effect of liminality- a perception of being lost and not yet found anew, of being temporarily in-between company. In her acclaimed ‘Field Guide to Getting Lost’, Rebecca Solnit notes that the word ‘lost’ comes from the Old Norse los meaning the disbanding of an army; soldiers falling out of a formation to go home, a truce with the wider world.

For the German-born Jewish American political theorist, Hannah Arendt, belonging to a community and being visible in civic space was vital to promoting and protecting the rights of others. She believed that in 1930s Europe citizens were primed for the appeal of totalitarian leaders because they were isolated from any community — political or otherwise:

“What prepares men for totalitarian domination in the non-totalitarian world is the fact that loneliness, once a borderline experience usually suffered in certain marginal conditions like old age, has become an everyday experience of the ever-growing masses of our century.”

Here and now in Scotland, I am curious about whether the social-dynamics of involuntary, domestic intimacy in tenement housing may help buffer against feelings of loneliness. The residents of some eight or nine flats stacked up and down and side by side share a common stair, roof and front door. Living in isolation and suffering from a fear of the unknown is somehow less likely  when there are everyday, collective issues to resolve like a leaking roof, or the common landing between flats in which to negotiate eye contact and say good morning to our neighbours. And then there is the hyper-local politics of a cleaning rota.

Side by side conversations allow for active citizenship and the imagination of the possible to blossom. And, I think, that the nearness of tenement architecture to city centres in Scotland is in contrast to the comparable absence of affordable housing in English cities but I will need to find out more.

I often fantasise about moving out of the city to a rural idyll with more living space and a garden, but on return from weekend escapes, I am reminded of the reciprocal benefits attached to living within urban community. Looking out of my tenement windows to the street scene below, I know the names of the people passing by. I know where they live or work. If I wanted to, I could tap on the window glass and be confident that my neighbours- my Constitution Street-ers- would look up and wave back. Maddie would stick her tongue out. This is immensely reassuring in an age of anxiety and perceived urban anonymity.

The UK is the only country in Europe or the Commonwealth without a written constitution. As an undergraduate law student at the University of Edinburgh, I was taught that instead of a single document, the separation of executive, judicial and legislative powers in the UK is governed by constitutional convention. With the maturing of Scottish devolution, we have quasi-constitutional statutes in the form of The Scotland Act 1998 and the Human Rights Act 1998– legislation which set out the competency within which public bodies, including local and devolved government, are permitted to act. However, both these pieces of legislation are subject to the parliamentary supremacy of Westminster. In these uncertain, shifting and shifty, times of Tory majority rule from London and lacklustre Labour party opposition, the Scottish devolution settlement and the Human Rights Act are both vulnerable to repeal. Beware the Rabbie Burns lament:

“Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!”


Human rights begin in small places, close to home

Written in the nation-building era of the post war period, the preamble to the Universal Declaration of Human rights 1948 famously states:

“Where, after all, do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home – so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any maps of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person; the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm, or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman, and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination. Unless these rights have meaning there, they have little meaning anywhere. Without concerted citizen action to uphold them close to home, we shall look in vain for progress in the larger world.” (Eleanor Roosevelt)

At a journalist friend’s house party in a tenement flat on Leith Walk last year, I was naturally drawn to the spare bedroom where the window was flung open (such is my obsession for seeking out fresh air) and, somewhat ironically, then joined a huddled congregation of shivering, committed smokers. We discussed the bruising experience of 2014 Indyref campaigning and consoling, and made predictions on the various ‘what if’ scenarios that may influence the First Minister’s gamble on whether or not to call a further indyref. I asked Shetlander Jordan Ogg (editor of The Island Review) what he thought we might come to call this in between, intra-referenda, age of anxiety period. He proposed that the kneading together of arguments, the heated desire for change and the need to wait until the Yes vote has risen sufficiently could be described as akin to bread proving.

In the 2014 White Paper on Scotland’s Future, the SNP government confirmed that an independent Scotland would have a written constitution incorporating international economic, social and cultural rights and that such a constitution would be shaped by an inclusive, participatory approach involving civic society. There are examples from elsewhere, such as Iceland, where more radical citizens’ juries or mini-publics have been tasked with determining those principles and rights so fundamental as to be recorded constitutional importance.

Back on Constitution Street, as an icy, northeast haar stumbles in across the Firth of Forth, we hold our collective breath in anticipation of what successive Caledonian springs might bring and whether we, the citizens, will rise or fall to the challenge. I want to ask my neighbours to crowdsource a constitution for the place and times in which we live.

What does the right to food mean to the Turkish cafe owners, the young mums digging in the community garden and the office workers queuing for a fish supper from Perinos on a Friday night? What does the right to private and family life look like for families of same sex couples, single parents, great grandparents, and student house-shares? What might the right to culture involve for the mix of licensing, festivals and voluntary arts groups? And how has the smoking ban, alcoholism and drug addiction shaped our attitudes to the right to health? These questions and others will help frame doorstep, side by side conversations in the coming year on Constitution Street.

Const St exit

looking west towards the city

I am mindful of a duty of care not to patronise, fictionalise, or misrepresent my neighbours. The rich social and industrial history of Leith is increasingly well documented. We have our own cultural exports too. Trainspotting most celebrated. I want to take my cues more from Joyce’s ‘Dubliners’ than McCall Smith’s ‘No. 44 Scotland Street’. I hope to avoid asserting any overtly Yes or No to Scots Indy leanings and instead to take up residence on the threshold of in-between spaces. So far, conversations have taken place over hedges at the allotments, over pints at Leith Festival AGM, in the City Archives maps department and in the law library. I’m loving it.

The small places, closest to home include Leith Links, the Dockers Club, the Port O’Leith bar, Printworks coffee shop, the no.16  bus stop, St Mary’s playground, the quayside, and perhaps even Stories Home Bakery further up Leith Walk where macaroni pies and fudge donuts fuel all night revellers and early-morning grafters and where I am hopeful loaves of bread are still proven and baked fresh.

And so, like this, my recent late-winter days have been a time of hunkering down and of testing and fermenting the bubbles of a new writing project. It will be part-participatory ethnography, part-political theory, part-storytelling. And like all love letters, the words will likely flow easier with the benefit of some distance.

Short poems or essays may continue to appear on this personal blog from time to time but I shall be focussing on field notes for Constitution Streeters in the main. All feedback, introductions, reading suggestions, and gentle critique is, as always, welcome.

Let it breathe,

Grow and ferment

Under a damp, warm cloth

Ready to rise or fall

Then we must weigh it in our hands

For this, our daily bread is

Proving

See also:

Mientras

Roamin’ in the gloamin’ with a Bonnie by my side

On Constitution Street

Tae Leith

Guru Dave

Radiate #sunrise this morning after the full moon #transitions #cacti #nofilter #January 🌵💚☀️

I haven’t posted on this blog for a while. The sudden and unexpected deaths of both a close friend and a grandparent on Christmas Day left me shaken and in need of solace beyond the written word.

I was lucky enough to find that, in part, beneath the vast desert skies of Baja, California Sur, in Mexico during a pre-planned yoga teacher-training course. A landscape where mountain ridges give way to the Pacific coastline and plains of cacti and sand-blasted rock formations stretch out in between. At home, I have a black and white exhibition postcard tacked onto the kitchen wall above the sink of the artist Georgia O’Keeke standing hands on hips, looking out in awe and with a sense of purpose at the all-encompassing, sensual landscape of her beloved New Mexico beyond. She keeps me company while scouring pots and pans.

Seemingly alone in the old Mexico desert during a wilderness experience that the new-age Californians at Yandara Yoga termed a ‘vision quest’, I was awakened by the presence of another creature sharing my improvised pillow of rucksack and blanket. For a moment suspended between mutual respect and curiosity, a large hermit crab and I looked one another in the eye and then each jumped back in alarm triggered by evolutionary survival instinct. The hermit, a greater expert in nomadic ways, scurried his transformer claws through the sand dunes in search of a more peaceful resting spot. I sighed and rolled over.

Later, from the relative comfort inside my tent pitched on the El Pescadero peninsula, I could just about make out the mournful songs of migrating gray whales rising up from deep beneath the Ocean surface. The ancient sea mammals seemingly sending out a bass note for those drifting in and out of sleep on the shoreline to receive in call and response. Then the sound of these soothing hymns was punctuated by the percussion of angry waves crashing against forgiving rocks made soft by repeated nightly blows. The tidal waves were powered by the reverberating energy of a new moon, which in turn caused healing aloe vera plants rooted in the desert dust to blossom into momentary flower overnight before sealing tightly shut again come morning, as though in an imaginary dream. And just enough moonlight to light up a New Year’s Eve dance floor for playful yogis on the beach.

Casa Nev #home the past few weeks. Going to really miss this tent- a vast desert sky above, the sound of waves crashing, and dreaming of gray #whales singing in the ocean beyond. Yes. #baja #nature #Pacific #January 🐋🌵

The generous, undemanding intimacy afforded by strange creatures in the night helps navigate the more ambiguous terrain of loss and grief, signally new trail markers on which to get back on the path to a familiar, firm footing of living in the day to day present alongside loved ones.

The Yandara teacher training in Baja had an emphasis on regular bhakti, devotional practice involving singing and dancing as a community in the evenings. This was called Satsung, together time. Mantras included the chanting of ‘guru dev namo’/ ‘I bow to the divine teacher within’. I first sang this song, over and over again, until in a blissed out trance of mind and body union, with the woman who introduced me to yoga some ten years ago, Tabitha Dean. I initially misheard ‘dev’ as ‘Dave’ and so she came to be known to me as Guru Dave, later shortened to Guru-D. It suited her. And so it stuck.

The source of the divine means different things to each of us. For me, it is simply the oneness and inter-connectivity of the natural world that surrounds us and is us. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The universality of Om.

Perhaps the surprise gift of whalesong is nature’s way of reminding those of us land-bound to keep singing and dancing throughout the surfacing ups and deep downs of a life well lived, for we will all return to the sea one day and, meanwhile, might do well to truly appreciate the sensations of salty air stinging our bare arms and of solid quartz cooling and supporting tired feet. Both Tabitha and my late grandfather, Tom, loved to sing and dance, whether at a warehouse party in Dalston or on the Scottish football terraces. They were both gurus in their own unique ways and I will miss them both so very much.