Writing

You know you’re young when you measure your life in months, not years. It had been five months and six days since I’d seen my beloved Edinburgh. I managed to arrange a visit for the new year, to prove that my experiences had been real. It had been over eight months since I’d seen my dear friend Daviyd: full of passion and gentleness but slightly disconnected from the world, Daviyd was sweetly erratic, flowing through time at a different rate than the rest of us. By some miracle, he would be in town for Hogmanay.

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, I returned to the flat to hear a message from Daviyd. With plans to phone him in half an hour, I ran out for one more errand. When I got back, there was this message: “this is Daviyd. I’m leaving for Edinburgh now, so I’ll see you tonight. I’ll be busking somewhere. Look for me.”

Frantically, I called him back. I got the answerphone. I hate talking to machines, but I began to ramble for lack of any better ideas. After a minute or so, Daviyd picked up the phone. He’d gone back to the house for his gloves. “They’re so important,” he said dreamily. “I never realized how important they are.”

We talked for awhile, and I found out where he’d be busking. Which was crucial, I reminded him, since there was about a one in a million chance I’d find him in the madness of Edinburgh Hogmanay. He told me about a party in a warehouse somewhere, raising money to buy musical instruments for kids in Afghanistan. He didn’t know exactly where it was, but would find out and tell me later. I agreed to meet up with him, and he left to catch a bus to Edinburgh.

Later that night, I headed out to the street party with some friends, splitting off at High Street to find Daviyd. You can’t walk two blocks in Edinburgh without running into someone you know, and tonight the entire city was out. In the middle of Old Town, I spotted Laura, gorgeous and ethereal in her waist-length dreadlocks full of bells and trinkets, flowing thrift-store clothes and whimsically painted face. I had spent many evenings on the Meadows listening to stories in her Spanish-German accent and singing along to her guitar. Soon after I took my leave of Laura, I encountered Ian, a lean fire-spinner I’d met during Beltane and befriended after a chance meeting in Orkney. I learned from him the location of the party -- next door to the place I’d left my suitcases in storage while I traveled two summers earlier.

Unfortunately, Daviyd was nowhere to be found. I searched all over, even asking the police if they’d seen a busker. No luck. I was in the middle of tens of thousands of people, alone, with gifts in my pocket for the friend who had disappointed me again. It wasn’t his fault, really, Daviyd was a free spirit and I loved him for it. As I crossed the ticket checkpoint I gave up all hope of finding him, since there was no way he could have a ticket.

It was an absolute crush of people going down the Mound. I finally realized the full magnitude of the street party, shoving my way through hundreds of people. It dawned on me that the chances of finding any of my friends were very slim. As I reached the bottom of the Mound, I heard horrible, arrhythmic drumming. Could it be...? No, never. Still, I followed the sound, hoping to find someone interesting to spend my New Year’s with. But then, there he was. When he caught sight of me, a huge smile filled his face. “One in a million, huh?”

What a wonderful reunion! I almost cried with happiness at seeing Daviyd again. He had found some people who gave him a spare ticket, and they were just in the process of moving out into the middle of Princes Street. A few minutes later and I would have missed them. So I happily joined their group and found out it was very close to midnight. Daviyd set up his little drumming stool and began to play. I danced a bit, but mostly watched the people and the full moon.

The countdown began at 11:59, displayed on a huge screen. Daviyd caught the rhythm of the counting and played a beat to match it. At midnight, the crowd erupted into a mad storm of cheers and song and laughter. Fireworks exploded overhead. People embraced and uncorked champagne. In the midst of the confusion, I was calm. I stood watching the fireworks, in perfect peace. I protected Daviyd’s things from being trampled. Somehow, with the madness flowing all around me, I was a rock, steady and strong. I felt as old as the land itself, and indeed, an enduring part of this land, this place. Looking around, I realized it had always been this way. I had always been the calm in the chaos, protecting the others from the storm. It all made sense.

I was pulled from my reverie by Daviyd’s voice, demanding that I join a huge group hug. Beautiful soaring inspiration met with the real, earth-bound physicality of embracing arms.

And then the adventure began. Daviyd and the others were eager to get to the party, and it turned out that the American was the only one who knew how to get there! We began to make our way towards the East end of Princes Street. Soon it became obvious that keeping seven people together (most of whom had never met before that night) amongst a hundred thousand would be impossible. I tried to give everyone directions, but most of them were already too drunk to understand, and none were familiar enough with the city to know the area I spoke of. Luckily, Daviyd had a fire staff with him.

Once a tour guide, always a tour guide. I took Daviyd’s fire staff, and (unlit) held it aloft for the others to follow. This proved to be a good technique of keeping everyone together, provided that we stopped every hundred feet or so to reassemble. It was also very useful for fending off one of our group who was very drunk and kept trying to kiss me. His friend kept apologizing for him. The others, a young anarchist, his Greenpeace girlfriend, a random girl who seemed a bit fake, and of course Daviyd, found the whole exchange quite entertaining.

There was something very peculiar about leading this gaggle of mismatched strangers through the streets of my beloved city. I got some strange looks, certainly. A few policemen stopped me and inquired about the fire staff (for entertainment purposes, Officer). When drunken men stumbled up and asked about it, I told them it was to protect me from strange men. Sometimes people followed us for awhile, like the Pied Piper, but they all got bored after awhile. We were on a mission.

At the bottom of St. David Street, there were porta-loos. Half the group was struck with sudden loss of bladder control, then after awhile the other half went off to find them. I waited, gazing at the just-past-full moon and enjoying the sensation of Scotland beneath my feet. When we finally set off again, the going was a bit easier: we only had to weave through the crowds, rather than push people aside. Still, by the time we reached the end of Princes Street, over an hour had passed. We stopped to rest for awhile before heading off down Leith Street, which was not crowded enough to warrant the use of the fire staff. In this relatively quieter part of the city, we had the chance to talk.

Crossing Leith Street to start down London Road, Daviyd said, “Feels like we’ve been walking for a long time, doesn’t it? I mean, I know we haven’t actually gone very far, but it feels like we’ve been walking for years!” Walking for years. The sight of Daviyd wandering along just ahead of me triggered something, some memory, some image I could not quite place. Time bent over on itself and wiggled around like a butterfly. Walking for years. I felt giddy like a very small child, or a very old woman. In a night ripe with inspiration, his offhand statement screamed of a larger pattern. Walking for years. I got the sense again that my connection to this place and its raggle-taggle gypsies goes deeper than I ever realized.

“Yes... Walking for years,” I answered. Daviyd turned and gave me a strange smile, almost comprehending.

We still had a long way to go. What should have been a ten-minute walk had taken over an hour, and I did not want to think about how long the next twenty minutes would take. I found myself wishing we were back at the porta-loos, and I was growing weary of the tour-guide job. We pressed on, taking frequent breaks, passing other revelers on the street.

We finally turned onto Easter Road, and the little streets began to appear, taunting us with hope. Rossie Place. Edina Place. Bothwell Street. Sunnyside. I well remembered the feeling of “this might be it” from hauling my suitcases down these very roads a year and a half earlier. The others began questioning exactly how long this walk was going to take, almost accusing me of coercing them into this lengthy journey, rather than consenting to be their guide. But we were almost there. Here was the little bridge over the railroad tracks I’d taken a photo from, there was that pretty church.

Albion Road. Finally! Our spirits were up again as the others finally saw proof that were nearly there: a piece of plywood with a spiral spray-painted on it. Further on, signs with arrows. A young man with facial piercings, desperately searching for his dog. A little Sheltie, about this big. She had run off during the second fireworks. The only child him and his girlfriend would ever have. “If you find her,” he said, “please please please bring her back to number three, Albion Road, and I will give you all the drugs you can ever dream of.”

“That’s very expensive,” remarked Daviyd, solemnly.

We followed the road to the end, hearing the beginnings of faint drumbeats. Two bored-looking policemen were on duty at the nearby stadium. Daviyd invited them to the party, which earned a chuckle.

The only indication of a celebration was a big plywood sign bearing the squiggly spiral symbol, propped up on two rusty old cars, and the sound of drums. It did not sound very promising, and I felt the beginnings of doubt. We entered the dark warehouse. It was huge and empty and cold, smelling faintly oily. We somehow navigated through it, around a few turns and down a ramp, and suddenly there was a group of people clustered around a bright doorway. The music was louder here. Daviyd nodded his approval, smiling. “This’ll be a nice underground thing, then.”

We joined the queue and I ceremoniously presented Daviyd his fire-staff back. “It’s really amazing,” he said, “there I was, there on Princes Street, all ready to try and figure out how to get everyone to this party... And then you appear, and I turned over my... authority... to you, and you led us here flawlessly. Thank you.”

I wanted to say something about how it wasn’t just me, how we’d gotten there together... But I couldn’t think of words that wouldn’t be completely sappy. So I just smiled, and I think he understood.

We paid our five pounds to a smiling volunteer and entered the party. The rhythm of techno music reached deep into my bones, making my lungs reverberate with a beat that was primal and futuristic at once. The space was vast and shadowy, air tasting of metal and cold, fear-inspiring on any night but this. But tonight, a troupe of fire-spinners performed their art on an old, broken-down bus and illuminated the warehouse with flashes of flickering light. In these transient flames, bodies moving to the relentless music became sylphs and sidhe, dark fantasy creatures who would vanish at the break of day. But the human odors of sweat and paraffin and pine filled my nose and I breathed deep, letting the familiar smells seep into my blood and send time into a spiral again.

Beltane-eve. By a hill bank just steep enough to climb, the performers celebrated a successful show. An impromptu drum circle huddled around a cluster of flaming coffee-cans and crates of beer, sheltered in the lee of the hill. In the light of the fire, half-clad bodies throbbed to the music, while beyond the reach of firelight, they throbbed in pairs to their own ecstatic music. Young men climbed the unstable loam to fire-breathe, spitting paraffin onto a shrieking crowd. Smiling faces, hands, bodies invited me into the throng, reaching out to claim me as one of their own. I yielded to their energy, cautiously, dancing and drumming and laughing.

But I was overwhelmed. The familiar faces disappeared, replaced by sneering caricatures and evil apparitions. Suddenly I was not a part of it, I was inside this seething mass, overtaken by it... I had somehow launched myself into the heart of a raging fire, and only just noticed my flesh burning away. I struggled to find a way out, taken by dizziness and confusion. The smell of their drugs clogged my lungs, the sense of their need and lust and desperation assaulted my spirit, their laughter rang harsh and painful in my ears.

Then I was on the other side of the hill, weeping, screaming inside. Nobody came looking for me, nobody gave a second glance. These were supposed to be my people. I cried out in rage and frustration and betrayal, but nobody heard me in the drumming and laughter of the night. The air was icy on my skin as I huddled in a sweatshirt that wasn’t mine. My stomach cramped in knots around the tea I had brought in a thermos flask, now only lukewarm. It seemed years earlier I had set it, boiling, in my bag. Gradually, as the sky began to lighten, I began to calm. Singing fragments of half-remembered songs while tears crawled down my face, my thoughts slowed from a maelstrom of angry questions to a swaying drizzle of images. Flesh painted the colors of a bruise, personification of a storm, I watched the seagulls awaken, not for the first time. They glided soundlessly through a sky which was shifting imperceptibly from indigo to silver-grey. In the distance, the lighthouse persevered in its ceaseless song. Hunger screamed through my body, but where weariness should have followed, only a sad emptiness took hold.

I was spent. Completely empty. I had been so certain that these people, these remarkable people, would be the ones to make me whole. They were the fulfillment of the dream that had kept me alive through all the impossible nights of helplessness and loneliness and despair. They were the reason I had journeyed halfway across the world, conquered my fear, and smashed through the most crippling of my limitations. But in one night, they were gone. The illusion shattered to reveal the truth I had never wanted to face. No amount of searching could lead me to the people who would make me whole, because there are no such people. I was the only one who had the ability -- and the obligation -- to fill that emptiness. Dread coursed through my veins like lead and a ball of ice formed in my stomach. But as the ground beneath me vanished and I was left to fall into the shadowy alleys of the city streets below, a new perspective entered my mind.

For the first time in my life, it occurred to me that I didn’t need anyone else to be a complete person. I was just fine on my own. All I needed for fulfillment was within myself, and if I needed a bit extra, the Universe would give it to me. I was just looking in the wrong places, always outward, always away. This time, the betrayal had hurt so much, and had come so suddenly, that I crumbled in on myself, and couldn’t look away anymore.

As I watched the orange sun peek shyly over the edge of the Firth, a thin cheer rose behind me on the hill. The few brave souls who had waited the night for this spectacle welcomed the rebirth of summer. I welcomed another kind of rebirth, and headed back up the hill with a sleepy smile on my face.

After Beltane, I began going to the weekly gatherings on the Meadows. Drumming and dancing, spinning poi and playing silly games, sharing food and lounging on the grass, we joyfully watched as summer crept over Edinburgh. The crocus blossoms gave way to gorse flowers on the hillsides, scenting the city with their exotic perfume. The days grew warmer and sunlight lingered later into the evenings. I finally stopped expecting miracles from people, and that was when miracles came. I stopped looking for the perfect friends of my fantasies and found more interesting, more complicated, more beautiful companions. During those months I came to love the Beltane crew in all their quirks, with a deep gratitude for discovering them and discovering myself – just in time to leave for America.

Now, months later, I began spotting their familiar beloved faces again. I made my way through the cavernous space and one by one embraced old friends. The music was too loud for conversation, but words were unnecessary. I took off my coat and allowed my body to ease into the rhythm. Soon I was spinning and twirling around the edge of the writhing mass, breathlessly dancing a style that had once earned me the nickname Whirligig. Pure freedom flowed through my veins as I gave my body joyfully to the music. From the corner of my eye, I saw Daviyd’s flickering firestaff weaving patterns in the air around his own serpentine figure, and I felt a profound sense of calm mingle with the heady exhilaration of dance. My feet hardly touched the ground as I twisted and wove my way into trance.

I felt the earth beneath my toes through the concrete, a living, throbbing entity. I felt the spirits of the city, singing joyfully at their daughter’s return. I was rooted in this place more deeply than I could imagine, my whole being fiercely intertwined with this land, wrapped up in a gentle but potent embrace. My awareness spread to touch the web of life encircling the whole planet, with this one bright spot shining especially for me. I was home.

When my body grew tired of dancing, I wandered behind a pile of stripped cars to the chill-out area. A thick carpet of fresh spruce and pine boughs covered the floor, giving off a sweet earthy aroma. Stacks of tires and car seats were arranged in small groupings, and I saw Daviyd sitting with Ian. I sat with them and listened to a litany of Ian’s travels since I’d last seen him in Orkney. He was a true gypsy, roaming all over Europe and Asia to perform in festivals.

After awhile, Daviyd and Ian wandered off to dance more, and Bobby came over to sit with me. A tall, lean punk, Bobby had fascinated me since I first met him at the Faslane blockade. Probably in his late 20s, years on the streets made him look older, gaunter, meaner. But I wasn’t fooled: even through his tough looks and rough speech, I could sense a gentle sweetness radiating from him, and the clarity of one who is accountable only to himself. With rotten teeth and strong opinions, I often saw him in front of supermarkets with his dog, Spike, of whom he was fiercely protective. He hung around the Beltane crowd but chose not to perform. We never had much in common and seldom talked, but I always felt a sisterly affection for him. He was the one who had called me Whirligig.

Now he sat down, exasperated, telling me about a fight he’d just had with a punk in Holyrood Tavern. This bloke thought we should kill everybody to improve the planet, but Bobby thought we need to help people and build humanity. There’s too much killing and suffering going on already, he was passionate that helping people can turn things around. Take for instance, his own family. Lots of suffering there, years’ worth, and now his Mum’s been sick with cancer with nobody wanting to take care of her. Now it’s him, the punk off the streets who the family treated like garbage, it’s him that’s moved back in to take care of her. They’ve got a good arrangement now, they don’t inquire as to his habits or his social life, and in return he lives at home and does the chores and such like. Soon him and his girlfriend would be able to get married, even.

He asked what I’d been up to, and was shocked that I was only just visiting. Earnestly, he wanted to know what was so great about Edinburgh, what made it better than America. I thought about it for awhile, and finally decided it was moments like these, celebrations, that seemed sweeter and more intense here. It felt like a beautiful way to pass the seasons of life in an era when things seem too grey. He laughed. “So you like Edinburgh because we’ve got good parties, then?”

I told him about my plans of trying to get back permanently, the difficulty and expense I was willing to go through to live in this city that felt like home. He said that if he had enough money, he would pay for me to stay in Edinburgh forever. Even through his lofty statement was mostly drug-induced, I could feel the genuine love beneath it.

The Beltane drummers began to play their expertly synchronized beats, and I got up to dance again, leaving Bobby among other friends. The hard, demanding rhythms cut to my bones and whipped me around to that night on the hillside and back again. Earlier I had been light on my feet, euphoric and free. Now I danced hard on the ground, low and rootsy, reaching deep into the belly of the earth. I danced my worship of this gorgeous place, my gratitude for these gorgeous people, my joy at moving and feeling and being. A young man came to dance with me, and we spoke together in the language of rhythm and gesture, understanding each other perfectly. I danced until my body was exhausted and full of light. I sat down on a stack of tires and was carried away by the music.

When I awoke, I had just enough energy to carry myself back to the flat. I wove through the space again, the crowds now smaller, saying farewell to old friends. Ian swung me around in a flying embrace. Laura kissed my cheeks in her straightforward, gentle way. Bobby was asleep on a bucket seat, so I kissed his forehead. Daviyd invited me to visit next time I’m in town, and thanked me again for leading him to the party. Looking around for a parting gift, he ceremoniously presented me with a spruce branch he had been dancing with, he was sure I could find some use for it. After one last hug, I headed out into the night to watch another sunrise over my beloved city.