Writing Underneath the Scott Monument in Edinburgh, Scotland

Something about Scotland just bleeds and breathes inspirations. It infects your blood, your bones, your mind. Instead of being the typical tourist my second time around Edinburgh, I decided to spend my time lounging in parks, notebook open and pen in hand.

Edinburgh has everything you could ever want: bustling city vibes, inviting plush grass, rich food, and strong liquor. Really, I’d be set for life in Scotland.

Take a moment . . . relax . . . breathe in the history . . .

It doesn’t take much for the words to come.

The meadow behind her family’s farm had once been used as a cemetery. That had been years before the famine, when her ancestors had been forced to relocate closer to the river. Years passed before she stumbled upon it, years only marked by wild ivy and overgrown grass. The carefully placed stones were now cracked and crumbling, the names of loved ones lost stolen by time. Their surfaces were smooth, engravings weathered and faces blank. Sometimes she would trace names across each vacant visage. Names gave the decayed bones under her feet life and with life came a story. When she grew tired of making names, she etched her own and imagined the life she lived. Sometimes she was a heroic nurse, other times a bold pilot. Maybe she was a valiant traveler who wrote all of her campfire-story adventures in a tattered leather notebook. Sometimes she inherited her family’s farm and lived a long, uneventful life that was sprinkled with the joys of marriage and children. Either way, she would always end up in that meadow. 

Rem Tene Verba Sequentur. Grasp the subject and the words will follow.

Until next time,