Unwritten

They say that the cemetery is the richest deposit of buried treasure in any country; therein lie millions of unwritten books, business that never began and inventions that never saw daylight.

Rooting around in an ancient building at the weekend with my children we explored the many rooms of what had been a family home for some 600 years.

This baronial pile had seen some illustrious visitors in its day, Robert the Bruce was said to have finalised his battle strategy here before leaving for Bannockburn and victory. That was a long time ago; the years have not been kind to this glorious edifice. Unlike many of its contemporaries it doesn’t have a coffee shop or overpriced gift and souvenir area; there is no bespectacled tweed wearing gentleman with sensible shoes to illuminate the glorious past and point to the multi media area.

Access, for the determined,  is gained through the basement window with a rusty wheelbarrow for a step.

My children have inherited a vision from their parents to see and visualise what once was and also what could be.

That fills me with great joy!

Going to such places is good for the soul; to escape the character-less new builds in our towns and cities and see what visionaries build. I understand that such projects require huge sums of money and for the average family obtaining a nice newly completed building is the idyll of maintenance free living. But the heart is not inspired in such developments, they are safe.

Not everyone can live in such places as we explored, had I tried to approach at it’s zenith I would probably have retreated with a projectile embedded in my personage, fired from one of the many holes in the wall on the ground floor. The barons and nobles who erected these great buildings were not overly keen on the lower echelons of society, and viewed them as providers of food, money and props to keep them elevated above everyone around.

Spending time in abandoned places, with a mind like mine, always inspires me. Together we three (the lady of the family enjoyed the sunshine rather than coil up and squeeze through a window) wondered what life had been like in such a place (smokey and cold probably) as we discovered the assorted detritus lying in thick dust.

The  last occupant died 17 years ago having spent some 50 years in love with this pile of stones trying to restore it to it’s former glory. That is a man that is after my own heart. Some people look at such places as an eyesore and would have them swept away, others in Palmyra destroy ancient structures wantonly for badness; then come along those with eyes to see what could be and bravely wade in with heart and wallet believing for better. These dreamers leave comfort and reason behind and build towns, structures and clinics; they build schools and hospitals and plant churches in the belief that humanity can return to war torn lives and ghettos. They see not the rubble and ruin of broken lives, but the spark of hope in the eyes of those discarded by the many comfortable busy people absorbed with TV shows and the next purchase.

Among the piles of discarded possessions there was another labour of love; a little bundle of inspiration that made it to paper, author unknown.

My daughter suggested we take it, my heart said no.

I recalled the Bradley Cooper movie (The words) of the struggling author who found a manuscript and achieved success by passing it off as his own. Why should this novel not be published and recognised? Why should the hours of coffee and typing not be rewarded?

We must all write our own story.

This was not my renovation project and that was not my story; like you, I too, have my own mineral deposits to be mined, these are to be the focus of my efforts and abilities. The people whose journeys intersect with mine will share what they have as I too must open my bag of gold to share with them.

We have lost this pioneering spirit and are the poorer for its going; go dig deep and bring to the world the treasures of your heart.

Perhaps you may just restore a ruin about to fatally crumble.