coffee off the clock is a weekly column full of musings on life since i left my 9-5, and building a life around writing. join me for a coffee every week and follow my journey!

---

reader, it’s march at last! it’s been so long since i’ve been able to breathe into the blue but i feel all the better for it. hope creeps on the horizon and i remember once again that spring has a job to do and i feel i must be part of it. i’ve received the invitation to romanticise my life again – to make more of it than our zen fathers had ordered me to: chop wood, carry water.

i’ve had enough introspection for the last 2 years since leaving my job. enough time spent truth seeking on quiet, inner pilgrimages. i let a lot of things die. now, dare i say it, it’s time to live.

i write to you today from my little black desk, onlooking a crisp, sunny erskine with a greggs vanilla latte at my side. the way my first column was intended to be written i believe. my mornings are always sacred, slow…and mine. all else that comes, must come later. it’s my non-negotiable.

my first responsibility is to the flock of pigeons, the ringed robin and the few blackbirds that visit me in the garden. they wait for me, turning over every leaf and peeping for my silhouette at the window.

as i exit the back door with goods in hand, i look up to the gutter ledge on the roof and i meet 15 little heads tilting curiously side-to-side. as i sprinkle the calci-worms and wild bird seed, they flutter down, blowing the seeds in their gust. that’s when the robin usually hops atop the neighbour’s fence, hesitant but beautifully vocal.

i learned in bridge of allan in the summer of 2022 this small daily practice of giving to something else before yourself. i was reading inner engineering: a yogi’s guide to joy and spent most of the covid days of my masters degree wandering through darn walk and meditating by the allan river.

before i’d eat my breakfast, i’d set out on my walk with a bag of seeds and sprinkle them on the rocks by the river’s edge for the birds. it felt like a responsibility to something beyond myself, my degree or anything else i’d tied my identity to. this small practice has found me again in erskine & its meaning remains the same.

i’ve always been jealous of the neighbour’s garden that stands in stark contrast to ours. it’s a gorgeous little labour of love and it’s rewarded as such with goldfinches, sparrows, bullfinches & the occasional squirrel. this year, i’m promising myself that i will pour more into our garden and not let the spiders deter me.

majd and i have come up with every excuse not to spend money on the garden, the main one being that we’re renting and we don’t know how long we’ll be here for. but if i applied that same logic across my life, i’d never live. my favourite song this week captures that feeling perfectly:

let’s do some living after we die. so, here’s to more living. has anyone mentioned that when you become wise, the wisest thing you can do is become a fool all over again? it’s just a little thought i explored this week. my life has been feeling so safe, too safe, that i run the risk of sitting high and mighty upon a moral throne, untouchable from all that makes me flesh and blood. i know i need to risk something. more foolish mistakes, more experiences and holding myself like a prism to the light. it’s time to see myself from different angles.

after all, i learned this year there’s a side of me capable of leading. i remember when i first began the writing group at erskine arts. my voice shaking, my body running on adrenaline, but there was always a quiet, steadiness beyond my consciousness that echoed ‘you’re doing exactly what you came to do’. after each session, i’d leave exhausted. i called it ‘growing pains’. every monday, i risked vulnerability. and the outcome? community.

my pride in the group doesn’t come from the work they produce. it comes from the fact that everybody feels safe enough to be themselves. there is no shame in depth. there is no weakness in vulnerability. there is no judgment in mistakes. in fact, i teach the complete opposite. these things are required for writing. and i believe you can’t teach the craft without first creating the space where the soul is allowed to show up fully.

it is something i’ve had to model going in there. ‘i’m ailsa, i quit my job at 24 years old following a boxing day dream and a calling to become a full-time writer and wrote my first book at 25 years old. i’m here to show you there is a way. that creativity & writing are not luxuries, but a vital part of our existence.’

and the message i received from myself is the same i’ll give to you, reader: you’re not going to have it easy, but you’re going to have it good. for the last 2 years since i took that leap, nothing has been more true. i have not had it easy but by god, my life has been good.

anyway, greggs, your vanilla latte has been mid as always and there’s something so off putting about that final cold sip, but like a toxic ex, i’ll come crawling back to you when i’m looking for novelty in erskine, just because there’s no one else. is this the incentive i need to learn to drive? or will i keep telling people i’ve not learned yet because i have epilepsy (but i can, because it’s controlled, hehe).

today’s fit is deeply uncool and deeply unbothered. that’s what happens when you’ve enjoyed the comfort of the cave for too long. knit cardigan, black strap top & something floaty on the bottom. can tell i’ve no interest in writing for vogue. thank god for bobs, though. there’s still some part of me that’s kept its edge during this season of being well-rounded.

until next week reader, may all your coffees be better than greggs and i’ll meet you at the same place, same time with more musings, outfits and little risks on my journey of becoming a full-time writer since leaving corporate.

– Ailsa x