Come Away In

The storm it is rising, but we'll hold back the wind

Come Away In image by my pal Lynn Fraser

It’s the day dawn of the New Year
sae rouse up and open yer doors
and come show good friendship and cheer
at the dawning of the turning of the year (1)

There’s a New Year frost in Roslin Glen not ten miles from here as the crow flies. And there, a wee bird is foraging for nuts and seeds - just enough for his needs - a wee robin.

There’s a fluster. A gang of wee boys comes running down the track from the village, and one of them stops. Suddenly. He spies the wee bird there among the trees - and goodness knows what makes him do it - but he picks up a stone and throws it at the wee bird. And the robin’s wing breaks.

Well, that wee boy is terrified by his own self and runs helter skelter back home with his pals.

The robin groans and tucks his wing behind his back. He knows right away in his bones and feathers that if he doesn’t find a place to rest and mend then he won’t make it through the weather that’s to come.

The Norland Wind rustles through the bracken.

And the robin hops into the trees to find help.

This wee beauty was my midwinter-ish birthday present from my daughter

On this day last year, I was in the grand environs of St Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh with a choir of 150 singers, erstwhile strangers who’d convened previously for just three December afternoons of rehearsal as part of a project called Come Away In.

The idea was born from a simple, beautiful offer to be part of Edinburgh’s annual First Footin events on New Year’s Day 2025. Come - the invitation said - on your own with your guitar, and sing for 20 minutes at each of four free public events in this gorgeous 900 year old space.

That would’ve been easy. I could’ve brought my songs, taken the money, done my job.

Instead, though, I imagined the vastness of the space and the smallness of my own body. I thought about how I might flex things to create paid work for pals. I thought about how cathedrals are designed for communal singing and collective reflection. And about the wizened times we live in, the darkness and isolation of winter, the symbolism of the turning year, and the opportunities that event producers, writers and performers have, to create community and solidarity, whenever we can, wee pockets of wind resistance.

With the support and expertise of Edinburgh-based choir leader and arranger, Stephen Deazley, I pitched a sort of thirty-minute song cycle and narrative folk tale arc, an evocation of hospitality, neighbourliness and refuge - with a scratch community choir - alongside friends Corrina Hewat (harp, vocals) and Lori Watson (fiddle, vocals).

Its message, more or less, was:

Yer welcome in
Yer welcome in
Yer welcome here
Warm Winter cheer (2)

In the woods at Roslin, the wounded robin meets the Birch tree stretching her limbs in the icy dawn light.

Dear Birk - he says - a wee boy has broken my wing with a stone, and I can’t fly. If I don’t find a place to rest and mend, I won’t make it through the winter. Can you help?

The Birch peers at the Robin - Ocht it’s one of you songbirds - she sneers - You’re never done chittering from dusk til dawn. You’re an absolute nuisance. Away and find someplace else.

And she goes back to her stretches.

The Norland Wind whistles through the branches then, and the wee robin shudders. He tucks his wing behind his back and hops further into the trees.

Print of Saint Mungo by Sam SMUG Bates - a birthday present to myself this year (3)

This New Year’s Day I’m still aware of the smallness of my own body but have absolutely no desire or capacity to situate it in big public spaces or amongst many voices, beautiful and uplifting as that can be.

Instead, it’s quietly nesting. And I’ve been dabbling for the first time in observing the old Celtic Omen Days, the twelve days that span Boxing Day to the Feast of Epiphany (4). The practice involves observing the world around you, and all that’s alive in it, for glimmers of insight or guidance into each of the twelve months to come.

The two creatures that appeared to me first on the Feast of Stephen were the Robin - a symbol of renewal and rebirth, courage and protection - and my old beloved familiar, the Heron which, to me, embodies stillness and patience, age and acuity.

I’ll take my guidance wherever I can find it. And I take these as useful provocations about what matters, what I need and what’s possible.

Old Heron was having a wee word with me via my Hogmanay tarot reflection last night too (5). Of course, I follow the heron whenever I can ...

In Roslin Wood, the wee robin keeps looking for somewhere to stop.

Dear Oak - he says - a wee boy has broken my wing with a stone, and I can’t fly. If I don’t find a place to rest and mend, I won’t make it through the winter. Can you help?

The Oak scoffs - You think you can come stealing my acorns from under my nose - and expect my sympathy. Away ye go and sort yourself out.

The Norland Wind whistles through the leaves, and the robin hops on.

Dear Larch - he says - a wee boy has broken my wing with a stone, and I can’t fly. If I don’t find a place to rest and mend, I won’t make it through the winter. Can you help?

The Larch startles - Who are you, you strange wee bird? Get out my canopy and go back to where you came from.

The Norland Wind rustles the robin’s wing feathers, and the wee bird weeps.

Heck, even the Aldi oat milk comes bearing signs!

If I’d been into minding the old Omen Days last winter, then Hogmanay and New Year’s Day would surely have been alive with the wee Robin’s lamentation and his quest for a place to rest and mend. And if there’s an image that sums up the scar of my summer and the months since then a wee songbird with a broken wing will do. In a very literal sense too, there are places where I’m no longer welcome - a table looking onto an ornamental pear tree in a small Edinburgh garden comes to mind, and in it a particular wee robin - rather than a partridge - that I won’t see again.

And, you know, it’s ok.

“Let the Heron still your breathing”, says The Lost Words Blessing, a song which I helped to midwife into life some years ago. And I do feel the sharp windedness that I’ve felt for much of this last year easing.

Phew.

As the robin weeps, a voice above him speaks.

Wee bird - what’s the matter?

The Robin looks up - it’s a Spruce tree.

A wee boy has broken my wing with a stone - he says the robin - and I can’t fly. If I don’t find a place to rest and mend, I won’t make it through the winter. The Birch called me a nuisance. The Oak called me a thief. And the Larch dismissed me as a stranger. I don’t know what to do,

Then come away in, to my branches - says the Spruce - I’ve plenty room.

Then another voice speaks - I’ll shelter the Spruce from the storm that’s rising. And together we’ll keep you warm.

It’s the Scots Pine.

And then a third voice - I have ripe black berries - she says - I’ll feed you all winter long.

It’s the Juniper tree.

And so, the Spruce, the Scots Pine and the Juniper look after the robin, while the Norland Wind skirls through Roslin wood. And in the Spring, when the wee bird is rested and mended, he flies off singing into the trees.

a treasured gift from one of last year’s Come Away In choir members - once people know you love birds, birds come to you!

This December 28th just past, I walked to the woods behind the school here in Pathhead and laid my hand and cheek upon the trunk of every one of the 18 Scots Pines that towers above the Birch and Larch, the Oak and Holly. I thought about the ways in which tall beings might mind smaller ones. And about every single one of the people in my life - and there are many dear ones - with the generosity and openness of the Spruce, the Scots Pine, and the Juniper, the ones who’ve looked out for me, and looked after me.

Many of those people (overwhelmingly - and periodically also overwhelmed - women) already look after many others. It seems to me often that it’s the ones who’ve developed the muscle and habit of giving and caring who’re able to dig deep and give and care even more. What a blessing. What a skill. What a commitment. I feel such gratitude for you all. You know who you are.

Gie aa
and aa comes back 
wi mair nor aa
Hain ocht 
and ye’ll hae nocht
aa flees awa 

Give everything
and everything comes back
with more than everything
Hoard anything
and you’ll have nothing
everything flies away

Luve by Douglas Young - a setting of which which we sang as part of Come Away In.

I’ve had a wholly secular upbringing, but the two environments in my life in which I’ve most often felt part of something bigger than myself are with the birds on a windy coast or moor’s edge, and together en masse in song.

So, this year ahead - here’s to birds and song, to resting and mending, to giving and tending, and making space.

The day will dawn - and the new year will begin. And every single one of you is welcome in.

Look after yourselves out there - and each other.

Welcome into the house
where we have bread to eat and room at the table
Welcome into the house
where we sit down to meet with stranger and neighbour
Welcome into the house

Come away, come away in
Come away, come away in
the storm it is rising
but we’ll hold back the wind
Come away, come away in

NOTES:

(1) Da Day Dawn lyrics are by Jane Hazeldean, set to the traditional Shetland tune of the same name - hear a version by Love Music Community Choir featuring Mairi Campbell, arranged by Stephen Deazley

(2) Hear Lori Watson’s gorgeous setting of Professor John Veitch’s lyric Winter Cheer which was part of our Come Away In programme.

(3) My birthday present to myself these past weeks is a limited edition print of this beautiful piece of street art, which otherwise adorns a gable end on Glasgow’s High Street

(4) Follow the wonderful Kerri ní Dochartaigh for more on the Omen Days.

(5) Card from Kim Krans ‘Wild Unknown Tarot’ - I find it such a beautiful deck for provoking thoughts and questions.

The wee Robin tale is adapted from How the Spruce Became Evergreen by the esteemed Scots Traveller storyteller Duncan Williamson.

For more robin action, I have a picture book folk tale co-crafted with the amazing Kate Leiper. More information about A Wee Bird Was Watching

Come Away In song score available as a choir resource at Comfort of Voices