For the past couple of weeks I've been regularly struck by a question: is the Dundee that I live in the same as the Dundee that other people live in? I'm guessing probably not, but it's hard to tell. It's been blowing my mind that thousands of people can live in the same city, village, wherever, and yet all of them will have their own perspective of that place, their own way of seeing colours, their own things that they focus in on and take note of, their own memories connected with places.
And I don't really know any of those perspectives, any of those idiosyncrasies, so I thought that I'd start sharing some of mine and introduce my Dundee to you.
My Dundee is full of colours that come alive in the sunshine, change with the seasons, and can captivate me in ways that not much else can. There are the trees on Balgay hill that at times seem so concentrated, and yet let light stream through and illuminate individual leaves, which in springtime is insanely vibrant and around now is opulent in its beauty. There are the gardens around where I live, some perfectly tended, others wilder, all beautiful in their own way. The garden on the corner is my favourite at this time of year because it is laden with cotoneaster berries parading the autumnal reds and golds, heralding the changing of the seasons. In the summer this garden always commands my attention too, although I'm not entirely sure how to explain why. It's never as cultivated and immaculate as its surrounding gardens, but has a wild elegance to it, and hues that seem as if they're simply the way that God created them with no man-made embellishments. There's the garden on the other side of my block of flats that, in the springtime, becomes awash with glowing yellow daffodils. As far as daffodils go, however, Dudhope park wins the prize:
My Dundee involves watching the sun rise over the Tay bridge and set over the chimney-topped skyline, taking in the way that the last rays of sun illuminate the clouds, drinking in the message of the love, faithfulness, nearness, personal nature and hope of God that are proclaimed so clearly to me through the sky's display.
My Dundee consists of many people that I know, and many people who remain unknown in name, but whose interactions with the world fascinate me. There's the German family across the road, whose car looks like it's been painted as camouflage for an exotic tropical island with aquamarine water, through whom God speaks to me a lot about His Father heart, simply because of the relationship of the dad with his sons. He spends, what looks like at least, so much quality time with them, playing with them, running around the house and garden with them, laughing with them. It's a picture of joy, of love, of delight to me. Then there's their next-door neighbour - the lady whose house is always the last one to have snow melting from its roof when it does snow, and who often hangs around her doorway on sunny days smoking.
My Dundee is a weird and wonderful place and that's just a first taste. More I'm sure will come another time.
