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On Landscapes-Mindscapes and Memory in Kathleen Jamie’s Surfacing

Sur les paysages (mentaux) et la mémoire dans Surfacing de Kathleen Jamie
Monika Kocot

Résumés

L’article examine l’interaction complexe entre les paysages, les paysages mentaux et la mémoire dans le recueil d’essais de nature et de voyage de Kathleen Jamie intitulé Surfacing. Chaque essai propose une méditation sur le temps — le temps profond et le temps en spirale — mais, çà et là, Jamie superpose des strates narratives consacrées à la perte, allant du deuil personnel à la perspective d’une catastrophe écologique. Elle s’attarde sur les pouvoirs réparateurs de la mémoire, tant au niveau individuel que collectif, en orchestrant la spatialité et la temporalité liminales de l’« entre-deux », du « presque ». Cet article se propose d’analyser des moments narratifs d’entre-deux — des instances où la mémoire du (lointain) passé fait irruption dans le présent, perturbant la temporalité linéaire et invitant à une reconsidération des limites de la perception et du savoir. Ces disjonctions temporelles incitent le lecteur à suspendre sa lecture et à réfléchir aux significations fluides et évolutives inscrites dans le récit. L’analyse s’articule autour de thèmes étroitement liés : la mémoire collective et le souvenir personnel en tant que territoires (re)découverts ou contestés ; la construction de l’espace autobiographique ; la réécriture comme pratique décoloniale visant à reconfigurer les géographies narratives ; et les inscriptions poétiques enchâssées dans le paysage.

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Texte intégral

It is in vain to dream of a wildness
Distant from ourselves. There is none such.
It is the bog in our brains and bowels, the
primitive vigor of Nature in us, that inspires
that dream. I shall never find in the wilds of
Labrador any greater wildness than in some recess
of Concord, i.e. than I import into it.
Henry David Thoreau,
Journal, 30 August 1856.

Introduction

1The article discusses the complex interplay between landscapes-mindscapes and memory in Kathleen Jamie’s collection of nature and travel essays entitled Surfacing. Jamie is a Scottish poet and essay writer as well as Scotland’s fourth modern Makar. In this collection, she mediates the formal and conceptual divide between poetic and essayistic modes of expression. The issue of Scottishness surfaces—sometimes overtly, sometimes more subtly—in each essay, but this article focuses primarily on selected essays as meditations on time—particularly deep time and spiral time—and on narrative layers that engage with loss, ranging from personal mourning to visions of ecological catastrophe.

2In his review of Surfacing, Allan Massie (2019) notes that Jamie “is concerned with the worlds we have lost, barely remember, yet seek to recover, and the world we have made and are in danger of destroying”. In her ecopoetic prose, Jamie often dwells on the healing powers of memory, both on individual and collective levels, and she does so by orchestrating the liminal space-time of the “almost” (Manfredi, 2019, p. 205). This article seeks to examine narrative instances of temporal and spatial in‑betweenness—moments in which memories of the (distant) past resurface within the present, thereby destabilising linear temporality and inviting a reconsideration of the epistemological boundaries between perception, memory, and unknowing. Such instances compel the reader to pause and engage critically with the evolving semantic and affective dimensions of the narrative. The analysis foregrounds intersecting themes of collective memory and personal recollection as (re)claimed or contested terrains, the articulation of autobiographical space, rewriting as a decolonial strategy for reconfiguring narrative geographies, and the presence of poetic inscriptions embedded within the landscape. In addition, attention is given to the function of paratextual elements—such as book covers, epigraphs, and selected visual materials—which serve to frame and orient the reader’s engagement with the text from the outset.

3In Surfacing, Jamie explores the connection between places/territories and personal memories/mindscapes, or “territories” of the mind. She frequently uses expressions such as “to surface”, “to resurface”, “to come to the surface”, “to be brought to the surface”, and “to surface in one’s mind” to register affective intensities that emerge from within the fabric of the everyday. These formulations gesture toward a mode of attunement to moments that are not consciously sought but rather felt—arising unpredictably and often pre‑cognitively. In this sense, surfacing becomes a metaphor for the transmission of affect, wherein ordinary encounters are charged with unexpected emotional or sensory significance, inviting a reconfiguration of perception and attention (Kocot, 2023, p. 118; Kocot, 2026, p. 158). As I will argue, Jamie returns to the idea of time as a spiral in order to revisit some cultural narratives (William Scoresby’s travels and The False Bride ballad) from a postcolonial perspective (“A Reflection”), to point to intriguing, and often dynamic, links between places/landscapes and deep time memory (“The Reindeer Cave”), or to foreground the issue of bodily memory and bodily wisdom (“A Tibetan Dog”) (Kocot, 2023, p. 121; Kocot, 2026, p. 155). Each essay discussed in this article provides a surprising perspective on how the notion of territoriality can be seen anew. In each story Jamie decides to explore and question established dichotomies, and by applying a fresh perspective of looking at the objects/artifacts/phenomena that “are brought to the surface”, or that “surface in one’s mind”, she makes her readers enter a new “territory” where spiral time reigns supreme, and where the distant past, and possible future(s) meet in the present.

Paratextual elements

4As Dani Garavelli puts it,

Surfacing is about excavation, literal and metaphorical. The two longest essays describe sites in a Yup’ik village in Alaska and Links of Noltland, Orkney. She is both archivist and archaeologist, unearthing artefacts and memories, digging, as Seamus Heaney would have it, with her pen; but also scattering new fragments, like broken china, for future generations to sift through and interpret. (2019)

5It could be argued that some of Jamie’s insights, or things she has literally and metaphorically brought to the surface, are rendered in the form of photos (most of which were taken during her excursions and travels). These photos usually open and close each essay, but in longer essays, the number of photos grows bigger, thus making the process of reading all the more interesting. Surfacing has two editions, with two distinct covers. The first image, a photograph by Erika Larsen, adopts a minimalist visual language and features a selection of artefacts referenced in Garavelli’s text. Among the objects depicted are several stone tools, a piece of jewellery, and fragments of ancient arrows, accompanied by organic materials—such as a feather, a tree leaf, and strands of seaweed—that appear to have surfaced from water. This interplay between the human-made and the natural evokes a sense of temporal layering and material emergence. As I have argued elsewhere, the spatial arrangement of these items recalls the careful, almost museological display of objects uncovered at an archaeological excavation site, inviting the viewer to consider the processes of recovery, curation, and interpretation that underlie both historical and narrative reconstruction (Kocot, 2023, p. 118; Kocot, 2026, p. 157). The second cover, featuring a photograph by Wayde Carroll, depicts a pond framed by reeds and tall grasses, establishing a liminal space that is both natural and symbolic. The dark, reflective surface of the pond contrasts with the bright, open sky, creating a visual tension between enclosure and expansiveness. The composition guides the viewer’s gaze from the dense, tactile foreground of grasses to the seemingly infinite sky, mirroring a narrative movement from grounded immediacy toward transcendence or contemplation. This spatial progression resonates with Jamie’s literary treatment of darkness—whether literal or metaphorical—as a complex medium of vision and insight. The murky waters serve not merely as a setting but as an evocative symbol of obscured knowledge and emergent understanding, encapsulating themes of ambiguity, revelation, and the interrelation between light and shadow in the text (Kocot, 2023, p. 118; Kocot, 2026, p. 157).

6The photos illustrating any given essay usually present some suggestion as to what the essay is about. Sometimes the scene presented in the photo is actually mentioned in the essay, but more often than not, the photo adds a new element and attracts the readers’ attention even before the process of reading starts. Such is the case of Jamie’s essay entitled “A Reflection”. It opens with a reproduction of William Scoresby’s drawing of the inverted ship mirage as published in The Life of William Scoresby by Robert Edmund Scoresby-Jackson, and it ends with a photo of an Inuit bird purse from the Arbuthnot Museum in Peterhead, Scotland. Jamie manages to design an intricate storyline with numerous interlinking subplots showing the hidden, unspoken links between objects in the photos. But not only that, by making subtle references and allusions to the way we construct narratives in terms of visual and audible storylines, she comes up with a web‑like composition which becomes visible once looked at from a lateral perspective introduced by the story itself. I will analyse this essay in the latter part of my article.

The Liminal spaces in Jamie’s writing

7Matt McGuire observes that Jamie’s work “disrupts the demarcation lines within recent Scottish criticism” (2009, p. 142), operating “in the gaps, in the spaces where other discourses fail to reach” (2009, p. 143). Jamie is fully aware of the innovative quality of her writing. In an interview with Kirsty Scott, she openly discusses the liminal form of her essays, transgressing the clear‑cut categories of the established genres (Kocot, 2023, p. 118):

8I don’t think there is a category. I have been asking around. Here’s my book. Please tell me what this is? It’s not nature writing, but it is; it’s not autobiography, but it is; it’s not travel writing, but it is. I think some Americans call this creative non‑fiction, which is not very adequate either. (Scott, 2005)

9Even though this quote refers to Findings (2005), the liminal quality of her writing is all the more present in Surfacing (Kocot, 2023, p. 117), which abounds in instances of formal and thematic in‑betweenness.

10In an interview with Attila Dósa, Jamie notes:

11I am interested in the world which is more-than-human, which is beyond the human […] The role of the poetis not to be political but shamanic (it’s the only word I can think of), mediating between various worlds and bringing messages back and forth between them. (2009, p. 142)

12In an interview with Scott, she says: “poetry is a connective tissue where my self meets the world, and rises out of that, that liminal place” (Scott, 2005). It seems that the same thing applies to Jamie’s essays, and critics agree that in her essays, Jamie employs subtle modes of poetic diction. In an interview for Scottish Review of Books, Jamie addresses this issue by saying: “they get called non‑fiction, but they’re more related to poetry than they are to fiction. They’re not prose poems, but they’re more affiliated to poetry”. In his review of Surfacing, Tim Hannigan, an accomplished travel writer, aptly notes that Jamie’s writing “has the meticulous precision of poetry”, and he adds that “its fineness has an elusive, quicksilver quality” (2019). “Put together, […] the whole thing [Surfacing] shimmers”:

13The more closely you look, the more detailed its patterning becomes, with common threads and images running back and forth through the text: a bear’s skull at the outset is recalled later by cattle skulls set into a prehistoric wall, and echoed again in a Tibetan monk’s bowl, made of a human cranium. Individual lines, containing individual ideas, come with the force of an unexpected blow, leaving the reader briefly giddy. (2019)

14What Hannigan notices looking at the collection as a whole can obviously be seen on a smaller scale. In an essay, a single image or even a seemingly simple word may resurface throughout the text, each time within a different context. This repeated use imbues the narrative with layers of complexity and nuance, transforming what might initially appear to be a straightforward story into a multifaceted and richly textured work. This mode of writing can be interpreted as a form of introducing inter- and intratextuality, but it can equally be seen as a subtle form of thematic liminality.

15As I have argued elsewhere, a number of scholars (Manfredi, 2019, pp. 100, 205; Gairn, 2008, pp. 177–178; Gairn, 2015, pp. 135–143; Falconer, 2015, p. 157; Szuba, 2019, p. 94; Szuba, 2022, p. 105; Lawrence, 2015, p. 13) have employed the concept of liminality with reference to Jamie’s poetry and nature/travel writing (in particular to Sightlines and Findings) where liminality is often interlinking with the notion of conceptual dwelling spaces and wilderness (Kocot, 2023, p. 117). Camille Manfredi notes that in her earlier collections of essays, Jamie foregrounds the importance of contact between humans and non‑humans as “fellow dwellers and fellow-transients of the liminal space of the ‘neither…nor’ and the ‘almost’” (Manfredi, 2019, p. 100). One can certainly see a continuation of this theme in Surfacing. In “A Tibetan Dog”, Jamie tells the story within a story on the healing properties of the mind and on the importance of non‑human agents in the process of self-recovery following a battle with cancer. In “The Reindeer Cave”, on the other hand, Jamie moves back and forth from the titular Ice Age cave to the her‑and-now in the West Highlands, and (quite surprisingly) discusses the notion of “bear mind” and “bear memory” in the context of the Anthropocene.

16The emphasis placed on liminality is reflected in the way Jamie explores the theme of places, landscapes and territories. In her seminal Nature and Space in Contemporary Scottish Writing and Art, Manfredi writes:

Scottish nature writing and site-specific art are significantly devoid of synecdochal representations of the nation, with the artists choosing to focus not on territorial issues (“territory” being defined here as a homogeneous, functional and socially appropriated political construct) but rather on the smaller spatial units of “place” and “site,” which are no less complex, collective or identifiable. (2019, p. 29)

17Jamie’s writing in general, and her essays in particular, exemplify the need to reframe our understanding of the notion of a territory, and of the possibility of identifying oneself with a clearly defined territory. As Manfredi notes, Jamie introduces her readers to forms of interrelatedness “that call for a rethinking of the notion of territoriality while also collapsing the dichotomy between roaming and dwelling and, concomitantly, between self and other, subject and object and the sacred and the profane” (2019, p. 100). The next section of my article will focus on the essay entitled “A Reflection” in which Jamie playfully deconstructs the concept of territoriality, but also blurs the dichotomy between roaming and dwelling. Instead of focusing on a “place” or “site” mentioned by Manfredi, I have chosen to explore Jamie’s use of the theme of the landscape and mindscape and the ways in which it adds to the complexity of transcending the duality of roaming and dwelling in the traditional sense.

The temporality of the landscape in “A Reflection”

18In Findings, Jamie quotes J. A. Baker’s 1967 book The Peregrine: “Baker writes, ‘The peregrine lives in a pouring-away world of no attachment, a world of wakes and tilting, of sinking planes of land and water.’ I could envy that, sometimes” (2005, p. 36). Jamie’s envy might refer to the falcon’s free-spirited existence/flight, but also, as Peter Mackay observes, to the way Baker “eloquently creates— in his rhythms and syntax, his clauses and assonance—a correlative for the falcon’s flight” (2015, p. 85). For Jamie, just like for Baker, engaging with the natural world means activating the sense of seeing and hearing. Discussing Findings, Jamie notes that “Poets use language as a form of ‘seeing.’ More and more […] I think the job is to listen, to pay attention” (Scott, 2005). In one of the essays, Jamie lectures herself on the importance of being a mindful observer and listener:

This is what I want to learn: to notice, but not to analyse. To still the part of the brain that’s yammering, “My god, what’s that? A stork, a crane, an ibis?—don’t be silly, it’s just a weird heron”. Sometimes we have to hush the frantic inner voice that says “Don’t be stupid”, and learn again to look, to listen. You can do the organising and redrafting, the diagnosing and identifying later, but right now, just be open to it, see how it’s tilting nervously into the wind, try to see the colour, the unchancy shape—hold it in your head, bring it home intact. (2005, p. 42)

19By transforming the insights of the seemingly commonplace into prose or poetry, Jamie affirms “the web of our noticing, a way of being in the world” (“Diary”, p. 39; Gairn, 2008, p. 10), and that can be associated with what the anthropologist and ecotheorist Tim Ingold has described as an “education of attention” (Ingold, 2000, p. 22):

What each generation contributes to the next […] is an education of attention. […] Through this fine-tuning of perceptual skills, meanings immanent in the environment—that is in the relational contexts of the perceiver’s involvement in the world—are not so much constructed as discovered. (Ingold, 2000, p. 22)

20Louisa Gairn argues that “all writing involves ‘this fine-tuning of perceptual skills’” (2008, p. 10), but critics agree that it is one of the trademarks of Jamie’s “engaged” writing, and her latest collections of essays in particular does exemplify the need to open the readers’ eyes and ears to certain issues Jamie deems worthy of attention.

21The Penguin edition of Surfacing opens with quotes of praise for Jamie’s writing. Two of them could be useful in looking at “A Reflection”. John Berger, the author of Ways of Seeing, calls Jamie “a sorceress of the essay form”, and he adds: “never exotic, down to earth, she renders the indefinable to the reader’s ear. Hold her tangible words and they’ll take you places”. Richard Mabey, an iconic British nature writer, calls Jamie “a supreme listener”. He emphasises the link between her deep listening and her ability to open up new spaces: “In the quietness of her listening, you hear her own voice: clear, subtle, respectful, and so unquenchably curious that it makes the world anew”. It could be argued that we can look at the spaces Jamie writes about, and most importantly, spaces in‑between she leaves for the reader, as instances of the “new” world, or world written anew. The empty spaces, filled with understatement, signed with ellipsis, if you will, may indeed, to use Berger’s phrase, take us places. In this article, I seek to highlight moments in Jamie’s narratives where readers may find themselves disoriented, and where unexpected layers of meaning begin to unfold.

22In “A Reflection”, Jamie clearly shows her interest in the here and now, in the nowness of what is happening, but she also makes it explicitly clear to the readers that the here and now is interlinking with layers of events—and, importantly, narratives—belonging to the past. The issue of surfacing or resurfacing is introduced by means of two distinct narrative techniques (one focusing on what the speaker sees through a train window, and the other foregrounding that which can be heard in the here and now on the train), which crisscross each other, leaving the readers rather disoriented. The feeling of being disoriented, or at a loss, is inextricably linked with re(dis)covering a reflective mode of looking at things. The element of openness and curiosity is what makes the process of seeing through the surface of things possible. Acceptance of the unexpected, in the form of a dynamic phone exchange disturbing the main narrative, is the element which makes the reading both insightful and amusing.

23“A Reflection” opens with a scene of northward train travel through Scotland, tracing a gradual shift from industrial port city to open countryside. The journey crosses the Firth of Tay and pauses briefly in Dundee—a city historically associated with polar exploration via the RRS Discovery and currently shaped by maritime industries such as oil rig maintenance—before moving into the rural expanse of Angus. Although the North Sea lies just to the east, it remains out of sight from the speaker’s landward-facing seat; instead, the landscape visible through the window consists of wintry fields, their subdued palette and bare expanses forming a visual counterpoint to the industrial traces of the city. This movement through layered geographies foregrounds the tension between human histories—of exploration, extraction, and repair—and the slower, cyclical temporalities of land and season. Such tension is central to the text’s meditation on landscape, mobility, and the ways in which place is apprehended in transit.

24In the second paragraph, Jamie introduces a narrative shift that complicates the linearity of the journey by foregrounding the act of looking—specifically, what the speaker perceives through the train window. This seemingly observational moment initiates a deeper, more layered engagement with the landscape, which gradually unfolds into a rhizomatic reflection on the nature of knowledge, (inter)cultural communication, and collective memory. Before examining how the landscape is thus transformed into a site of epistemological and mnemonic inquiry, it is useful to introduce two conceptual frameworks developed by Tim Ingold: the “dwelling perspective” and the “temporality of the landscape”. These terms offer a productive lens through which to analyse Jamie’s rendering of place as both lived and historically sedimented, and her treatment of perception as inherently relational and processual.

25It could be argued that Jamie adopts what Ingold calls a “dwelling perspective” (2000, p. 5) according to which “the landscape is constituted as an enduring record of—and testimony to—the lives and works of past generations who have dwelt within it, and in so doing, have left there something of themselves” (Ingold, 1993, p. 152). As Ingold puts it, for the archaeologist and the native dweller, “the landscape tells—or rather is—a story” (1993, p. 152), in the sense that it “enfolds the lives and times of predecessors” (1993, p. 152), who over generations have inhabited it and contributed to its formation (Ingold, 1993, p. 152). Therefore, to perceive the landscape is “to carry out an act of remembrance” which, in Ingold’s view, means “engaging perceptually with the environment that is itself pregnant with the past” (1933, pp. 152–153). In Surfacing, Jamie frequently intertwines two epistemological perspectives: that of the archaeologist, grounded in empirical excavation and historical reconstruction, and that of the native dweller, embedded in lived experience and intimate knowledge of place. This dual perspective invites a closer examination of the narrative techniques she employs to reveal the stratified, often concealed, layers of the landscape and to render them perceptible to the reader. As Tim Ingold observes, “telling a story is not like weaving a tapestry to cover up the world”, but rather “a way of guiding the attention of listeners or readers into it” (1993, p. 153). Jamie’s narrative practice aligns with this view, treating storytelling as a form of attentional orientation—an invitation to perceive the landscape not as a static backdrop but as an active, temporally layered field of relations and meaning.

26In Jamie’s essay, the reader is positioned as a participant in a guided act of perception, invited to attend to a scene that shimmers with transient phenomena—emerging and receding in turn—and gradually revealing successive layers of meaning and materiality, each superimposed upon the other. This process of unfolding reflects a poetics of (dis)covery, wherein visibility is not fixed but contingent, and the landscape is constituted through ongoing acts of attention and interpretation:

The sea on one side, fields on the other. I’d been daydreaming, but came to my senses to notice that a shining spread of sea had appeared in my window, superimposed over the fields of brown earth. Then it vanished. A moment later it flashed back again, a stretch of sea, silvery over the land, but only for a few seconds. By now I was sitting up, interested in this phenomenon. The fields on the left gave way to pinewoods, the train tilted a little and, yes, the sea’s reflection flashed on again, this time above the trees. If I narrowed my eyes I could see both sea and trees at once. And now there was a ship! A ghostly tanker was sailing over the pine trees. (Jamie, 2019, p. 7)

27At this point, the reader is compelled to confront a fundamental epistemological question regarding the nature of the landscape being evoked: What kind of landscape is this? Is it materially real, metaphorically constructed, or imaginatively reconfigured? Notably, the text resists a definitive answer. In his seminal Landscape and Memory, Simon Schama notes that

Although we are accustomed to separate nature and human perception into two realms, they are, in fact, indivisible. Before it can ever be a repose for the senses, landscape is the work of the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock. (1995, pp. 6–7)

28Schama observes that “landscapes are culture before they are nature”; they are “constructs of imagination projected [emphasis mine] onto wood, and water and rock” (Schama, 1995, p. 61). But he immediately adds that “once a certain idea of landscape, a myth, a vision, establishes itself in an actual place, it has a peculiar way of muddling categories, of making metaphors more real than their referents; of becoming, in fact, part of the scenery” (1995, p. 61). One cannot think of a better prelude to this part of Jamie’s essay. The ship, a “ghostly tanker” appearing as some sort of reflection triggers a whole list of associations or mindscapes. This is when Jamie’s associative thinking technique takes over: “There’s an old ballad, isn’t there? ‘The False Bride.’ ‘How many strawberries grow in the salt sea? How many ships sail in the forest?’” (Jamie, 2019, p. 8). Those mindscapes become part of the scenery, part of the cultural landscape Jamie describes. As the story unfolds, the present moment—situated within the confines of a train journey—begins to imperceptibly converge with echoes of the colonial past, specifically events occurring two centuries earlier. This temporal entanglement underscores the palimpsestuous nature of the landscape, where historical layers intersect with contemporary experience. But what keeps resurfacing is the persistent voice of a woman speaking on her mobile phone—seemingly oblivious to the complex historical and phenomenological resonances unfolding beyond the window. Her attention remains firmly anchored in the immediacy of personal communication, highlighting a disjuncture between modes of perception, one attuned to deep time and layered histories, the other oriented toward the present and its affective urgencies: “A woman nearby was on her mobile, loud and getting louder. ‘It’s just so stupid. That’s three times I’ve emailed her. They’ll just have to’” (Jamie, 2019, p. 8). As the narrative unravels and as we follow the speaker in her mindful and insightful observation of the landscape phenomena, we go back to the past in order to revisit some cultural narratives from a postcolonial perspective. Jamie connects the story of The False Bride from an old Scottish ballad, the story of unrequited love, with an account of William Scoresby about a reflection of a ship in the sky, and the practice of cultural appropriation. But the irritating voice of the woman on her phone resurfaces with each subsequent element added to the main story.

29From detailed descriptions of the reflections of the landscape seen in the window of a train bound for Aberdeen in northern Scotland, we follow the speaker to the 19th‑century Arctic territories and atmospheric reflections described in William Scoresby’s accounts. The reflection of a ship in the sky, noticed by the speaker, slowly transforms into a reflection on the nature of things we can see and acknowledge for what they are. At first, the speaker compares her landscapes-mindscapes with Scoresby’s insights to focus on what these two seemingly geographically distant narratives have in common, namely various aspects of knowing or intuiting what may happen next, as well as embracing the unexpected:

In the crystalline light of an Arctic summer evening, the image of a ship appeared in the sky. It was inverted but so well defined he [Scoresby] could pick out every sail. He pronounced it the Fame, his father’s vessel, which at that moment lay well beyond the horizon. And so it proved to be.
How astonishing, to see what lay over the horizon.

30My ship had been the right way up, sailing over trees.
“I know! I bloody know!” cried the woman on the phone. People had begun to glare at her by now. (Jamie, 2019, p. 9)

31In Jamie’s narration, each paragraph (often consisting of no more than one line) brings a new perspective and consequently new insights. Identifying and recognising the strange phenomenon as it appears in Arctic territories in 1822 is linked by means of associative thinking with what happens in the here and now in Scotland: the ship “sailing over trees” and the woman on the phone voicing her frustration. The theme of apparent knowing is questioned in the next paragraph, where Jamie focuses on the amount of time whalers were usually away from home and on the lack of communication between them and their families. She then mentions the souvenirs they would bring from their whaling, objects designed by Inuits, which are nowadays kept on display in the East Coast museums. It could be argued that those things (such as snowshoes, dogwhips, bags) that used to be part of the lived experience of Inuit communities are now turned into objects devoid of their pragmatic function, and solely associated with keeping memory of the intercultural exchange back in the 19th century. But Jamie decides to focus on the hidden, unspoken aspect of that exchange. She describes a drawstring bag fashioned from the webbed feet of a bird, one of the items in the Arbuthnot Museum, in Peterhead, to point to the contrast between the practical knowledge of Inuits concerning making items of clothing (“doubtless the Inuit maker knew what species of bird was best for the purpose, and how to catch one” Jamie, 2019, p. 10) with the lack of knowledge on the part of Scottish women concerning their husbands. Again, the technique of associative thinking is clearly at work:

These Inuit things had been bartered for, the curator had said. “Bartered for what?” I remember asking.
“Guns! And there were a lot of bairns born there, to Inuit women and brought up there, and the wives at home had no idea!”
False husbands, warmed by their icy fire. (Jamie, 2019, p. 10)

32Jamie decides to use the Scots word “bairns” (children) to ironically emphasise the Scottish-Inuit cultural exchange. Her minimalistic postcolonial reflection captured in one exclamatory sentence is followed by the last remark, which questions not only the moral aspect of the “exchange” but also the unspoken intentions of the whalers; the theme of the False Bride and unrequited love in a Scottish ballad returns with a strange twist. But Jamie’s understatement is so elaborately constructed that apart from the theme of betrayal and lack of emotional commitment on the part of false husbands, we could also identify the possibility of sexual assault on Inuit women, a theme absent from history books or collective memory.

33One more interesting feature of a reflection appears in the concluding paragraphs. Scoresby was able to decipher the meaning of the ships in the sky, but he had no idea that his wife had died while he was exploring the Arctic territory. Jamie masterfully imagines the scene of the approaching small boat carrying the sad news. The scientific discovery of reflections, refractions, and other optic illusions is contrasted here with a grim discovery concerning Scoresby’s private life. Jamie comes full circle to what she was able to see at the beginning. The ship in the sky disappears, and due to the light at noon, the visual reflections are gone. The only “reflection” left concerns the woman on the phone: “The woman had ended her call at last. What had she known?” (Jamie, 2019, p. 10). Jamie affirms the impermanent nature of things and embraces the precious moments of insight as they appear, if only for a split second.

Hill memory and bear memory in “The Reindeer Cave”1

  • 1 This part of my article draws on two of my previous publications on Kathleen Jamie, which themselve (...)

34“The Reindeer Cave” opens Jamie’s Surfacing and forms a prelude to “A Reflection”. Here, however, the focus is not on the fast-changing cultural landscapes-mindscapes but on the long-term perspective of looking at the natural cycle of life, deep-time ecology, and a non‑anthropocentric view merging the Ice Age and the here and now on planet Earth.

35The essay is written in the first-person narration, where “you” seems to stand for all readers, to make us/them engage in the narrative in which we/they imperceptibly become agents of change. You’re sheltering in a cave, thinking about the Ice Age. From the cave-mouth: a West Highland landscape in spring, in the early Anthropocene. On the hillside opposite, six red deer have bedded down in the heather. It’s raining, a soft Highland rain, a smirr” (Jamie, 2019, p. 1). Jamie sits in “Reindeer Cave”, where an excavation in the 1920s “produced hundreds of reindeer antlers, almost all from females” (2019, p. 1). In a manner similar to “A Reflection”, Jamie provides very short paragraphs, and the shorter they get, the more dynamic narrative shifts we are facing: “You sit at the cave-mouth, looking out at the rain, thinking about the Ice Age” (2019, p. 1) is followed by “You realise you haven’t a clue. We can wait, say the hills. Take your time” (2019, p. 2). The process of thinking does not give us humans much, Jamie is saying, as some processes are beyond human thought. We have no idea of the Ice Age, but the hills surrounding the cave remember something we are incapable of remembering. Jamie gives them the power of talking and thought-processing the changes we human beings are not even able to comprehend. The notion of time here is crucial; Jamie uses the deep time perspective of looking at the changes that affect us all in the here and now, in the early Anthropocene. The idea of understanding natural, geological processes in the deep time frame is introduced by means of a reference to cave-divers, those who explore the caves in order to explain how certain processes took place: “Some years ago, cave-divers entered into this same hill by an entrance higher on the moor, by the back door, so to speak, intending to explore a system below the Bone Caves” (Jamie, 2019, p. 2), but the next paragraph offers a fresh perspective of their findings: “Deep within, the cavers found the bones of a bear. What was that like? Like reaching the memory of the hill itself” (Jamie, 2019, p. 2). “The memory of the hill” is one more instance of Jamie’s non‑anthropocentric view. In the previous quote, the hills say that they “can wait” for the humans to come up with their insights concerning Earth processes dating back to the Ice Age, but affecting our existence in the 21st century. In this quote, Jamie once again refers to the idea of (geological) memory that we human beings do not have access to. In the following fragment, Jamie dwells on the way we humans try to comprehend the processes we are now part of:

Eventually, carefully, the bones were brought to the surface [emphasis mine]. In time they were carbon-dated. They were forty-five thousand years old. A long sleep, even for a bear: sixteen million days and nights had passed in the upper world. […]
The cave-mouth the bear must have used has since been blocked by the rocky detritus of that last ice‑grip, the one which ended ten thousand years ago and created the land we know.
Ten thousand years—in the great scheme of things, we’re living through a warm bank holiday weekend.
Warm and getting warmer. (Jamie, 2019, pp. 2–3)

36Bear bones are analysed, carbon-dated, and classified as belonging to a certain age in the history of the planet, but Jamie voices doubt concerning our genuine understanding of the process as a whole. Even if we are able to place the bones in an appropriate time frame, it does not necessarily mean that we can grasp the idea of climate change which enfolds before our very eyes. I will return to this theme shortly.

37It is worth examining how Jamie interrogates the transformation of the bear bones into artefacts within the context of the National Museum of Scotland. In “A Reflection”, the “goose feet” bag loses its cultural function and significance, and in “The Reindeer Cave”, the bone items on display are taken out of their natural context, their form and essence forever changed:

The hoard of antlers […] are not as you might imagine, not majestic. Ancient fragments, they look more like broken biscuits. Also in the store, wrapped in a box, are the bear bones, including the brown-stained skull. The skull was in the cave and what was in the skull? Bear mind, bear memory [emphasis mine]—when autumn came and the nights began to freeze, he remembered [emphasis mine] where the cave-mouth was, so he padded across the glacier. (Jamie, 2019, p. 3)

38The brown-stained skull—one of the key images mentioned in Hannigan’s review—will resurface in other essays, each time with a strong emotional charge. In “The Reindeer Cave”, Jamie is not interested in the find of the bear’s skull itself; she asks about the content of the skull. And just like with the hills mentioned at the beginning of the essay, she focuses on bear mind and bear memory, things human beings do not even take into consideration. Once again, the non‑anthropocentric perspective is at work. Jamie skilfully introduces an argument concerning the planet’s rising temperatures. The previous winter was the wettest on record, with little to no snow or ice, and clear blue skies were as rare as a comet. The nights were overcast and mournful, devoid of stars. Television news broadcasts featured scenes of flooding and sandbagging, with homeowners tearfully clearing the waterlogged aftermath. Public debates raged over issues such as land management, floodplains, and deforestation. Jamie succeeds in stressing the need for environmental change in people’s behaviour:

Commentators intoned, “Is it climate change?”
Well, you thought sourly, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck. (Jamie, 2019, pp. 3–4)

39Thanks to enlarging the time frame of looking at things, which makes it possible to apply the deep time perspective, Jamie manages to connect the theme of memory belonging to a hill or a bear, in other words, to the landscape that we human beings tend to take for granted. Because of this “fine-tuning of perceptual skills”, Jamie manages to educate her readers’ attention, to make them aware of the fact that they are part of this landscape, and that they can use the memory of the land and its animal inhabitants to make this planet a better dwelling place for all.

The occupied territory (of the body) in “A Tibetan Dog”

40The dynamics identified by Manfredi (2019, p. 100) as characteristic of “fellow dwellers and fellow-transients of the liminal space of ‘neither nor’ and the ‘almost’” are thoroughly operative in Jamie’s “A Tibetan Dog”. As I have argued elsewhere (Kocot, 2023, p. 121), the “third”‑space meaning (Manfredi, 2019, p. 54) is manifested when “displaced” and “distimed” (Manfredi, 2019, p. 67). In the essay in question, the idea of temporal displacement is interlinked with the concept of territory. Territoriality acquires new meanings, as Jamie deconstructs the dichotomy between roaming and dwelling, between self and (animal) other, between the world of dreaming and being awake, between the past and the present (Kocot, 2023, p. 122; Kocot, 2026, p. 161).

41The essay begins like a fairy tale—“Far away from here, in the province of Amdo in China, there lies a town called Xiahe” (Jamie, 2019, p. 187)—but the second sentence introduces the political reality of that moment in time: “To the Tibetans, Amdo being a Tibetan province, the place is known as Labrang. It is the site of an important monastery” (2019, p. 187). Near the end of the essay, we learn that the year is 1989, and the Tibetan territory is occupied by the Chinese. In “The Wind Horse”, we are given more details of this time of political and social unrest in Lhasa, student protests in Beijing and in other Chinese cities (Kocot, 2023, p. 122; Kocot, 2026, p. 161). In “A Tibetan Dog”, Jamie focuses on a peculiar event which takes place in Labrang:

One evening many years ago, walking alone, I was about to cross that bridge from the Tibetan side when, emboldened by dusk, a little terrier came rushing out and nipped my calf. I didn’t see it coming; the first I knew was the sensation: “nip” is the very word. I felt a quick pain, so spun round to see the creature already scarpering back among the houses, even as I yelled. I think I threw a stone. The brute had rushed out specially to bite me, a foreigner. (Jamie, 2019, pp. 187–188)

42Disturbed and angered by the incident, Jamie recounts her experience to her travel companion, Sean, and a young Italian woman named Elena. While neither character seems particularly affected by the account, Elena notes that the Tibetans love dogs and believe that the dogs are the reincarnations of lamas who “didn’t make the grade” (Jamie, 2019, p. 188)—a remark that later proves significant, resurfacing in the latter part of the essay.

43The events in the following section of the essay take place twenty-five years later, during Jamie’s treatment for cancer. What connects the two parts of one story is the theme of a territory. This time, Jamie speaks of the territory of the body and how it fights its enemy, cancer. Another link is the motif of anger and bewilderment:

We try on and discard different attitudes to see if they fit and none do, then leave them lying around to kick at, like a teenager her clothes. Grief and grace. Bewilderment. A pious gratitude for the life we’ve had and a struggle to remain composed and then the rage: why the actual fuck should I remain composed? Then, calm. Why feel anything? It’s all in the lap of the gods. (Jamie, 2019, p. 189)

44In this time of restlessness, the dog from the past reemerges; however, as I argue elsewhere, despite the “vividness” of its image, determining the reality of its presence remains highly ambiguous. This ambiguity arises from the increasingly blurred boundary between the realms of wakefulness and dreaming (Kocot, 2023, p. 123; Kocot, 2026, p. 163). “In the dream I was walking along a busy street when suddenly I felt a hard pinch on my left calf. Twisting round, I saw a small dog in the act of biting my leg” (Jamie, 2019, p. 189). The dog appears to wait until visual recognition is achieved—holding the narrator’s gaze—before releasing its grip, turning away, and trotting off. Upon waking, the dream remains vividly present—the tactile memory of the bite and the intensity of the dog’s gaze are particularly salient. However, what stands out most is the affective transformation the dream produces: a sense of relief and unexpected reassurance emerges. The narrator perceives this dream event as signalling not imminent death from her illness, but rather a momentary affliction—being “nipped” rather than claimed—followed by release.

45However improbable it may appear, the dog from the past and the dog encountered in the dream constitute a singular, unified presence: “And that dog! It was the same Tibetan mutt, utterly forgotten until now, twenty-five years later” (Jamie, 2019, p. 189). The bodily sensation of being nipped—both in the dream and in the event that occurred twenty-five years earlier—collapses into a singular, unified experience (Kocot, 2023, p. 124; Kocot, 2026, p. 164): “The dream-nip was the very sensation I felt then, in the same place” (Jamie, 2019, p. 189). Jamie obviously finds it hard to understand this peculiar phenomenon in rational terms: “How funny, to think my subconscious must have waited till I’d fallen asleep, then gone rummaging through a million long-lost memories to find an image it could craft into a message I would wake from and understand” (Jamie, 2019, pp. 189–190). But just like in “A Reflection”, she acknowledges the reality of the dream, and the role of the lama‑dog in Labrang (Kocot, 2023, p. 124; Kocot, 2026, p. 164):

Now that it’s all over, it pleases me to imagine that the lama‑dog knew what it was doing back in 1989, that it was laying down an act of kindness, and that I’d regret the stone-throwing and cast a blessing after its memory instead. I’d thank it for becoming that dream-metaphor trawled up to reassure me in an hour of need. (Jamie, 2019, p. 190)

46Significantly, the dream experience prompts Jamie to return to her notes on the long-forgotten events in Tibet. “Eventually I cleared my desk and cleared my mind as much as possible”, she writes, “the better to immerse myself and remember the town of Xiahe” (Jamie, 2019, p. 191). In the process of revisiting these materials, she discovers an old notebook containing a postcard depicting a thangka—a Tibetan Buddhist painting—of the Buddha Shakyamuni. The notebook emerges as a liminal object, situated within what might be described as an interstitial temporal space: “a reaching out to a future self, the future self of next week or half a lifetime” (Jamie, 2019, p. 192). While Jamie’s re‑engagement with the past is initially motivated by a desire to recover clarity regarding her time in Tibet, she simultaneously foregrounds the epistemological value of uncertainty and indeterminacy: “I was the utterly unimagined future person the notes had been made for, although I didn’t know it back then” (Jamie, 2019, p. 192; Kocot, 2023, p. 124; Kocot, 2026, pp. 164–165). This theme of “not knowing” recurs in her reflection on the thangka itself: upon seeing the card once more, the narrator vaguely recalls purchasing it from a street stall, unaware of its meaning, yet drawn to the exotic appeal of the image (Jamie, 2019, p. 192).

47The picture of the thangka opens the essay, and we can appreciate its beauty, even if only in black and white. It features one of the greatest miracles performed by the Buddha, known as The Miracle at Sravasti. The event is narrated in the Dhammapadattakatha (the Pali account) and in the Pratiharya-sutra (Sanskrit version). As I have argued elsewhere, in her description of the thangka, Jamie discusses mostly colours and the symbolic representation of the Buddha. The card depicts Shakyamuni, characterised by his blue hair and elongated earlobes, seated in a lotus posture, draped in ceremonial robes. He is positioned above a host of fiery demons, with the composition conveying a sense of ethereal suspension. “Amid calm yet sumptuous shades of blue and orange, he represents perfected wisdom, all‑compassion” (Jamie, 2019, p. 193).

48For some reason, Jamie decides not to explore the symbolic details of the thangka, probably because at the time of buying the card, it was just an exotic object, a souvenir. Similarly to what happens in “A Reflection” and “The Reindeer Cave”, she also emphasises the issue of not knowing: “It was late winter as I wrote, the sky darkening the window in the afternoons. What emerged were questions, to which I still have no answer” (Jamie, 2019, p. 193). The idea of letting go of intellectual understanding resurfaces once again in the last two paragraphs:

I deliberately avoided the Internet, and its unnuanced, memory-crushing, what-actually-happened gobbets of “information.” No dream‑dogs there.
Perfected wisdom, all‑compassion. I wonder where Elena is now. (Jamie, 2019, p. 193)

49The affirmation of dream-dogs and their messages for the body-mind, along with the embrace of the ancient Buddhist ideal of “perfected wisdom, all‑compassion”, seems to be Jamie’s message not only for her future self, but also for the readers keen on deciphering Jamie’s understatements. Perhaps knowing and understanding that we are habitually after is not what matters most, Jamie seems to be saying; perhaps our most difficult challenge is just to be in touch with what we are feeling towards ourselves and others.

Conclusion

50“You are placed in landscape, you are placed in time” (Jamie, 2012, p. 71). These words end “A Woman in the Field”, one of Jamie’s essays in a collection entitled Sightlines. As Monika Szuba aptly notes, the statement “echoes the work of a number of scholars concerned with the historicity of place who draw parallels between time and landscape” (Szuba, 2022, p. 100). One of these scholars is Tim Ingold, whose many insights have shed new light on the issues of landscapes and mindscapes discussed in this article. Jamie’s subtle and dynamic relationship with the landscape is articulated through three distinct yet complementary perspectives, each contributing to a cohesive understanding of her engagement with place. Central to all three is a profound sense of interconnectedness among all living beings—an interconnectedness that extends beyond the present to include the memory and enduring presence of those who are no longer alive.

51Discussing Lovelock’s Gaia Hypothesis, Ingold says:

In dwelling in the world, we do not act upon it, or do things to it; rather we move along with it. Our actions do not transform the world, they are part and parcel of the world transforming itself. And that is just another way of saying that they belong to time. (Ingold, 1993, p. 164).

52In Jamie’s essays, time is conceptualised as a spiral rather than a linear progression, a structure that renders the experience of moving through it all the more complex and compelling. In Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description, Ingold argues that “to tell, in short, is not to represent the world but to trace a path through it that others can follow” (Ingold, 2011, p. 162). By reading Jamie’s essays, the readers open new ways of seeing the landscapes, they enter new territories and pathways of (collective) memory.

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Bibliographie

Dósa Attila, 2009, “Kathleen Jamie: More than Human”, Beyond Identity: New Horizons in Modern Scottish Poetry, Amsterdam, Rodopi, pp. 135–146.

Falconer Rachel, 2015, “Midlife Music: The Overhaul and Frissure”, in R. Falconer (ed.), Kathleen Jamie: Essays and Poems on Her Work, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, pp. 156–167.

Gairn Louisa, 2015, “’Connective Leaps’: Sightlines and The Overhaul”, in R. Falconer (ed.), Kathleen Jamie: Essays and Poems on Her Work, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, pp. 134–145.

Gairn Louisa, 2008, Ecology and Modern Scottish Literature, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press.

Garavelli Dani, 2019 (7 September), “Kathleen Jamie: ‘I’m Not an Emotional Person’”, The Herald, available on <www.heraldscotland.com/life_style/arts_ents/17875856.kathleen-jamie-im-not-emotional-person/> (accessed 20 January 2025).

Hannigan Tim, 2019 (10 September), “‘Surfacing’ by Kathleen Jamie”, Asian Review of Books, available on <https://asianreviewofbooks.com/content/surfacing-by-kathleen-jamie/> (accessed 20 January 2025).

Ingold Tim, 2011, Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description, London / New York, Routledge.

Ingold Tim, 1993 (October), “The Temporality of the Landscape”, World Archaeology, vol. 25, no. 2, pp. 152–174.

Ingold Tim, 2000, The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill, London, Routledge.

Jamie Kathleen, 2002 (6 June), “Diary”, London Review of Books, vol. 24, no. 11.

Jamie Kathleen, 2005 (18 June), “In the nature of things”, interview by Kirsty Scott, The Guardian, available on <www.theguardian.com/books/2005/jun/18/featuresreviews.guardianreview15> (accessed 20 January 2025).

Jamie Kathleen, 2019, Surfacing, illustrated edition, London, Sort of Books.

Jamie Kathleen, 2012 (8 June), “The Scottish Review of Books Interview: Kathleen Jamie”, interview by Rosemary Goring, Scottish Review of Books, available on <www.scottishreviewofbooks.org/2012/06/the-srb-interview-kathleen-jamie/> (accessed 20 January 2025).

Kocot Monika, 2023, “Liminality and I‑betweenness in Kathleen Jamie’s Surfacing”, Studia Litteraria Universitatis Iagellonicae Cracoviensis, vol. 18, no. 2, pp. 115–127, available on <https://doi.org/10.4467/20843933ST.23.013.18183>.

Kocot Monika, 2026, “Moving between Modes. Robert Macfarlane’s and Kathleen Jamie’s Journeys on Foot and in Time”, in T. Hannigan & S. Ounoughi (eds), Writing on the Move: Form, Practice and (Im)mobility in Nineteenth and Twenty-First-Century Travel Writing, Oxford / New York, Berghahn (pp. 150–169).

Lawrence Faith, 2015, “A Poetics of Listening”, in R. Falconer (ed.), Kathleen Jamie: Essays and Poems on Her Work, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, pp. 10–20.

Mackay Peter, “‘The Tilt from One Parish to Another’: The Tree House and Findings”, in R. Falconer (ed.), Kathleen Jamie: Essays and Poems on Her Work, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, pp. 84–92.

Manfredi Camille, 2019, Nature and Space in Contemporary Nature and Art, Cham, Palgrave Macmillan, available on <https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-18760-6>.

Massie Allan, 2019 (11 September), “Book review: Surfacing, by Kathleen Jamie”, The Scotsman, available on <www.scotsman.com/arts-and-culture/books/book-review-surfacing-kathleen-jamie-1407999> (accessed 20 January 2025).

McGuire Matt, 2009, “Kathleen Jamie”, in M. McGuire & C. Nicholson (eds), The Edinburgh Companion to Contemporary Scottish Poetry, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, pp. 141–153.

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Schama Simon, 1995, Landscape and Memory, London, HarperCollins.

Szuba Monika, 2019, Contemporary Scottish Poetry and the Natural World. Burnside, Jamie, Robertson and White, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press.

Szuba Monika, 2023, Landscape Poetics. Scottish Textual Practice, 1928–Present, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press.

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Notes

1 This part of my article draws on two of my previous publications on Kathleen Jamie, which themselves emerged from work initially conducted as part of the Writing on the Move project.

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Référence électronique

Monika Kocot, « On Landscapes-Mindscapes and Memory in Kathleen Jamie’s Surfacing »Études écossaises [En ligne], 25 | 2026, mis en ligne le 09 avril 2026, consulté le 12 juin 2026. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/etudesecossaises/6976 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/161mj

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Auteur

Monika Kocot

University of Lodz, Poland
monika.kocot@uni.lodz.pl
 
Monika Kocot, PhD, is Assistant Professor in the Department of British Literature and Culture at the University of Łódź, Poland. She is the author of Playing Games of Sense in Edwin Morgan’s Writing (2016) and co‑editor of Języki (pop)kultury w literaturze, mediachifilmie (2015), Nietylko Ishiguro: Szkice o literaturzeanglojęzycznej w Polsce (2019) and Moving between Modes: Papers in Intersemiotic Translation; In Memoriam Professor Alina Kwiatkowska (2020). She has published articles on contemporary Scottish poetry and prose, as well as Native American writing. She is a member of the Association for Cultural Studies, the Association for Scottish Literary Studies, the Scottish Centre for Geopoetics and the Polish Cognitive Linguistics Association. She is the Vice President of the K. K. Baczynski Literary Society.
 
Monika Kocot, est docteure et professeure adjointe au Département de littérature et culture britannique de l’Université de Łódź, en Pologne. Elle est l’autrice de Playing Games of Sense in Edwin Morgan’s Writing (2016) et co‑éditrice de Języki (pop)kultury w literaturze, mediach i filmie (2015), Nietylko Ishiguro: Szkice o literaturze anglojęzycznej w Polsce (2019) et Moving between Modes: Papers in Intersemiotic Translation; In Memoriam Professor Alina Kwiatkowska (2020). Elle a publié des articles sur la poésie et la prose écossaises contemporaines, ainsi que sur la littérature amérindienne. Elle est membre de l’Association for Cultural Studies, de l’Association for Scottish Literary Studies, du Scottish Centre for Geopoetics et de la Polish Cognitive Linguistics Association. Elle est vice-présidente de la K. K. Baczyński Literary Society.

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