I learned that even at my station in life, living in Scotland has been important to me in understanding more about who I am and what I am yet meant to be.

I learned that it is possible to actually love a city, to walk around in it at night and feel something stirring your soul followed by a bliss that has come upon you unexpectedly. 

I learned that what I love most about Scotland is its people—their wit, their pluck, and their inclusiveness.  

I learned that a simple life can often be a good life. 

I learned that it is liberating and healthy to be free of having to own an automobile. When friends have asked what I liked most about living in Edinburgh, they are sometimes surprised that this factor is one of the first ones that I mention.  

I learned that I love the creative process more than ever, and that it can be mysterious, magical, and confounding.   

I learned more about language and its limitations. Someone close to me said recently that she did not understand why anyone liked poetry. It occurred to me that the sort of language necessary to convey our deepest feelings of love and loss often cannot be fully expressed in prose. These parts of life’s experiences, which are fairly universal, require a special intensity of language borne out of the recognition that life is short, and therefore such intensity is justified.  

I learned that I love the company of post-graduates like the ones that my wife studied with at New College. I spent a significant amount of my leisure time here with people at least half of my age. I felt privileged to have been able to associate with them. I learned more about whisky, craft beer, and theology from being in their company than they will ever know. I found it enormously stimulating to hear them dig into to weighty matters of Christian scholarship. A tip of the hat to these talented young thinkers. I greet them at the threshold of what I believe will be prosperous, and, in some cases, brilliant careers.  

I learned that even in a city like Edinburgh, with its soul-crushing beauty, life can be tough, and sometimes its external exquisiteness serves only to remind us of how far away we are from such sublimity in our interior world-the one where we live out most of our lives.   

I learned that writing a good song is very difficult, at least for me. I have experienced points of epiphany, but most of the process involves diligence, revision, and hard work.

I learned that marketing and age do not add up to a good whisky.  

I learned the truth of the adage that kit transcends weather. A good waterproof coat, merino wool liners, a scarf, a decent cap, and waterproof shoes—these will get you through most situations. And don’t forget your hot water bottle, which is essential and quite underrated.  

I learned that a sign that you are becoming Scottish is when you find yourself routinely talking about the weather. By the way, what is the difference between Scottish summers and Scottish winters? Answer: the rain is warmer during Scottish summers!

I learned that reading about pop music gives me a guilty pleasure.  

I learned that staying connected to a musical instrument is something that I need and will probably never outgrow.  

I learned that the mental process of leaving a place does not begin when one boards a bus, train, or jet plane. It starts when we begin to look ahead and gradually accept that there will inevitably come a day when we must go.

I learned that I take a good deal of pride and pleasure in watching my daughter grow as an artist, a businesswoman, and an individual.  

I learned that I love my wife more than ever, and that I want to spend the rest of my days with her. 

I learned that I will likely never again love a city as I have loved Edinburgh.  Goodbye dear,  dear city—I’ll see you in my dreams.