What’s Wrong With Day-Dreaming

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I was the girl who sat behind the desk, my eyes lost in the grand designs of clouds.  The wisps of white fluffy bewitched me. Landscapes of endless forests, dragons and white wolves seduced me to enter re-imagined worlds.  The clatter of a tossed duster would interrupt my wandering thoughts and brought me back to the moment.  There was to be no day-dreaming in class.

My days of mind wandering are not confined to childhood. I still day-dream.   At this stage in my life I have come to accept that is a part of my natural personality.  I am adamant that it is a personality mode and despite what people including some psychologists maintain, it is not merely a bad habit to modify nor an escape mechanism.

It is a need like eating and sleeping.   Yes, on many occasions I tried to refrain from entering my world of fantasy but it always ended up in failure.   

I believe day-dreaming offers an opportunity to disengage for a short period of time. I am unable to cope with the continual relay of words after words.  

From an early age I loved nothing more than to let my eyes wander through beautiful illustrations in books.  I was awe struck by the colour, the characters and the imagined world.  I preferred comic books to books although I did read quite a few of the classics.   I would sit for several hours reading one comic. 

Away back then I don’t think there was much awareness of the introvert personality.  If there were, well it certainly cruised over my teachers and parent’s heads.   Despite not being a quiet person, I felt pushed to participate in anything that would ‘get me out my shell’.  And don’t mention being a team player.

I often sensed deep concern for me in that it was unnatural to want to find a quiet place and be content in one’s own company.   I saw the relief in my mother when I enrolled at a local dance school.  She wasn’t aware that dance also fulfilled my love of re-imagined worlds.  Dance allowed me to tell stories through movement.  I liked nothing better than to feel and then express the emotions in the music.  

There seems to be this common narrative that a well adjusted person has to have a good network of people, enjoy socializing, and be gregarious.  In this capitalist world, we need to turn ourselves into a brand and then be productive in selling oneself to advance the career ladder.  I truly find this difficult and the thought of doing so totally phases me out.  

Moreover, I have to ask – How often, is the solitary person depicted as psychologically or socially inadequate and this can be seen in films and literary works. The question I ask – why has this narrative has taken hold in society what purpose does it serve.  From my viewpoint this completely clashes with the contrasting narrative of you are enough so it is important to be yourself and own your self-confidence.   If the latter is the case then it would appear I was confidently being myself in my younger years.

My younger self was never ever in a shell.  I admit I liked time alone but I had friends.   OK, I only had two very close friends who I met through our mutual love of dance but I had great conversation with different people in each class at school.   I just didn’t have the time to give what it takes to be a decent friend to more than two people.   The fact is that lengthy times in group settings drains me.  The noise is overwhelming and words get lost in each other resulting in nothing other than a hollow sounding din.

So let me take you back to 1970.  Imagine, if you can a sky slate grey and blasts of icy cold shards banging against the window.  The upper deck of the bus was dank and the smoke stuck in hair and eyebrows.  Now, imagine, the most wonderful thing; someone at the front with a radio and out comes a song. It captivates my whole being.  It lures me onto my feet the rhythm bewitches me. I am dancing. The song was All Right Now by Free.

There was no ill intention on my part whatsoever, I was happy despite the ‘dreich’ day lost in the song but the bus conductor grabbed me by the shoulder and tossed me off the bus as if I had committed some heinous act.   Dancing on the upper deck of a bus is not the action of someone who is in a shell.  

I could further enquire why dancing in public is frowned upon.  Why should we only boogie in a club or dance hall.   However, that’s a topic for another day if I feel so inclined.  Oh and for the record, I wasn’t causing a nuisance by leaping down the aisle, I remained in the back row.  

Unfortunately, due to being conditioned into  extroversion I foolishly tried to be the life and soul of the party. 

Of course, I failed miserably.  In doing so I ended up living a chaotic lifestyle for quite an extensive time.  Foolishly, I trapped myself in the clutches of people that sucked the life from me and maintaining such a persona gave mixed messages and I became ill.   In fact I ended up agoraphobic.

Moreover, the body language I  presented was rather hostile as I acted in a contrived manner.   I believe I lost a lot in the process.  I would have fared better if I allowed my natural personality to come through.   In my defence, I would have to say that even if the weird was implicated rather than said, it still played a negative factor upon my life. 

Now after a long rocky road I have eventually come into my own and I have chosen to live a quiet and simple life.  I still day-dream.  There are times when I feel somewhat saddened by the years I wasted. 

The narrative my parents, teachers and community placed over me was detrimental to my well-being. It seeped into my mind and in an attempt to resist I ended up all tangled up in ropes of wrong decisions.  Rather than encouraging me to go to art college, I was corralled into subjects that would get me a proper job.  Of course, I failed miserable and this consolidated me as being labeled  thick.   It was only in recent years that I managed to rip that label off.  

To be continued.

Thank You For Your Advice – But.

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Despite having arrived at my senior years of life, it has to be said that I still have people who feel the need to give me advice.  It is well-intentioned, they are concerned, and it’s for my benefit. of course.

However, I have become weary with their assumptions that my actions are not well thought out.  Perhaps my action triggers something deep within because from my viewpoint their advice is often cocooned with fear.  At this point, I would like to say that although my decisions may seem unwise, on every occasion I probe and strategize every aspect as much as it is feasible to do so.    

Often, it seems that the advice givers overlook that I am a grandmother, mother, four  time university graduate, with life experience.   I’ve courted divorce, relationship break-ups, self-employment, homelessness, abuse, violence, ill health and agoraphobia.   I unquestionably don’t want to cause further injury nor distress to myself so I am careful to consider good self-care strategies in everything.  I am not a silly little girl who blindly takes risks.  Perhaps I don’t want to surrender to age by quietly slipping into my cocoa but I am undeniably careful in the risk factors.  Nowadays, I have learned not to announce my intentions beforehand,  I believe it is the wisest thing to do.   It is certainly the path of the least stress.

I only told a couple of close friends that I was going to spend three months on Achill Island in Co. Mayo.  Achill Island lies on the north-west coast of Ireland. I did not mention to anyone but them that I was going to a place where I knew no-one and I was going to stay in a caravan by a blanket bog.  Furthermore I was going to do this in winter.  I fully understood the reactions that would blast my already tumultuous mind if I hadn’t restricted who I told.  

‘Are you mad’, ‘It’s not safe’,  ‘You can’t run away from problems.’  

All the familiar and negative clichés would come my way and would further weigh me down.  I already felt wretched.  I didn’t need further anguish.

When I made the decision to spend time in Achill Island, I was totally exhausted.  As an extreme introvert, an essential aspect of my well-being is peace and quiet.  Unfortunately, my neighbour who lived downstairs did not have the same view.  He liked to play his music until 5am and he liked to play it loud.  I was privy to this noise for over two years.   Day by day, I became more and more pitiful as my body ached for quiet moments just so I could function.   I became somewhat withdrawn, irritable and I eventually slumped into ill health.   No matter what action, my neighbour  continued to play his music.   It got to a stage where I put my hands up into the air and shouted.

‘That’s it.  I am gone.’

In many ways my initial decision to leave was like a bandage in the primary stage of injury designed only to stop the flow of blood.  There is a housing crisis here in Ireland, and it turned out that I could only find temporary accommodation for eight weeks.   Yes, drastic it would seem but the temporary accommodation had the one thing I craved – quietness.  But it posed the question where will I go after the eight weeks had come to closure.

So there I was in The Sheep’s Head, in West Cork, a place where I found solace from the thumping thuds of unwanted music.  As I journeyed the twelve minute walk to the bus stop each morning, the landscape whispered to my heart.  I felt free and it was then that I made the decision to spend some time away from the chattering sound-bytes of a society that won’t stop shouting. 

‘You should do this.’  ‘If I were you, I would …   …   …’

I desired space to spend time with my own thoughts.  It is such a shame that silence is in short supply in our fast pace modern age.   Indeed, I have heard that some people fear it and some people can’t sit by themselves in stillness.  Please note I am not making judgment here, but would like to express that society bombards us with so many types of competing noise and in our socialization  it has seeped into our psyche resulting in discomfort when one is faced without it.  

I am of the opinion that one needs silence and one needs boredom, it is there that ideas and creativity peculate.  This spell of silence and boredom is comparable to the season of winter.  The landscape may seem barren but underneath the soil, life is working to come into fruition.  It is like that with silence and boredom an idea starts to form, like shapes emerging in a landscape when the fog starts to fade.

Of course, as soon as I made my first cup of tea in my new winter abode, possibly rather rashly I made an announcement.   I proclaimed on Facebook that I was in Achill Island and I was living in a caravan.    My core group of Facebook friends were more than positive and encouraging.  However, I did receive a couple of messages from a few individuals who stated that they were concerned.  Then a week later, I made a short podcast of myself walking in the bog.   The podcast was inadvertently deceiving; in that it appeared that I was in situ in the middle of nowhere.  Yes my mobile home of that time was remote but there were a few houses further up the road.  I was alerted by the same people who had messaged earlier that they were afraid on my behalf.  In fact someone actually accused me of being totally mad.  

I have since moved to the edge of a village. I chose to stay in Achill and found a place that is so me. I am far enough away for peace and quiet.  

I am happy to say that  I survived my experience. Unfortunately, I had to cut my stay short because there were problems with the electrics but that only adds to the experience.

I have to say that it was certainly an invaluable experience, one which I certainly benefitted from.   It was physical and it was emotional; and it gave me the opportunity to untangle the knots which bound me and then reappraise.  I discovered that my identity was so wrapped up with productivity.  I’m not advocating laziness here, but simply that I lost sight of the fact that I am enough in myself and worthy without any endeavour.  In addition, I deceived myself by distraction in order to cloak past wounds that had festered in my heart.  In that tiny caravan I had the time and space to heal.  I can assure you that when one casts their eyes on the vastness of the night sky with its scattering of stars, a lonely bog nearby everything and I mean everything becomes insignificant. I was reminded of my immortality and it was in that mindset I decided that I was not going to waste valuable time holding on to the hurts of my past nor spend another moment concerned with what other people think.     

My confidence grew as each day passed.  I had no option but to rely on God.  There was no-one I could turn to but Him to assist with any challenge.  My tired body was reinforced by the silence bringing strength to my bones,  and my mind slowed down attuned to the natural rhythm of landscape.  

It was certainly the wisest action not to announce my plans to spend three months in a wilderness setting.   I can guarantee you that my head would be nipped by people telling me, that my plans were unwise.   Perhaps, I would have listened and I may have been swayed to stay in West Cork.

I am grateful that I made the decision to come to Achill Island.  I have a lovely cosy place in which it is a joy to be.   I have spent the time since I moved in resting, reading and watching some podcasts.   After all three moves since September 28 with storms and trying to navigate life without electricity spent a lot of my energy.  In addition to the tiredness gained by working through emotions which arise like swirling mist, in the process of  letting go the past hurts and betrayal. There is also the relief now removed from my fearful mind, in that I have actually found a shelter and sanctuary.

It is not the first time that I have had a tsunami of advice declaring that I am making the wrong decision and I don’t suppose it shall be the last.   I can  certainly say through the passing of  time that they were wrong and it would have definitely been a mistake to listen and change my plans.    

Twenty five years ago, I was advised not to move into Govanhill, an area of Glasgow because in their minds they considered it rough and run down.  I am so grateful that I ignored the naysayers because if I hadn’t I would not have had a fantastic three years living there which included being party to The Pool Occupation which culminated in me being commissioned to create a graphic story for a comic.  In addition to being part of The Irish Heritage Group and The Little Donegal Project.  I shall write more about this in a future blog post. 

Ten years ago, I was also advised by a couple of very vocal individuals that my Digital Arts in the Humanities Masters was ‘just  too much for me’ and I should drop out.  They believed my health would suffer if I continued.    I am also glad that I ignored their advice.   Yes, I admit, I struggled but in that struggle I achieved  a 2.1 grade in my masters.  It may not be the desired ‘First’ but I am rather proud of my achievement as it was my venture into topics that were akin to virgin territory.  I am more than happy that I learned to use Illustrator and this achievement alone sweetened my struggle.   And here is the rub if I had quit it would have been somewhat unlikely that I would be creating comics today.  

As I write I am sitting in my warm bed, cosy with my electric blanket and cup of tea beside me glancing through my window at the rain.  It’s rather comforting and there are moments when tears want to tumble down from my eyes.  Those tears are of joy and there’s  a deep gratitude in them that I no longer have to listen to noise, the belching shrieks of frenzied traffic and revelers leaving the pub in the wee small hours.   The landscape holds mystery and cradles stories and excitement is upon me because I wish to explore every nook and crannie of the wonders in this very interesting island that lies on the Wild Atlantic.  

Until next time.

Wrestling with the Unfamiliar

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Having a cup of hot chocolate in Galway

A scudding grey cloud hovered around me on the journey from Achill Island to Galway. For, the first time since I arrived in Ireland twenty two years ago and much to my astonishment I missed the city of Glasgow.  Thus, I was downhearted despite the promise of spending Christmas in Galway.

It has to be said that in recent years I became moderately untouched by my visits to Glasgow, becoming somewhat detached and if I am honest, sorrow often came upon me as the city was no longer familiar to me.  I often felt alone, a stranger walking in alien landscape.  There are  few recognizable faces, my family and friends having either moved on and as is the way in this life, some friends are no longer alive.   

As I travelled to Galway, there was a hollow in my heart and maybe I was trying to fill it with the re-creation of memories. My memories give comfort and assist me in making sense of my life. There were few passengers on the coach and as I moved with the movement of the wheels over the road, it afforded me the opportunity to reflect back.  Oh how, I desired to go to the local church, a church that was my home for several years.   I recalled the many enjoyable Christmas Eve Night Service, me with my croaking voice singing carols, a joy to me but perhaps not to those by me. Memories of a sanctuary dimmed, a lush green tree, with ribbons of fairy lights and dangling sparkling baubles.

Ah the warmth of a memory rekindled. Away back in my bygone days, maybe Christmas 1995, I recalled walking home from the Christmas Eve service. The night was surprisingly mild and the air especially restful.  My journey home was interrupted by Ian who bounded over to me and surprised me with a beautiful and unexpected gift. A gift which unlocked the door into a relationship.  Two years, shy of one month, our relationship had turned sour.  Nowadays, it seems another lifetime and I often wonder where he is now.

I was travelling to Galway to reconnect with my good friend Dave, someone who I have known for at least twenty years and I shall be in the familiar surrounds of Galway.  This will be a new recollection that I can place into my memory satchel.

As Dave and I watched TV, ate lunch and chatted together, I began to become aware that I wasn’t really missing Glasgow. Somewhere in the deep moments of  honest conversations, it became evident that I was yearning for familiarity – the old Christmas of the past.  Despite liking Achill Island I had nonetheless uprooted myself to a place where I knew no one, thus everything is unfamiliar.  Perhaps the human condition requires the comfort of some familiarity especially in older age.  Therefore, the curse of the restless spirit which allows no space for consolidating roots and with the passing of time, there is no anchor of familiarity.  

It isn’t just the absence of friends, it’s those precious moments of connection.  For example, it’s the friendly remarks to the bus driver who knows one’s name due to the fact that you have journeyed on his/her bus for at least twelve years. It is there in is the recognizable faces of the library staff who know you because one is a frequent library user and have facilitated workshops and joined various groups held in the library. It is just that sense of familiarity, of feet walking on well tread pavements, passing acquainted faces.

Christmas in Galway turned out to be wonderful and I enjoyed every moment.  Three wonderful days then:-

As soon as I arrived home, discovering that there was no electricity nearly brought me to tears.  I stumbled through the pitch blackness to locate candles, walking into the corner of the fridge freezer. The thump to the side of my head stunned me into silence.  The mobile was steely cold which caused my body to shiver and the dank air stuck on my hair and eyebrows.    Poor me! I lamented.  All I thought about was leaving this dark nightmare, packing up all my possessions and going back, but then I really didn’t want to go back. Deep within my heart I wanted to explore Achill further. I wanted to stay.   

With a sense of defeat I stumbled onto the sofa and cocooned myself with the duvet.   Oh why, I wailed, could I not come home and things be fine?  And the pity party carried on with – why can’t anything go right for me? And so, the night ahead lay long and endless. The wind in Achill is determined in its roaring, it is loud and incessant.  In my dejected mood, I became angered and desired to shout, ‘Be Quiet’ but of course that would be a fruitless endeavour.  In reality it wasn’t the storm blowing outside, it was the squall in my head that I truly desired to calm. 

As I lay in the shadows of the night, faces of significant people of my past appeared before my eyes.  My childhood friend, Megsey with her strawberry blonde feather cut and the whiff of gingham perfume caused a tear to prick my cheek.  Then in the quietness of the ‘what if’ night I wondered what would have been if I had kept in touch with her.  Ah, the ‘what if‘ night, a concept which I am rather familiar with.

Then my memories are ruthlessly broken by the bleakness of bemoaning – ‘why did I come to Achill in winter?   Perhaps, if truth be told I was running away, sprinting towards the attempt to discover something which doesn’t exist.  Perhaps, it’s a natural stage of approaching one’s elder years.  I came because strange as it may seem, that determined wind had my name in it. I desired time away to consider my future without the safety net of familiarity.

As the wood stove offered its gift of warmth and the flickering candle gave calm, I eased into the night.  My eyes gazed upwards to the wine gum blue sky, a breath-taking sight, I was never privy to in Ballydehob. It tugs my heart and I am reminded that I am truly blessed to be in Achill.  Time will pass and soon the island will become familiar.

As each minute ticked I began to experience that having no electricity blocked out the incessant chattering of the outside world. No television, no film networks, no Facebook. I was no longer party to the mind thumping words breathed by others.  I had freedom to think without interruption and found that without all the sound bytes which continually bombard us, my sense of authentic self kicked in.

I spent five days with no electricity and I can’t believe that I am reporting that it was actually a positive experience, one which gained so much knowledge from. My electricity is back on and one thing I am certain of is that I am grateful for being able to switch on a light.

Until next time.

Dark Mountain – I Belong Here

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The rain fell, heavy and determined and as my eyes scanned the wind scoured moor I became aware that it would be all too easy to trespass into legend.  After all, legends are made by the telling and retelling of tales over and over,  until they become stuck in time.  The whole landscape is laced with stories and I am especially intrigued by the character, the Hawk of Achill.  His presence in story is firmly located on Achill and I hope that the island would give me permission to place him in my story.

My boots slapped along the wind-scoured path to ‘Sliabh Dorcha’,(the dark mountain).  Each stone on the path had that look, as if it had come from the back of a rock dragon.   My eyes fixed on the mountain, chiseled by the cold, a beating pulse of the land.  I could taste the dampness in the air as the rain left the broody blue sky.   

I have to state at this point that there is a mountain which I can view from my mobile home but it is not named Sliabh Dorcha.  However, in my re-imagined world of story, fiction becomes reality.  The mountain inspired a setting that I was happy with and once I had that the next stage was to bring in a character or two.  As I dawdled I wondered how the Hawk of Achill would play out in my tale.   

Every step I took further unlocked the door of my imagination.  I began to envisage The Hawk, as though I was watching a fantasy film; old and grey, his wings unfurled, commanding the shale coloured sky. 

There is an old Irish tale where the old hawk has a conversation with Fintan MacBochra, a man who had the tongue of birds and according to myth the first man who settled in Ireland.  More to be told of that tale in a future blog post and this story has a Cork connection.

Despite, the air chilling my bones, happiness was upon me and my feet began to bop along the path. It has been a while since I felt this good.  In my latter days of living in West Cork I existed and lived life with a sullen and downcast body and a face that did not smile.  I had lost all joy and upon reflection there were times when I was accompanied by deep despair.

I became lonely without a story to warm my heart.  Fear came upon me as I began to become concerned that no story would ever tap me on my shoulder giving me permission to tell it.  Were my storytelling days to be resigned to the past? I began to withdraw in an unhealthy manner, and as I did so I began to feel totally abandoned.  

However, as soon as I stepped into Achill, the wind muttered, spoke and roared all kinds of stories. It was as though new life was breathed into my bones bringing me hope and joy.  I feel that I have a place here in Achill and there is a strong sense of belonging. I love the way the wind is always in dialogue with the moors and Clew Bay.  I am always in awe of the beauty which surrounds me.  The peat bogs and moors give out the vibe of aloofness, shadowy mists holding secrets and in the mid winter light I could almost believe that eyes pursue me as I walk by.  I am blessed to be living here.  

As I walked, a thought came bounding in my head.  A reflection I just could not shake off.   My steps slowed down, as It came to me how nature acts like a soothing balm to the mind, body and soul.   I became aware how essential untamed wild places are and I am of the opinion that they are gifted to the human race by God for our well-being.

In our fast paced frenzied world, the wild places are devoured and plundered to satisfy the insatiable appetite of those who perceive nature as nothing more than something to dominate for selfish gain.  A narrative has been created that nature is there to serve us and does so only on a profit basis rather than acknowledging that wild places need good custodianship for our well-being.  As I walked I wondered whether the destruction of wild places has a motive at its core in that it is designed to keep us stressed and disconnected.

I value wild places and as I stated earlier I view nature as a gift from God. If we lack good guardianship it can be likened to giving someone a gift,  but then finding out at a later stage that the person took no care of it whatsoever by allowing it to became soiled and torn.  The question I have to pose are we ripping up a beautiful gift from God? 

Sadness hovered around my heart as I went on to pose a personal question – am I happy with what I have or do I want to keep pedaling the consumerist bandwagon in the pursuit of acquiring goods that will only tarnish with time.

Despite residing in a mobile home it has to be said that I am happy.  I have very little possessions but I have all I need to live happily. I have a cosy space  where I can rest, shower, cook and create stories. I do not need the latest gadget with its false promise of offering contentment.

An ice wind brings a tear to my eye, I am reminded I have something which I consider invaluable – peace.  I no longer despair at the thought of going back home to face the incessant thump, thump, thump of loud music which tortured me every night through to the morning during the time when I lived in Ballydehob.  Nor do I have saliva, stuck in my throat and waves of apprehension washing over me, alert and waiting for yet another projectile to be thrown at my window or the loud mocking voices of neighbours who would bang my door, call me names and generally make my life a misery as was the case when I lived in Pollokshaws in Glasgow.  

Here in Achill, I can sleep. My body is no longer alert waiting on a threat and each night before I sleep I pray that I always have the blessing of living remote. 

One of my greatest joys at night, is when I ‘coorie’ down on the sofa, the log burner spitting out blue and orange tongues, making the room toasty warm.  My eyes wander to the vastness of the inky sky that stretches far over Clew Bay.  I am amazed at the swirlings of black, blue and purple and right there in that explosion of colour are the stars which illuminate the landscape.  It is so magnificently beautiful that it breaks my heart to see it and when I do it lulls me into dream. Perhaps when I am lost in dream time I can figure out the part the Hawk of Achill plays in my new story.

The story continues.

Thank you West Cork

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I turned the key and said ‘goodbye’.

It was thirteen years ago when I left Donegal to relocate to Bandon.  The air had that aroma, the one that comes when wet leaves begin to turn into new earth.  I got lost in the passing landscape as the train sped by.  ‘Things will be fine; things will be fine’ played repeatedly in my mind.’   I wasn’t too sure that would be the case.

I was returning to Co. Cork to begin my master’s in Digital Arts in the Humanities. My whole being ached by the deep wound of unemployment.  I had lost count of the innumerable applications I had sent. The days lay long and endless, and my self-worth was dwindling away daily.  I hoped that this master’s would release some sort of a future, again the pessimist in my voice was strong.

So, thirteen years later, here I am in the beautiful Sheep’s Head and once again I am relocating. Once more I am venturing out into the unknown and once again I am hoping for new experiences.   This time I am a little more optimistic.

Strange as it may seem I suppose this is my love letter to West Cork.  I write with more than a hint of fondness as I recall memorable years. The years here have been good.

It began with my master’s. My master’s year was certainly challenging.  I struggled from my first day.  I recall one Thursday morning standing outside the old library in Bandon at the end of a writing workshop, near to tears.  I believed failure was inevitable, my first module was in game theory, a subject which caused great panic because it was like navigating a brand-new world.  Furthermore, I had no idea what my thesis and digital artefact would be and to make matters worse I could not quit.  My CV did not need an extensive gaping gap of nothingness.  I was so gloomy that several people around me thought the course was too much for me and I ought to drop out. However, failure was not an option.  I chipped and chipped away – until.

One raven black night I was on the verge of giving up when I discovered ‘Pizap’.  Pizap is a user-friendly app which has blank canvases, backgrounds filters, text and stickers. The room was no longer shrouded in my grief as Pizap ignited an awakening.  This was something I could do.  I placed character stickers and speech bubbles on a background and the story –  the defeat of the XML monster by Zotera, Vector and Blog.  Full of delight I uploaded the image up to Facebook, my first own creation.  I felt as though I had scaled Mt Everest.   

Thus, I did not fail my master’s.   I even got a reasonably good mark for game theory. My thesis was on Storytelling in the Digital Age, and I created a comic for my digital artefact.    

So, I would like to take this opportunity to say ‘Thank you, West Cork’.  You have signposted me into both storytelling and comics and for the record I don’t use character stickers now. I draw them.  Nowadays, I am a self-employed creative practitioner in schools and libraries. I absolutely love working for myself and I have had the most magical and wonderful experiences in the world of storytelling and comic art.

The excitement of seeing my work in print makes my whole being bounce with joy . I recall being so overwhelmed with floating bubbles of joy when my maiden article was published in ‘Vox.’ Even when someone tried to conceal the magazine the sense of joy in me elbowed out any hurt that may have glued itself onto me.  It was a great feeling working with Andrew Donkin to produce my graphic story for ‘The Big Issue.’    Oh, and the thrill of working with other comic artists on a political zine highlighting the issue of violence towards women, in that still the streets are unsafe to walk. I swapped placard for pages to highlight an issue which gave me a great sense of achievement in that I was doing something worthwhile.  And, and, and, my very own story in the magnificent comic ‘Occupy, Occupy, Occupy’, which tells the stories of Scottish social movements. I am there, right there in the same comic magazine as my hero The Birdman of Pollok, Colin McLeod. I am so humbled by this.

There are so many memories of spinning stories, too many to mention but what I will say is that through storytelling I have met so many amazing people who have inspired me.    Even the sorrowful evening which I call ‘The Night of the Empty Chairs’, which I shall detail in a future blog proved fruitful despite the disappointment that no one turned up.  I gained so much on a personal and emotional level that I can now truthfully say that I am grateful for the experience.   Often growth comes from the dark and low places and painful though it may be, unfortunately necessary for personal evolution.

In addition, I have had so many great memories spinning stories in Glasgow as part of the ‘Little Donegal’ project.   I shall also write more on this in a future blog.  However, it is basically the stories about the Irish people who migrated to Govanhill and The Gorbals.  Hence the area became known as ‘Little Donegal’.

I was honoured to be asked to facilitate a workshop at COP26 in Glasgow. I had such a marvellous time.  Even though dark grey clouds spluttered down cold darts of rain, the atmosphere was warm.  I had so many conversations with people who detailed their lived experience of life in the Amazon, Australian Outback and the Indian Reservation.  I truly value listening to the stories of people.   Listening is an essential element in storytelling.

There is so much I can thank Co. Cork for, but this is a blog post and I desire it not to be too lengthy.   One thing I can say the last thirteen years I have lived life and did not just exist day to day like I did when I was unemployed. To anyone who is reading this and is in that situation I urge you to hang on, life can change, it only takes one key to unlock something, in my case a blank canvas and a handful of stickers, to spring you forward.

I shall conclude with the beautiful experience that I have had recently – eight weeks on The Sheep’s Head. From the outset it was temporary, a much needed haven away from the fast paced frenzied world, a place from which to see my school residencies through. I did not realise at the beginning that my heart is rooted in rural living. I appreciate the vast sky dotted with stars, pitch ebony black, and the sounds of animals and birds. My time on The Sheep’s Head was magical and it has undoubtedly changed me and no doubt I shall write more about it.  One thing I can say is that I no longer have any desire to live in a city or a town so I am intending to head to rural Donegal next year. Co. Cork is expanding with new builds and I just can’t cope with lines and lines of belching traffic. In addition, I have now grown in self-confidence and know I can live in a remote setting. So I am going to try rural life out by spending this  winter in a remote island. Of course, I value friendship, but I no longer crave people.  I am now rather choosey about who I invite into my circle. I have suffered at the hands of toxic people who dragged me down and I cherish peace.  Oh! I long for a simpler life.

The story continues.

Elizabeth

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St Dominic’s Retreat Centre

We drank tea but conversation collided clumsily between us.  Apprehension shaped discomfort and perhaps I was trying too hard to bring a rhythmic flow to our chat.   After all Elizabeth had been a friend for a considerable time and I had always valued her friendship. 

My eyes withdrew to the intricate patterns of mizzling rain on the windows, and I became absorbed by the beauty of the design. The pitter-patter of raindrops tapping on the window calmed me. My body softened and my eyes observed life at play on the busy street.  There is something about Cork City which attracts me. 

  I travelled up from West Cork a day earlier and booked myself into a bed and breakfast in the south side of the city.  I just couldn’t bear the considerable commute to the city and back.  I had spent the previous evening in a state of excitement and anticipation, looking forward to re-uniting with Elizabeth. I was eager to hear all her news.  Now sitting in my favourite restaurant, there were moments I began to regret my decision to meet up with her.

With a reasonable amount of time passing and a knot in my heart I eventually made my excuse to leave.  I think the feeling was mutual, Elizabeth also gave no hint of meeting up in the future as we said our goodbyes.  Despite my best undertakings to hold on to the friendship, distance lay between us.  Elizabeth, now baggy-figured with tight slate grey curls had become more like an acquaintance.

Once Elizabeth, deeply devout, the eternal optimist with servant leadership skills nurtured me through my dark days of crisis. Days when I found myself in the distressing situation of questioning my beliefs and my purpose.  Nothing was ever too challenging for Elizabeth as she accompanied me through the dark shadows of doubt, fear and confusion.   

I wanted so much to hold onto this friendship.  I really didn’t want to let go someone who was once so easy to be with and truly understood me.  What had happened to change that.  Did our friendship shift due to Covid19 lockdown?  That was it – surely.  

Perhaps, one of life’s learning curves is to understand when the right time is to exit.  Holding on to something or someone that has no room for you only sours the good that once was.  It only creates a sense of frustrated existence and most probably limited growth.   A smile spans my lips, at least Elizabeth and I left with no real ill will.   She turned her head as she approached the door gave me a huge honey smile which made me feel cherished despite my uneasy feelings.  Oh, my dearest Elizabeth, I will always remember you and the good times.

Elizabeth faded into the distance, and for several minutes I stood, motionless and numb, then the light of God broke in. Realisation came upon me slowly and as much as it pains me to say Elizabeth had done what was required. Elizabeth role in life was to mentor.  Elizabeth had always followed diligently the path of a pilgrim.  Like a mother hen to her chick, it was time for me to take flight from the nest.  After all, I was no longer in crisis; I had transcended, and Elizabeth had observed that.  I was walking my own path unaccompanied and had been doing so for several years.  Her time of mentoring me had come to its conclusion and now Elizabeth would probably be accompanying  someone else on their spiritual path.  I knew she was a woman of few words, who disliked idle chat and gossip, so the question must be posed why did I feel so rattled over lunch?

My friendship with Elizabeth always takes me back to a job, of which I have fond memories. It was there where I met her.  Elizabeth lived her faith through quiet action. She never once hurled scripture at me, nor made me feel less than. I must admit there were times when I followed a charismatic path of faith that I often left a service holding back the tears.  There was a quiet decorum about Elizabeth which I wanted to emulate.  A stillness that suggested quiet authority. For some one like me who had quite a bit of chaos in her life, and someone who felt the weight of barbed controlling comments from fellow Christians it was soothing balm to be in the presence of someone who was quiet.

At this point I ought to mention that my workplace was more a vocation than a job. To be fair I ought not even describe it as a job. Yes, payment was involved but other than that I felt that I had joined a family.  If I do describe it as a job, I can honestly say that it was the only job I had in my whole life which I never once felt that I didn’t want to go in.

There has been occasions especially on nights which lie long, thumping niggles of regret come alive about my decision to leave.   At the time I was at University College Cork studying Youth and Community Work.  A requirement of my final year was a block placement of six months.  My placement was in Donegal, which rendered it impossible to keep my job and pursue this requirement to attain my degree.  So, rather reluctantly I said goodbye to the best job I ever had.  Up until the place closed, I often wondered whether I had made the right decision.  I questioned myself over and over what I gained from doing three years at U.C.C other than its usefulness in understanding personality profiles which is useful in creating comic characters.   

I straightened my hunched shoulders and braved the flash mob of rain which drenched the pavements.  Despite the attraction I have for Cork, this time I viewed but with dissimilar eyes; Cork seemed different.  My heart stirred with sadness.   

Sadly, my old workplace closed several years ago leaving me to wonder whether there was any space left for spiritual seekers in the city.  I let out a slow sigh and my eyes widened as I noticed that my favourite boutique had also closed.   A tear pricked my cheek as awareness comes upon me that I am no longer feel part of this city. In essence, I have moved on.

  As I ventured back to my comforting haven in The Sheep’s Head a strange sadness overwhelmed me. It’s the sadness of knowing that I have come face to face with an ending.   I have exited but new residents will come aboard and it will be a city for them.  But I can also attest to a happiness perhaps a sense of the joy moving into a new chapter with a satchel of good Cork memories.  Any thought of moving back to the city had diminished.   

Change is inevitable and if we conspire to remain it stunts healthy growth. After all, we can’t be the same person as we were ten, twenty or thirty years ago.  In our fast-paced world I often feel we move so quickly that we often fail to recognise the fact that change plays in our lives.  As we speed along everything become so familiar, that is until we hit crisis.  Transition is a part of life, we hit land mark stages of our lives but overlook it except for paying out exorbitant amounts of cash for a 21st birthday.  I would argue that a one evening celebration isn’t adequate.   Perhaps society doesn’t like us to stop to take time to slowly go through change.

Living in Cork was for a time, a valuable period of my life and as in the way of aging, old spaces once familiar to the city are elbowed out for new contemporary spaces.   Elizabeth was and still is a friend and with a new understanding I have come to term that it was for a season.  Elizabeth is not a small talk type of person. She honours her role which sadly seems to be declining nowadays. I am confident that I could call on her if she was in trouble I could contact her.   I fully understand that her gift to me, is giving me a new insight into faith and the tools to walk my own path and that is why I am here in The Sheep’s Head, to contemplate and reflect. 

Slow

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Noise, loud incessant unappealing to my ears choked the smile off my face. It did not soothe my soul. My weary body wretched by the stress of the frenzied beat of traffic, caused my face to tighten, deep wide lines surrounded my eyes.   Yet, I lived in a village, and one most definitely charming but one that has changed in recent years.  I lived in Main Street, the busy hub of everything and in this rather quaint village, there was little stillness to be found on this street.

I took my weary self away to a peninsula at the edge of the Wild Atlantic in Ireland.  I got the idea one day when I went for a cup of tea in one of the local pubs after I finished work.   As I sipped my tea, an idea bounced in my head.  “Why don’t I come here to spend some time to find out what I really want to do when I hit the big 66 of pension age.”

So here I am in The Sheep’s Head, miles from any village and after ten days I can honestly say that I love every minute of my new adventure hoping that this will become a true voyage of self-discovery.

 I am a slow person by nature.  Often the word slow falls out of my mouth. It is then I am met with a look which I am so familiar with.  No words need to be said but open lips lovingly insist that I don’t run myself down.  I can honestly say that when I use the word slow, I am not being overtly critical of myself.   

I have come into the realization that in our fast-paced hurried world we are not encouraged to be slow. We are socialized from birth into the belief that slowness is not a positive characteristic to have.   Everything is fast and instant. The dimensions of distance brought under control by air flight. We jump into a plane to arrive at a destination – fast; losing the thrill of the journey.  The joy of receiving a penned letter detailing the time and care of the author has been elbowed out by email.  We have fast food and fast fashion, and we make transactions without human connection.  

I like to walk slowly, meandering and pondering as I put one foot in front of the other.  I like to eat slowly, carry out actions slowly, in other words slow is part of my DNA and it does not mean that I am unintelligent, nor does it mean that I don’t know what I am doing.

An example, I recall being in a store, I picked up my basket and sauntered in. My eyes captured the beauty of the fruits and vegetables and then the variety of bread which teased my taste buds.  I was just placing my choice of bread in the basket when one of my favourite songs came on.    I stopped from what I was doing and melted into the music.  My movements slowed as I kept to the rhythm of the song.   I ambled over to the cheese and gazed upon the most wonderful display.  At this point my mind mulled over which cheese I should purchase.   It was here that a most affable lady came over and asked if I was ok and did, I require any assistance.  I smiled and said I was fine.   I could tell from her expression that she was genuinely concerned.  She spanned a huge beam on her face and said that she thought I was having difficulty because of my slowness.  

Here in The Sheep’s Head, I can be slow.  It is as I said in my make-up.  I have always been slow, and my day-dreaming mind was always lost in my re-imagined worlds of castles, dragons, elves and other mythical creatures.  Unfortunately. unappreciated traits especially in my younger years in the logical world of mathematics, physics, chemistry and the competitive physical world of P.E.   I coped by withdrawing to my special place, an old lone willow tree which stood by the river.  It was there I would escape from the barbed words of ‘stupid’ and ‘thick’, it  was there I would allow my mind to wander.  At this point I must add that I did not have a solitary life, and I was never bullied by schoolmates.  It would be wrong to suggest that I was.  I have fond memories of two close friends who I met at dance school, but they went to a different school, and I often wonder whether things would have turned out differently if I had gone to the same school as them.   However, one thing I can certainly say is that both friends were as introverted and bookish as me.

Here in The Sheep’s Head, I can lose myself in the vast dark night sky.  One evening I was lulled into sleep by just lying in bed admiring the beauty of the stars from my window.  As I take the twelve-minute walk to the bus stop I can say ‘hello’ to my neighbours, who just happen to be two adorable ponies.  I can stop and laugh at the antics of the wobbling geese and as I walk further down the road, shout ‘Good Morning’ to the cows.  

The wind is often mischievous by its attempt to keep you from moving forward and the rain can drive and cut into every pocket of skin.  But then there are days when I get up and the sun courses high and gives a beautiful smile over Dunmanas Bay.   The ever-changing vibration of waves, a soothing balm for my soul.  Each day different, each day offers newness to see and much to my appreciation the only night sound is the hoot of the owl.

Every commute to the bus stop is different, the sky, the hedgerows, the wind and the shadows.   I am always in awe at God’s beautiful handiwork, a gift that He has given us.  A gift that I can’t help but think grounds me and makes me aware as to what is important in life.  Do I want a life which I do nothing but live propelled by constant speed and continual noise with everything around me merging into invisibility as I race by?

So here I am in The Sheep’s Head wondering what may lie ahead. There is no utopia in this life, and I am sure I will meet challenges along the way. If I conspire to remain, I will surely sleepwalk into retirement.  I moved into this new phase with little possessions.   I donated many of my belongings to charity shops.  I said goodbye to my djembes, a huge pile of books, and clothing.  I embarked on this journey with two wheelies, art supplies and an old computer.   For such a time as this I need to live more simply and slower.

Until next time.