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.