Tag: mental-health

A Wind Unlike Any Other

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The road to Clew Bay

It was 6.30am in the morning and the landscape was blu-ing with cold. It was the third day of Samhain, and I was standing outside on the rugged ground looking out towards the mist dancing on Clew Bay.  The wind moaned; it was a cold Monday morning, the beginning of the first week of Samhain. Everything is entitled to moan on a cold November Monday.  The clash of fading Autumn leaves tumbling off the trees, falling onto a soggy path, made me pause – a moment of wonder I valued.  

The robins are awake and are transmitting little staccato notes of surprise before offering their first tentative trills to the greying sky. 

I turned my gaze around, and for a moment I was lost in the sight of my white lace curtains, window chimes, and hanging baskets.  It may only be a mobile home, but it is home, and I was happy. 

Much to my astonishment, I was approaching my eleventh month in Achill Island.  I just couldn’t quite believe that something which I thought would be temporary had extended into another winter.   

Despite a wind that never ceases to wail like a banshee with fury on her, and driving, darting rain, the weather brings life to my bones. There’s a wind on this island unlike any other in Ireland, and since I have lived in several places and travelled extensively, I can say that with a modicum of confidence.

My early morning routine includes 100 skips before breakfast, and as I skipped the rich, fragrant, dampness of the landscape, teased my nostrils.  I want to keep the memory of it somewhere safe in my mind for the day when I must move on. The thought caused my feet to become tangled in the rope, but I elbowed the thought away and carried on skipping. For now, I can’t bear to think about the future.  One day at a time, isn’t that what I tell myself? However, I am resigned that nothing lasts forever, and moving on is inevitable.

It was Monday, and Monday mornings are my Better Balance classes in Achill Sound. For someone who trained in dance, my balancing ability is almost non-existent. I made my way into my mobile home to prepare breakfast.   There’s something heartwarming about breakfast in a mobile home.  Perhaps it’s the wide panoramic windows that allow one to be privy to the ever-changing seasons and raw nature. There was the sound of tapping on the window, and it became a heavy pitter-patter. Its rhythm whispered,’all will be well.’ There’s no fast pace here in Achill. In the way we live, our pursuit of progress has disrupted the natural human pace, but with a thankful heart, I have withdrawn from all that.

I clasped two pears and a banana from my fruit bowl and blended them with some strawberry ‘Actimel’ and natural yogurt.  Breakfast is a large bowl of porridge with a substantial dash of salt.  To this day, I can’t get used to sweet porridge. It’s nothing but salt for me.  

As I sat watching the sheep cozying up to each other under a cluster of trees to shelter from the rain, my lips curled into a smile. The sheep always bring a special joy; the sight of their scattiness uplifts my heart. I have reconciled to the fact that when one has sheep for neighbours, flowers in planters outside my home is not an option. The flowers make a scrumptious breakfast for them.

I have arrived at nearly ‘slow’. It’s taken considerable time, but my destination to fully slow is getting closer by the day.

I have always been slow; it is a large part of who I am.  However, society pushes for a fast pace on us; for example, the skill of thinking on one’s feet is upheld as something worthy to have.  Unfortunately, I have never had that skill; my words always seem to come out strangled when I speak.  It is a different story when I write; then I can take time to ponder, and I can take as much time as is required.  A valued skill when one takes a written exam.  I don’t burn bright, I burn slow.

Society has conditioned many to believe that slow denotes limited intelligence, and one does not have a clue about what they are doing, and may require help. There have been several occasions when I must use the self-service machine in the bank in my nearest town, which is approximately fifty kilometres away.   I often get the impression when using the machine that, due to operating at a slow Achill speed, I must be having a problem with it. Ah! Such is life.

It is fair to say that someone with my type of personality trait needs time to mull over concepts, and that is why I am not good at asking questions directly after a presentation. It is not because I am shy and feel inhibited about asking questions. That is certainly not the case.  I need time to join the dots to create an overall picture.

It seems that there’s a part of a deeper instinct in modern life that requires everything to be explained and then labelled if necessary.  We talk in theories, systems, mechanisms, and motivations. There’s a standard that people ought to attain to be considered ‘normal.’ Oh, how the word normal grates? I suspect that somewhere in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, there may well be a listing that describes me. However, I do not accept labels, as our society is often too quick to impose definitions or conditions on individuals.   God has made so many different shades of people, just like He has made so many diverse colours in flowers.

I’m not a team outlier; I participate fully, but fast-paced discussions can overwhelm me. This used to cause me significant stress and, of course, affected my well-being. Putting yourself out there is tough for some of us, and not everyone is naturally outgoing. I would maintain that flaws are the currency of being human. Perfection is boring. How can one so slow survive in a world that is so fast without becoming drained?

The twelve months of 2024 were long and weary, so much so that my face became lined and my shoulders stooped low.  I can’t pinpoint when I lost the essence of the real me, but by the end of the year, I was ill, and when I ventured out, I wore a mask, but no longer.

As I write, I am looking out towards the winter sun sparkling on the rain-soaked leaves, a sight much better than fairy lights.   For the first time in what seems a considerable time, I have peace.  A canopy of raven black is covering the landscape, and rather than having to turn on the lights to keep working, I can now retire into the easy pace of the evening.  Perhaps I will have an early night, switch off my computer, and read a book. 

Until next time.

A wet Achill Sound

Clunky Boot Footsteps By The Luggie

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Photo by Charles Keay, Luggie Watch, Facebook.

My eyes gazed towards the broody sky; I sensed a storm coming.   I waited for my hot steamy bowl of cauliflower and spring onion soup with crisp earthy bread.  I am rather fond of soup for lunch, I suppose it yearns back to the reminiscences I have of my grandmother who always had a pot on the boil. Carrots, turnips, radish, onion and other vegetables fresh from the garden would tease my nostrils every time I visited her. Perhaps, the memory of soup is a constant, a sense of comfort in my otherwise uncertain world. 

It was the sound of a notification that drew my eyes to my phone and then in the blink of an eye I was transported away from the hustle and bustle of the restaurant to a liminal state. The place where my bygone days gather. 

A photo by Charles Keay posted on ‘Luggie Watch’ on Facebook, caused me to pause. It was a photo showing a path which aligns the River Luggie in Scotland.  A salty tear slips from my eye.  My footprints are etched on that path. It was the path that I sauntered to school with my clunky boots, duffle coat, my military style school satchel flapping in motion.  It was also the path that led me to ‘The Record Den’ where I would become penniless after spending money on the latest chart-topping single.  The Record Den was an Aladdin’s Cave filled with posters, magazines and badges. It was a community hub for young people. Oh! how I loved rummaging through the neatly stacked albums, choosing one and then going into a booth to listen to a track.  I am so grateful that I am of the vinyl generation, downloads don’t really have the same sense of amazement.  The mere beauty in an album cover and the anticipation of evenings listening to good songs.

For the first time in my life homesickness came upon me.  A sharp scorching burn hit my heart and a salty tear slid down my cheek.  I was unsure how to deal with this bizarre feeling; I had never experienced the deep sense of longing for home. I wanted to dissolve into the photo and be transported back to the path.

As is the way of things, life moves on and waits for no one. In my case time has sped by and has done so without being breathless.  And now it’s nearly fifty years since I, the girl with feathered hair, strolled along that path and amid the chatterings of the café. I felt that I was a relic of the past.

Oh what a blessing to have freedom with very little conditions.  I never ran feral, there were some as there should be for a minor. For example, I had to be home for a certain time, dependent on whether it was summer or winter, and I had to be in school for 9 am – sharp.   However, despite leaving with ample time to spare, there were occasions when I was late for school. I was a dreamy child, and I liked nothing better than slowly meandering on that path with my imagination lost in the world around me. I believe walking that simple path taught me independence and responsibility. And by the way, I soon learned that each action had a consequence, and dilly dallying was best not done on a school morning.

In the Autumn I marveled at the stunning golds and browns of leaves in their last moments of life, straddled on the ground. After an embarrassing slip I learned to be careful as much as I could hobbling on two-inch platforms. Beautiful as those leaves were, they were slippery when soggy.   

As I sipped my soup, I recalled the winter chill, the tip of my nose ice cold. It was time for scarves and gloves in bold shades, rather than the boring navy of regulation school uniform. More than often, in winter I took the bus with my friends.  However, despite the cold there was something enchanting about walking the path when it was dusted with frost and there were occasions when I decided to walk.  I loved my solitary strolls along the path my eyes observing the barren branches and frosted landscape. Oh! the freshness in the crisp cold air that settled in my nostrils, informing me of the approach of my favourite time of year Christmas. Then of course, a few months later, the heart-wrenching beauty in witnessing the arrival of the humble milk white snowdrop, the bringer of hope that Spring is nearing.  

It is said in sociological circles that our environment has a big impact on who we become, and I would certainly espouse that. I had an abundance of nature around me, and I had freedom to embrace and enjoy it and it has to be said that I was shaped by it.  There was so much experiential learning to be gained farther than the official channels of education especially for someone like me who faced academic challenges.

As I sat rekindling the memories in that photograph my mind jumped back to summer days in The Campsie Fells. Little by little a smile budded my face, a good memory burst into my mind. Strange how those memories are always played out in the sun. Away back in my childhood days like many children I hung around with a small group of neighbourhood kids. Catherine and myself took on the role of elders we earnestly took it upon ourselves to mind Margaret, the youngest of the group.

Easter was a special occasion for us. We would leave early morning for our annual picnic. An Easter Egg, a couple of sandwiches, a bottle of ‘ginger’ and a bundle of cheap penny sweets shared between us cemented the tribe into family. Buying those sweets were an exercise in itself. We pooled our mone y and then we had to make a choice. “I don’t like liquorice laces” “I want ginger tools” I want toffee” “I don’t like black jacks “but we always managed a good compromise without anyone having a huff.

I am saddened that freedom has been curtailed because our present day society has become less safe. As I write I wonder how safe the path is to walk now!   

I would be uncomfortable growing up in what I call ‘locked in’ culture.  It is my term for a life that is spent restricted, perhaps hours spent wired on one’s phone or computer with very little time spent in nature enjoying spontaneous activities.  A ten-year-old child would be in the care of the Social Work Department if they imitated what I did in my childhood.  

Major societal change has occurred since my childhood and it involves a measure of shifting where that which might once have been considered appropriate, gradually becomes unwise. Protective measures began to occur and then switches are pulled and soon a simple walk by the river becomes something one must think about.

Nowadays, most children are dropped off at school, and extra-curricular activities are more than often planned rather than the spontaneous fun I had.  I certainly would not have been a happy bunny if any one of my parents dropped me off at my dance class. I would rather the ground open up and swallow me whole than die of a ‘riddy’ (embarrassment).

I fully understand the concern; I get it. I have a five-year-old grandson in California, and I share similar worries regarding his safety in school.  The gun safety drills must allow for some form of caution to seep into his mind. Yet another thing for someone to be alert to. Madness.

Modernity has certainly not gone on plan; I would actually state that it has been a huge failure.  We live in age of distrust. We are wary of our neighbours and that is if we at least know them.

Surely, a lived experience in the arena of scraped elbows and knees from endless trails in nature differs from that of someone who spends endless time at home on their computer. Of course, there are memories made in all generations, but I wonder about the new social cues that taken on by being corralled into an online pen. I suppose I was conditioned to accept that one could navigate life by walking alone it could be said that it shaped my emotional intelligence and how I relate to myself and others. A fall from a swing teaches that life has rough edges. It teaches one to think before embarking on a course of action. We can’t live life wrapped up in a fluffy blanket and as we are all aware online danger lurks.

My article is not intended to be a full lament of freedom lost, because there are some aspects of today I like. Perhaps, at risk of sounding like someone with a tin foil hat, maybe in the eyes of those in power restriction has always been the goal. It is easier to control when society is restricted. In other words a well thought out plan preparing us for a brave new tech world.

So sit back and enjoy Slade.

Until next time.

No Other Voices

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Achill Sound

How did I cope with Storm Éowyn, my first night in my modular home?   Well, it’s an easy question to answer.    I slept right through it.   Tiredness had overtaken over my weary body and I have to say it was one of the best night’s sleeps of my life.  I felt snug in bed, and miles away from the cold outside world.   Every time I cross the Michael Davitt Bridge into Achill Sound I feel that I am stepping away from the outside world. It’s a wonderful feeling.  

I suppose I had been carrying a huge bundle of stress on my shoulders.  I loved living in the caravan that I had booked initially for three months.   However, due to electricity failings, I had to leave a month earlier than planned.  And there was huge concern about finding somewhere to rent. Ireland has a huge housing crisis. I did not want to face homelessness.  The thought of returning to West Cork filled me with a wearisome dread.  Despite loving West Cork, I was just too tired to travel, so  I made the decision to stay.   In addition, a lengthy period of being tormented by loud music in my previous residency and the constant screech of traffic had taken its toll on me.  In the comfort of my warm bed, I could release all the heaviness of noise and worry, which lulled me into dream time.

So here I am in magical Achill, well, for at least another six months.  I will concern myself with ‘what’s next’ when it comes nearer the time.  At the outset, there were a few challenges, one being that my location is remote.   I am at least ten kilometers from a shop, so lists have become a very important part of my day. Once I forgot tea bags, which, for a tea jenny, made the evening rather long and unenjoyable.   I am fortunate that there is a bus, but I am hoping to purchase a bike.  Achill has a greenway, which I desperately want to try out.

I have observed that there is an incessant hollering wind which never ceases, and as one resident told me, and which I attest to, it is the kind of wind which really gets under one’s skin.  I have never heard this type of wail, and one night it did actually sound like the wail of a banshee.   Not good news for someone whose surname starts with Mc.

However, as days morphed into weeks, I noticed the advantages of remote living.   I am surrounded by beautiful landscapes, wildlife, and there is very little modern noise pollution.   Slowness came into my life.  I had stepped off the conveyor belt of fast pace, fast pace, fast pace. It is a joy to have breakfast watching the birds pecking seeds from my bird feeder, and it has been most gratifying getting to know my two neighbouring ponies. I am beginning to learn to communicate with them without the need for words.  As I ambled along the mossy paths, I began to home in on the beauty found in the hedgerows despite it being winter. 

Solitude allowed my own thoughts to come to the fore.  No other voices were drowning them out. One evening, I finally came to the realization that crowds and noise affect me rather badly, and as I sat with this insight, tears began to slide down my face, which allowed me to say goodbye to that sense of inadequacy.    

In my thirties after I left the Isle of Arran for Glasgow there is a strong possibility I was misdiagnosed with agoraphobia.  Away back then I was shunted into a category with no real in-depth research into an accurate diagnosis.   I paid for private therapy but even then, it was assumed that I was agoraphobic. Perhaps being overwhelmed by loudness, disliking crowds and the inability to do anything with speed is not  a recognised disorder but whatever was ailing me then it caused misery as I had frequent anxiety attacks.  

Moreover in my youth the consequences of being ripped apart by contrasting noise and the effect of not keeping up caused great stress for me so much so that I totally gave up and left school early.   I shall go into this more at a later stage.   

Now there is a sense of relief as I have come to terms that it is just a part of my nature to require withdrawal space in quiet surroundings.  

In my early years I had a special tree by the river.  It was my haven, a place where I could escape the continual frenzy of modern noise pollution.   I would venture there at least once a week.   I loved watching the heron with the coal black eyes.   Perhaps that is the reason so many people like fishing.  Time by the river away from a world that is ever increasingly noisy.

At this point I have to say I was never physically or verbally bullied, but there was a message in the body language of my parents, teachers and perhaps some of my peers that there must be something wrong with me.  What is normal about wanting to spend time by the river or reading comics on one’s own especially after primary school level.  I had the blessing of two close friends with many fond memories of them.  So I was never thrust into total aloneness.

Nowadays, crowds and loud, contrasting noise are everywhere. It seems to me that we are being propelled to have large networks and thousands of followers.   I learned a few years ago that some publishing houses want to know Twitter handles, as X was known back then.  Large numbers of followers are viewed as a sign of success and can actually contribute to the acceptance of your work.  Influencers with millions of followers are held in high esteem, role models to be followed.  So where does that leave someone like me?    In one word – happy.

Sound bites reverberate everywhere, there are always messages declaring how to stay in vogue. The continual pursuit of something that we can never really attain because Vogue constantly changes its cloak.   

And as for social media, it is often a place of loud and angry words.  One cannot change the world by bawling.  Words written to make people feel less than, words to ridicule, words to blame and words to stroke one’s ego for a moment of puffed upness in the belief that one is totally right. Social media is a place of extremes culminating in a heap of documented evidence on you.  I am so very grateful that in my youth there was no such thing as a mobile phone.  Yes, I have cringe and embarrassing moments.  I was not a quiet, timid little girl.  Furthermore, respectful discourse seems to have walked out the door banging the door behind.  

I don’t have many connections, and by today’s standards I am certainly not popular.   I wouldn’t know how to do popular.   My nature makes me easily side-lined and I don’t expect special treatment to make people jump through hoops.  I wouldn’t like that anyway.  I am more comfortable observing, creating new stories.  So, I am happy to be navigating social situations in my way.  I excel in one to one conversations, well so I am told.   It must be said that I don’t really like those team building exercises whatsoever.  I leave exhausted.  Large amounts of money go into workplace psychology for companies to maximize their workforce for profit.   Narratives are created to assist the flow of capitalist endeavour so wouldn’t it be safe to say that large networks benefit organizations?  In the past, the categorization of people into racial groups allowed for slavery to be acceptable, so much so that it became woven into society, and very often those who opposed were deemed mad.   We must be aware of the part narratives play in our lives.  

Likely, there is now some scientific and/or medical term for individuals like me, and if so I think that this leaves a lot to be desired. This suggests that there are defined personality traits, and I would say surely there are a lot of complexities with regard to human nature. There is nothing disorderly about my personality.

In essence, living in Achill has allowed me to be my wonderfully ‘weird’ self.  I write that with a smile on my face, knowing my type of weird is good.  I have no ill-intentioned bone in my body wanting to cause harm.    

I have found a small pub where I can sip my tea and allow my eyes to wander outside without the background noise of a big screen, and despite loving music, it is lovely just to listen to the natural soundscape of pub life.   May I take a moment to add that once upon a time in the era of Fionn and his mighty warriors, hospitality was so important that there is a story of how a poet cursed a king because he failed to show warmth and kindness to him.  Well, back then, it was also considered a hospitality ‘no, no’ to have an alehouse without a storyteller.  Yes, I would be fine with that.

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.

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.