Tag: reflection

Achill, Winter and Aging

· Leave a comment ·

I stood a while looking over Black Sod Bay, a hum of grievance in between the gusts of wind and the angry waves. Lenny, an old Mayo pony, lingered happily in the wet jaws of soggy moss. There was no snow yet, not even a light dusting on the Nephin mountains.

November has morphed into December, the air is sharper, and life is lived in the shadows of the shortening day. Shadows are a labyrinth of beauty, where nothing is fully revealed and remains uncertain. I feel at home in the grey shades.

Clouds crept in from the Wild Atlantic, dimming the afternoon. Soon, the landscape would be cloaked in midwinter darkness. I have arrived at the bay, delighted to have escaped from loud, overstimulating grey concrete environments. I wasn’t totally convinced that I was at peace, but here I was waiting for this old year to slip away and bring forth 2026. This year, I won’t be making any New Year’s resolutions, as I have learned they are short-lived.

It’s at the bay that I forget all the inklings which take residence in my mind. I forget about all the complexities of life and surrender to the fury of the waves. It is then that I wonder what message, if any, the bay may be telling me. I turned my gaze back to the path from whence I came. My eyes glanced at the trees stripped bare, and I was gripped by impermanence. The cycle of life, with its constant shifts from the yellow of spring, the pink of summer, the copper of autumn, to the ice blue of winter. So why do I burden myself with silly concerns which, at their core, are inconsequential? A day will come when an exhalation won’t be followed by an inhalation. And in the stillness of the moment, I was grateful to take in the cold, clean air.

Isn’t winter symbolic of ageing? The latter part of the seasons and the elder years. Perhaps, it’s inevitable when one adds another year to life that thoughts move towards one’s own personal winter. The lines on my face have deepened, and my body has settled into manoeuvring at a slower pace. I have lived my Spring, Summer and Autumn; now I have landed in the cold, dark season of winter, and it is certainly chilly. In this vast universe, I have no idea when my winter will end—only God knows, but until that time, I aim to make everyday matter.

I am reminded that, despite the bleakness of the landscape which surrounds me, there is light. The soft glow of twinkling lights which adorn homes, shops and trees casts an enchanting atmosphere that always transports me to another world—a place where time slows down and every moment feels magical. The air is filled with the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon spice. I dislike December, but I equally love it.

I observed a solitary beech tree in the distance. It is not barren; it is holding on to its leaves despite it being December. Its fierce grasp on life gave me a moment of pause. I can relate to it. Isn’t it wonderful, I thought, how nature can speak its wisdom into one’s life if only we can free ourselves from the mad dash of living and surviving.

Since coming to Achill Island, I have stepped into a season of reflection in the hope for renewal. Maybe it’s part of the human condition, a time when old age is lived with a remembrance of life gone by, when days of old are more than days ahead. 2024 was a challenging year of loss, and I totally needed time out, somewhere unfamiliar. In essence, somewhere with a new canvas waiting for brush strokes to create a picture. The canvas remains blank.

The dankness seeped into my bones, and I took a few steps back towards Timmy. His coat is a patchwork of whites and greys and dishevelled by the early morning downpour. His round chestnut eyes fixed on me as if to say, What’s up? “Nothing,” I said in a weary voice and then added, “Why, with a large dry field and shelter, are you happy to stand in the sodden spot in the rain? Timmy, hardy and resilient to harsh environments said nothing, but I pondered that Timmy and I are not so unlike. Haven’t I landed in squelchy spots when I could have chosen more life-affirming areas?

So, what burdened me on that dreary skied afternoon? I had been looking into activities which I could participate in. A cheerful, white-haired woman told me about a walking group. Although I wasn’t particularly interested, before she moved on to mention another group, she added, “Oh, you have to use sticks for this walking group.”

My whole body tensed, and my mouth became tight. My initial reaction – irritation. There is no need for me to use sticks. As far as I am concerned, I am able in mind to make that decision for myself.

Seething inside, I bit my tongue, but it was her next comment which caused me to become rude-red. “I can’t be certain, but I think it’s an HSE mandate.”

Is it really? I mumbled beneath my breath then smiled, pushing my infuriation down into the pit of my stomach.

As I walked home, any resentment I was retaining was taken out on the stony path. Ah, the experts. Experts often claim authority and influence policy based on academic data, and before you know it becomes set in stone. On social media, government ministers seem to address their children—not citizens—about what’s best for us. So, is it best for me to walk with a stick despite being physically able, and I must add it is not as though any of the walks are undertaken on tough terrain. In the wisdom of a so-called expert, I am lumped into a homogenous mass of over-60s who are all physically unable to walk.

But here is the rub, any disagreement on my part opens the door to me being labelled as some deviant woman, in essence someone who just wants to rock the boat or worse, showing off. I have no issue with anyone, young or old, who uses a stick. Why would I? My point is I want to age in my way, and at present, I certainly have no need for sticks, and I am certain that I am not alone in my thinking. I am not fearful of ageing, but rather society’s expectations.

My annoyance softened when, from the corner of my eye, I spied a heron; the sight was like a soothing balm, and my breathing slowed. She demonstrated seamless integration with the river, exhibiting a composed and solitary presence that underscored her graceful isolation. “Oh, heron, I admire your patience.”

I am not suggesting that because I don’t need sticks that I am able to attempt some adventurous endeavour like climbing Mount Everest. Certainly not, I find this applause to someone who has years on them and does something considered out of the ordinary patronising. I am merely asking – stop and discern the person on their own ability.

There are times when I receive too much interest in my style. I am acquainted with a barbed comment or two, maybe three. A whispered hiss about my fingerless gloves, the way I wear my beret, even the shade of nail polish. There’s always the probing question to justify my reason. There is only ever one answer, and it is “because I want to.”

Let me give you an example: some years ago, on a blue-sky summer day, I put a temporary tattoo on my shoulder. I was feeling joyful. As it was Tuesday, I made my way to attend a women’s group. I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a chat. However, about ten minutes into the group, my tattoo was noticed, and it developed into a lengthy conversation. My shoulders became hunched, and slowly, minute by minute, I slid down, down, down into the chair. A tsunami of comments was launched towards me, their words merging into an undecipherable clatter. I am introverted, and I don’t like being the centre of attention. Please don’t suggest that I should slip into a t-shirt and jeans. I love colour, it’s part of my creative inner landscape. Besides, life is too short for explanations over clothes.

The clouds turned slate grey, and the soft pitter-patter turned into heavy darts. Waves crashed with deafening energy against the rocks, forcing plumes of white spray high into the air. “What does it matter?” I shout,” It’s not easy letting go.”

When one does not quite fit with the status quo, it can be lonely. I yearn for acceptance to be seen without the focus on my style and interests. But as I stood at the little quay, it came to me that maybe the season of winter is inevitably lonely.

But the rain, now thick and heavy on my head and shoulders, wakes me: December is Christmas. Thus, December is full of light. I revel in the anticipation and excitement, the Christmas trees, the carols, even the mince pies and hot scrumptious chocolate. It is indeed a time of celebration, and it is at Christmas that I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the birth of Jesus. And as I stood with fingers and toes chilled, I held onto the Christmas gift of hope.

Until next time.

Westport

A Wind Unlike Any Other

· Leave a comment ·
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

Moving On From Noisiness

· Leave a comment ·

Before I arrived in Achill Island my impression of bogland would have been boring, dull and mundane.  In essence, nothing to see.  Much to my surprise I discovered that there was indeed attractiveness in the bog.  Umber brown, fuchsia pink, taupe, the colours were certainly a feast for my eyes.

The word bog comes from the Irish word soft like the saying ‘tóg go bog é’ – take it softly or easy.  A reminder to trust myself to soft self-care. 

I decided as my boots slapped on the pathway that I wanted to find out more about this strange landscape of water infilled with soft, soggy sphagnum mosses. So, by the end of the first week, I ventured out and explored the raw and untamed landscape around me. Despite the brightness in the day there was a chill in the air which nipped my nose. I felt alive.

The first thing my body noted was the quietness in the air which soothed my tight knotted bones. There was no head-pounding beat of loud music from an anti-social and selfish neighbour stressing me out.  I recalled long nights with little sleep as I lay in bed tortured by my neighbour’s self-centeredness.  A set of headphones would have made all the difference, but my neighbour carried on regardless without any concern of me. As I sauntered, I could sense my anger towards him in my clamped tight lips, forehead and chest.

I turned my gaze to the sky and whispered ‘Thank you God’ relieved that those days were firmly in the past. 

Strange as it may seem as I strolled along the path which curved the bog, I sensed I was not alone.  Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight, but my eyes took in long willowy shadowy figures. I have to say at this point that the attractiveness in the bog was more than aesthetic, there was beauty simply in its ancientness. There was something in the bog that warmed my heart, maybe knowing that people had harvested turf from the wet and stagnant landscape for centuries.  Perhaps, there was something quintessentially Irish that touched my heart and now I was part of its story rooted in place.  I can’t truly explain why the sight of Peatland gave me comfort; all I can say is that it did and it was at that point that I noted the heavy burden of anger which bore me down had vanished.

Each step brought me to the realization that I had made the right choice of Achill.  I also had the option of a cabin in Donegal, and for several weeks it was at the fore of my initial intention, but as time moved on  I began to favour Achill because it was an island, and I had never stepped foot in it.

I became intrigued by the plants that make their home in the bogs. I learned about Sundew, a small insect eating plant which has glistening sticky, red-tipped tentacles which insects mistake for a tempting droplet of nectar. Unfortunately, once the insect lands they are stuck and over the course of a few days the plants secrete digestive enzymes to consume its captive catch.  

It is indeed a blessing to be bordered by wild things.  As I write I am surrounded by bird song and the sky is speckled by swallows, goldfinches and blue tits. The clumps of moss at my doorstep reveal their perfectly geometric design when I stop and look.  My biorhythm is slowing, and I appreciate the value of pausing rather than the mad dash of modern life. The rhythm here lends itself to slowness and I for one appreciate that.

I discovered that bogs once were considered sacred places where water, earth and sky merged, and where the veil was thin.  The bog also signposted me to an old Irish tale which now I am working on.  Achill has inspired and introduced me to new stories. No longer weary from the pain of loudness and speed I have time to take in the stories the stories here.  And what is the story I hear you ask?   All I can say is that it is a tale of a King sacrificed into the watery bog.  Dear reader, I shall certainly spin the tale shortly when I figure out the details. 

It appears that my ‘wintering’ period has ended, but I have decided to remain for the summer.  I am uncertain what will happen when my lease terminates but that is a concern for another day.

Until Next Time.

What’s Wrong With Day-Dreaming

· 2 Comments ·

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.

· 1 Comment ·

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.

Thank you West Cork

· Leave a comment ·

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.