Tag: well-being

Achill, Winter and Aging

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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

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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

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.

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.