Tag: writing

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

The Wheel Of The Year Is Turning

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Achill Sound

The wheel of the year is speeding towards Samhain, the season of remembrance. November is one of my favourite months, perhaps it’s because when the days shorten and the sun courses low, it allows for reflection and renewal. Memories; the place where my bygone days gather always gives me an invitation to visit at this time of year.

I have always preferred the scents of Spring and Autumn.   I must confess that I don’t like heatwaves at all. Yes, I admit, I am holding my hands up to admit that I am one of those annoying moaning persons when there is too much sun.  At this point I would have to say that it is my opinion that seasons have changed since I was a child. I did like summer as a child but they were less scorching.  I will expand on this in a later post but for now I am reminded of the annual end of October occurrence, the visit to the shoe shop.

October always prompts me to the memory of getting new winter boots. As a child I much preferred boots to shoes. My favourite boots were what I would describe as tufty boots, they were beige, fake fur line and tied up at the front.  Boots allowed better freedom for climbing and a favourite winter pastime – sliding. My tufty boots had the perfect soles for sliding. The latter two weeks in October pavements were more than often dusted with frost. It was also the time when the greengrocer had an abundance of fruit, and my grandmother would bake my favourite treacle scones. A batch of which would be sent over to us.  Oh! the memories of those long frozen slideways of November.  One by one, us children would line up, then tear down a long thin stretch of ice. Of course, there were scraped cheeks, limbs and unfortunately the occasional broken bone. I was fortunate, my only injuries were on my hands, I disliked gloves, but I was always padded up in a hat, coat and boots.  However, we were brave, and no scrape stopped us from having winter fun.  Until that is, some adult, would spoil our fun by destroying our slide by throwing salt on to melt the ice.   

Ah! back to the present, enough of wandering down memory lane. Wisdom would suggest that residing in a rural area necessitates timely preparation for the winter season.

So, with that in mind I went to Achill Sound earlier today, to buy some provisions to store.  Some of the items that I like to keep in storage include lentils, pasta, flour, suet, powdered milk, and although I don’t usually use instant potatoes, I’ve bought some to have on hand just in case. I also purchased tea bags to get through long, tough nights without power. With tea bags I can cope with the long nights at home. I also have books ready in case stormy weather knocks out my WiFi.

Achill Sound is a small town; smaller than many villages I’ve been to, but you can get most of what you need.  The nearest towns are Westport and the county capital Castlebar.   I do not miss living near a large town at all.   I have discovered keeping my shopping simple has allowed me to be far more creative in my cooking and I save money because I have learned to buy only what I need. Nowadays, I always have a pot of soup on my stove, and I love experimenting with different vegetables and ingredients.  My latest creation which is bubbling away on the stove is Cauliflower and Onion. It is so simple to make and very tasty, especially with a slice or two of garlic bread. 

I’ve noted that I will need to order more oil for heating. I certainly don’t want to be sitting with no heat bluing with cold. Brrr, No!   I have also just bought a hi viz vest for walking to the bus stop in the dark and have got easy access to items such as candles, a torch and matches. I have also treated myself to an electric blanket, ah the comforting thoughts of warm nights in bed, listening to the pitter patter of the rain on my windows – lovely.

As my life is simply ordinary there is nothing more but to write about the mundane things. However, I value my life style despite it may be classed as boring. I may be boring, but if so I don’t care. I enjoy my simple life. I have peace. Currently, I spend most of my time working on my comic.  Unfortunately, I have had to revisit my comic, so it is taken longer than I originally thought.  I will go into the reasons further in my next post.

Thus, it is just another day on Achill Island.

Until next time.

In the tea room in the Gift Shop

You! Ginger Rogers – Off

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I recall that the sun smiled upon the town away back in May 1970. The main street was awash of baskets and planters of yellows, whites and shades of light blue. My eyes glanced towards MacKenzie the Bakers where all sorts of delicious delights tempted one’s taste buds – apple and cream turnovers, cream cookies, raspberry pyramids, oh the choice.  Perhaps it’s nostalgia but it is my opinion that cakes were tastier back then.

A line of school age teenagers had assembled at the bus stop, and I was anticipating the arrival of my friends, marked by the sound of their approaching footsteps. I was seated at my customary spot, upstairs near the rear of the vehicle, commonly referred to as the “shougley bus,” bound for Twechar.

Soon my friends surrounded me, and as soon as they and I greeted one another it was the custom to jump into all things that were important to us girls in their first year of secondary school.   At this point I have to say that I was at a different school to my friends. I shall go into the reason why at a later stage.  Anyway, the top deck of the bus was full of teenagers in brown and blue uniform delighted that school for the day had finished. We were going home.

It was dance class that cemented my friendship with Megsey, we had been close since the beginning of primary school, and then her schoolmates became my friends.    I recall that Megsey was just about to bring out her copy of Jackie, the premier teenage magazine of the day when the words ‘There she stood in the street’ burst into the airwaves.

It was a WOW moment.  It was the first time that I heard the song ‘All Right Now’ by Free.  The song which propelled me into rock music.   Well, I kid you not, as soon as I heard it, I bounced up onto my feet.  I was mesmerized by the song and in a blink of an eye I was on the top deck of that bus, my arms in the air slip sliding and side stepping away. Well, much to my astonishment, by the mere act of dancing, this ignited the whole top deck into song. For a moment happiness was right there on the top deck.  

However, away back then every bus had a conductor onboard and putting it mildly he was not a happy bunny. I was commanded to get off, and there was no opportunity to plead my case.  It was a loud, ‘you, Ginger Rogers – off’.

So off I went wondering what had I really done wrong. I would have moved back to my seat. I was in no way going to argue my case, citing that it was rather unfair that my few moments of dance was viewed through a deviant lens.  Upon glancing towards his snarling facial gesture, the best option was to get off. However, I have to add, that the one positive aspect was that my friends, all in solidarity accompanied me off the bus.

Many of you will probably cite that my actions were nothing more than mere trouble making. In essence, it is not appropriate behaviour to dance on a bus and indeed you may well be correct. If you fall into this belief, may I take a moment to defend myself. 

I was the ‘Rockin Roll Baby’ highlighted in the song of the same name by The Stylistics.  Although instead of singing at the age of two I danced.   Dance was a means of expressing and telling stories. For me it’s a way of communicating deep feelings. In difficult times I often found a quiet place to dig deep into my emotional dilemmas and concerns. I believe it is innate in my personality.   I used to spend quite a bit of time enacting my own choreography, honing perfect steps such as step heel, step heel, dig tap, then maybe a brush.   Music always made me throw caution at the wind, compelling me to dance. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time I got myself into bother because music with its beats and rhythms seduced me to dance.

My friends and I giggled our way home and the whole experience was soon forgotten except in those moments when one is required to tell a funny story.  Strange as it may be, sometimes life is serendipitous and this proved to be the case in May 1970.  I had been asked by my dance teacher to source a song for my solo dance for the end of term Dancing Display.  Time was running out and I just couldn’t find a song to dance to. My dance teacher cautioned me that if I didn’t have a song by the coming weekend she would pick one for me.   Surely, I told myself, ‘All Right Now’ would be a perfect tune to dance to. 

Joy was upon me as I rushed into my Saturday afternoon dance class.  I handed the tape recording of my song to my dance teacher. No Spotify or YouTube accessible by phone back then. I had to play the single on a record player and record it onto a tape recorder. Unfortunately, the song did not give my dance teacher joy.  She turned towards me with over-arched eyebrows, shook her head, left and right and mouthed ‘no’. 

So, to bring this post to a conclusion, at the end of June I did my solo dance but as she warned, with a song of her choosing.  And no I don’t want to tell you what song it was. That shall remain a secret. However, I will give you a clue, it was rather sugary and saccharine. Not a good choice for someone who thought she was ‘ kool’. In hindsight I was really a girl without a clue.

Until next time. 

Moving On From Noisiness

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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.

Thank you West Cork

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I turned the key and said ‘goodbye’.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story continues.

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.