New Leaves

Watching time

It's happening. Every day, every minute, a teeny weeny bit more green creeps through the filter of our winter eyes and widens the lens that will become our summer view. Phew!!! It's often right about this time of year that I am overwhelmingly grateful that we don't have to think about it - it just happens. Summer creeps into view without question, without looking for permission, without caution. 

The winter brought its challenges for sure. Here in the Holly Cottage reality kicked in and we downsized our vegetable patch for the sake of a species-rich meadow - one which is more conducive to the blondies being able to sit in the spring sunshine and ponder the wonder of ladybirds and honeybees just doing their thing. 

I must admit though, March was bittersweet. Paddy's day came and went in its flurry of hailstones but this year there were no spuds to be planted. No chitting, no watching through the dark days of February for heraldic sprouting. And though I mourned the lack of the pratie drills, I did rejoice in the glee of the wee man prancing through the establishing grass mat and hunting for worms. There's still space for a few meandering peas and courgettes, so it's not all lost. It's all a balance. And strawberry promises and fruit blossoms waiting in the wings. 

Balance is where it's at. Sometimes we lose it. Sometimes, when we stop thinking about it, we are trapeze artists. Pause for a moment to see the rope upon which our entire weight bears down on and alas, we can lose faith and tumble down gracelessly. Same when we grit our teeth and try to force it. 

New leaves bring new momentum. For me they bring a sea-change as I emerge from a long spell in a corporate suit and enter the realm of casual free-lance. I'm beginning to feel the difference as the weight of responsibility slips from my shoulders onto someone else's. It's time. Or so the dandelions tell me, and they would know - they double up as clocks don't they?

Other news, The Easter Snow is maturing to its launch date so watch this space. Time to celebrate the story contained within those leaves and begin new ones. Watch this space. 

The Easter Snow

Five years ago, in the week following Easter, I sat down at our kitchen table in the Holly Cottage to write a story. I had been enjoying writing my random pieces in the Holly Cottage blogspot – tales of ordinary life, gardening, changing seasons etc. But I had a story rattling around in my head and it wouldn’t let me go. So I sat down, I opened my Mac, and I let it flow.

The story revolves around a nursing home. Not quite rock and roll I hear you say, but it’s certainly a setting in which all phases of life pass through at some point and therefore perfect for this story.

And the inspiration? Well, my godfather – Paddy - suffered a serious stroke back in 2007. The poor man never recovered and spent half a year being cared for in the nursing home local to where I was living at the time. I went to visit him once a week. Sometimes he knew me, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes I was his sister who died when they were teenagers, sometimes I was a nurse. When I walked in those doors, all carefree and able, I walked into another world. And every week I left knowing my health, youth and freedom and how precious that is.

A few years earlier, the ashes of his sister – Lily - who had emigrated to the USA back in the 1940s were returned. Paddy buried her ashes in the graveyard near their home under the shadow of the Hill of Uisneach. I had met her in New York about ten years previous. She was a doll – pure New Yorker, twang and all - lover of cats and friendly neighbour to all who lived in the crammed-with-tiny-apartments building that she called home. She died on her own and after her leaving sixty years previous, they were never to meet in person.  When he collected the lunchbox that contained her ashes at the airport in Dublin, he stepped right up and he hugged it tight. They are together now, buried with two of their three sisters, and their father and mother.

Both of them were to the fore of my mind writing The Easter Snow. She died penniless, after working in a fashion industry that paid little enough. Though he must have thought she had made it. He died with those few of his family left around him that would hold his hand or wipe his mouth dry, when he drank from the strange plastic cup with built in straw that was filled with milky tea in the nursing home for him.

I guess I needed to re-unite them in a way.

And that’s the story behind the story. Five years later, after a few sincere attempts at getting it published the right way, I decided to just put it out there. I use Createspace. If you feel inspired, here's the link: go find it. And then tell me what you think. Does it make you smile? Does it make you think? That’s all I ask.

The Easter Snow is a tale of love and loss, regret and awakening, and finding ourselves where we are. It’s a simple story. Enjoy.

C xxx

 www.amazon.com 

The thirty nine steps

"One step at a time," said Holly to Alannah as they journeyed together through the woods
on their great adventure.

The thirty nine steps - written this time last year year on the cusp of turning 39...almost a year out of date! So time to publish methinx..

The 1^st step was in the 70s, more than likely to a Jimmy Reeves beat (with a dash of Elvis) than a Jimi Hendrix kick.

The 2^nd was finding a new world by falling down stairs and standing in awe of big brother and sisters.

The 3^rd was more aware – it had to be? - an independent stance while full acceptance of last in line of pecking order, a bellyful of laughter.

The 4^th I remember - kind of - packing up beds and stuff out of presses and moving to a new home not too far down the road but far enough away being a whole other townland and a whole other outlook in so many ways: the first of many travel adventures. That fourth step also beckoned first entry through the great giant doors of National School surrounded by green fields and stone walls. How brave was I holding on for dear life to handle of brand new pink schoolbag that somehow has vanished from existence except from the pictures taken by my mother and father on that very first day, tongue-lolling wiry terrier by my side for support.

The 5^th step was learning, learning, learning. Playing with the boys and sometime knitting by the fire after school while waiting for the bus to come; playing games and ‘ring a ring a rosy’ with the grown up girls from the master's room – them playing mothers to the high infants in their twelve year old skins.

6^th was skipping and running and falling, tattered dolls and playing ‘house’ in hayfields and straw sheds with the nearest and dearest.

7^th was a rite of passage all dressed in a barely white dress as candle burned through netted veil and dripped onto sparkling black patent shoes - the only thing new after two sisters before.

8^th and 9^th were passed watching and waiting not patiently my turn as brother and sisters came of age in remote disco hall under the watchful eye of father; the baby at home minding the mother and suffering the un-fairness of it all. Being small. Old enough to know I was waiting, waiting, waiting.

By 10 I stepped on to football field and local stage - recitations, dancing, play acting and more dancing; still watching as brother and sisters went through the trials of teen-dom before me, me with shy wonder.

11th and 12^th saw tomboy emerging - more jeans than skirts, and pink bag of four traded for red of the Gunners big brother's chosen team. Playing gaelic on grey and damp Irish evenings; changing with the boys already uncomfortable in emerging form.

Hair grew long again by 13th and boys were becoming a different species. First kiss was had and by 14th step I might have been used to it but it would take some time yet. Valentine cards came but never from the beloved; always the ones that persisted – god loves a tryer – but they got nowhere for all of it.

Step 15 was looking beyond school walls and into career and I stood firm on the earth and vowed to be her champion companion. Though persuaded to a different route by those that knew better  – what would I know in my 16^th step? - but fate kept my path. A brief tryst with religion and love just enough to keep me grounded, and sounded, and wiser - not cynical - for years to come.

Just turned 17 comes tender and excited long step down concrete tunnels of UCD towards beloved ecology. At seventeen those long cold tunnels saw rural child dragged up through rock band and heartbreak, and sudden urgency of peer acceptance, to become young adult of sorts. Inbetweener. I found – they found me? - The Cure – what a night in a packed Point!, The Doors, The Pixies, the rich country of music made solely for the purpose of late teenage adventures. Blissful tragic soundtrack of Smiths to first kicks in the heart guts - that pain to linger a long while. Touching the face of Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder when it seemed most important.

18^th  and 19^th steps buried in learning – sometime head up to view world changing about me – but I stayed focused with bruised heart – or was it just ego? - as the obvious soul-mates and long haired fians admired from afar turned to the glamour and comfort and those more experienced in matters more fair. In over-sized and home knit jumpers hanging over leggings and army boots, I peddled my way to botanical and zoological scholarships and browsed topic irrelevant novels in the spider web-strewn library (not a hint of the other kind yet), the loneliest Arts section.

How sweet the coffees on study breaks that 20^th step watching the innocents in all my experience. Growing into my skin, aware, concerned but still not steady. Loving every delicious lick of it. A summer in US of A was the cherry on top of it.

By step 21, I was done and dusted, head full of ideas for saving the planet and the need know more – for what did I know? - and want to do better. In a rain sodden crowd I sang along to Radiohead. And somehow I chose a path that led west – to freedom? – To wilderness, I bared my soul to the best.

What drives us on when uncertainty and confusion reign? Blind foolishness, trust, belief in our instinct or is it just mein insane? It all began to change beyond then as light hearted student bore responsible next steps – quest for scientific knowledge, clarity, right enquiry, right impact – for that is PhD if not pure more insanity. A car equals freedom, petty cash more experience.

And so, steps 21, 22, 23, 24 – all peppered with adventure between west and eastern shores. All packed to the brim with music and clan ship, back of the motorbike trips up Dublin sunshine mountains and shennanigans galore. Glad for the invisibility of it all now and the delicious absence of social media folklore from back the,. Loves were found and lost, limits tried and tested, but just trial runs for the real thing, lessons in how to be sure. And defining unsure which is happiness undone.

The 25^th step saw east come to an end and west won out and the PhD thesis did end. Oh joy of joy – to me like wedding day. Four years of sweat blood and tears, and questioning and self doubt and poverty – though no poverty of adventure. And after that came the real world – PRSI and pension and stamps. And strong minds of a different, conflicting opinion. The war waged, but I was ready. Mind struggled to get around it but I made of it the best. Restoring the wild to fund adventures South American, Italian, Spanish and Canada’s best Quebec, and shopping in Galway and Sligo - travels to test.

26^th and 27^th were blissful steps in music while work life outdoors in the wild formed the gel. Long days in the rain and nights by the fire of the devil’s darkened nest The river flowed, the winds blew and the musical spirit poured.

The 28^th step saw me singing for sure – up there with Takamine beauty – oh what might have been? Five minutes of fame in Hotpress and local radio fm. Oh what could have been, what has been – femme fatale with Fender plugged in? And I was so ripe for it, then – all brimming with harmonies and lyrical tales to tell.

Step 29 and then 30, brought me deeper in work, music brushed aside and guitar lay to dust as I learned how to run and to run, and create a life by the river that just wasn’t to be. Diving deep in the blue of Madagascar’s clear water – saved by the angels and saints of pure reef, that had never seen human before – clarity of vision from shores near and far.

Somehow I found myself, again, alone – two Cranes wrapped in love on the shores of the Biebrza – a Polish Shannon, but joyous in being there, in 30-some skin. All shiny and glossy and scars hard won, despite a brush with malaria and a month out of the sun. Living alone in the bliss that had come.

Oh shenanigans they court you in times that you need them and shenanigans and more music they came and the pleasures that meet them. The learned steps of 31 and 32 didn’t make for wiser moves just more adventures or twenty-two. Mature experiences shall we say? Glad to have made them but glad to move on. 

Headstand to relieve feet as 32 wore on – a month in the Alps to connect mind, body spirit. But only baby steps on lifelong sadhana. Back home to snowdrops and a diversion of conference, an arduous course that led my feet to the One. And there he did find me, and we became One. Sweet. 

I had foreseen Step 33 to be christ-like - all monastic with sharp insight – longing for a chance to shave my head at last, but the loving twas done was near on fantastic. Work in the background – still leaving room for more diversions – music, writing, some yoga, more work and of course, lover. Adventures in Nawlins, Memphis and Greece, not least of all in the People’s Republic. 

Baby steps at 34 with long distance loving – just missing and knowing we needed each other. Another plunge and a foot into debt at hoped for mature 35^th step. But the halls that we walked and the cottage we found feels more right as years pass and cosy comfort abounds. 

Married in Cuba, warm sea ‘neath our feet - the 36^th step the lightest I felt.

Step 37 we gardened and reaped the fruits of our labour, a crazy dog Holly to join us and keep the ancient woods in our favour.

The pain at 38 was heavy to bear but we faced it together at little one lost. Soft steady steps treading the water - turtles at home from home in a warm, Bajan sea reminding how precious is life and the love that we share.

And now here I stand at this thirty ninth step – one foot light and lifted, the other firmly rooted in depth. Me, all that I am, was and ever will be - daughter, sister, lover, mother, sometime friend and colleague, mistress of Holly, custodian of Holly Cottage and the ever-giving garden. Still aspiring to champion of earth, her mindful companion.

Foot lifted I wonder - is every step pre-empted? Guided, baited, fated? Will I know the next step to take or will I just follow blind?

Thirty nine steps – maybe the end, maybe mid-way but it feels like beginning.

I am armed with - the wonder of a toddler, the hope of tomorrow’s warm weather, the readiness of Holly to go for a run and not know the turnings, the wisdom of 39 steps of experience, the acceptance of chaos and change ever present. The fire of childhood that has always stayed lit, to light my guide on this journey so far. So keenly aware, so thankful and grateful, for the greatest love of all.

And now, here am I, keeper of the flame for one just like me, but even more. A small bundle of blond only just begun – first step taken and close to a second. Best not to think too much – just follow heart, stay mindful, stay hopeful.

Face and foot forward, my armour around. One step, then another. 

Infinite possibilities abound. 

What's Another Year?

Journey's End 2012 -
try to keep within the speed limit!

It's the night before the page is turned and lifted on the 2013 calendar. The year we called 2012 is done and dusted, and while it can be a drag to dwell on what is passed - it's good to reflect on the highs and lows, and the lessons learned along the way. Maybe even the lessons ignored that we - inevitably - will face again once we are better able to take them on board. 

The year started fairly quiet for the folk of Holly cottage. The day job always kicks into extra high gear in early January and the delights of budgets and five year plans always seem to crush any pleasures save for the thrill of a lie in at the weekend, a bit of digging in the garden in winter sunshine and maybe even a trip to the cinema. I took the plunge last January and signed myself up for a creative writing course under the tutelage of Adam Wyeth - a poet based in West Cork and part of the Creative writing Ink initiative set up by Olive O'Brien. It was a great way to spend the dark winter nights - lots of weekly assignments and critique of my own writings. Plenty of lessons learned there and plenty to make the winter nights more meaningful that switching the tv on - highly recommended even you are only half interested in writing. It definitely revealed some of the cliches and pitfalls of writing creatively and thereby failing miserably. 

By March we had almost everything planted in the Holly Cottage garden - early spuds were in and onion sets were in the ground. Beans were sprouted and getting ready for the outdoors. By Easter time we had carrots, parsnips, beetroot, peas, beans, salads and seedlings in the greenhouse for tomato, cucumber, broccoli and brussels sprouts. It was all going great and we even had a week of summer in April. That was until the rain fell. From once it started to fall - it seems to me that time stood still in the garden from April to July - nothing seemed to advance or grow - except for the thriving slug population of course. It was a difficult summer, especially after three not so good ones before it. Worrying trend indeed. 

Picnic Basket's solo outing -
2012 Fungarvan

We managed to make the most of the one very sunny weekend in May - the jeep was loaded and we set off for the bright lights of Dungarvan (also christened Fungarvan after our antics there) in County Waterford. Dog was abandoned to minders so it was a puppy free and adult only weekend. Nice. This part of the country has so much to offer. We hadn't enough time to eat in every restaurant but those we did manage - Merry's and the Indian Ocean restaurant were absolutely superb and we are planning a return to the acclaimed Tannery as soon as the sun pokes it's head out the clouds and we rebuild the travel budget ;) It has a magic all of it's own - very different from the wilds of the west and calmer, yet no less seductive in its own way. We will be back ;)

In June it rained, rained and rained some more. Even in Sweden ;) Getting off the plane in Stockholm for a bit of a work thing I had dressed for sun and long lit Swedish midsummer nights - only to be met by the coldest weather recorded in a Stockholm summer. Hmm. Noticing a trend? When I got back to Ireland it was more of the same. A few days in June in the university city of Bangor (Wales) and a short day in August in Giessen in Germany proved a bit better, but not much. All over Europe and the planet Earth there were unsettling weather trends - the like not experienced before for the time of year and very unexpected. This causes problems. A wider trend then than just for poor ol' wet and soggy Ire-Land. 

Sunset on the Telford Bridge
June in Bangor Wales

And so the summer passed. I do recall that hat and gloves were required while walking the bogs in Mayo in August. And I do remember not being able to wear anything but wellies on our muddy walks through Charleville Castle woods. It was pretty miserable but we made it through - just about. Lots of Irish farmers were to the pin of their collars trying to get crops in those few good days in September and plenty was left in the field to rot. It's sad to watch crops abandoned to the wet and the mud. Something we may have to start planning for in the coming years though as the wet weather in summer seems to be showing every sign of becoming a long term trend. 

We did manage to get some sun on our toes though - remember swimming with the turtles? And all the lovely days and evenings spent hanging with the cousins watching the sunset in Barbados? If I close my eyes and concentrate I am back in Bathsheba treading my toes in the restless Atlantic foam. Home from home indeed. 

That led us to the autumn and lots of kicking of leaves in the autumn clad wood. A trip to Austria was the tonic for a yogini in need of refreshing her teaching skills; and then a December of music recording to flex the creative forces and divert the gaze from the dark and cold outside was another seasonal tonic.    

September in the Nephin Valley Mayo - Nice ;)

Sometimes I wonder how we manage to pack so much into the year - but we all do it. Look back on your own year and a whole gallery of faces and places, conversations - inner and outer - flash by. Sometimes the memory is to the fore - etched forever on the brain, like a tattoo that forms from the strength and intensity of that experience. Like watching the sunrise over the cliffs in Dungarvan that May Sunday morning or the sight of the city lights as I flew (Aerlingus of course - my superpowers not that well developed yet) over Britain in the darkness of November. Things that stay with us, that change us, that mould us. A phrase from an article, a funny picture on Facebook or an inspiring quote from Kahlil Gibran. All contributing to our own evolution. One thing's for sure we are not the same as we were when we started the journey last January 1st. 

And what for 2013? Plenty of hope, plenty of courage and plenty of gratitude for this precious life,  for what has past and what is sure to come. 

Happy New Year !

By the way - check out the youtube clip of Johnny Logan singing What's Another Year - it's a classic! Skip the first minute commentary though...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vccwzuttIQY