Lockdown Day 9

My son danced around my chair playfully jabbing me in the arm with a pen.  I scrabbled round the table to look for another pen to stab him.  He dodged out of reach laughing.   I screamed, “Go watch TV.” 

My son loves documentaries and recently discovered the series, Abstract - The Art of Design on Netflix.  I watched two episodes with him.   The first was Paula Scher, a graphic designer who works in New York while the second featured Christoph Neimann, an illustrator based in Berlin.  The theme for both explored creativity and the source of their ideas.  When Paula needs inspiration, she hires a yellow cab and sits in the back looking at buildings as she is driven around Manhattan.  Christoph stresses the importance of routine and “turning up everyday” to your desk but also agrees that getting outside and looking at the ordinary with fresh eyes is key to getting new ideas.

My son then stepped up to a wall and rubbing both hands lovingly across its surface said, “This wall is aching to be filled.  I’m thinking I could paint a mural on it.  How about that opening scene from The Simpsons? You know the one with the blue sky and white clouds and I put our family name instead?”

“Ok,” I said.

He looked at me stunned, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“But what if I make a mess of it?”

“We’ll paint it over.”

“But I have no paint.”

“I have,” I said and heading into the kitchen, I pulled out a little wooden suitcase from the bottom of the dresser.  It contained 30 neat tubes of acrylic paint and four brushes.  Behind the box were two virgin canvasses.  About three years ago, I was in doctor’s office flicking through a magazine when I came across a pencil drawing of a street scene in Amsterdam.   I thought, ‘I could copy that’ and I did.  Then I heard Aldi were doing a special deal on art supplies.  I dashed to our nearest one in Grange and bought the suitcase, extra brushes and three blank canvasses.  I drew the street scene, filled it in with colour and then lost interest. 

“The paintbrushes are dirty,” whined my Millennial son.

“Wash them.”

He filled a mug with water and carefully dipped the brushes into the water.  The paint came off easily.

"The best thing about acrylics is their strong colour," I said. 

“But I need delicate.”

“Then paint delicate.”

“Canvas or wall?”

“Practice on the canvas and then do the wall or better still practice on the canvas and then hang it on the wall.”

He threw his hands in the air in despair, “Oh, the endless possibilities.”

Other key developments today:

When we picked this house from the builder’s plan, I chose this particular one because the back garden faced south west.  What I failed to notice was the single house at the end of our garden which means that in the depths of winter the sun - if there is one that day - plummets behind this house before it reaches us at all.  I now use that house as my barometer for summer.  Once the sun stays in the sky long enough and it rises high enough to clear the roof, I know summer is on its way.  And this evening it happened.  At 6pm, my kitchen was like New Grange on the 21st December, long rays of glorious, bright, delicious sunshine filled the kitchen all the way to the back wall.  I can't tell you what that does for my morale.     I saw a documentary once about a town just inside the Arctic Circle that experiences 36 days of total darkness each winter.  Sometime, around mid February the sun makes an appearance just barely above the horizon and then after half an hour it disappears again.   The entire population turn out to witness and cheer their first sign of summer.  

My husband’s niece is due to make her First Holy Communion in May.  She sent personal, hand-made invitations to each of her cousins.  They are heartbreakingly sweet.  She cut hearts out of red paper and inside stuck a smaller heart cut from white paper and wrote, 'Dear Joe, can you come to my communion? Love from Laura'.   Her mother then posted all three in a large envelope with a cover letter saying that because of the Virus the Communion may be postponed but she hasn't the heart to tell her daughter just yet. 

Since we are four mouths in quarantine, my husband has decreed that we all take turns cooking. Last night was my son's turn and so we had his favourite, steak and chips with lashings of gravy.  Tonight, it's my turn and I'll be making Chickpea Stew.  According to the Irish Times, it has taken the internet by storm.  It's my favourite kind of dinner; everything in the same pot, wet and unidentifiable.  

W

Lockdown Day 8

It’s my fourth day working from home.  All inquiries are treated like gold.  I savour the words and linger over every reply.  I see every email as an invitation from the outside world to reach out and engage.

My sons are not fighting.  The key, my husband discovered, was to quietly tell each of them to treat the other as if the other has special needs. 

It being such a beautiful morning, the first thing I did was to drag the clothes horse out into the garden.   Several hours later, my son appears in the kitchen and panics, “But what if it rains?”

“It’s not forecast.”

“But it’s all my stuff out there.”

“Bring it in then.”  He does.  Returning to the kitchen, he says, “There’s no heat in that sun anyway.”

“The fresh air will kill the bugs.”

Then he announced, “We need to clean the filter in the washing machine.”

“I already did it.”

“What……., but that’s my day's goal gone.”

I had to get out of the house.     

At lunch time I drove to the Supervalu in Glanmire.  I regard it as the Harrods of Cork: it has everything quirky, artisan and local and it’s the only shop within driving distance that sells Rooibus with Caramel tea - the apple pie and ice-cream of teabags.  I drink it when I want a treat but not the calories.

‘Will I remember how to drive?’ I wondered as I slid into the driver’s seat for the first time in a week.  It was a classic March day; sunny but cold.  The roads had finally dried out and the hedgerows were ever so slowly starting to green up. 

I’m always forced to park on the roof but on this day there were tons of spaces.  I parked near the lift doors and the hand sanitiser.  There were more hand sanitisers at the shop entrance, the exit and alcohol wipes by the trollies.  Wiping down my trolley I bumped into my friend, Maria.  We were excited to see each other but managed to resist the urge to hug.   We agreed to shop quickly and meet for coffee after.  As we entered the doors, I admired the impressive display of bouquets and potted plants for Mother’s Day.   “Get them here,” said Maria, “they’re cheaper than the florist.” 

After dumping our shopping into our cars and grabbing a Frank & Honest coffee each, we walked, a metre apart, the circuit of Glanmire village.  We passed – giving them wide berth – mothers walking their children, older men with their dogs, everyone of them taking advantage of the dry day.  Maria seemed to know everyone.  

We sat on a wall – a metre apart - by the side of the road sipping our coffees.  We only lasted 15 minutes in the cold wind.  I wore the scarf I brought back for my mother from Nepal.  She keeps leaving it in my car.  It has the texture of a cobweb and so I had doubts about its quality when I bought it. Yet, it is so delicate and non-intrusive, I forgot I was still wearing it when I went to bed.  On removing it, my neck felt immediately exposed and I shivered.  She’s not getting it back.

Day 7 of Lockdown

The day looks nice so far.  It's dry. Maybe I'll step outside and go for a walk.  I haven't had exercise since Monday when I walked with my son to Dunnes so he could get white vinegar; he wanted to make Kambucha from scratch.  

After Dunnes, we called up to my mother:  she wasn't answering her phone or responding to texts.  My sister living in Dublin was concerned and my nephew, in self-imposed isolation since returning from Venice 10 days ago, texted me asking if she was ok.  Mum was fine.  She loves the drama of it all which is more like me than I care to admit.  Her land-line was unplugged - she didn't realise it and her mobile was on mute and she didn't know how to unmute it.  My son - for a small fee - sorted it for her.  

We stayed long enough to share a pot of tea.  A brazen robin that hangs out on her patio waiting to be fed bobbed around impatiently looking for crumbs.  He seemed to ignore the bird feeder.    Then what looked like his baby brother joined him.  "How come his chest isn't red, does that come later?"  I asked my mother.  Mum peered out the window and said, "That's a wren."  It was the cutest thing; he was like a feathered golf ball with legs and beak stuck on.  

So here I am in my 'office' aka kitchen table bracing myself for another day of work.  I had stiff arse again yesterday evening and despite a very generous cushion, I stiffen as the day goes on.  I might try yoga poses every half hour to get the blood flowing.  I have repetitive strain injury - the beginnings of - in my wrists but it's not from typing but from attacking the garden last Monday.  I took advantage of the dry spell to prune my willows and slash the bushes into stumps.  That's the great thing about gardening; hours simply evaporate.

My brother returned on Tuesday from a week in the Canary Islands and is now in self-isolation.  Eight of them went over for a golfing holiday but for the last two days they were confined to their room.  They weren't allowed go to the beach nor even into the sea so they played cards in their room and ordered up wine.  The craic was just as good.

The Taoiseach's speech on Paddy's Day night was good and he's getting positive feedback.  The first in a long time I'm sure.    In the news last night, the reporter had footage of people heading to Glendalough for walking and the cameras showed the long queues of cars parked at the entrance.  Tell tale.  In the same broadcast, we are being shown how to stay a metre a part when out walking.    When my son and I walked to Dunnes last Monday, I saluted every person I passed. Not one of them returned the greeting.  In Dunnes itself, people looked stressed, tired and silently filled their trollies.  

Thank God I don't have small children nor teenagers anymore.  Mine don't fight, they just circle around each other like caged animals.

Yesterday, my youngest son played his Play Station for hours while talking remotely to a friend via his headset.  All I could hear was the drone of his voice in a one-sided conversation and it was dull indeed.    

Middle son is frustrated his gym is closed.  However, drawing on his considerable leadership skills he is rallying friends to go on long cycling trips and comes back reeking of fresh air.  I should get out for a walk myself.....but someone might report me.  

I listen to the news sparingly now.  Yesterday I had the TV on at lunch time to get the latest when my youngest who is 20 barked, "There are people trying to sleep, Mum!"   I looked at him and said, "It's one o'clock."  He retreated back into his lair.  

Sean Moncrieff on Newstalk had a woman on yesterday to talk about the world of farming.  She had a lovely suggestion to stay in touch with older people who are not tech savvy - write them a letter.  By coincidence he had a woman on from An Post as his first guest to announce that this Friday, for the first time ever, the post offices will open one hour earlier to allow the elderly to collect their pensions and, by the way the price increase that was scheduled for stamps on Paddy's Day is postponed.  There'll be a rush on stamps... 

I'm cooking more.  A friend posted on Facebook a recipe for nettle soup.  Well I have loads of nettles.  I encourage them to grow: another friend who is an organic garden told me if you steep nettles in water for a week, it is super nutritious to then feed the 'broth' to other plants.   It stinks something rotten but it's worth the pain.  Anyway I made the soup and it's gorgeous.  Even the boys ate it.  

Hubbie went to work yesterday to attend a 10 o'clock meeting and stopped in Aldi on the way home.  He bought 'Split' cake which is a toffee covered madeira with butter cream icing in the middle.  Totally sinful and pumped full of chemicals - it was delicious and vanished within minutes of him getting home.  It's shocking about the shops closing.  Who cares about Brown Thomas or Penneys but it's still sad it's happening at all.  

I see blue sky and baby clouds.  Please God, let the day be nice and dry enough so that one of my sons will cut the grass.  

I'm going to have my 2nd coffee of the day now.  It's nice being the first up.  It's lovely sitting here in a quiet house and having the kitchen all to myself.  

I hope your day is good.  Stay safe and be nice to yourself.

Grief in Tenerife

“If you think you’ve reached enlightenment, go spend a week with your family.” Ram Dass.

February 2018, my Mum, sisters and I were in Tenerife to celebrate my mother’s 80^th birthday.

We arrived late Friday night and discovered on waking the next morning that our ground floor apartment faced north and therefore no sun.  That suited me fine since three of us had skin cancer and baking my body in the sun was not a priority.  

The four of us stood on the patio with coffee in hand when Mum gestured to the left, “There’s a terrace over there overlooking the sea and it’s available to all tenants.” 

We headed over for a look.  There were four sunbeds already lined up with blue pool towels on them. ‘How convenient,’ I thought as we took one each.    

Two minutes later, an Irish lady appeared behind us, “These are our sunbeds, so you’re going to have to move.”  She said it so nicely and looked so pleasant, I readied myself to leave.  But then my sister spoke, “There is a sign saying, ‘Sunbeds cannot be reserved’”. 

“Yeah, well,” said the lady, “those are the rules, but nobody pays attention to them.”

“Well, we won’t be paying attention either, we’re not moving.”

I sat rigid with surprise.  I had no idea my youngest sister, the baby of the family, could be so assertive.

The lady left.  Minutes later, reinforcements arrived. Five adults including an elderly couple. 

I sat facing the sea.  As long as I didn’t look at them, I couldn’t know what they looked like and so if we ran into them later in the week, I wouldn’t be embarrassed. 

One of the men said to my sister, the assertive one, “No glasses allowed on the terrace.”

Immediately, my sister sprang to her feet, “Thank you, I’ll remove it immediately,” and picking up the glass she headed back to the apartment. 

Then the elderly lady with a walking stick shouted at my mother, “You’re lying on my property.”

Mum jumped up like she had been shot and sure enough as she did, her movement disturbed the towel and poking out from underneath was a multi coloured mattress.  “Take it,” she shrieked and ran. 

Ms Assertive returned. 

The elderly man shouted, “How rude are you that you take other people’s property.” Then shaking with rage, he continued, “We own our apartment here, who are you?”

'Since when did the Irish get so snotty about ownership?' I wondered quietly to myself.

We didn’t answer.

He shouted again, “I’m going to report you to management.”

“Well, while you’re there, maybe you should read the rules about sunbeds,” said Ms Assertive.

I slid further down into the sunbed:  I feared the walking stick might come crashing down on my scalp.    

The terrace, the seaview and the sunbed lost its allure and besides my coffee had gone cold. “I’ve had enough,” I whispered, “I’m going back.”

“Stay where you are,” came the order.

I stayed.

Twenty seconds later, I wondered aloud to my sisters, “Is Mum back from the pharmacy do you think?  I’ll go check.” Keeping my eyes averted from the row of five angry adults parked in a row mere inches behind us, I ran.

Back at the apartment Mum was a nervous wreck.  The first day of our holiday and we were traumatised.  A few minutes later, the two sisters return. Ms Assertive was triumphant. 

Since returning home again, everyone says that my sister was right.  They also said that since everyone ignores the hogging of sunbeds rule, it’s ok to do it.      

Still, I’d have moved. I’ve done confrontation countless times and learnt the hard way even when you ‘win’ you still feel a fool.     And, we're on holiday, fighting over a sunbed; it's not worth the aggravation. And, not every battle has to be fought.  As my father used to say, ‘There is no point being right and dead in the morgue.’

Careful What you Wish For

On Thursday at 6pm, my workplace, under government orders, closed its doors until the end of March.  

As the campus drained of people I felt sad.  The Chinese have a curse, "May you live in interesting times." This was indeed interesting times. I love history and have often wished I lived during the Black and Tans, or the Blitz, or the American Civil War just to experience what it was like living through a pivotal moment in history.  

Tickled by the drama of the whole of UCC on lockdown, I was glued to the TV for updates on the pandemic that was gripping the world.  Yet at the same time, it felt lonely as people silently packed up what they needed and just left.  Even the protestors that had been camping on the quad for the last four weeks scooped up their tents and went.   No point protesting if you have no audience. 

One of my colleagues, has a seriously ill father in hospital whom she can no longer visit because of the restrictions and a bed-bound mother at home who recently fractured her spine after a fall.  My colleague had been using her annual leave to take half days so that she could look after her mother.  The day before the lockdown, I urged her to speak to our manager to arrange something so that she did not have to use all her precious leave for a situation she did now know when it would end.  The universe intervened.  She, like the rest of us,  is now working from home and can keep an eye on her mother. 

I recently changed jobs and worried about going from a four day week to five.  Would the extra day ruin my hard-won 'equanimity?'      The universe gave me the opportunity to find out.  

Much as I relished the novelty of working from home I was bored by lunchtime and most surprisingly of all, I felt lonely. 
I craved chatter and missed being around people.   Until now, I failed to appreciate the social opportunities working in an office presents even if it's only to comment on the weather or what's in the news that day. 

When I finally logged off at 6pm, my entire body ached in ways I had not experienced before.  Having sat for several hours on a wooden chair at my kitchen table using a laptop propped up on a book, my shoulder blades moved like hot needles.  I then appreciated my padded, back-supporting, ergonomic, height adjusting chair at work, my broad, expansive desk with the computer screen adjusted to suit my eye level and to reduce glare and my foot support to ensure blood flow to my legs and reduce pressure on my hips.  At home, I'm in danger of blood clotting and thrombosis.    

Also, I had taken no breaks.  At work there is always someone saying, "Have you taken your break yet?" or "Fancy going for a coffee?" and I always do.  But this day, I swept the floor from hall through to kitchen and then mopped it.   I unloaded the washing machine, hung up the wet clothes and put on another load.  I spent the day either working or cleaning. 

Having the radio on in the background didn't help either.  The repeated warnings urging people not to panic buy had me thinking 'What do those people know that I don't?'  So when Hubbie, who did go to his office to work, rang to check if we needed anything from the supermarket, I said, "Cider, Taytos and chocolate."

Working from home is not as good as it seems: you don't switch off.  You don't get to mentally and physically separate work from the rest of your day.

These are interesting times. The year 2020 will feature in RTE's Reeling in The Years as the invasion of the Virus and how it shut down the world.       But like the Beast From The East in 2018 when Ireland experienced for the first time, in my memory, three days of glorious, proper, good-quality snow.  It was fabulous; like Christmas without the stress.  The entire country came to a halt.  That was fun. But after day two, the novelty wore off and even my sons were craving normality again. 

I wish everyone well and that we get to see each other healthy and happy again soon. 

When you love a book....

A Doctor's Sword by Bob Jackson

I caught the second half of the documentary of A Doctor's Sword on RTE in September 2016.  I was intrigued that a man from West Cork was at the evacuation of Dunkirk in 1940, a POW of the Japanese and survived the atomic explosion in Nagasaki. 

A few weeks later I was in Carrigaline Book Shop looking for something else when I spotted the book A Doctor's Sword on the table display.  I bought it and read it within 24 hours.  A few months later,  I found A Doctor's War the original war memoir written by Dr Aidan MacCarthy on which A Doctor's Sword is based.

My friend Anne rang to tell me Bob Jackson, author of A Doctor's Sword was appearing at the West Cork Literary Festival on the Tuesday at 1pm in Bantry Library.

By the time I arrived at the library ten minutes late it was packed to capacity and standing room only. 

I missed the reading and the question and answer session was already underway.  When the interviewer turned to the crowd and asked had anybody read A Doctor's War my hand shot up.    A few minutes later the question of Dr MacCarthy's attitude to his wartime experiences came up and the interviewer turned to those who read A Doctor's War. Our eyes met and I started talking.  There was a tap on my arm and I was handed a microphone.  I started again.

"He didn't whinge, he didn't moan.  He was very matter of fact about what he was going through, he simply stated the facts as they happened.  Whether it was rescuing three men from a burning plane or the repeated beatings from the Japanese guards he remained unemotional." 


Then turning to Bob Jackson, I continued, "As for your book, you put his whole experience into context.  You tell us his family history before he was born, you tell us about the events that were running parallel to his time as a POW and you tell us about his life after he wrote to book including his radio interview with RTE which by amazing coincidence was aired on the day of the funeral and was heard by the mourners when they gathered in a hotel in Castletownbere.  At first they were upset at the sound of his voice but when he was asked how he survived his ordeal he said something like good catholic values, Jesuit education and a lot a lot of luck at which the entire funeral party clapped and cheered.  I cried at that and when I finished the book I ran out my front door in order to give the book to somebody and saw my neighbour John clipping his hedge.  John read it and gave it to his wife who also read it and gave it to her father.  In fact I have yet to get it back.  I gave it to my book club when it came to my turn to pick the title and the way you write it, you make it easy to read and it clips along at a good pace...". the crowd in the library started to laugh.  

I continued, "My son graduated last year and the president mentioned in his speech another man from West Cork who after he graduated from medicine in UCC in 1913 went to England to find work and like Dr MacCarthy joined the British Army.  After he was injured on the Front he returned to Ireland to recuperate.  When he recovered he had to report back to Dublin and was walking along the quays with the intention of visiting his sister, he was told by several people to change out of his British Army uniform as there was some insurgency going on in the city.  He declined and when travelling in a taxi across O'Connell Street he was captured by the Rebels and brought into the GPO.  He waited a full 24 hours before revealing the fact that he was doctor and offered to help.  He spent the week tending to the wounded.    James Connolly told him he was the best thing they captured all week.  After the surrender he returned to the Front and survived the war.  It was only towards the end of his life did he tell people of his experiences."  And turning back to the crowd I asked, "What is it about West Cork that they produce these extraordinary individuals?"

The crowd laughed.  

I drew breath and turning back to Bob Jackson I continued, "And what you don't spell out in the book is his attitude to his experiences.    After the Japanese surrender, he walked away from the camp and made the decision then to put it all behind him.  He did not hate the Japanese.  You quote the fact in the book that POWs of the Japanese are four times more likely to commit suicide than the POWs of the Germans because of the deliberate psychological damage they imposed on the prisoners.  Yet Dr MacCarthy refused to let his past dominate his future and before psychotherapy became fashionable he was practising it himself. He persuaded a woman to marry him even though  she said, "I'm not sure, I've heard about people like you." They married, had two lovely children, he rose up the ranks of the RAF and lived a full professional life as a doctor. That's a testament to his strength of character." 

I was unstoppable and launched into my one of my other heros, Judge Judy and her recent comments on the 'Millennials' with their obsession with political correctness.  At that point the microphone was taken off me.

The interviewer said in a dull voice soaked with sarcasm, "The marketing rep from CollinsPress would like to have a word with you after."

I bought four copies of the book and my family each got one that Christmas.

Grace & Frankie

I LOVE the Netflix series Grace & Frankie.  I love it so much I'm watching it from the very beginning again.  

Naturally, Frankie is my favourite character.  I love her free wheeling nature, her huge jewellery, her funky colourful clothes, her mane of hair and her hand painted clogs. 

Yet, I've noticed that I am Grace or Frankie depending on who I'm with.  My sister, Louise is a full time art student in the Crawford School of Art and is like Frankie with her love of art and her long hair.  With her I am Grace, the sensible one.  Why? I'm not sure.  She's not a flake and doesn't need the likes of me to keep her grounded but she has a such a relaxed, non-judgemental approach to other humans and life in general that makes me envious and somehow it brings out the control freak in me.

At work, I am surrounded by very sensible people and they bring out the Frankie in me.  I've even bought myself a pair of clogs.   I'm the one who laughs at the inappropriate moments.  A colleague told me her house burned down and I barked out laughing.  Tragedies make me laugh.  The more someone is suffering the more I am inclined to laugh.    At my father's funeral, my brothers and I were giggling at memories of him two minutes after his coffin left the church.  Maybe it's an anxiety thing.   Frankie would have laughed.

The Ugly Expat

When I think of Vietnam, I think of the war with American choppers, the film Platoon and the soundtrack to Forrest Gump with Jimmy Hendrix.

So I was surprised when Jennifer from Dublin said Ho Chi Minh City was great for embroidered table-cloths.  It didn't fit with my image of marines wading through paddy fields in the driving monsoon rains but I kept an open mind on the matter.  

She was right, the shopping in Vietnam is fabulous.  I bought oil painted copies of Van Gogh for less than 30 US dollars each, gorgeous embroidered table clothes for the Christmas table and lacquered table ware.  We bought up everything we could carry and vowed to come back the next day.

On our first morning, while the group of us waited in the lobby of the hotel while Monty the super-organised went to get directions to the main shopping area, we witnessed the spectacle of an American woman barking at the concierge.  She apparently had asked his recommendation for a good restaurant in Ho Chi Minh to bring her visitors.  It seemed that whatever recommendation he gave she didn't trust it because she then bombarded him with, 

"Is it better than the Lemongrass?"
"Yes."
"Is it better than the .....?"
"Yes."
"Is it better than the.....?"

On and on she went until she ran out of restaurants.  

Monty returned and we left the lobby.  As we stepped out onto the street, Monty said, "Turn right."
I said, "Is it better than going left?"

One evening, just as it was starting to get dark, I left our hotel to return to a shop I passed earlier to buy a stunning oil-painted copy of Klimt's The Kiss.  As I hurried through the streets, a blonde woman overweight, sweaty and grumpy who also seemed to be in a hurry came towards me and passed without glancing in my direction.  

'Ugh, how ugly and greedy she looks' I thought to myself.  Then I spotted my reflection in a shop window.  The shock.  I was doing the exact same thing.  I was also a hungry, greedy expat clawing for bargains.  I stopped hurrying and returned to my hotel. 

I bought Stanley Karnow's book, Vietnam: A History.  I always thought the Americans lost the Vietnam War.  They didn't; it was just they had lost enough lives lost and pulled out.  Ho Chi Minh had warned the Americans that lives matter less in Vietnam and said the Vietnamese were like ants; they would keep coming at them and never give up. He was right.

What has all this has to do with spirituality? My judgemental nature and hypocrisy was revealed to me in spades.  I'm working on it......

Filling the void...

What does all this have to do with spirituality?

I was content; I had a nice home, I lived in a tropical climate, I had two healthy boys, a kind, loving husband and pots of money.  

With Neil earning a stratospheric salary in Singapore and me working for relative peanuts, our debts evaporated almost overnight.  I knew that money does not give you happiness, it merely minimises the inconveniences of life, but what surprised me that despite meeting all the goals we are raised to believe will bring us happiness how quickly get used to it.  After the first flush of motherhood, buying a new dining table or travelling around India, you soon take these privileges for granted.  Like the stunning view of Ventry harbour from our window when holidaying in Dingle, after a few days you start to take it for granted.  It becomes wallpaper - there in the background but you don't see it anymore.

I attempted to fill the void with food, not eating food, I got a job, I quit the job when my son got sick, shopping, getting drunk, self help books, travelling to India, Vietnam, Australia and Laos with friends but still the gnawing, lingering hunger; is this all there is?  

I read the books and lapped up the words of advice. I listened to Dr Phil and Oprah.  I wanted to understand wisdom and I thought reading books would do the trick.  But I now realise the path to wisdom is from experience and progress is slow, gradual and almost barely noticeable.  I went through many periods of bewilderment, frustration and boredom before realising several truths I had heard all my life. Such as:

Don't take things personally.  When someone does something to you, it's about them not about you.  That took years for me to understand.

Money does not buy happiness.

If you want to change the world, change yourself first.

And over the next few posts; I will tell you what I went through before the penny dropped.

I am content but....

Singapore, April 1998.  We moved here, to an open plan apartment on Tanjong Rhu Road, only three months ago.  

Singapore with daily temperatures of 37 degrees and humid was divine. Being of lizard blood, this 24 hour heat bath soaked into my frigid grateful bones and I loved it.  No nasty, frigid air conditioning for me.  I kept the temperature within human living conditions by slightly opening all the windows in the apartment just enough to get a cross breeze going. 

I had just put the baby to sleep and was padding softly towards the kitchen relishing my hour's peace.  It was Tuesday, Dr Phil day on the Oprah show.  I had just enough time to make a cup of tea before the 9am start.  As I was about to enter the kitchen I noticed that the curtains at one of the open windows while  acting as a filter for the sun also seemed to softly breathing in and out with the breeze.  It's gentleness caused me to stop and watch.  
 Then my inner voice spoke, 'I am content.'  Startled I said, "What?"  And it spoke again, 'I am content.'   I thought again, "Gosh, maybe I am."  I wondered about that.  Then it struck me that until that moment, I never had that thought before.  

But then my ego kicked in, "Don't admit it otherwise you'll jinx it."  I was afraid to express it out loud or to share it because to do so would cheapen it and it might even break this run of good luck.  

And then panic, how do I make it last?  How do I ensure it never goes away?  That's when I started reading self help books.  Actually that's not strictly true.    I have been reading self-improvement books since I was ten when I stayed in my cousins in Dublin - my grandfather in England had died and we stayed with them while my parents went to the funeral - and I came across a book with a title along the lines of 'how to be the modern woman' produced by Chanel.   I read it avidly but the only thing I remember was their advice on how to wear a watch.  Pointless now as I am allergic to watch straps.

When I turned twelve, in my eagerness to be a true teenager which I was sure was going to be a dazzling experience, I eagerly devoured my friend, Ciara's older sister's teen magazine, Jackie, to see what teenagers do.  Apart from articles on how to wear make-up and recover from a break-up with your boyfriend neither of which yet applied to me, everyone seemed to be on a diet and so I went on one.  I became obsessed with calories and went from a seven stone twelve year old to a nine stone 14 year old and have been fluctuating ever since.  But I digress.....

Back to my 34 year old self.  I couldn't leave well alone, could I?  

Not content with being merely content, that following Saturday, with hubbie home and after my son's football training, we headed to Wheelock Place and their huge bookshop on the ground floor and I bought my first book from the "Self Enrichment" section.  What that first book was I can't recall but I do remember out of curiosity picking up a book called, The Divorced Woman; Managing your Finances and my husband promptly plucking it out of my hand before I even got to read the 'Contents' page.  

"You won't be needing that!" he said.

My Road to Spirituality backwards

I'm still on the road.  I am loathe to use the term personal journey because everyone is on a journey and everybody's journey is personal.

I hope to never reach the end of the road and I can't see it happening in this lifetime.  This is not as depressing as it may sound: Carl Jung argued that one should not fear aging because as long as we remain open and curious to life we are constantly learning and evolving until the day we die.  

I am far from enlightenment but does that matter? My life has changed because I have changed.  Would I have changed anyway?  What can I compare it to?

Evelyn Cusack, the RTE TV weather lady when asked about gardening chirped, "That women over 50 either turn to gardening or to God."  That made me sit up.  I had just turned 50 and had suddenly developed a fierce interest in gardening.  It's a sickening feeling to realise you're following a predictable path.

Some months later, Brighid Daly my psycho-therapist friend living in Kerry held a one day work shop in Fenit Harbour, Tralee on a stunningly beautiful day in 2018.  Ireland was then basking in the most glorious heatwave.  The sea glittered in the harbour, the noon day sun bounced off the white washed walls and the grass in the fields....was dry and turning brown.  Inside a dark room with 20 other women and one lone man in stark contrast to the harsh sunshine outside, Brighid opened the day with, "Women over 50 either turn bitter or they get wise."

That line punched me in the chest.  It was my wish since my teens to grow into a wise old woman.  If I did not start getting wise soon, I might start heading into the other alternative.  I have met bitter women and they are ugly to be with.  My grand mother on my father's side was, in my experience, a bitter woman.  Her husband died bankrupt leaving her almost penniless, she hated men as a result and barely spoke to my father who was also her son.  I resolved not to be like her.  I've learned since however, that not everyone saw her the same I did.  Maybe if I had money and lost it through the stupidity of a man maybe I'd be the same.             Still, I was determined from childhood not to grow bitter like her.  

I'm back.....

Back in the blog and back from Nepal. I did a 10 silent retreat in December right before Christmas - my third - and this time accompanied by my husband.

The retreat was hard. The cold, the food, the lack of comfort and the jet lag all served to make the days yawn long and dull. I did not experience the euphoria on day 5 as I had in my previous two retreats nor did I enjoy the peace that group silence brought me before. I was cold and rebellious.

On day 5 the jet lag still kept me awake at 3am - at least it seemed like 3am I had no clock/phone/watch to tell me what part of the night/morning it was - I lay in the dark and focussed on my breathing. I could not turn on the light as I would disturb my fellow inmate. I could go to the toilet but the thought of shedding clothes kept me clung to my hot water bottle.

The next morning I resolved to break the cycle. I approached the kindliest looking server, "Tomorrow, I will not be at the 4.30 am sitting as I need to break my jet leg, I am not sleeping."  Her sweet Nepalese face looked at me in alarm and she said, "You must tell teacher." Ok I thought and at the first break I took my place in front of the English speaking teacher and doing the polite thing I said, "I'm sleeping very badly so tomorrow, is it ok if I don't come to the morning meditation?"

She looked at me gently and said, "Please come."

Irritated, I said, "No you don't understand. I am telling you, I will not be here tomorrow."

Again smiling, she said, "Please come."

The next morning, I heard the the 4am wake up bell. I snuggled down into my sleeping bag. At 4.20, I heard the 2nd bell. My roommate tugged my mattress and frantically turned on and off the overhead light several times. I stuck out my hand and waved her away, "It's ok, I told the teacher." 

She left.

I drifted back to sleep. Some 20 minutes later, I heard the door to my room being kicked in. It gets stuck and has to be shouldered or kicked open depending on your mood. 

I felt an urgent tugging of the mattress. I shouted, "It's ok, I told the teacher."

The face of one of the three female Nepalese servers, older than the one yesterday and tougher looking, peered over the rim of my sleeping bag and said, "Did she say yes?"

"Well, no."

Putting her hands together into a Namaste pose and smiling sweetly she said, "Please come."

It's hard to argue with politeness.

So I went.

Nun Attacks - Day 4 of the West Cork Literary Festival

"Your poems have no rhythm," said the small block of a woman to the American Fulbright scholar who had just read four of his best pieces to a packed audience. "Is it the way of modern poetry not to have rhythm?" she asked.

"I think you mean rhyme." said the scholar.

"I know perfectly well what I mean and you don't have it." Then turning to the director of the creative writing programme she demanded to know where all the brochures for the MA programme had gone. He told her that the other members of the audience had taken them.   "You didn't bring enough." she said and turned to leave.

"Let's go," whispered Margaret. Neither of us knew this woman but Margaret didn't want to draw her on us.  We were almost at the exit when I recognised the husband of a friend of mine. I stopped to talk to him. 

"I'm gasping for a cup of coffee," said a voice behind us, "can I join you?"  We turned around.  It was the woman from the reading. Caught by surprise I replied, "Of course."  As we walked slowly past the Protestant Church on the edge of Bantry square she told me her name was Hyacinth and that she was a retired nun living in Clonakilty.  We were almost at end of the square before I realised Margaret was gone.   

Hyacinth's feet had corns and so I suggested we go to Frog's Café as that was the nearest.  Once inside the café, Hyacinth found us a table for two by the window while I  queued up at the counter. Two brimming cups of latte later I joined her. 

"Did they give us any bit of a biscuit to go with our coffee?" she said peering around the cups.  I shrugged and said I wasn't given any.  Up she went to counter and charmed the staff into giving her a 'bit of a biscuit',  a Danish pastry. No charge.   

At 4.30 pm we left the café to climb the steep hill to Bantry Library to hear Eileen Battersby, book reviewer with the Irish Times, read from her first novel.  We were early enough to get front row seats but we opted for the second row as Hyacinth 'didn't want to be looking up her nose.'  Partway through the reading Hyacinth leaned into me and making no attempt to lower her voice said, "I don't care much for her book, do you?" 

After the reading, I fled the scene leaving Sister Hyacinth behind and dashed down the hill to the Maritime Hotel to listen to Eileen Battersby again; this time to hear her talk about her book reviews with the Times.  

After Eileen I ran down the corridor to join the queue for Colm Toibin's reading of his new novel at 8.30pm.  I texted my friend Mary who was driving down from Cork City to tell her of my whereabouts and that I would keep a seat for her.  Hyacinth appeared and joined me in the queue.  When the doors opened there was a rush for the seats but we managed to get three great seats in the front row right smack in front of where Colm would be sitting.    I put my bag on the third seat for Mary. 

Two fat men sat two seats down from Hyacinth. A Dublin man approached us and asked if he could have Mary's seat.  I told him no but gestured to the two free seats between Hyacinth and the fat men.  He took the one next to Hyacinth.    A minute later Ian Bailey walked up and asked if Mary's seat was free.  Again I said no but pointed to the last free seat between the Dublin man and the fat men.  He took it.

Whoever designed the seating plan did not account for adult bodies.   Hyacinth and myself being low sized women were fine but Ian Bailey is a large man and was forced to perch on the edge of his seat.  He could not lean back owing to the overlap of equally large male bodies on either side of him.  He got up and politely moved Mary's seat which was at the end of the row three inches further out.  I obliged by shuffling my seat three inches out too.  Bernadette moved a fraction but it made no difference: he was still forced to sit forward in his seat for the entire reading.  

I didn't know anything about Colm Toibin other than he wrote Brooklyn which became a movie.  I asked Hyacinth Colm's age.     "I don't know," she said, "but I'll ask Ian," and turning to her right she leaned across the Dublin man to ask the question.   Ian didn't know either but calculated he was about 65.           Ian then got up and disappeared for a few minutes.    The Dublin man took advantage of his absence to ask Hyacinth whether he was sitting next to someone famous. Hyacinth said he had been a suspect in a local murder back in 1996.   I urged Hyacinth to keep her voice down while frantically checking the room for Ian's whereabouts.

Right on time and to vigorous applause Colm Toibin took his seat on the stage.   Despite his dour photograph in the festival programme, Colm was funny, and kind to the young interviewer.  He read from two different sections of his book the story of which is based on a Greek legend involving murder and revenge and into which he interweaved several Irish myths.    

The questions were then open to the floor.  Only two were asked.  One of them being why didn't Colm draw on the god of Eros more fully and why he didn't describe the sex scenes in detail.  "Mother of God," exclaimed Hyacinth letting her eyes roll wildly all the way to the back of her head.   Colm seemed a little taken aback by the question but rallied saying that he had "in fact had found a book on ancient Greek homosexuality complete with very explicit illustrations but had to give up after page 16."

Colm then read the final three pages of his book.   The ghost of Arrestes's mother is lingering in the garden of the family home and she wants to speak to her son.         Colm freely admitted he borrowed heavily from Macbeth and Hamlet for this section by having the mother haunt Arrestes after he murdered her.  "Because you see," said Colm smiling down at us, "I don't know what someone does after they murder their mother.  Do they go have a meal? Do they have a bath?  Do they go talk to a friend? I mean, what do they do?  I looked at all the various writers: Ann Enright, James Joyce, John Bourne, even Jane Austen but nowhere could I find a writer that describes what someone does after they murder their mother." 

Colm paused, smiled again and said, "Thank you."   The audience exploded into applause. The interview was over.  I jumped up out of my seat and bolted for the exit. I spotted Mary making her way towards me from the back of the room.

"Where were you?" I cried.  Mary explained she had arrived late and was only allowed enter the room by the back door.  Hyacinth caught up with us and beaming a welcoming smile at Mary said, "So, where are we meeting tomorrow?"