riseoutofme

Empty Nest

2011-11-19T12:19:00.000-08:00

Its been a while.

Tempus fugit etc.

I'm wondering what I'm doing back here. I'm also wondering why I stopped coming here in the first place.

Thats a lot of wondering. Or wandering even.

A lot has happened in the year that I've been wondering or wandering.

Two of the offspring have gone to the other side of the world to spread their wings and not a backward glance between them. There is a tiny voice inside of me that screams "don't go so far away" but it disappears into the air.

The last of the offspring, in his final year, watching his siblings fly, is champing at the bit to test his own wings.

I didn't ever think when I was in the throes of rearing children that they would eventually grow up and want to fly so very far away.

How blind was I?

The house is rattlingly empty.

I miss them.

I want to leap to the other side of Xmas so I don't feel anything remotely resembling loneliness.

What right have I to feel this way when I have two of the offspring coming?

None.

But I still feel like jumping.

Happy Days

2010-11-11T15:26:00.000-08:00

Last year we had a quiet house. Just GB, myself and one of the offspring. The two peacocks off about their business, one in sunny Spain and the other residing with his lady love in the same city but it might as well have been on a different planet. There was no oonce-oonce music, no damp towels gathering mould under beds, no size 12's lying around waiting to be tumbled over, no dirty dishes growing mould beside the couch. Tasty edibles always available. It was very nice. And quiet.

But, now, they are back. The fruit of my loins, the reason for my existence for so many years, for various reasons, have returned to the nest. Oh joy of joys.

The damp towels are breeding. The bedrooms seldom see the light of day before noon. The oonce-oonce is a constant background rumble. The fridge is always empty. The lights are on all the time. The dog is ecstatic. The friends call constantly for entertainment and to help empty the aforementioned fridge. Late nights. Sore heads. These things, you might say are all part and parcel of family life. And you would be right.

But you know what drives me crazy?

The 27 odd socks that I counted today.

Spring

2010-04-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

Funny how a seemingly innocuous, random, run-of-the mill visit to a medicine man can stop you in your tracks and turn everything slightly upside down, inside out and every which way but the way you expect it to be.

Today, as I closed the surgery door behind me, I watched my life passing me by as I waited for it to begin.

Auto-immune disorder. No cure. Live with it.

O.k.

Bring on the dancing girls, raise high the roof beams, throw off the winter woollies, smell the rain, shake off the hibernating cobwebs.

To hell with the to-do lists, I'm busy breathing.

Lizard Fatigue

2010-01-17T02:28:00.000-08:00

I suspect that lizards really only come into their own when the sun shines. They don't much like the cold weather. Frost, snow and ice are like the kiss of death to some of them.

Credit to Mr. Newberry for his diagnostic skills.

Zoning Out

2009-11-30T09:51:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of November.

Tomorrow I don't have to post if I don't want to.

That's the way it should be.

Not that I didn't enjoy the month.

I did.

But having a low boredom threshold with myself and my wonderings, it'll be good to just visit and comment on other people's blogs instead of blathering on and on about me.

So, as and from tomorrow, I'm zoning out; off to wander around the blogs of visitors that I have shamelessly neglected for the duration of Nabloblahblah.

I'm looking forward to it.

Thanks for visiting!

Yesterday

2009-11-29T14:17:00.000-08:00

The sun came out yesterday.

It was lovely.

The sky was blue with only a few fluffy clouds skittering about and the rain fell down just a couple of times.

Hysterical with the brightness of the day, we abandoned the usual, humdrum activites that occupy a Saturday and hightailed it down to the seaside.

We motored through the familiar landscape that was now, due to the bucketting down of the last 3 weeks, strangely unfamiliar. We made several detours around large turloughs that have been lying dormant for the last decade or so, waiting patiently for their chance to glisten.

We had the flaggy shore to ourselves; listening to the docile lapping of the water against the rocks, feeling the salty sea air sweeping the cobwebs out of our moisture-sodden minds, it was easy to be happy.

At 6pm we went to the exhibition. The invitation had arrived earlier in the week. He who would like to be obeyed, groaned. "Well, if you REALLY want to go ..."

He's not a great fan of the visual arts but he is quite tolerant.

Michael Gemmell was one of the artists. He's a quiet man with a colourful past.

It is difficult to do justice to the visceral wonder of the man's creativity. His work speaks for itself.

I'm not even going to try.

But every fibre of my being tingles with recognition.

art work: Flying Over by Michael Gemmell.

X-Rated

2009-11-28T13:58:00.000-08:00

Blue-footed Boobies.

I didn't know that some of them had feet.

photo credit: www.ecs.soton.ac.uk

The Wanderer

2009-11-27T12:57:00.000-08:00

For 27 years I have filled a Xmas sock for her.

But not this year.

Because now she is wandering far from sockland.

On August 19th last, herself and her main man packed their rucksacks, waved goodbye to their safe lives and ventured forth to travel the world. They bravely took themselves out of impending settledom, gathered their nerve and flew to adventure.

So far, they have rattled their bones in Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador and are now languishing in Peru.

She is the first born. A good girl. Responsible, hardworking, loving and caring. And careful.

This was a big decision for her.

I'll miss her dreadfully but I wouldn't wish her here for all the tea in China.

Victory Verse for Molly

2009-11-26T11:59:00.000-08:00

5 more posts and then it is done
Nabloblahblah will have run its run
Will I be sad, will I be down?
Will I be wearing a worried frown?

I think, dear reader, that the answer is no
For inspiration has hit an all-time low
Me marbles are rattling, me eyes are bloodshot
The hour has arrived to take to the cot.

25 long nights have seen me toil
Mumbling and fumbling with the midnight oil
I should have said this, I should have said that
Conundrums, indeed, they'd baffle a cat.

For as you may know, I promised the Molly
That once again, I would, indulge in this folly
Posting and blathering for the month of November
Was 2007 that hard to remember?

But, Molly my dear, the plan has succeeded!
The kick in the pants, that was very much needed
Has taken me back to the pleasures of reading
The blogs of the many, so worthy of heeding.

So when the days of November are nowt but a dream
And my life has returned to its normal regime
I'll be writing less often but reading much more
Having all of the pleasure and none of the chore!

image credit: daledamos.blogspot.com

Wordless Wednesday

2009-11-25T14:07:00.000-08:00

No. 2 son, temporarily residing in Barcelona, thinks that I have one of these growing in the back garden.

Umbrella Season

2009-11-24T08:06:00.000-08:00

Its been raining here for the last 3 weeks.

Non-stop.

One gets weary of the constant wetness.

The sudden drenching of the feet as one decides to dash across the grass thinking one has feathers powering one's shoes. The decision to air the body after one brief glimpse of brightness behind the clouds only to be deluged upon 200 metres from the dryness of the house. The water levels rising, at an alarming rate, in the mighty river Shannon which flows nearby, too close for comfort. There haven't been floods like this for 100 years, the weather people tell us.

We haven't had to evacuate yet but we are on "alert". The weather forecast for the next week is "more of the same". All around this small green island, people are being evacuated from their homes. News reports carry pictures of young families being hoisted to safety on to army lorries, old people being piggy-backed from their homes on the backs of kindly neighbours, farmers weeping at the sight of their fertile fields being transformed into lakes of bankruptcy. Business people looking on in disbelief as their stock floats away on the torrents streaming through their premises. Emergency services stretched to capacity and beyond.

It is unbelievable.

But one just worries about the wetness of it all.

Sometimes, one thinks that one might be better served to be a realist rather than an optimist.

photo credit: www.gettyimages.com

Time for a Little Temper Tantrum

2009-11-23T15:02:00.000-08:00

I like to think that I am a fairly well balanced, normal individual. I don't have any outrageously disgusting habits and my temperament is, usually, of the easy going variety. Nothing fazes me, most of the time.

But last Saturday, I shed the mantle of tolerance.

The Queen had asked if I would drop in and visit with the brother in law who was down to do his filial duty for the weekend. I suspect it wasn't out of concern for the brother in law that the request was made. Her own tolerance of this particular individual is a little strained, to say the least.

He has always been difficult. Laden down with baggage that he has never acknowledged, let alone dealt with, he storms through life with an enormous chip on each shoulder. His storming is greatly exacerbated by his overdependence on alcohol to see him through, what he perceives to be, difficult situations. One of these situations is his monthly visit at the weekend to care for his parents.

I arrived at 4pm intending to stay for an hour or so. He was slouched in front of the TV, beer in hand, glared up at me and snarled "What are you doing here?"

"Just passing by and I thought I'd come and see how you were" I said lightly.

He then proceeded to tell me that he didn't need people checking up on him and that he was very capable of caring for the old folks without any supervision.

"Where are they, by the way?" I enquired.

"Front room" he barked.

I went into the front room and found the Queen in an agitated state, the result of an earlier argument, and the main man drenched because "somebody" had neglected to enquire if he would like to go to the bathroom. Having done what was necessary, cajoled and placated Her Majesty, made the main man comfortable again, I then felt something snap in my brain. Anger seeped through every fibre of my being.

I went back into the other room and let him have it.

What did he do?

He picked up his phone, rang GB and told him he'd better come pick "her" up because "she" was having a temper tantrum.

This man doesn't know how lucky he is to be alive.

10 Reasons to Smile

2009-11-22T14:11:00.000-08:00

1. Sunshine through the clouds.

2. Puppy chasing his tail.

3. Wind blowing, drying the laundry.

4. TV broken.

5. Repair man fixing my bicycle free of charge.

6. The sound of someone humming.

7. Walks on the beach, whatever the weather.

8. Finishing anything.

9. Postcards from afar.

10. December 1st.

Resonance

2009-11-21T12:39:00.000-08:00

This piece of music takes me to the inner places of my ancestors, to places that I cannot remember.

Even without memory, my body responds to it on a cellular level, recognising some deep connection that defies my senses.

My rational mind would like to know why some musical pieces touch the core of one's being while others just drift past, unrecognised.

But my spirit doesn't care.

Its just happy to go along for the ride.

The Queen

2009-11-20T13:46:00.000-08:00

The Queen is a mighty woman.

She was born in 1924 in a small town in rural Ireland. Her mother, who was only 19, died of a fever when the Princess was just 9 months old. Her father, being young and a little foolish, was at a loss as to what to do with his baby daughter. Enter the Queen's maternal grandmother, herself a formidable woman, and, he was off the parental hook. Away with him across the water to London where the streets were, supposedly, paved with gold. Neither sight nor sound of him for 10 years.

Roseanne put her heart and soul into rearing her grandaughter. Abject poverty was the norm on the street where they eked out a meagre existence. But she managed to see the little Princess through primary school and insisted that she continue on with her education so that she could, eventually, get a grand, steady, pensionable position working for the Government.

The Princess was an intelligent, good looking child. She grew to be an articulate, hardworking woman. She landed herself the prized government position and left her grandmother's home. For a life of freedom and a little wildness in a slightly larger town about 70 miles from where she grew up. She enjoyed being a grown up. Boyfriends and dances, bus trips to Dublin and bicycle rides around the countryside. And then she met himself. The tall, handsome army man who swept her off her feet. And out of the arms of the man she thought she loved.

When they married in 1953, she relinquished her tiny Princess tiara and readily accepted the heavy duty crown that was part and parcel of her new position. She moved into the role of Queen like a duck sliding into a pond.

She was, like most Queens, quite ignorant of housekeeping duties. The arrival of the royal offspring, all 8 of them, within 10 years, was, to say the least, a bit of an eye-opener for her. But being of the blue-blooded brigade, she rose to the challenge and loved and nurtured them beyond even her own expectations. She loved and ruled with an unquestionable passion. Her devotion demanded very little in return. On one royal occasion, himself and the princes and princesses forgot the importance of the Queen's birthday. Boiled eggs were served for the nightly repast, in silence. This ensured that the 2nd of October was never overlooked again. Her family was the reason for her existence. When death deprived her of one of her children she, temporarily, lost her will to go on. But time, as it does, softened that wound.

She worked hard at creating a home filled with love and laughter. The royal offspring blossomed under her care and eventually left the palace to seek out their own kingdoms. Himself retired and they filled their days with gardening, winemaking, reading and the occasional jaunt across the waters to strange, exotic lands. When himself had a stroke back in 1995 their lives changed, inevitably. Gradually, they became old and dependent. The Queen was not amused.

Being an intelligent Queen, she knows that she has been blessed with a good life. She knows that she has no real reason to complain. But it is difficult. She is heartbroken watching her life partner of 57 years lose his zest for life; she watches him battle with the words that are on the tip of his tongue but refuse to be spoken; she looks at him while he struggles to put one foot in front of the other, worrying in case he should fall. She lives in a constant state of fear.

Fear of life.

Fear of death.

Her bravery is a humbling reminder to me that that we are all vulnerable.

Long live the Queen.

Feeling no Pain ...

2009-11-19T16:01:00.000-08:00

I had the best of intentions today to write a non-moaning post about the magnificence of being alive.

I got lead astray.

Delicious eats at a favourite hostelry, Milanos, accompanied by 2 bottles of Pinot Grigio, scintillating conversation, and the solving of the world's problems.

Now I'm home and feeling no pain.

Life is good.

So tis away to the bed with me.

I'll sleep to fight another day of Nabloblahblah.

Codhlamh samh!

Wordless Wednesday

2009-11-18T13:49:00.001-08:00

One of the wettest places in the world.

The kingdom of Kerry.

The Offspring

2009-11-17T15:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it frightens me.

The depth and strength of the feelings that my children can generate in me.

Especially when they are not around.

The photo above was taken at No. 1 daughter's wedding in London last August.

When I look at this picture, I recognise the people in it. I know that I love them dearly, that I would gladly die for them. They make me outrageously happy. They fill my soul.

And yet, part of me feels detached from them.

To the point of barely recognising our connectedness.

Is this the way its supposed to be?

I don't feel sad.

I'm just curious.

From Nowt to Nod.

2009-11-16T15:33:00.000-08:00

Today's letter for inspiration is N.

Nought, nil, nada, nothing, nonsense, nearly, never, normal.

This is where my brain has landed.

The Land of Nowt.

Which must mean that I am going to moan, again, about having nothing to write about and no inspiration.

But never fear, there's bound to be some nonsense that I can unearth from the nether regions of my normally fertile imagination.

The Land of Nowt is a notorious place. The inhabitants are rather neanderthal in appearance and are encumbered with a somewhat narky disposition. They like nothing better than to nibble on nachos and nuts while nattering incessantly about the niceties of nooky . Nooky , or the lack of it, occupies their every waking moment. Woebetide the nuisance creature that would, with nerves of steel, dare to dispute the necessity of having a regular supply. The naive creature would end up with his neck in a noose, his nauseating screams the stuff of nightmares . Neither the nightingales in their nests nor the numerous nomadic nuns could save him from his nemesis.

So be wary reader. If you should happen to find yourself navigating your way through the nasty narcoleptic narrows of nothing to write about, don't go anywhere near the Land of Nowt. You may not live to tell the tale.

Now I am away from the Land of Nowt to the Land of Nod.

Good-night.

photo credit: www.zunuzin.com

Manners Maketh the Man

2009-11-15T08:36:00.000-08:00

No.1 son came visiting today. To be fed and watered, I suspect. The love nest is cluttered with studying and papers and heads down. So, up on his bicycle with him and off out to visit the mammy.

He's easy company. No fuss, no trouble, just feed him and he's quite happy.

After we had eaten we sat around discussing various things such as "any sign of a job yet?" or "how are you filling your days?" or "are you happy doing nothing all day?"

No, this and that and yes.

There are no jobs available in the construction industry at the moment in this country. The Recession. But now, after 3 months of unemployed bliss, he's contemplating going back to the real world. To London maybe or perhaps Canada. But what about the "Ladylove"?

Hmmm ....

"But I do have a job" he said, "I'm working in a bar 2 evenings a week and it's o.k .. not too bad really".

Turns out he is bar tending at the local Greyhound Track Bar. Frequented by the local gentry with their over-bred canines. Moneyed people.

"Tight as a chicken's ar**, most of them" he says. "Tips?? Don't be ridiculous Mum, they wouldn't give you the time of day let alone a tip".

He then went on to regale us with various horror stories of bickering and fighting between dog owners, fixing of races, performance enhancing substances in black plastic bags being found at the back of the track.

"But do you know what the worst thing about them is" he said, "they have no manners". Not a please or a thank you.

All of the offspring, at one stage or another, have commented on the lack of manners in their peers and younger children. Working part-time in local shops and bigger department stores, has given them an insight that no amount of preaching by their mother could provide. Although I did do my bit.

"Can I have an apple Mum"

"Can you have an apple what"?

"Can I have an apple Mum" slightly louder. She's old, maybe she can't hear me.

"There's a word missing".

Clink, clink as the penny drops.

"Can I have an apple PLEASE Mum?"

Eureka.

For years, I drummed the basics of good manners into them. I knew no better. That was the way we were brought up so what's good for the goose is good for the gander. They struggled against me. "So and so's mother doesn't make them say please and thank you ..."

Grrr.

But now they know.

It costs nothing to have good manners. All it takes is a little thought and respect for others. It is an easy way to show that you care for your fellow human beings. Why then do so few people behave in a mannerly way? I have no answers for this seemingly trivial question. All I know is that it makes my blood boil when a supposedly civilised person walks through a door and then lets it fly back on me when my arms are full of groceries.

No.1 son, himself has very nice manners.

Little old ladies love him.

Younger ladies too.

Manners maketh the man AND the woman.

Life gets in the way ...

2009-11-14T16:36:00.000-08:00

Today is day 14 of Nabloblahblah.

So far, I have managed, technically, to post a blog a day.

But it is now 12.30am and I am lost for inspiration.

I don't know what possessed me when I got to thinking I could write something coherent every day for 30 days. A lightness of the brain perhaps? An absence of grey matter maybe?

I'm sorry Molly, but tonight the madness of the week has finally caught up on me and I am unable to post anything worth reading even for you, the most faithful of readers!

Tomorrow, I will try to do better.

photo credit: www.ndesign-studio.com

The Key to Happiness

2009-11-13T14:27:00.000-08:00

"Morning Lar", I said, popping my head around his door.

Silence.

Hmmm....

I busied myself with the Royal Breakfast. Delivered it to her Highness, descended the stairs and tried again.

"Good morning Lar".

Silence.

Please God, don't let him be dead, not this morning. I'm not ready.

Took the bull by the horns, went into his room, opened the curtains and said again "Morning Lar".

"You're late" he said.

My turn to be silent. Guilty as charged.

It was 9.15am. I'm normally there at 8.30am. But this morning I was late waking, the bin had to be put out, the dog was misbehaving and I figured 30 minutes isn't a hanging offence. Wrong.

"Why were you late?" he asked, as I was performing the ablutions. I explained the velcroed-to-the bed syndrome, the antics of the psychotic canine, the recalcitrant bin with the wobbly wheel, attempting a little bit of light relief.

For once, he was not amused.

We continued our daily dance with the intricacies of balance and movement, in silence.

About an hour later, as he was sitting at the wash hand basin, shaving foam everywhere, he grabbed my arm and said "I thought you weren't coming".

"Sure, don't I always turn up" I said lightly, "like the proverbial bad penny".

"I thought you weren't coming" he repeated.

Silence.

For the last week or so, there has been a lot of tension between the sisters concerning the care of their father. Each believing that the other was being unreasonable. As a result, we had a meeting yesterday with a representative of a care-givers association with a view to finding somebody willing to call each day for an hour to assist with Lar. Larry remained, for the most part, silent throughout. Her Highness does most of his talking anyway.

"Lar, unless I drop down in my tracks or himself does me in in the middle of the night, I'll be here every morning, whether you like it or not!"

"Good" he said "I'm glad .. because ... I thought you weren't coming anymore"

Nobody, including me, saw fit to tell Lar the full details of what was being organised. So he spent a restless night wondering. And worrying.

And the moral of this story?

Don't be late.

Just too Tired ...

2009-11-12T15:26:00.000-08:00

Tonight I am just too tired to think. So, some pictures instead.

King of London Zoo.

London Zoo Flutterby.

Another Flutterby.

Yet Another Flutterby.

Would be king accompanied by meat-eating flutterby.

You see all kinds of weird and wonderful creatures at the Zoo.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-11-11T14:45:00.000-08:00

The Lake Isle Of Innisfree

2009-11-10T15:51:00.000-08:00

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the crickets sing;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wing.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day,
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore,
While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Sometimes when I have a million and one things to do and my mind is like a a refuse sack, I turn my back on the humdrum and curl up in an armchair with a pile of well- thumbed favourite books. One of these is a collection of W.B. Yeat's poetry.

The offspring have great difficulty in seeing the merits of this pastime. In fact, it is a source of curiousity and amusement to them. But this particular poem is one that they do appreciate. If only because I refuse to entertain the idea that anyone can be immune to such beautiful writing. And if they are to continue being well fed they had better get their heads out of Facebook occasionally and listen to their older, much wiser mater familias.

Obviously, the way to their hearts is through their stomachs.

Heavy Hearts and Heaven Calling ....

2009-11-09T10:42:00.001-08:00

The Molly and I, while we were growing up, had 3 aunts. Two on our father's side of the family and one on our mother's. We visited our mother's family regularly and spent several long, hot summers being country children. Molly remembers these visits with a great deal of nostalgia. The mad aunt relating scary ghost stories or whispering the local gossip around the fire when little ears were supposed to be tucked up in bed. I remember very little of that time.

We saw our father's family rather less frequently. They lived quite a distance from us, so it was usually a funeral or a wedding that brought us all together. But every Christmas parcels would arrive in the post for us. They never forgot. My father's two sisters were called Gertie and Dympna. Gertie was the oldest and Dympna was the youngest. My father was the blessed boy in the middle.

When I was 19 years old and going through a particularly rough patch, Dympna invited me to stay with her and Fred. That was the start of a very special relationship that has withstood the distance of time and place. She minded and fed me like I was the only one who mattered in the world. She amused me with tales of her misspent youth in the hotel business and she held me in her heart, waiting patiently until I was ready. She was there. She also had a wicked sense of humour and Fred, being a very patient man, would just smile benignly at us as we were falling around the place, hysterical at our own funniness.

I sometimes think that she saved my life back then.

Through the years we kept in touch. When Fred died in 1977 she picked up her life again. She played golf, kept her garden full of blooms and painted in oils until her lungs nearly collapsed from the fumes of the white spirit. She was a wonderful cook and insisted that good food was the best and only medicine. She was a vibrant, life-loving woman. She enjoyed good health until the early 90's. Then the powers that be saw fit to take away her sight thus depriving her of some of her reasons to live; painting, gardening, reading. But they didn't manage to rob her of her sense of humour. Or her trust in her God. I know she had some very black days where there was no light at all but still she remained good-humoured and optimistic. She insisted on living alone. Independently.

For the last year or so she has been suffering from dementia. Not all the time but enough to distress others and herself. Last Saturday night she got up to get a drink of water and fell. She lay on the cold kitchen floor until her carer called on Sunday morning. This morning she was to have an operation to mend her broken hip. Her days of living her vibrant, humour-filled life are over.

My heart is heavy with the selfish sadness of losing her but for her sake I hope Heaven calls and that she is listening. I know she is ready.

A Good Day

2009-11-08T10:51:00.000-08:00

Today was a good day.

In the early hours of the morning, a friend and I drove through the mist to the wilds of County Clare. Far from the madding crowds. For a day of navel gazing.

"Mumbo jumbo" he said. "Stuff and nonsense" he said. "Whatever floats your boat" he said.

I have thick skin.

The Retreat Centre is nestled high on a hill surrounded by rolling hills, nature's jamboree and remote silences. For as long as I can remember it has been a Retreat Centre. But I had never been there before because the cost of the courses was too high. The Centre changed hands about 2 years ago and now it is being run by an American man and his English born wife. They live in the Buddhist tradition and as a consequence their charges for retreats are within everybody's reach.

We meditated in silence from 10am until 4.30pm. We ate our lunch in silence.

Bliss.

Not all of the people attending had meditated before. It was interesting to see how these individuals dealt with the silence. Some were decidedly uncomfortable with it. Others, surreptitiously glancing around them trying to discover like-minded, uneasy souls.

I like meditation. I like the slowness and inner quietness that it brings. My soul craves silence.

My everyday life is noisy. I live with people who seem to be immune to the cacophony of sounds. I manage very well, I keep my cool most of the time but I savour the times when noise is absent and my spirit can dance to the inner music.

So, I am feeling renewed. Calm and settled. Tomorrow will bring whatever it brings. And I will deal with it.

A good day, indeed.

Friday

2009-11-07T13:14:00.000-08:00

Friday night, she said with some glee
We'll come to your house, we'll drink all of your tea
We'll sort everything out, we'll make a grand plan
To keep the Royals happy, to do what we can.

We settled ourselves round the table square
Myself and himself and the other pair
Sisters both, one quiet, one not
Everyone there, ready to trot.

The unquiet one had an axe to grind
The solution, she barked, is not hard to find
You MUST do more, you MUST pull your weight
You can't expect US to keep on at this rate.

The quiet one looked like a little lost child
Her lips were trembling, her eyes a bit wild
I want to ... I can't ... I'm doing my best
She stuttered and stammered, failing the test.

The unquiet one preached on and on
Venting her spleen, singing her song
Of resentment and anger, of right and of wrong
For the hours she had spent and all she had done.

At last, the quiet one could take no more
She jumped from the table and ran out the door
She was crying and shuddering, like her heart would break
She was wondering aloud, how much more she could take.

Himself in the kitchen was calming things down
The unquiet one was wearing a frown
Well, thats that sorted, I'm off home to bed
Never mind her, she'll get over it, she said.

When she was gone the quiet one sighed
She doesn't understand, she hasn't even tried
She thinks I'm lazy, selfish and unkind
I'm none of these things, I'm losing my mind.

A little while later, she hugged us both
Thank you for listening, as she put on her coat
She'll be calmer tomorrow, just you wait and see
If she isn't, I said, just refer her to me.

Himself and myself, we sat down again
What'ya make of all that, do you think it'll rain
I'm glad you were here, the voice of the sane
And no, I DON'T think it is going to rain.

Eejity ...

2009-11-06T14:45:00.000-08:00

I love the English language. The variety of words available to describe any particular emotion or feeling, are enough to send me into paroxysms of delight, kinks of laughter or child-like wonderment at the vastness of the available selection.

I love the whispering of the wind. The chattering of the chipmunks. The roar of the rapids and the rippling river. The hoity-toity and the skanky slappers.

Its like being a child in a sweet shop. Alone. Free to pick and choose, to gorge on allsorts, indulging the sheer pleasure of rolling them around one's mouth, to taste and lick, to discard or keep.

The fruit of my loins, like a lot of offspring, delight in finding a chink in the elder's armour. I have been caught, on numerous occasions, reading the dictionary. For some unknown reason, they find this extremely amusing.

Eejit is one of my favourite words. It can be used affectionately, derisively, aggressively or even admiringly. So versatile. It serves as a noun primarily but can also be used as an adjective. But you won't find it in any dictionary. Not of the English variety anyway. I suspect that it is peculiar to this green island. Certainly, the Queen of England wouldn't be having it as part of her verbal repertoire.

Loosely translated, it means "a foolish person". A "clown", of sorts.
"Eoinseach", another splendid word, is the gaelic for eejit. It can sometimes be interpreted as meaning "a bit light on the grey matter" or a "tad short on the smarts". Whatever its meaning, its like a great big clove-drop pinballing around the tongue and teeth.

One can be a great eejit, a big eejit or even a stupid eejit. One can even be a f***ing eejit. The opportunities to shine are endless.

Now, the adjective of this word is Eejity. A different kettle of fish altogether. One can be born eejity (sure god help us all), one can develop eejitiness or one can simply degenerate into an eejity state through no fault of one's own. While trapped in an eejity state, one is rarely coherent, one usually has the unfocused gaze of the bewildered and one should most definitely not be allowed within an asses roar of a motorised vehicle. Sympathy abounds in some quarters for the eejity ones. Compassion is an admirable virtue.

It is 11.45pm and I am dropping with tiredness. I have been decidedly eejity for the last couple of hours.

But I couldn't disappoint the Molly.

See, I am a good little blister.

Eejity but good.

We are experiencing some Difficulty ...

2009-11-05T16:05:00.000-08:00

6.45am. Trumpeted out of the scratcher to the sound of the psychotic canine scrabbling noisily at the utility room door. Sleepy nose detects the reason for the rude awakening. Stomach somersaults as the size 5 misses its target. Breakfast is postponed.

7.15am. Floor washed, laundry on, unread newspapers gathered, unrepentant canine allowed back in. Clothes folded, sleepy heads up, "where is my green top?", "where are my keys?" Have a nice day dear.

8.00am. Cup of tea. Spot of navel gazing.

8.30am. Onwards to the palace. Breakfast for milady. Doggie biscuit for royal hound accompanied by much gratuitous slobbering. The main man up, washed and dressed. Fed and watered. Bed clothes changed, living room vacuumed. Pills for week sorted. Desultory conversation.

10.00am. She who would like to be obeyed rises from the boudoir. With a list. And an attitude. Silent prayer is said.

11.00am. Class for the wobblies at local pool. Much hilarity and sadness.

12.30pm. Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Soup. Look through post. Pay bills. Transfer small fortune to offspring residing temporarily in Barcelona. Phone dancing off the hook.

2.00pm. Dancing with the divas. One of whom has consumed too many glasses of wine with her lunch. Cross words and slight 78 year old tantrum when not allowed to trip the light fantastic.

4.00pm. Back to palace. 35 minute shuffle to the bathroom. Too late. Exercises done. Queen querulous. Murderous thoughts.

5.30pm. Dinner?? Nah ... couldn't be arsed. Let them starve.

6.45pm. Exhibition opening no.1. Old friends, new paintings. Disappointing.

7.30pm. Exhibition opening no.2. Brilliant. Manic. Hot.

8.30pm. Poetry reading. Interesting.

11.00pm. Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Tidy kitchen, let reluctant canine out, some laundry sorting. Cup of tea. Breathe. Haul cat-marauding canine back in.

12.30am. Yawn. Nabloblahblah??

There are not nearly enough hours in the day.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-11-04T14:29:00.000-08:00

Wednesday is as good a day as any for a little self-indulgent day dreaming.

The halcyon days on the GR20 in Corsica last July are just the ticket for the escapism that is fast becoming a necessity.

I know, I know, not quite wordless.

Classy ....

2009-11-03T15:25:00.000-08:00

Nose-picking.

Crotch-scratching.

Pathetic stray hairs combed over a bald patch.

Toupees.

Wife-beater vests.

Dirty fingernails.

Woolly socks with sandals.

White socks with sandals.

Peroxide blonde hair with bright blue eye shadow.

Foul-mouthed people.

Mutton dressed up as lamb.

Battered burgers.

White ties.

Smelly feet.

Smelly anything.

Drunks.

Dog beaters.

Litter louts.

Lovers who cheat.

I'm feeling rather intolerant today.

The Bee-Keeper

2009-11-02T13:42:00.000-08:00

Every morning I see him.

A tall man, he walks with a stoop. He seems to be afraid of having his head in the clouds. A long grey raincoat hangs loosely on his bony frame and he carries a small, black and white rucksack on his back. The heavy, black shoes are the same ones he used to wear when he was a security guard. He is retired now due to ill-health.

He has been living in the area for going on 30 years. His elderly parents moved back to their roots and he came with them. Even though his roots were elsewhere. He dutifully minded them until they died. Never marrying. He knows everybody in the neighbourhood. He knows everything about everybody in the neighbourhood.

Being a religious man, his first port of call, after his breakfast, is the church. There he meets with other retired, like-minded souls. He can be seen, chatting in an animated manner, or quietly leaning closer to catch some whispered confidence. He continues from his prayers into town. His needs are few so the little rucksack is more than adequate to carry his messages. He usually wanders home just after 11.30am. He is a creature of habit.

He likes chocolate and bananas. The neighbourhood children used to call regularly to his door knowing that they would come away laden with goodies. That all stopped when a well-meaning woman warned him that "People would talk ... they wouldn't understand". He still gives out chocolate and bananas. Carefully.

He knows everything. The best way to recycle waste, the nutritional value of bananas, the intricacies of heart surgery, the benefits of thyroid tablets in the event of a nuclear disaster and the life cycles of honey bees. He loves bees. In his back garden there are about 20 beehives. He doesn't care much for gardening so the bees get to live, joyously, in the wild. He bestows jars of precious honey on the select few of his neighbours who have been behaving themselves. These gifts are, inevitably, accompanied by a diatribe on the benefits of clean living and how much man can learn from watching bees. Every year, he tootles off for a week of bee talk with other bee enthusiasts. The other week of his annual holidays is spent in Lourdes. He usually returns from Lourdes laden down with gallons of Holy Water which, like the bees, has amazing curative powers.

He seems to be a man of simple needs. A God-fearing christian.

Why, then, do the hairs rise up on the back of my neck every time I see him?

Amen

2009-11-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

Amen.

A small word. Compact and to the point. Rolls off the tongue easily enough.
It can be said softly or loudly. Whispered with emotion or gloriously shouted.

If one looks it up in the dictionary one is informed that the direct meaning for Amen is "So be it".

Interesting.

If one were of a religious inclination one would be inclined to think "Well, thats it, I can do nor more" or, maybe, "Its in God's hands now, he'll take care of it" or maybe one might whisper softly to oneself "Whew, that was a close one, I'm glad its not my responsibility any more".

One might also think, if one had nothing better to be doing than contemplating one's navel or some other equally innocuous part of one's anatomy, "Why Amen? Why not Awomen?"

Luckily, around here, there isn't a lot of time for contemplation of one's body parts.

The big blister, aka Molly, and I have decided to post a blog a day for the month of November. This arose from a late-at-night telephone conversation which covered a myriad of subjects, including my disastrous attempts at blogging on a regular basis. In a moment of marble-free madness, I suggested that we both undertake the insanity that is Nablopomo. Molly, after much humming and hawing, and being the soul of big-sisterly kindness, reluctantly agreed. Against her better judgement, I might add. She is, indeed, older and wiser. Most of the time.

So here I am, clueless and bereft of inspiration.

Molly, dearest, as the older blister, one feels that you have a duty to guide and mentor the younger sibling. You are most remiss in your duty in letting the hare-brained one cajole you with well-meaning promises to be good. Do you not realise that queens and kings will go unwalked, psychotic hounds will remain unfed, spouses and offspring will, needlessly, suffer the rantings and ravings of a middle-aged, bewildered harridan.

What were you thinking?

I have no more to say for now.

Except.

Amen.

Between the Darkness and the Light ...

2009-09-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

It was very quiet and dark on the second floor tonight. Only the gentle sounds of, seemingly contented souls, snoring gently, oblivious to the roaring chatter stampeding through his head. This was the second night that he had slept in a bed that was not his own.

He likes his own bed. The familiar smell of the brown, checked woolen blanket, the new red curtains, occasionally, brushing his arm as he tries to turn, the shufflings of the dog in the kitchen, as he attempts to make a comfortable bed for himself on the narrow bench. The monotonous tick- tick of the clock in the hall, chiming the hour and the half hour, relentlessly signaling the passage of each day and night. Sometimes, when sleep is slow to arrive, he finds himself counting the ticks, wondering if he will be able to count himself into a new day. His mind usually wanders and the shadows from the soft light in the hall, left on to light his way through the darkness of the night, throw up forms and shapes that spirit him to a world where he is the man he was, and still wants to be. The man who faced his world with an unquenchable enthusiasm, who charged through life with a gentleness of spirit, loved and loving, impatient with fools and foolish to the charms of children. Independent.

The night nurse, a petite, pretty girl, appears, silently at his bedside.
“Are you still awake Larry? Are you having difficulty getting off to sleep? Is there anything I can get for you?” she whispers.
“What time is it?” he says, none too softly. He has never really learned the art of whispering. The army life.
“Oh sure tis the middle of the night Larry, you really should try to sleep … have you any pain?”
“No, no pain …I’m o.k”.
“Alright then, just press the bell if you need anything, we’re just up the corridor .. Goodnight” she says softly, with a light pat on his arm and leaves the room as quietly as she had come in.

Angels of mercy, they call them.

How did he get here? When did he come to need other people to just live? He could feel the remnants of some age-old anger lurking in his soul. Raging against his God. Why him? Why not him? He wished he could still run. He dreamed of running . Of feeling his legs powering him forward, strong and unbeatable. King of his world. He hadn’t run for 20 years. He hadn’t walked independently for 5 years. The betrayal of his sleeping mind was unbearable. Since the first stroke, 15 years ago, his life had changed, slowly. Always, the hope that things would go back to the way they were. They never did. He watched himself become the man he didn’t want to be. Old. Dependent. He knew he was a lucky man. They kept telling him so. He had a loving, caring family, all his needs catered for, patience and compassion abounding. Why was he still alive? Did God have a reason for slowly stripping him of his dignity, his sense of humor, his capacity for enjoying life to the full? Was he too lucky?
Fifteen years is a long time to be learning new tricks. A long time to be wrestling with anger and impatience.

As he lay there, watching the morning light creeping through the curtains, he thought of the day ahead … What would it bring? Would they find anything in the scan they had planned for him? Or would it show up negative, leaving them scratching their heads unable to find a definitive reason for his inability to stand?

Apart from old age, that is.

He was tired now.

Tired of the struggle. The struggle with his body, his soul, his torment.

Maybe he should pray?

To a God he did not understand.

He yearned for the familiar sound of his hall clock.

Ushering in a safe new day.

Really ... It's easy to learn English ....

2009-09-19T03:58:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine sent me this recently ... Enjoy!

Let's face it. English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell?
How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick'?

You lovers of the English language might enjoy this. There is a two-letter word that perhaps has more meanings than any other two-letter word, and that is 'UP.'
It's easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP? Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report?

We call UP our friends. And we use it to brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver. We warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car.

At other times the little word has real special meaning. People stir UP trouble, line UP for tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses. To be dressed is one thing but to be dressed UP is special.

And this UP is confusing: A drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP. We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night. We seem to be pretty mixed UP about UP!

To be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP in the dictionary. In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP almost 1/4th of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions. If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used. It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don't give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more. When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP. When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP. When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP. When it doesn't rain for awhile, things dry UP.
One could go on and on, but I'll wrap it UP, for now my time is UP, so. Time to shut UP!
Oh...one more thing: What is the first thing you do in the morning and the last thing you do at night?
U-P

September

2009-09-01T04:36:00.000-07:00

Its been a while.

A hectic, mind-bending while.

A while of happiness and joy, of heartbreak and worry, of irritation and self-doubt.

But now its September, and as is my wont, I take myself aside at the start of this month every year, and give myself the luxury of starting anew. The self-indulgent luxury of thinking that I can change the way I am on this planet. That I can take the slightly less than meandering path through the maze of family, work, hopes and dreams and undergo the metamorphosis that is essential to my journey.

The cynic in me whispers "not again, why bother? Aren't you doing just fine the way you are? You can't change the world on your own."

But the relentless optimist roars in my ears, demanding to be heard. You can change. You can make a difference. You can be a better human being.

I can't hear myself think but I am listening. Intently.

I am also gathering my marbles, those that I can find, and I am preparing to play the game again.

I hope the gods are smiling.

What Colour is the Wind?

2009-04-11T07:05:00.000-07:00

Today is a typical April day in this part of the world.

Some very wet rain, a little watery sunshine, breath-taking winds, squally showers, bright spells and a couple of horrendous downpours. Everything that a body could need to dispel any seasonal blues that might be lurking around. The excitement and suspense of not knowing whether one is going to make it safely through the next hour without being soaked to the skin or, whether, the powers that be will smile benignly on the ant-like creatures scurrying about their oh-so-important business and spare them the ignominy of the drowned-rat masquerade.

It helps to be an optimist.

On with the running shoes and the dreaded raingear. Off with the ill-concealed pessism and reluctance. "We'll feel great afterwards" we mutter. Heads down, loins girded, we brace ourselves for whatever Nature can throw at us.

Character building.

I like the wind. Her noisy roar whispers seductively in my ear of immense power and incumbent humility. "My way or your way" she sings ... "Come dance with me..."

Three miles down the wild river bank we meet a lone walker braving the elements.
We regularly meet this man. He is always alone. Now. He used to have an old, far from handsome, dog that smiled. Just like the man.

Each time we meet, we exchange weather impressions, opinions on the state of the country, the world, and always wish each other well as we shuffle past. Today, he said, in passing, "Its like an orchestra out there .. the wind ... mother nature indulging her passions ... Do ye remember that story about the little blind boy that asked his dad ... what colour is the wind?"
All the time striding along. "Have a nice run, ladies".

This man, with a few sentences, lifted my heart, releasing my spirit to soar and swoop through a rainbow of wind. I wanted to sing, to shout, to roar my gratitude to his soul.

I can't explain why his words had such a profound effect on me.

I am just so very grateful to him for awakening my senses, for showing me the way to a different reality.

photo credit: www.digalist.com

Whats Normal Anyway?

2009-03-22T11:18:00.000-07:00

Isn't it amazing how time flies? One minute you're gathering up the detritus of Christmas and the next thing you know its Spring.

Rather alarming.

Admittedly, after the festive season, it was a manic couple of weeks. The kind that make you wonder about life in general. What its all about. Where we are all going. But once February arrived and the dust settled, I thought " YES, life IS going to swing back to "normal" mode". My naivete shocks even me, sometimes.

February saw the brightness of 2 young men slowly putting the pieces of their lives back together. Like sad little plants in the garden that you thought were lost forever. It also saw the optimism of youth, dreaming dreams of faraway lands, planning and scheming to make their dreams a reality. And he did. Beloved No. 1 son packed a small rucksack, organised his previous life and headed off into the unknown. Armed only with a passport, some money, a sunny disposition and an unquenchable thirst for life. There is a crack in my heart but thats where the light gets in. I suppose.

Early March saw a trip to London with Daughter No. 2 to see Daughter No. 1 who is planning wedded bliss. There's a lot to be said for living "in sin". My eternal reward is looking a little dodgy for that blasphemy, I suspect. March also saw 2 weekends away from home in a strangulated effort to finish a Yoga Teacher Training course that I foolishly embarked on 2 years ago. It saw GB playing with ice-axes and crampons in the snows of Scotland and also skittering his bony frame down the slopes of some remote Austrian ski slopes. It also saw youngest son dealing with the pain of losing a friend through suicide. A difficult time for him.

Normality.

The Royal Residence remains as ever. In dark moments, of which they're are few, thankfully, I wonder are they going to live FOREVER.

So, in my head, its still January and I'm fired with the enthusiasm of a new year. No matter that 3 months have passed me by. In my heart, I'm an optimist. I will make time to do the things that I want to do. Like sleeping. And reading. And blogging. Sometimes, I wish for a slow life. But then, I realise, I'm the one in the driving seat. Its easy to rationalise yourself into a corner.

In recent days, I have been skulking around various blogs, catching up on lives unknown, rarely commenting. I feel I have no right. Just when my conscience reappeared is a mystery.

I suspect guilt has something to do with it.

And now .....

2009-02-07T14:06:00.000-08:00

Thank you all for your comments on my last post. My apologies for not updating sooner. Its been busy around here, to say the least.

Against all the odds, the 2 lads pulled through and are now back in hospital in this country. Thankfully, the prognosis, for both of them, is good. There is a palpable sense of relief for everyone affected by the accident.

Incidents like this, and we've had more than our fair share since Christmas, bring home to me the utter futility of planning ahead, of wasting today because tomorrow will surely be so much better.

Now is the only time we can be sure of ...

I find it quite difficult to live every moment in the present.

But I'm getting better at it.

I think.

Any spare angels hanging around looking for a project?

Change

2009-01-12T05:47:00.000-08:00

Its the skiing season.

The cold, wet, white, sometimes slushy stuff, that inspires normally sensible people to purchase wearable lagging jackets, lurid pink woolly socks and impenetrable mirror shades. All in the pursuit of the THRILL.

"Its SO exhilarating" they gush.

"The change of scenery is SO invigorating".

"And its SUCH a marvellous change from the normal, humdrum, da de da lives we all live. You MUST try it!"

Hmm.

Six young lads from my daughter's circle of friends decided to bite the bullet. They duly girded their loins and ventured forth into the alluring world
of snow.

They were having a ball. The apres-ski was particularly to their fancy.

Last saturday night, 3 of them accepted a lift back to their lodgings from a local man. The other 3 decided to walk.

Now 2 of these vibrant, young men are on life support, 1 is seriously injured and the other 3 are severely traumatised.

Their lives and the lives of everybody who knows them, are changed.

Forever.

Maybe there will be positives from this change.

I am praying.

Christmas

2008-12-23T16:16:00.000-08:00

In a moment of sisterly insanity last week, the bould Molly and myself agreed to post on the 23rd of December.

It is now, officially, the 24th and I am the victim of my own conscience.
Better late than never, I tell myself.

Christmas has always been, for me, a time of mixed emotions.

Manic exhilaration, as a child, when the postman stopped at our door carrying several brown paper parcels. Delight at the golden-haired doll at the end of the bed on Christmas morning. Unspeakable pleasure on donning the softest white, woollen scarf and hat.

Misery and resentment waking up, alone, having been forced to sign my mother into a drying out facility on Christmas Eve.

Love and happiness for my baby's first encounter with the magic of Santa.

Loneliness and sadness for love unspoken.

And now its 2008.

Happiness and delight at No. 1 daughter's engagement.

Apprehension and pride at No. 1 son's plans to get off the merry-go-round and walk the world.

Gratitude and love for the lives of the ancient ones.

Optimism and hope.

Tis the season to be human. Indeed.

May all your Christmases be bright.

Portrait of a Procrastinator

2008-11-18T05:04:00.000-08:00

Its taking longer than I expected to get my act together.

Wordless Wednesday

2008-10-08T15:51:00.000-07:00

September Hankerings

2008-09-27T13:49:00.000-07:00

I'm a great one for hankering.

Any spare few minutes and away I go.

Hankering.

For places, feelings, people and emotions that grip the reins to my sanity.

A rather bad habit, I suspect.

But.

It does provide an escape route from the mania and mayhem that passes for "normal everyday life", around here, anyway.

Right now, I'd like to be back in the mountains, with all my worldly goods on my back, and nothing to contemplate except the wonders of creation.

With blue skies and crisp, pure air.

And no work. Or queens. Or incontinence pads. Or wheelchairs.

We all have bad habits.

Don't we?

Resurrection

2008-09-27T13:36:00.000-07:00

A miracle has happened.

The dinosaur has been resurrected.

Long live the dinosaur.

Help! .......please?

2008-09-15T13:42:00.000-07:00

After months of phone calls and nasty letters and nose-biting to spite my face, I am now giving up the good fight.

The stinking, rotten multi-national has won. I concede defeat.

Most ungraciously.

I am now in the market for a new laptop.

And as I haven't the foggiest as to which ones are good, bad or indifferent or wonderful machines, I need help. Desperately.

I am a COMPLETE technophobe, so any suggestions from all of you seasoned bloggers will be greatly appreciated.

My needs are simple. Easy to use, enough storage for photos.

Thats about it.

Daughter No. 2 is back to college this week and, as a result, I am computerless for most of the time. I feel like an addict going through cold turkey.

Help, please.

Time Flies ...

2008-09-05T16:21:00.000-07:00

Its been a long 3 weeks.

My mother-in-law, the Queen, often cites the old saying "The road to hell is paved with good intentions". This little nugget accompanied by a knowing look and some serious nodding of the head.

I must be well on my way then.

When I returned from my rambles, which were absolutely wonderful, I did have plans and schemes to do this and that and catch up on all the projects that lie semi-dormant from September until June each year.

I made endless lists.

All to no avail.

July and August flew by .... the days filled with offspring, laughter, tears and black dogs lurking.

And now its September again.

Time to get my act together.

Life Goes On .....

2008-06-27T02:38:00.000-07:00

Things are returning to normal here. The emotional intensity of the last week is starting to ease a little.

Life, indeed, goes on, with or without us.

Life in blogland will have to continue without me for the next 3 weeks because I am off to walk around the mountains for a bit.

France, Italy and Switzerland.

Smallish bag (have to carry everything we bring - 2 pairs of knickers - 1 to wear, 1 to wash - 2 pairs of socks ... )packed, famille organised to survive very well without us, checked in, waiting for boarding call. Hope the weather is a little better than it is here right now.

There will be limited internet access I'm sure in some of the villages we pass through. I shall try and keep up. I can hear Molly snorting derisively, I can't keep up at the best of times!

Stay safe everyone.

Unbearable Pain that I cannot Fix ..

2008-06-20T13:54:00.000-07:00

Beloved No. 1 son rang me this morning at 10.30. He was crying. He was incoherent. He kept saying "Oh Mum, oh Mum, oh Mum ....."

And then he hung up.

This frightened me more than anything has ever frightened me before in my whole life.

I frantically dialled his number. No reply. I kept dialling until he answered.

He was still crying.

He told me one of his close friends had committed suicide last night.

There were no warning signs. His friend wasn't depressed. He had a close, loving relationship with his family. He had spent the last year studying for his Masters in Engineering. He played a soccer game with No. 1 son on Tuesday night. They won.

And now he is gone. Leaving behind such grief. For his parents. His family. His friends.

I wish I had answers. For my heartbroken boy.

But I don't.

A Little Slice of Heaven

2008-06-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

Words cannot describe how wonderful it was to watch this man perform on Sunday night.

He's now 74 years old.

He's frail and tired looking.

But he hasn't lost it.

He was ABSOLUTELY MAGIC.

Windows, Workmen and WTF do I know?

2008-06-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

They arrived last Tuesday.

The workmen.

Contracted to replace the manky, rotten, peeling, warped brown things that encase the escapes to the blue. Not before time, this renewal.

I made tea, lots of tea, 90,000 million cups of tea. In real man mugs. I even produced some passable repasts for their delectation. I deferred to their obvious superior knowledge, reluctantly, on numerous occasions. I was careful not to let them see me cringeing inwardly, as they, unceremoniously, tore out the old windows, ripped acres of plaster off the walls in the process, effed and blinded hilariously with each other, snorted and spat, smoked and coughed, cursed and swore. They were REAL men, after all. Honest to god, hardworking, salt of the earth, labouring craftsmen.

Sure.

One of these treasures of God's gift to women managed to secure himself an express seat to the Hot Place. If I have any say in the matter. In the process of removing the existing front door (with all the finesse of a dinosaur), this treasure of manhood managed to cut through the telephone wire. Completely. No phone. No Internet.

Not the end of the world, you might think. Accidents happen, you say.

I know all of this.

And, normally, I am quite stoical.

But.

Daughter No.2 went on holidays to France last Wednesday, for 6 days. She had, kind soul that she is, given me computer privileges for the duration. Oh, the plans I had! To catch up, to read and comment, to laugh and enjoy, and perhaps, even, blog myself! The exhilaration of it all!

And then, this cerebrally challenged gob-shite went and scuppered them all.

"Theres nothing we can do until next Monday, Missus".... yet another genius, of the male variety, from the phone company, assured me.

By Friday, I was quite calm and friendly again.

Today is Monday. They were due to finish today. I hovered, made tea, ooohed and aaahed appropriately, made more tea. But eventually had to leave at 10.45 for a dental appointment. "We'll be here til 2.30 Missus .... can't see us finishing before that". I arrived back at 1.30. House deserted, doors locked, windows shut. Keys to front and back door sitting, INSIDE the house, on the kitchen counter. I could see them. And me bursting for a small small. Not a hairy-assed, fag-smoking specimen of working manhood to be seen. One small window upstairs, slightly ajar, one manic phone call to GB.... "No, I don't have any of the new keys" .... one very severe warning to NOT EVEN ATTEMPT IT. Meanwhile, I am in dire straits. A kindly neighbour offered tea, sympathy and facilities. A short while later, GB arrives, toting ladder and macho attitude. Nearly made a eunuch of himself scrambling through the tiny window, real man that he is. And then couldn't figure out how to unlock new fangled locks on new doors. Stone Age Heros, so endearing.

More macho men arrived and fixed the phone line. We are reconnected. The reconnection fee will be included in our next bill.

"Huh?"

"Thems the rules, Missus"

I love when Life runs smoothly along.

Wordless Whatsit Wednesday

2008-05-14T01:05:00.000-07:00

"Please wait, while we try to connect you .."

2008-05-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

For the last 2 weeks I have been out of sorts. Not seriously. Generally, I have just felt like an alien residing in a less than familiar body. Normally, I am a disgustingly, healthy, energetic, enthusiastic, positive individual. But just over 2 weeks ago I sallied forth for my usual afternoon trot and tottered back feeling like I had just done 12 rounds with Mike Tyson. Crawling, miserably to the scratcher I muttered to anyone who cared to listen, "It'll be gone in the morning, its just a 24 hour thingy". Next day saw me a blithering mass of jelly, shivering and full of aches and pains, unable to summon up the enthusiasm to do anything other than moan piteously. "Its probably a virus" the vet cooed knowingly down the phone to me ... "Just treat the symptoms and get back to me if it persists for longer than 10 days". "10 days!!!!" my brain shrieked .... "doesn't he know I don't do SICK????". But bang on the button, the vet was right, on the 10th day it started to ease off. I felt human again. "Hmmm ... a walk by the river would be nice .... or perhaps I'll do a bit in the garden ... maybe, after I've washed the kitchen floor". I'm just kidding about the kitchen floor. I don't do kitchen floors.

Anyway, being forced to do as little as possible has its advantages. My brain, in feverish bursts of manic activity, had great fun tricking around with momentous topics that rarely see the light of day in the whole of my health.

No time. You see.

There is a God.

In the midst of the earth shattering ruminations on whether the earth is really round or whether if everybody was deaf, would there be such a thing as noise, came the usual suspects such as happiness, internal tickings, friendship, connecting, love, hate, ageing, children, important things, not-so-important things, time-wasters, imposters, physicality, spirituality, sadness. The devil making work for idle hands. Of all of these the one that kept cropping up was the feeling of connection.

On and off through the years, I have felt varying degrees of connectedness to myself, my family, friends, work colleagues, strangers, animals, plants and even, sometimes, inanimate objects. At times, too, there have been periods when the black dog was in full flight, growling and snarling, hackles raised, disconnecting me, daring me to acknowledge my own existence in the greater scheme of things. Daring me to acknowledge and accept my own responsibilities as a living, breathing organism. Daring me to believe, from the black hole of disconnectedness, that the only way out was through re-establishing the tenuous links. These tenuous links that constantly reflect back our own unique existence. The wave from the postman, the smile from a stranger, the enthusiastic tail-wagging from the neighbour's dog, the comment on a blog post. Little acts that reinforce the sensation of having a right to be here. They, in turn, encourage me to reach out, to smile and laugh, to be aware of others who maying be battling their own sooty canines, to have a lightness of being, to connect to all living creatures in my small corner. Really connect. This is the essence of my existence. Without it, what am I? What are any of us?

Life is short. Life is precious.

Carpe diem.

photo credit: www.mosaicsphere.com

Dinosaurs are Alive and Well ......

2008-04-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

Up to the time of the great computer demise, I travelled around to all my favourite blogs via my favourites list at the side of my screen. It came as a slight surprise to me that these favourites won't come up on other computers. Most uncooperative of them. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I am at a bit of a loss as to how to find all my favourites again.

Because I have been remiss in updating my lurking locations, I now find that I am fumbling around trying to remember where everyone is, what their blog address is and, not surprisingly, I'm failing miserably. So if I'm not visiting your site its because I cant find you. The frightening thing about all this is that I did a computer course that covered practically everything the normal joe soap needs to know about these dreaded machines. I passed with flying colours ... I even got a Distinction!??!!

All I can hope for is that the resurrector who is treating the dead machine can save my photos and hopefully bring the corpse back to life, if only for a short while, but he has warned that even if he can retrieve the pictures he may have to reformat the hard drive (whatever that means) and that I'll have to start from scratch again. Sigh.

My machine was less than 2 years old and yet everybody I spoke to about it assured me that it was practically obsolete.

What does that make me?

Barney?

Pretty, Dangerous Stuff ... Dust

2008-04-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

Little did I know that my last post was to be so prophetic. Silence, indeed, has reigned supreme.

Did you ever get one of those days, weeks or even months where everything you touch turns to dust? Well, I've just spent the last 3 weeks trundling through what resembles a life, enveloped in a cloud of mishaps, misadventures and mini maelstroms. The halcyon days of early spring, the lightness of being on discovering bunches of bluebells where no bluebells bloomed before, the levity of spirit on seeing a newborn foal tottering shakily on spindly legs ... all disappearing into the vast blue yonder when placed in the reality of the dust bowl of Arizona which is my existence.

Beloved No. 2 son is due to sit his Leaving Cert. exam in June. This is his final exam, the results of which determine his further educational/life choices. His choices of college courses, his decision whether or not to attend college, all depend on this one exam. An unfair system, I know, but the only one we have. We refer to it affectionately as "The Great Big Summer Quiz". Unfortunately No. 2 son seems to be oblivious to the gravity of failing to pass this questionable test of his education and intelligence. His main concerns at the moment are his stomach and the amount and variety of foodstuffs that can be reasonably consumed by a supposedly, civilized member of society, his appearance ... mainly his hair, his mobile phone and sleeping 18 out of 24 hours of every day. He has brains, lots of them, but at the moment they seem to be located in his nether regions. His come-day-go-day, God send Sunday attitude is causing some splenic concern to the Master of the House. Who is going to throttle him in the not too distant future, I fear.

Dust rising.

Beloved No. 2 daughter - who has so kindly allowed me to use her laptop to pen this screed - is IN LOVE. Oh God Almighty. She is also up to her oxters in end of year projects, socialising events, hair disasters and "does my bum look big in these?" problems. She also tells us, most reassuringly, that "Of course, he's going to fail ... he hasn't opened a book yet!"

More dust rising.

Beloved No.1 son has recently moved back home. I love the bones of this boy but I fully understand why some birds throw the baby birds unceremoniously out of the nest.

Can't see for the dust.

Dust, dust and more dust. GB has recently gone and committed himself and myself to an expedition in July. The expedition I will warm to but the fact that he did this without asking my opinion is tantamount to a declaration of war. Hair and feathers flying.

And yet more dust.

My computer died. Suddenly. Taking ALL of my photos to the great IT vault in the sky. Yes, I know I should have stored them externally. I did intend to. Weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Lots and lots of dust.

And I haven't even mentioned the Palace.

Right now I have a chest infection and a sinus infection. Gross, green, hawking, coughing, headache, faceache, miserable.

Dust does that to you.

Wordless Wednesday

2008-03-26T06:31:00.000-07:00

Silence speaks volumes.

Spring is in the air .....

2008-03-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

For the last number of years, my life has become, increasingly, not my life. Due mainly, to the necessary caring for GB's much-loved, ageing and ailing parents. Too much to do, too little time. Too many fragile egos to be nurtured, too few resources. Eventually, too many demands on me, both physically and emotionally.

Life is short. My life, which was not my life, was fast approaching the self-destruct barrier. There was no time. For me. To be me.

So, a little while back, due to an assortment of pressures, I decided to take a short break from blogging and other, precious, pastimes. To make space. To just be.
When your back is to the wall its easy to make decisions like that.

What I hadn't bargained for was how much I would actually miss visiting other people's blogs, adding my own tuppence halfpenny's worth in their comment boxes and occasionally, formulating my own scattered thoughts into something that vaguely resembled coherent ramblings and, then, being rewarded with comments on my own posts! The simple pleasure of just being me. Connections. No agendas.

This realisation got me thinking. Why was I forever giving up things that I liked to do, just to acommodate other people? Was my life not important enough to me?

I am not going to bore you all with the details of my epiphanic cogitations - suffice to say that the "on demand" button has been exterminated. Permanently.

I hope.

I am, no longer, nursemaid on demand, driver at the ready, gardener in wellies, runner of mindless errands, cleaner of toilets, hooverer of carpets, walker of unruly canines, teamaker extraordinaire, hairdresser, psychiatrist, doormat. The key words here are "on demand". I still do all of these things, just not on demand. Which makes a huge difference in my head.

The Queen is not amused.

In fact, she's a little cross with me. Disappointed and querulous even. And, most of the time, I am strong and do not succumb to the quavering voice. But, sometimes, I do.

Ever since the demise of the button, I am singing. And humming...... and whistling.
And the feet are tapping ... and I feel like acting the eejit, tearing across the fields, kicking my heels up and maybe, even, indulging in a little bit of gadding!

Heady stuff, this Spring air.

Somethings gotta give ....

2008-02-25T00:56:00.000-08:00

Life, around here, has taken a turn in the manic direction.

So, in the interest of retaining what semblance of sanity remains, I am taking a short break from blogging.

I hope to still read some, lurk some and even comment some.

The light at the end of the tunnel is just a flicker.

But its there.

Happiness is .....

2008-02-16T15:17:00.000-08:00

What is it with primates these days??

Everywhere I go, there they are, making me laugh ...

The Struggling Angel

2008-02-12T20:20:00.000-08:00

My mother, a struggling angel, was born on the 12th February 1919.

She was the eldest of 4 children. Living and growing up on a small farm in civil-war torn, rural Ireland in the 1920's was far from idyllic. But she was a fighter, intelligent and ambitious, finished her education, qualified as a nurse and moved to the city. Eventually, marrying a handsome prince and settling down to grow a family.

Girl, boy, girl.

My brother's birth was difficult. "Oxygen-deprivation", they said. A "home" would be the best option for him, they said. She didn't agree. Thereby, sealing her own fate and releasing his spirit. Years of self-sacrifice, soul-scorching rituals, frustration and tiredness followed, taking their life-strangling toll. By the time I was 11 she had lost the battle. Given up the fight.

For 12 long years, she drank herself into oblivion. Trying to escape the mind-numbing pain and loneliness that seemed to engulf her. She hit rock bottom many times only to discover yet another greater, deeper abyss of despair.

Alone. Always. In her head. Without loving support.

My father, himself the product of an alcohol-soaked background, was little more than a shadow. The ostrich-syndrome reigned supreme. If he didn't talk about it, it didn't exist. He was a past master at sweeping unsavoury topics right under the carpet. I don't blame him, now, for his inaction. He did the best that he could. Big sister was grown and away at college, big brother was battling his way through adolescence, and I was 11 years old. Ill-equipped for anything other than rebellion.

My heart aches when I think of angel Annie. Aches for her pain, her struggling, her loneliness, her hopelessness. Aches for my own inability to understand for so many years.

Then, in 1977 she stopped drinking alcohol, forever.

This lovely, fine, sensitive, intelligent angel re-emerged. Changed, inevitably. A bit battered around the edges, but still recognisable. A delicate, refined articulate, unfathomable lady. An expert at playing Bridge. Surrounded by a small network of supportive, recovering friends. She became a leading light in the AA movement, a beacon for the lost and struggling, available anytime, day or night. A light in the darkness. She had regained her sense of self, she had chosen to fight her demons. She had chosen to live.

Unfortunately, even though our relationship was reborn, she was never willing or able to speak of the 12 lost years. The self-protecting barriers were still in place. Never to come down. I didn't dare to venture into that territory, uninvited. I wish, now, that I had been braver.

I think she was happy in the last 7 years of her life. I sat with her when she died in 1984. An angel going home.

Occasionally, I sense her presence around me. It makes me smile inside.

Happy Birthday Angel Annie.

photo credit: www.northstargallery.com

It seems everyone has a bit of Irish in them ...

2008-02-09T02:16:00.000-08:00

Where I am From ..... The Prologue

2008-01-31T12:12:00.000-08:00

This post has been lurking in my brain and on the tips of my fingers for quite a little while now.

It has puzzled me.

I suppose, if I'm honest about it, the main difficulty for me, is the comparisons I am making between Molly's version of "Where I am From" and my own version. The light and the dark.

I don't have very many memories of my childhood. Probably, because I don't look back very often. But sometimes, when I do wander back, it makes me curious as to WHY some part of my brain has chosen to secrete the bulk of my childhood memories and why I am, still, allowing this to happen. Why am I choosing not to remember? Is it because I have the attention span of a goldfish and have actually retained very little from my younger years? Or do I actually have a choice in the matter? If it is the latter then, why am I choosing the easy option? Or is it the easy option?

Of course, if I am realistic and sensible about it all, I realise that, inevitably, our two lives and the memories that accompany those different paths, are inextricably bound up in our own, very individual, personalities and experiences and therefore, bound to be quite different.

That said, I do sometimes wish that one of my children would choose to further their education and mine by taking a course in Psychology.

What follows are the rather dark pickings from the recent archaeological dig.

Where I am From ......

2008-01-31T06:23:00.000-08:00

I am from the white, iron bed with the horsehair mattress, the sucked woollen blanket and the interminable rocking of the unfathomable, tortured spirit in the small, front bedroom.

I am from ice on the insides of windows in winter, deep-red, summer roses and strawberries in the long, green garden. From cold, marble halls and mesmerising fires. From transient, pencilled masterpieces on 1950's fireplaces and fervent intonations of the Rosary on bended knees. From porridge-making rituals and greed-inducing butterfly buns. From fine bone china, good rooms and curious, black-clad creatures of God, who demanded kisses.

I am from the rhythmic sound of a push-mower, cats yowling, and self-imposed silence.

I am from creeper-clad walls, eternally occupied trees, tearaway horses masquerading as concrete dividers. From Goody's Lane, swampy fields, forbidden orchards and a broken-arm trophy. From envious gazing, over garden walls, through shining windows at newly acquired black and white televisions. From apprehension as a constant, daily companion.

I am from the salt of the earth and the animal healers, the strong women and the silent men. The duty-bound. The drinkers. The disappointed.
From Annie and Aidan, O'Rourkes and Walshes, Drakes and Shepherds.

I am from the disillusioned and the masters of under-carpet sweeping. From the kindly and hard working, from the happy and sad, from the optimists and the pessimists.

From birdies and fondies, doanie and yaya, goodie and bumbows.

I am from crucifixes and sacred hearts, novenas and litanies of the saints. Heaven and Hell. Purgatory and Limbo.

I am from the small, green island. Awash with holy men, scholars and hypocrites.
From rhubarb and custard, brown bread and tea, shepherd's pie and glasses of milk.

I am from the struggling angel who lost the battle to endure her torment.
I am from the handsome, big eared lover, who stole her heart and then was careless.

I am from mismatched, mixed-up mortals who loved to the best of their ability, sometimes overwhelmed by their journey. I am from the grateful place.

I am from a place of sunshine, with unspoken love and loyalty.

I am also from a dark place that caused pain.

From this dark and light place, I am who I am.

Wordless Wednesday

2008-01-16T09:31:00.001-08:00

Photo credit: www.artistsforhumanrights.org

The Best Laid Plans .....

2008-01-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

There I was .. full of the joys of the new year, the start of the rest of my life, the beginning of great hopes and plans. My heart filled with optimism, my head doing flips and somersaults in anticipation of the opportunities that lay ahead, I made a very small list of my aspirations and dreams for 2008. Even putting words to the hopes was exciting! I had another week of indulgent, no-work days.... Bliss.

Then, as usual, life intervened.

I should really start at the beginning. Just before Christmas, 3 days to be exact, there was a major hiccup in the water supply to the Palace. Her Highness was not one bit amused. "No water!!" she shrieked and immediately had a fit of the vapours. We soothed and cajoled, made tea and offered half-lies as a means of preventing a major burnout. All to no avail. She fretted and moaned. She let fly about the council's lack of consideration for retired people until we were all fit to expire gracefully. She refused to understand that it was not the council's responsibility since the guilty pipe was on private property. We did our best to get a plumber - Irish plumbers are like gold dust, not a one to be had for love nor money. So, we hauled water til our bodies screamed in protest, we took the daily laundry loads, we trawled buckets up the stairs to the loo, we traipsed backwards and forwards from the most obliging neighbour's house, struggling under the weight of the overfull buckets - I now sport shoulders that Arnold Schwarzenegger would ogle with a degree of the "little green eye". Eventually, GB, aided and abetted by one of his brothers, dug a 2 foot drain, found the culprit pipe, installed a temporary, overground hose and all was acceptable and semi-civilised in the royal domain once again.

Christmas came and went. The Old Year skulked out the back door and the New Year flew in the front. Hope and optimism was alive and well. The visitors were plentiful and jovial, distractions too numerous to mention and all was right in the Kingdom.

And then she did "something" to her "bad" knee.

She doesn't know how it happened. But January 2 blew all hopes I had, of mending my blogging ways, of grasping back some sanity, of catching up with long neglected friends, right down the toilet.

For the past week, Her Highness, when not reclining in the royal boudoir, has been ensconced on her throne, immobile, with quavery voice to the fore, endless requests for needless tasks to be done, no visible improvement, querulously vocal to the saintly Larry and I am quite close to furthering my education by googling "hara -kiri". Strangely enough, GB sees none of this. When he returns from the nightly visit, he tells tale of how sprightly she was, scampering up the stairs to bed, cheerily bidding him "Goodnight!" No moaning, no quavery voice, no tears brimming - ready to fall - no "poor me" carry on. GB has a very low tolerance level for the "mi-adhs" of the world and I think Her Highness is quite aware of this fact. She knows what side her bread is buttered on.

But what kind of an eejit does that make me?

Anyway.

An 18 carat plumber is due early next week "to have a look" and hopefully come back later to perform miracles. The weather is due to settle over the weekend. Daughter no.2 has her driving test in the morning, the psychotic wonderdog has acquired some less than desirable live in tenants and GB has given up the dreaded weed.

Life is truly wonderful.

New Horizons

2008-01-02T15:07:00.000-08:00

I like January.

The new slate. The beginning. The anticipation.

The expectations.

The hopes, the dreams, the opportunities.

The looking forward.

May the joy of being alive fill your heart and soothe your spirit.

I wish you all serenity and contentment.

Wordless Wednesday

2007-12-12T06:58:00.000-08:00

Desperately Holding onto my Marbles ....

2007-12-12T06:20:00.000-08:00

I find this time of the year difficult to cope with.

When all of my senses are assaulted, without mercy, every fibre of my being screams deep inside.

This, probably, places me firmly in the "Bah Humbug" category. But its not that I don't enjoy Christmas, I do try, I just find the materialism and greed overpowering.

Sometimes, I wish I could just swing in with the rest of humanity and just celebrate but a little voice inside keeps nagging away at me "this is not the way its supposed to be".

So, once again, I'll be donning my enigmatic, festive smile, braving the shrines to Mammon and praying for January. The following, well-known piece of writing, will be what I'm mumbling, incessantly, should you happen to see me.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

Wordless Wednesday

2007-12-05T05:32:00.001-08:00

photo credit: www.holamun2.com

Zzzzzz..............

2007-11-30T12:37:00.000-08:00

It is November 30th and this is my final post for NabloBlahblah.

It was a challenge and I am glad I was able to complete it. I am also glad it is over. I'm beginning to bore myself.

Right now, I am off to the scratcher to catch up on some much needed beauty sleep, hopeful, that on the morrow I shall awake and be as beautiful as the Sleeping Chameleon pictured above. We all have our dreams.

Tomorrow, I intend spending a leisurely hour or two just catching up on all of your blogs that I have shamefully neglected over the last 30 days. Housework? What housework?

Thank you all for your kind comments during November. I appreciated every one of them.

Oiche mhaith agus codhladh samh!

photo credit: www.philadelphiazoo.org

Yaya

2007-11-29T10:15:00.000-08:00

My parents got married in the late 1940's. Ireland, back then, was steeped, to saturation point, in the teachings of the Catholic Church. The Church dictated that contraception was a SIN, that you would be flying in the face of your creator if you even attempted to control the size of your family and would, eventually, end up in the Hot Place. Hence, the rabbit-like reputation that the Irish had for decades. I suspect my parents just got lucky.

They had three children. My sister, my brother and me.

My sister and I, being the obliging, amenable creatures that we are, arrived promptly and without undue disturbance.

But, my brother's birth was premature, difficult and resulted in oxygen deprivation, we think. It wasn't really a suitable topic for discussion with the children.

Being the youngest, I don't remember his early years but I do remember him from about the age of 6 or 7. He was different. It was hard to understand him. But I did understand his absolute adoration of his older sister, Yaya. He couldn't pronounce her name properly so Yaya it was, for years. He loved her unconditionally, with the purest simplicity. He followed her around like a lonesome puppy, wanting to feel her presence beside him, wanting her to go for walks with him, just wanting to be close to her, to be in her orbit. All the time, pure love emanating from his face. And she loved him back. Not in a sloppy, sentimental, patronising way. But in a loving, caring, kind, tolerant, sisterly manner.

And of course, I was jealous. I wanted her to notice me. But I was 6 years younger and a complete pain in the butt. So, I had to wait a few years.

But, now, and that's the only time that really matters, I have a sister that I love with all of my heart and soul. I love her scattiness, her stoicism, her laughter, her sentimentality, her honesty. I love her courage and her spirit. I love the very bones of her. And she loves me too.

Yaya, thank you for loving me.

Wordless Wednesday

2007-11-28T16:29:00.000-08:00

photo credit: www.outbackphoto.com

Xmas and Xylophones

2007-11-27T15:09:00.000-08:00

Christmas is not my favourite time of the year. Needless to say, I didn't always feel this way.

As a child, I could hardly bear the excitement leading up to Christmas day. The wondering about what would be waiting for me at the end of the bed when I woke up, the fear that it might really be a bag of coal, the wishing for time to fly so that Christmas morning could be NOW. I can't ever remember being disappointed. But, I can only remember two of the presents that I received as a believer in the Fat Man in the Red Suit. One was a doll, with blue eyes and long blonde hair and the other was a xylophone. The doll became part of me. I washed her, dressed her, fed her, took her for walks, slept with her, talked to her, wished I was her. I thought she was SO beautiful. And she thought I was wonderful too. A mutual admiration society. The friendship lasted for years.

The xylophone became part of me as well but in a different way. It didn't need to be washed, dressed, fed or taken for walks. It used to sit there, waiting patiently for me to play with it. Which I did, incessantly. I loved all the different sounds it made. I loved the colours and the shiny feel of it. I loved the shape of it. It was just the right size for hauling around under my arm or pushing down the back of the cart that I used to drag around after me everywhere I went. For what seemed like years. I learned to play London Bridge is Falling Down, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Ding Dong Dell and invented my own barrel load of masterpieces that remain undiscovered to this day. I probably drove everbody within a 10 mile radius to the brink of insanity with the, less than melodious, clanging and tinkling. The cherished xylophone, eventually, disintegrated, thereby, prematurely ending, my burgeoning musical career. I never did learn to play another musical instrument, one of the small regrets in my life.

When my children were small, I landed each of them with a xylophone at some point in their Santa-believing years. Not one of them was as enamoured with the simple music machine as I was. I felt, quietly and unreasonably, disappointed. I wanted them to experience their own unique wonder and pleasure at creating sounds from coloured pieces of metal and wooden bongers. I wanted to share part of my childhood ecstasy with them. But they had their own ecstasies. C'est la vie, I suppose.

Now, if I ever have a grandchild .....

One good thing about the advent of the Festive Season is the demise of November. The end of NaBloPowhatsit. A cessation of posting, ad nauseum, every day. A return to the REAL pleasure of Blogging ... reading everybody else's posts.

Only 3 more posts and how many sleeps Birdy?

White Rooms

2007-11-26T18:52:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, I spent time in a different city, in a different room, engaged in activites which were very different to the normal, everyday patterns that constitute my existence.

I chanted, I meditated, I breathed, I expanded and contracted, I sang, I danced to my own inner rhythm, with others, alone, surrounded, all in a large, white, octagonal, room. I was nobody's mother, partner, sister, daughter, friend or enemy. There were no expectations. No hidden agenda. Just a large, white room filled with brightness, freedom and acceptance.

I listened mindfully to my companions and to myself. It's amazing what you can hear when you really listen. Especially to yourself.

It's Monday evening now and I'm back to being someone's mother, partner, sister, daughter, friend. Everyone has an agenda. It feels like there is no space to just be.

I have no white rooms in my house. Its too small. So, I have to be content with a potent memory from my misspent youth.

Voluptuous AND Vivacious

2007-11-25T17:47:00.000-08:00

Vulluppshoouss.

What a great word! Round and robust, rolling off the tongue with a sensuous pleasure. This word, for me, conjures up an image of full-bodied, curvaceous, open, rollicking liveliness. Of the female variety.

I have a friend who is often described as voluptuous. She absolutely hates when anybody refers to her as being "voluptuous", because for her, it smacks of bawdiness, blatant sexuality, coarseness, crudeness and vulgarity. And she is none of these. She is a warm, loving, big hearted, red blooded woman. She is gentle and caring, thoughtful and kind and wonderful company. And she feels betrayed by her physical appearance.

She is also vivacious. Bubbling over with life and laughter. But she doesn't like this description of herself, either. She feels that people are unable to see past the exterior to the REAL her. That, on meeting her, they are completely distracted by her appearance and then, by her liveliness and neglect to see the more serious side to her personality. Betrayed, yet again.

Coming from a long line of hungry greyhounds and possessing scrawny, quiet genes, I am at a loss when it comes to understanding her dilemma. I try very hard to put myself in her shoes and understand her frustration with being "misunderstood". Knowing her well, and being aware of her true nature, I can only surmise that, she like a lot of women, is not 100% happy with her appearance but for reasons totally unrelated to her physical body.

I am not, never have been, and probably never will be, at this stage, voluptuous. not on the outside, anyway.

But on the inside, there's a vulluppshoouss, vivayshous, rollicking, laughing mama waiting to be released!

photo credit: www.gallerym.com

Underground - No Thank You.

2007-11-24T15:32:00.000-08:00

I'm not particularly fond of confined spaces.

Which is why, when I do eventually shift off this mortal coil, I will not be one bit impressed if they decide to put me in a box. Against my wishes. And then put me under the earth. To provide fodder for the worms.

No, not one bit happy.

Being a permanently chilly individual, I quite fancy the heat of a fire.

Sort of an initiation, you might say.

Twenty Four - And All Growed Up

2007-11-23T14:39:00.000-08:00

No. 1 son was born on the 12th. of October 1983.

He was an extremely silent child until he was 2 years old.

When he was a little boy he had night terrors that used to terrify me.

When he was a teenager, he used to have night terrors of a different kind. They terrified me even more.

He used to think too much.

He still thinks too much.

He's an affectionate, funny, artistic, independent, curious, dreaming young man.

And all growed up.

Where did the years go?

And how did I get so lucky?

And why do I still worry about him?

Seals of the Shy Variety

2007-11-22T12:19:00.000-08:00

Last August, at the end of, what is laughingly called "summer", I went for a walk along a rocky shoreline in Co. Clare. This stretch of coast is quite inaccessible so it is very rare to find any other humans sampling its delights. Because the land rises from the water for about 800 metres it is not visible from the road, therefore no passing tourists. Which is always a good thing.

This particular morning, was one of those rare, special days when the air was very still, not a puff of wind and the skies were grey but not ominously so. Only the sounds of nature, about its business. speckled the all pervading quietness. Solitude and silence were what I was seeking. The busy, early morning house I had just left was full of lovable, chatty, laughing souls. All very dear to me but .....

Walking through the fields, stepping over rocks and pebbles, clambering up and over the gigantic boulders, that some far seeing pen pusher in the County Council had deemed essential to keep out the teeming masses and protect the fragile sea-shore, my head and my heart were lulled into a timeless, distant world, where man and nature did actually move in synch with each other. Revelling in my solitude, I was nearly on top of them before I noticed them. Or more importantly, they noticed me.

Grey seals. Huge, lumbering, whale-like creatures, basking in the warmth and calm safety of the heavy, immovable rocks. Skittery baby seals, with large, liquid eyes and squiggly bodies, chasing each other, clumsily, over the rocks, into the water and back out again, acting the maggot, like all small creatures do. On sight of me, a loud "Oink, oink!" split the silence and, alerted all to my alien presence.

I was caught. An interloper in their midst. Faster than lightning, and a little disgruntled, they heaved their gigantic bodies into the water and made a swift getaway. But being the curious creatures that they are, a few of them stopped to have another look at the intruder. I stood very still, hoping that my stillness might lure them back out of the water but they had my number. I didn't look like a seal so I probably wasn't a seal and therefore needed to be treated with a certain degree of suspicion, peppered with a little disdain.

We played the watching game for a while longer but they, eventually, got bored. Much more interesting things to be seen at the other side of the inlet. Off they went, leaving me feeling abandoned. "Come back, come back", I wanted to say "I only want to admire you, handsome seals".

But they weren't to know that.

Seals are cautious and suspicious by nature. With good reason. Fishermen, along these coasts, consider these beautiful animals to be pests. Greedily gobbling vast quantities of lucrative fish, they, according to the "experts" are depriving honest, hard-working men of the means of making a living. So they are eliminated. On a regular basis. Illegally.

When approached, the authorities know nothing. Can do nothing. Without proof.

And proof is very hard to find.

Wordless Wednesday

2007-11-21T15:45:00.000-08:00

Ringing Bells

2007-11-20T14:30:00.000-08:00

I was on my way home from work this evening, tired, and not at all impressed with the amount of traffic still out and about at 9.30pm. The Christmas shopping frenzy has obviously started with a vengeance. The cars were bumper to bumper with most people resigned to having to crawl home but there were a few others who were not so stalwart. I had the radio on but couldn't find any station that didn't have mindless "pop" music so I turned it off and opened the window.

The glorious sound of bells came roaring in! Real bells. With people pulling ropes. Big, loud, clanging, donging, uproarious bells, making such a racket. It was absolutely glorious!

I love the sound of bells. They resurrect all kinds of memories and emotions within me. Sometimes, long forgotten incidents will present themselves, unbidden, at the random dong of a solitary bell. The deep, sonorous sound of heavy bells clanging in melodious unity strikes a resounding chord within my soul.

They lift my spirit, gladden my heart and make sitting in traffic jams very worthwhile.

A Quilting Question

2007-11-19T10:24:00.000-08:00

I love patchwork quilts.

I love the colours, the fabrics, the designs. I admire the artistry and the tenacity of the people who start with a truckload of assorted scraps of material and end up with potential heirlooms. I marvel at their expertise and eye for detail, at the patience and creativity required to complete one of these labours of love. When I read of the traditions of quilt-making, I hanker for the slower pace of life and the companionship engendered by shared labour.

But.

I have one question.

WHY are fat quarters called "fat quarters?"

Why are there no "thin quarters"? Or "chubby quarters"? Or even "just right quarters"?

Prayer

2007-11-18T09:18:00.001-08:00

As I was reared in the Catholic tradition, prayer was an integral part of my life.

Every Sunday, freshly washed and laundered, faces shining from the obligatory scrubbing, we headed off, en famille, to visit Holy God. We would pack in, with all the other dutiful souls, and settle ourselves down for an hour of Christian duty with prayer as an optional extra.

The parents would kneel, bow their heads and, spiritually, disappear from our orbit, such was the depth of their piety. I don't know what Molly used to do, but I suspect she used to copy the grown-ups in a effort to distance herself from her pesky siblings. I was more than content to let my eyes wander in fascination at the conglomeration of bodies assembled. Big people, small people, old bodies, new bodies, all arrayed in their Sunday best. Did they think God would be impressed by their finery? I certainly was. The old people, who might, occasionally smile at me or more often than not, glare at me for behaving like a child in the House of God, were the most interesting. They had all kinds of mysterious bits of paper stuffed into their Missals. Some of them had really nice Rosary beads as well. Very shiny and glittery.

Did I pray at Mass? Never. Right up to the time I stopped attending, I don't think I ever once prayed.

For years after, I only prayed in real emergencies. In desperation.

I do pray now.

To me, prayer is about how I live my life every day. Its the overwhelming love and joy I feel when I look at my kids. Its the laughter that bubbles inside of me most of the time. Its the tears that fall sometimes. Its the conversations I have with myself about how I'm doing. Its the conversations I have with Him about how I'm doing .....

Its the excitement and gratitude I feel, for being alive.

Optical Illusions

2007-11-17T13:14:00.000-08:00

Is what we see reality?

Can we trust our eyes?

Can we trust our brains to make sense of what our eyes perceive?

Or is everything an illusion?

NaBloPoMo - What Plan?

2007-11-16T11:09:00.000-08:00

Back in October, against my better judgement, I decided to grab the bull by the horns and commit to writing a post every day for a month. Being relatively new to the blogging phenomenon, I was blissfully unaware of the time factor involved in posting DAILY. Molly was waxing eloquent, on how "it made her write every day and, that, surely, was a good thing?", and being the silver tongued devil that she is, I was snookered. I like a challenge.

On with the thinking cap and off to the desk, to gather and try to put order on, the maelstrom of ideas swirling around my brain. What to blog about? What interested me enough to try and put words on it? What should I not blog about? Decisions, decisions. I needed a plan. I function much better when I have a plan.

After a few days of rumbling and mumbling to myself, "Eureka!!" The light bulb went on, the earth stopped turning, the Hallelujah chorus burst into song and all was right with the world. I had the ghost of a plan. A simple little plan. Now, all I had to do was implement it. I neglected to take into account that life had to go on as before, that work had to be done, family to be fed, relatives to be cared for, dogs to be walked, teeth to be brushed, showers to be had, clothes to be put on and off, laundry to be done, not to mention keeping the four walls from falling down around our ears.

Two weeks into November, I am in the vice-like grip of the deadly virus, Nablopomitis. I am pale and sickly looking from lack of fresh air, I have black circles under my eyes from sleep deprivation, I have carbuncles on my derriere from sitting at the desk, I have lost weight because I haven't time to be puttering in the kitchen, and I am losing my friends through lack of communication. Classic symptoms, I suspect. All I need is 48 hours in EVERY day and I'd be nicely sorted, thank you. Barring that miracle, I just have to content and console myself with "At least I have a plan .... THE plan .... the trickery and conniving thats going to see me through to Nov. 30th......and THEN I get my life back."

Now, I'm wondering has anybody twigged my plan? Can you clever bloggers see what I am up to? Can you figure out the way my twisted brain is producing, a product of questionable quality, every single day? Can you see a pattern? Is there some cohesive thread through all my posts? Or am I in danger of becoming too big for my boots?

"Molly, NOT A WORD from you, O.K?"

Now, I must go and feed the starving creatures that have been howling and hovering for the last couple of hours.

Attack of the Muddles

2007-11-15T13:40:00.000-08:00

Did you ever have one of those days where everything you do goes assways? Where you realise at 10am that, really, it wasn't such a good idea to be up and about, that, in fact, you are a menace to society and, that a return to the supine position, behind locked doors is the favoured option?

Today, I had one of those days.

At 8.15am, with 2 cups of tea sloshing around inside, I proceeded to drive the birthday bird and her friend to the bus station. They were catching a bus to Dublin and a flight from there to Venice. An assignment had to be dropped off first. Off we went, loins girded, to enter the black hole of Calcutta, which is a polite term for the traffic around here at that time. Twenty minutes later,after travelling approximately 2 miles, I am informed by the very anxious daughter that "Its not that building Mom, its the other one ....I TOLD YOU THIS yesterday". Shite. Forgot. Muddled. Eventually, dropped off assignment, spent 20 more minutes in hell and then dropped off travellers. With 3 minutes to spare.

Proceeded to the morning ritual. Her Highness complained that her tea wasn't as hot as she likes it and "Would I mind, terribly, making a fresh cup?" The first time I have EVER forgotten to heat the damn cup, and she noticed. Then, nearly knocked my beloved, ever patient Larry over getting him out of bed, couldn't find his socks or his teeth,spilt his glass of water into his lap, all the while hopping around like a demented flea because of the 2 cups of tea. Put his shoes on the wrong feet, wondered why he was wincing in pain, realised, apologised and then dropped his teeth into the wash hand basin.......

Came out to discover that I had left the lights on in the car and now the battery was dead. Grabbed a neighbour, jump leads and a few deep breaths.

Home to discover the greedy hound had performed in the kitchen and was skulking in the corner wondering if she could get out the door without me seeing her. I ignored her. As much for my own sanity as her safety. Cleaned the mess, gagging all the while. Lovely.

Proceeded then to put on a white wash with a NEW red shirt mysteriously secreted in the pile, break the damn vacuum cleaner, burn the dinner and crack my toes on the corner of the bed. And now the computer is misbehaving.

I'm feeling very muddled. I think I'll go to the scratcher and get horizontal.

I bet your day wasn't as fun-filled as mine.

*The painting is by Jackson Pollack.

Wordless Wednesday

2007-11-14T15:58:00.000-08:00

Loneliness

2007-11-13T06:06:00.001-08:00

Do not be afraid
To encounter Loneliness.
It is a rare opportunity
To make friends with
Oneself.

Tibetan proverb.

Karma

2007-11-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

"As you sow so shall you reap"

This is the Law of Karma. Interestingly, both science and religion recognize this law. In science it is often stated, “For every action there is an equal and opposing reaction.” Its religious counterparts are, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”; and “As you do unto others, it will be done unto you.” Even today’s common knowledge expresses this principle in the saying, “What goes around, comes around.” This is the law of karma, of cause and effect.

After years of battling with my life, my demons, I find this strangely comforting. My life is the life I am meant to have, the lessons I am learning are the lessons I need to learn. Every thought, word and action that I do will have an effect. Either good or bad. These words are keeping me alert, aware and alive.

Its a relief to put aside the doubts and confusion, to believe in my soul, to live every day with compassion.

Funny how 7 words can make such a difference.

Jingling Jerseys

2007-11-11T22:55:00.000-08:00

One day, on our recent skite to the wilds of Northern Spain, we decided to visit one of Catalonia's National Parks. It was Tuesday, so, we knew we would have the mountains to ourselves. Always a tempting prospect. So, being Oscar Wilde fans in the temptation department, off we scampered. After 2 hours of uneventful driving we arrived at our starting point. Ready for the off.

It was a beautiful, bright, crisp morning. Ideal walking weather. The scenery was spectacular, the riotous, autumnal colours, a feast for the eyes. We passed 4 other people, 2 couples, obviously, just out for a short ramble. By midday, we hadn't set eyes on another human being for at least an hour. We had this corner of the universe to ourselves. Bliss.

But we were never alone. Everywhere, there were signs of nature's magnificence. The skies were filled with the ever-watchful birds of prey. Vultures, eagles, hawks and kestrels soared and glided, effortlessly, through the vast blue expanse. Just above our heads, an assortment of smaller birds, twittered and skittered, dive bombing us at every available opportunity, in a vain effort to despatch us back to the lowlands. Around us, there were vague scuttlings and scurryings. But ne'er a culprit to be seen. All of this was accompanied by the occasional jingle, jangle of bells. "Do you hear the bells?" I asked GB at one stage. "What bells?" he said. GB has a small amount of damage to his hearing. He doesn't hear grass grow, like I do. "Sh! THOSE bells!" He stopped walking and listened intently. He, like a lot of men, doesn't multi-task. "Oh yes, I hear them now. 'Tis a bit early for the fat man with the white beard and the reindeer, isn't it?"

Our walks are, invariably, peppered with intellectual conversations like this.

Within 2 or 3 minutes we happened on these beauties.

I love cows. I love the smell of them. I love their soft, liquid eyes and the slow, laconic movement of their mouths as they chew, endlessly. I'm in awe of their sureness. Their certainty, that they have as much right as the flamboyant fliers or the belligerent boars, the fleeing foxes or the hurrying hares, to exist, to chew, to watch and wonder at the passing parade. I love their acceptance. These noble creatures were more than content to spend their days munching and chewing, wandering and resting, jingling and jangling. Their bells were the only sign that they weren't as free as the birds of the air. I'm not sure they cared, one way or the other, about the bells around their necks or the freedom enjoyed by their feathered friends.

They, needless to say, weren't one bit interested in us.

Ignoble or Ingenius?

2007-11-10T11:36:00.000-08:00

Frightening, isn't it?

Haystack Head

2007-11-09T09:29:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, our family used to go on holidays every summer out to my mother's home-place in Co. Limerick. It was only 25 miles from where we were living but it might as well have been a different planet. Life was very different there for us "townies". The biggest difference, for me, was the smell. Pigs, cows, chickens, horses, hay, dogs, children, fresh-from-the cow milk, baking and tea, all immensely strong and recognisable. Smells that engulfed, repulsed, captured and enraptured. We spent endless, sun-filled days rolling in haystacks, herding docile cows, chasing wayward pigs, collecting eggs, exploring and discovering. And, all the time, the incredible redolence.

The extreme effort of climbing to the top of a haystack, without falling off, and then, the sheer exhilaration of sliding, arms and legs flailing, down the other side. After several hours of rollicking and rolling, the bellys would be roaring, so, we'd pick ourselves up, shake the stalks off and head back to the house. All the way back, we would be scratching and itching, pulling and dragging, like demented, flea-ridden puppies.

The last few days have seen me, metaphorically speaking, scratching and itching, pulling and dragging, like the afore-mentioned flea-ridden canines. Straw in my clothes, in my hair, in my brain. The smell of haystacks all around me. Why is this? I can only surmise that its the half-baked idea that I could do this NaBloPowhatchamacallitthingy. No problem. Easy peasy. It seemed like a fun, creative, kick-in-the pants idea at the time.

Now, I'm not so sure.

Before November, I'd get on blogger and read, and laugh, and cry and be thoroughly enraptured, entertained, inspired and, occasionally, when the muse struck, write a post myself. I was constantly surprised and delighted that people were visiting and commenting on what I had written. But now, in the throes of NaBloPoMo, I'm clutching at straws, wriggling and squirming, wondering why so and so hasn't been around, why he/she seems to have stopped visiting altogether. Why do I care? Where did my arrogance come from? What made me think I had something to say? And,why was I blogging in the first place? Why has something, which was supposed to be fun, taken me back to the itchy, scratchy days of the haystacks?

I'm just curious as to how, why and when, my ego reared its ugly head and screwed with my brain.

Maybe, its time for me to get my head out of the haystack?

I was never one to flog a dead, or even, a dying horse.

Gabbing with God

2007-11-08T15:29:00.000-08:00

Its 2am and I'm lying in bed. Awake. Sort of. The internal debate of whether to give up altogether and get up or to turn over and try again continues. Its warm and cosy. Turning over wins. Eventually,I'm drifting and flowing over paths and fields, feeling the warmth and numbness of weightlessness when I hear

"Rise, Rise, are you awake?"... he whispered.

"I am. Now." I mumble. "Why are you here, at this ungodly hour? What is SO important that it can't wait until tomorrow?"

"Oh, it CAN wait, if you like, but, I just thought I'd drop by and see how you were doing .... we haven't had much chat lately ... you're busy with your life and I have the usual million and one things to be doing ...but, lately, the silence from your end is deafening, if you don't mind me saying so. I feel a little neglected. So, is it O.K. to talk now? Its nice and quiet."

"What do you mean, the 'silence if deafening'? I've been storming your gates, leaving messages, calling around for the last 2 weeks and you're NEVER there. All I get is that incessant answering machine... by the way, you REALLY should change your message ... its starting to get a bit OLD. And as for that housekeeper you have .... you should get on to the Agency and get them to find you someone who can actually communicate with other human beings .... And as for feeling neglected 'Join the Club' oh mighty one."

"The housekeeper does her best. What else would you have her do? And why are you so cranky, anyway? Whats eating you?"

"I'm not cranky ...I'm just very cross with you. I don't like the way you're running things. I think you just don't care anymore. I wish you were nicer sometimes. Kinder, even. You know, you do have a reputation to live up to .. All loving, all merciful ... And why aren't you like the pictures the nuns gave us ... for Heavens sake, you don't even have a beard ... all the REALLY kind deities have big, white beards."

"Hmm ...And what about my clothes? Do you think, should I get new sandals? New Levis maybe? Whats this preoccupation with my appearance, anyway .. you never used to care before?"

"I DON'T CARE ...I couldn't give a rats ass if you go go around looking like a Ninja Turtle on speed .... but could you please TRY to be nicer? Can you lift the gloom that hangs over so many people's lives? Can you persuade people to behave like REAL human beings? Can you stop the appalling atrocities that happen thousands of times a day, every day? Can you put an end to man's inhumanity to his fellow man? Can you? Huh? Huh? Don't answer that. Yes, I know you can. But you won't. Free will, yeah, yeah, I know."

"Ah Rise, this isn't like you ... what has happened? Why SO impatient? I've told you before, hundreds of times, I can't just march in like Major General Fixitall and read everyone the riot act. It doesn't work like that. Sure, I can help, but not always immediately or in the way that you think I should. You DO know that I have a PLAN, don't you? And you DO trust me, don't you? Or are you so cranky and contrary that you don't want to know anything at all? Maybe, I should call back at another time?"

"No, don't go just yet. I'll be civilised, I promise. I just need to hear the plan again and maybe a song, just for the crankiness, you understand ... you know the one ... Hop in here beside me, its lovely and warm .... Oh for God's sake, take the bloody sandals off first."

GB slept the sleep of the brave, bless him.

photo credit: www.art.com

Whew! - Wordless Wednesday

2007-11-07T09:34:00.000-08:00

No prizes for guessing where this is!

Frazzled

2007-11-06T23:30:00.000-08:00

What do you do when someone is driving you crazy? Do you put them and yourself out of your collective misery by spilling some blood? Do you walk away? Or do you suck it up, grin and bear it and hope that tomorrow the sun will shine?

My mother-in-law is 83 years old. Is blessed with good health, a loving family and a keen intellect. Her husband is 80, is confined to a wheelchair, deprived of the ability to enjoy life as he remembers, to live independently. But never a word of complaint passes his lips. Unlike his lady wife.

For the past week or so, everytime I show my face, I am subjected to the "poor me" litany. I'll breeze into her bedroom with her breakfast tray, all bright eyed and bushy tailed to be met with the, uncharacteristic, quivering voice, "Im feeling a little down, this morning, actually". I murmer something about the curative powers of tea and disappear downstairs to get Larry, the saint, up out of bed.

This man, who has had every activity and hobby that he holds dear, taken from him, who is totally dependent on other people for his very existence, is delighted to see a new morning and me. A big, cheery, toothless smile, and a willingness and enthusiasm to face the day, whatever it might bring. We have the banter, we do the necessary ablutions, we enjoy each others company. By 10am I have to leave.

By lunchtime, I'm back again. Summoned by her majesty, to deliver milk, or bread, or tea or anything else that can possibly be deemed a necessity. By 4pm she's on the phone, "I can't move the wheelchair, there seems to be something wrong with the wheels, can you come down and have a look at it?" By 8pm, the dog is missing, the back door won't open, the toilet is blocked or she has a terminal headache, all of which necessitate, yet another visit.

Each time I call, I do what I can. But its never enough. Will it ever be enough?

She's not always as needy as this. And I am not unsympathetic, usually.

But I am tired, physically, mentally, emotionally. I can't fix her life. I can't be responsible for her happiness. I am not a magician.

I'm human and, today, I'm a little bit frazzled.

The Eyes Have It

2007-11-05T05:27:00.000-08:00

Fascinating things, eyes.

They dance and sparkle, twinkle and glare, approve and abhor, accept and reject.

All, without uttering a single syllable.

Mighty weapons.

I have a memory from my teenage years that comes back, occasionally, to haunt me.

On the periphery of my circle of friends and acquaintances, a shy, gentle, beautiful girl hovered. She didn't attend the same school as we did, she was conservative, not at all on the wild side, her family were wealthy, she lived in a very large, secluded house in a very select area. She was extremely pretty, with long, blonde hair, big, blue eyes, dressed in the finest clothes and perfectly groomed, never a hair out of place. Her name was Lisa. We all, secretly, wanted a bit of her, apparently, idyllic existence. I often felt that she disapproved of us, but still she hovered. We wondered about her. Why did she keep hanging around? What did she want? Why was she slumming it? The reason became clear, one Sunday afternoon, after she was seen wrapped around one of the main stags of the herd at the weekly disco. Aha. As far as I was concerned, she was more than welcome to him. He was a tall, good looking fellow but way up himself. Obnoxious, even. Big, loud horsey laugh and very little of interest between his ears. They made an extremely odd couple. She so dainty, him so large. She so refined, him so uncouth. But then he got bored, as 17 year old, cerebrally challenged males tend to do. She was heartbroken, and once again, on the periphery.

We met, a couple of weeks later, again on the highlight of our week, at the Tabu Club (the infamous Sunday Afternoon Disco for Wayward Teenagers). There were 5 or 6 of us madams, checking out the talent, discussing the pros and cons of certain tactics, bemoaning the severe lack of God's gifts to women. I hardly spoke more than half a dozen words directly to Lisa and can only remember being slightly bored with her. But, later, I heard from a mutual friend that "I scared her" that she thought I had put a "hex" on her relationship with the aforementioned Lothario, that I was "a witch" and that my "eyes were frightening, like devil's eyes, she was afraid of me".

I was gob-smacked, to say the least.

What had my eyes said, without my permission?

It got me thinking. What if we had to remain speechless for a day, a week, a year, forever. If we just had our silent eyes to communicate. Would we thrive and prosper in improved, noiseless, communication?

Or would we become extinct, murdered by misunderstanding?

Dancing Days

2007-11-04T04:43:00.000-08:00

Being a child in semi-rural Ireland of the 1950's and 1960's was one sure way of ridding yourself of any high faluting notions that you might be nurturing.

"You want to WHAT?"

Digging the size 5s firmly in, I repeated my request. They indulged my whim and so, it was off to Mrs Legears Irish Dancing School with me. I jigged and reeled my way through complicated steps, intricate formations and garnered cups and medals to line the walls of any decent sized coffin. Mrs. Legear was a formidable woman. You were there for one purpose, and one purpose only. To dance, to learn and to bolster her reputation at the Annual Feis. No talking, no giggling, no tittering as she demonstrated the complicated choreography, like a demented, overblown penguin. For an extremely large lady, she was as light as a fairy on her feet. And she loved to dance. You could see it on her face, ecstatic, as she twirled and skittered, jumped and rocked, jigged and horn-piped across the timber floors of her converted garage. She had no children herself, so she MUST have really loved dancing to endure the hell-in-black pumps that descended, riotously, at her front door every Wednesday afternoon.

Eventually, I got notions. I wanted to be a ballerina. Yes, the ones that get to wear the tutus.

So, back to Mrs. Legears, but this time, on a Tuesday. I did positions and plies and all kinds of complicated ballet things until I thought I had died and gone to heaven. But, I was less than brilliant. Much less. I was way too gangly, all arms and legs. But I did get to wear a tutu. A green one. Accompanied by a severe case of stage fright. My budding ballet career died a natural death.

I still love to dance. In the kitchen, in the garden, in meadows and mountains. At family gatherings, I'm first up and the last to fall. I'll dance with anyone or no-one. I love the freedom of moving to music or even just following the inner echoes. I love the inner release, the exuberance of disappearing within and re-emerging as a bird, a dolphin, an emotion, a life.

Cha-cha anyone?

Curiouser and Curiouser

2007-11-03T11:02:00.001-07:00

Let me introduce Pedro and Jose. (Names have been changed to protect their identity.)

Pedro is the brazen, daredevil teenager in front. Jose, skulking behind the bucket, is his all-too-willing sidekick.

Street cats, the pair of them. Loitering with intent, on street corners, behind buckets, high up on precarious roosts, seemingly, unaware of the passing parade, grooming themseves fastidiously and waiting. Waiting for the unsuspecting victim. The innocent passerby, going about his business, interfering with neither man nor beast. Then, out they pounce, yowling and mewling like banshees, skittering and scattering like demented fur balls, glaring malevolently and spewing forth hissing sounds that would make your eyelashes curl. Having frightened the bejaysus out of their victim, they, then, retreat to the nearest "safe house" and proceed to curl up into 2 innocent kitties. Why do they do this? I have no idea but can only surmise that they are, indeed, practising for the tiger world. Where it is very dangerous. Where they will need to have all their skills in top cat shape.

I have always had a rather ambivalent attitude to cats.

But, I found myself warming very quickly to these 2 ragamuffins. Bold and brazen, they most certainly were but did they care?? Not on your Nellie, No Siree. They were doing what they had to do to ensure their survival. I like that.

Pity us humans don't do the same.

Birthday Bird

2007-11-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

On the morning of the 3rd October 1986, I announced to GB that maybe he had better take a day off from work. This was rather unusual. Unusual, in as much as, for the previous 24 hours we had been on Vision Only due to some hormonal glitch on my part. His words not mine. So, a severe lack of verbal communication was the order of the day. I duly fed the ravenous offspring, prepared lunch boxes and scraped a rake in the general vicinity of my head. Ready for the day, we - the children and I - headed off.

He never asked "Why?"

I walked daughter no.1 to "big" school and son no. 1 to "playschool". Happy as pigs in the proverbial, they were completely oblivious to the momentous change about to wreak havoc on their innocent lives.

GB was still sipping tea at the kitchen table when I got back an hour later. Well, at least, I had been heard. It was, by now, 10.30am. Time was marching on. "I think it will be soon", I announced to no one in particular, thereby giving him an opportunity to maintain the vision only status, or not. To my surprise, he enquired "Would you like to go for a walk?"

And walk, we did. And talk. And pause. And breathe. And walk again. And pause again. And breathe again.

By 11.45 I figured I'd had enough walking, talking and pausing. It was time for the "real" games to begin. On our way back to the house, during one of the more significant pauses, we noticed, not 10 metres from us, a hawk swooping down from the cover of some tall pine trees and tackling an unsuspecting, obscenely overweight pigeon to the ground in a flurry of feathers and pitiful squawking. We watched, completely fascinated, while Nature did what Nature does best. The hawk was merciful. The pigeon didn't suffer. Much. We had no time to waste so, thankfully, we missed the decloaking and ultimate annihilation of the feathered victim.

"Hawk Who Brings Down Pigeon" made her prematurely, grand entrance at 1.15pm.

She was a serene child. Other children, especially younger ones, gravitated towards her like nails to a magnet. They still do. She was quiet. Worryingly so, at times. And then she hit 16 and the, hitherto dormant, hawklike qualities emerged in all their glory. She hovered and swooped, demolished and destroyed, decloaked and annihilated all that were unfortunate enough to cross her path. Nature in resplendent glory. Not unlike most teenagers.

She's a Libra, she's a Hawk, she's a fine, loving, sensitive human being. And she's spreading her wings.

Fly and soar, bird of my heart.

All Saints Day, Abstinence and Away in the Brain

2007-11-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

November 1st has arrived.

NaBloPoMo is upon us. Brains, all over the world are clinking and clanking, turning and churning, clogging the airwaves with stories, ideas, anecdotes and tall tales. The necessary, humdrum, everyday activities are abandoned, cast gleefully away on the turbulent seas of cerebral activity. All in the pursuit of eggcelence.

This is my first installment of, what I hope will be, 30 days of continuous blogging. A noble undertaking, considering the circumstances. But, then, I have a plan. "Thats all thats needed", I tell the doubting Thomases lurking in my grey matter. A Grand Plan. A Master Plan, even. Unfortunately, as I pen this, the words of Robbie Burns are nibbling at my ears, reminding me that "the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglae".

Think positively. Onwards and upwards. Into the valley of death .....

During my school days, the nuns were apt, with monotonous regularity, to remind us simple, impressionable, maidens, in solemn, reverential voices, that November 1st was a SPECIAL day. "Why is that Sister?" we would enquire, demurely, knowing full well that the ensuing explanation would guarantee us at least an hour off the dreaded Maths class. "Well, girls, its the day we remember all the Holy Saints in Heaven who have gone before us and are guiding all of us sinful, mortal beings to Jesus Christ and Eternal Life in the Lord......." And she was off ... gone, like a bat out of hell, on her favourite hobby horse, reminding us of the martyrs who died for us, of the Little Flowers that prayed for us, of the Animal Lovers that guided us along the perilous journey called Life. Wasting her sweetness on the desert air, we all thought.

But, years later, one desperate November, I remember trying to do a deal with God, but, not really getting anywhere with Him, I decided to try the good, old reliable saints. I was VERY desperate. I promised them the sun, the moon and the stars if they would only do this one thing, just this one time, for me. They left me stewing for a couple of days. During which time, I cogitated and ruminated and figured I'd better up the ante a bit and make it an irresistable, once-off, never-to-be-repeated offer, that would swing it for me. The offer was approved and accepted. Written in blood, sweat and tears.

"Fear not, oh good and faithful servant, your labours will be rewarded. But remember, be true to thy word". They didn't ACTUALLY say this to me. But I got the message.

Since then, every November, it is the dry season.

I always honour a good deal. And the Saints just love it. They dream of, eventually, saving my soul. Optimists, the lot of them.

But, at the time, it was a very good deal. Needless to say, that didn't stop the friends, the companions, the boozy buddies, the birds on the trees, the dogs on the street, from tearing the divil out of me. I had one particular friend, who hailed from the northern territories, who used to assure me, with manic nodding of her wild, red head, that I was, indeed, "aweay in the breain".

Away in the brain, I may be, but the deal still stands, 30 years later.

I hope the saints are roaring approval in the hallowed halls of the afterworld.