Somethings gotta give ....

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 .....

What is it with primates these days??

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

The Struggling Angel

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 ...

Where I am From ..... The Prologue

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 ......

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

Photo credit: www.artistsforhumanrights.org