Sometimes I prefer walking (If only Dad had heard of kintsukuroi)

Tags

Antithesis, cycling, flaws and imperfections, fly fishing, fly tying, Interferon, Kintsukuroi, Mediteranean, melanoma., philosophy, The Alentejo, the yellow bicycle, walking

Kintsukuroi : The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted with gold silver or platinum powder.

‘Don’t let Stephanie touch that dish/plate/teapot, she’ll break it!’ was one of my Dad’s refrains.

Recently my sister reminded me of this when telling me of someone she knew who was dyspraxic. She said she often wondered if I had suffered from a mild form that went undetected.

I assured her that I was just a clumsy child and the fact that I had no problem riding a bicycle proved I hadn’t a dyspraxic bone in my body.

Poor Dad!

If only he heard about kintsukuroi he might have been a bit more chilled about my breakages, plus he never learned that hovering nervously over me reminding me not to break something was a sure way of making me break it.

Then again with the pressure off I might not have broken any for him to practice on in the first place.

Now my observation is a sort of antithesis.

My Dad was a pedant and therefore on one side the perfectionist in him would have struggled when faced with the shattered pieces of something as beautiful as a delicate china plate.

But he was also an artist, a purist one to be exact (no wild abstract splashing’s for him, his water colours followed the strict old fashioned wash method) so the creative side of this Japanese art would have interested him.

And being a purist, his Kintsukuroi would have been meticulous.

Unfortunately he missed the era of google, but I am sure he would have gone in search of books on the subject, just as he had with the art of tying Artificial flies for his fishing.

One of my childhood memories is of him sitting, head bent, brow furrowed in concentration, at his specially equipped table in my parents bedroom, tying these minute flies. (Really he should have been working at his architectural drawings and earning a crust for his family)

This table, on which stood a miniature vice grips and a well leafed book detailing the art of fly tying, had a small drawer underneath containing boxes with hooks of various sizes, scrapes of wool, gold and silver threads and hackle feathers collected from cockerels around the country.

It was actually my mothers dressing table, but since she never wore a scrape of make up or perfume, he commandeered it.

So you can understand why I could also picture him, at the same table, in the same manner, painstakingly fitting together the pieces of my latest breakage and painting in the cracks with gold or silver lacquer.

And just as when he was tying flies, we watched in admiration (the hook steady in the vice grips and using a forceps with surgical precision, attaching first the wool, winding the silver or gold thread around to hold it in place, then the feathers) as before our very eyes a Wickhams fancy, bloody butcher, sooty olive, or duckfly, appeared,  we could have also gazed admiringly at his latest piece of kintsukuroi.

And I would have been the proud source of yet another family story surrounding the occasion of the breakage of that particular piece (rather than the shameful clumsy daughter who’s breakages ended in the bin).

A note on fly fishing (and how it ruled our family)

Firstly, the subject of hackle feathers!

As a child it did not appear to us in anyway unusual that, when driving along a country road we would screech to a sudden halt, as my dad, having spied some colourful feathered fowl in a farm yard, would leap from the car, open the gate and scattering the hens, approach the door to talk to the woman of the house.

From our vantage point, we would watch as she, or one of her children raced around the yard in pursuit of the fine cockerel whose feathers my Dad had put his eye on.

Once caught the catcher would hold the bird steady while my Dad plucked a few of the hackle feathers and thanking the farmers wife profusely, tuck them into the small metal box he kept in his jacket pocket.

Secondly. We had to know the names of the flies he tied. After all if we were his oarsman for the day, he could, without letting his eyes leave the water, reel in his line and announce that a change of fly was needed. And our job then was to quietly place the oars in the rowlocks (sounds might frighten the fish) and hand him whichever of the above he requested.

So you better know your flies!.

But where is this story going?

Oh yes.

Breakages, flaws, imperfections and changes and re-pairings.

Kintsukuroi also has a philosophical expression i.e embracing the flaws and imperfections of the object. Seeing its life story through its breakages rather than trying to disguise them.

April, eight years ago, I received the news of a biopsy.

Metastatic melanoma.

The primary, my right calf.

A small freckle I had surgically removed a few years before (supposedly benign) had metastasised to the lymph nodes in my groin.

Had all those years of cycling in the summer sun caused the primary?

Who knows? but one thing was sure. I was not the perfectly healthy individual I presumed I was, but a flawed one, an imperfect being, a broken piece of the human kind.

Look Dad! Now how insignificant those plates, those cups, that teapot.

‘But how can it be?’ I wailed at anyone interested in listening to me’ I feel so well’

I wrote in my diary.

‘After all my years of nursing, of hand holding and reassuring of others I am now on the same side of the fence. I never thought it would be me.’

I had my surgery that May.

At first I was scared of everything, the sun, my life, even my leg.

Especially my leg.

I took each step gingerly, barely daring to walk on it.

I was so fearful of putting weight on it that I began to cycle more than I ever (if that was possible) just to avoid putting it to the ground.

My bicycle became my crutch.

At first I cycled with two surgical drains still in place, hidden by pinning them to the underside of my long skirt.

Then through an exhausting year of Interferon.

I couldn’t stop cycling!

In the west of Ireland I struggled against the Atlantic storms, forcing my legs round and round.

And when my treatment finished, I cycled at a gentler pace across France where, on I reaching the Mediterranean, I finally excepted the philosophy of Kintsukuroi and embraced my imperfection.

In doing so, I realised I no longer needed to rely so much on my bicycle to cart me around and that sometimes I preferred walking.

And now, although there is no silver or gold mending it, like a piece of (unfinished) Kintsukuroi, the thin scar making its way crookedly along, from mid thigh to mid abdomen, continues to tell my story.

To be continued…

(Where with some anxiety but after much deliberation I decided to explore The Alentejo region in Portugal without the yellow bicycle.

As I cycle I Learn to see life stories in the flaws of old things rather than focus on their imperfections.

Part Three; Simple wealth (The four Yoku’s)

Tags

barefoot, bicycle, buddhism, Divorce, farmer, happy, lotto, mother, philosophy, poor, pub, rich, wind bathing, yoku's

 

( Where I learn to count my blessings, remind myself that one doesn’t need money to be happy, which may annoy a few people, and swear never to mention the stuff again )

Oscar Wilde said ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning Matilda Maracella awoke in the ‘turkey house’ and watched the swallows fly through the holes in the roof, she wept with despair.

Although the mattress she lay on was comfortable and the small table beside it held a lamp, a jug of water and a glass, she had never been in such a helpless position, had never been at such a low ebb.

But as She lay there, her head resting on her tear soaked pillow, small thoughts of an optimistic kind began to wheedle their way through her head.  And as her moments of delving into Buddhism came to mind, she remembered learning about impermanence.

Whatever IS will be WAS.

‘If I feel at my lowest now‘ she reasoned, ‘the only place I can go after this, is up! 

Holding onto that thought, she let her eyes stray over her surroundings.

The thick walls of the old building were of grey stone, seen here and there where the plaster was peeling off.

They swept solidly upwards towards a cathedral like ceiling and halfway up, the blackened indentation of a fireplace indicated where the second floor had been . The remainder of the joists were also visible in the wall.

The long windows had lost their glass and were boarded up with sheets of corrugated iron from the outside, but the wooden window frames were still in good condition . Her eyes followed the walls on up to the ceiling.

Here the swallows nests poked out between the exposed rafters.

Where the roof slates were missing, she could catch glimpses of early morning sky.

‘Things can’t be that bad if I have my sight’ she told herself comfortingly.

As another swallow skimmed over her head and was greeted by the frantic chirping of hungry young she realised no matter how despairing she was feeling, the rest of the world was going to keep on about it’s business.

By now she was tired of feeling sorry for herself. It was becoming boring and a waste of a lovely morning.

She thought she should store this memory so that when things DID improve, she could pull it out as reference to how far she had come since that morning.

She also thought that luckily so far, none of the swallows droppings had landed on her and whilst keeping this optimistic view she wiped her eyes, scrambled off the bed, folded the blanket neatly, hopped on her bike and cycled off down to the sea for a swim.

and as her legs spun the pedals and the road flashed under her wheels it occurred to her that she still had a lot of blessings to count. 

I have inherited my mother’s optimistic view of life. She never worried, always believing that change of feeling/ circumstance/ money would come from somewhere at the last moment.

My mother always said she would have liked to have been a quaker but I felt that she was more buddhist like in her thinking.

She didn’t feel the same about me! Once when we were discussing this and I mentioned I would like to be a buddhist she laughed and said ‘Maybe, but you have you considered how much you like to talk’.

Of course as with a lot of things my mother didn’t realise how open minded and forward sighted she was.

I have watched her face huge challenges where she would look thoughtful before answering.

-Hmmm let me see now…..

-Maybe if you….

-Have you considered…..

-Don’t panic! why don’t you….

and her best one of all

-Sure nothing stays the same, It’ll be different tomorrow…..

This didn’t mean she sat back and did nothing. Far from being passive, she would tackle any challenges she knew she could change for the better but she didn’t allow herself to worry about misfortunes that she recognised to be beyond her control.

And if she didn’t understand certain aspects of OUR worries she would read up about them.

‘Guess what I am reading at the moment’ Was how she often greeted me, waving a book about some far out belief, idea, concept in my face.

She greeted the news of my divorce with nothing short of delight.

‘Now’ she said happily ‘you can reinvent yourself’ ,

I think she meant find I could find myself again.

And so I did.

*****

I have lived a life no more extraordinary than the next person.

The night spent in the turkey house all those years ago was just a blip and I still look back on it with fondness.

It was my turning point.

The point in my life when it struck me that when I have money I am happy and when I have no money I am happy too.

I heard recently about a farmer who had won the lotto. It was a large lottery that week.

Millions in fact.

Can you imagine his face when he discovered he was a multimillionaire? Can you imagine what went through his mind as he ate his porridge that morning.

Did he shoot off and buy a mansion in the caribbean complete with yacht, helicopter and fast cars as many in his shoes would have?

No he did not!

First he responsibly paid off all his children’s mortgages and then he bought them all new cars.

And still he had a few millions left.

So he scratched his head and thought for a while before doing what every farmer does, he decided to buy more land.

Now his neighbour and and best friend, (they were from adjacent farms and had grown up together, helping each others dad’s bring in the hay and the turf, wrestling with each other on the heaped up hay in the barn , being rescued together out of bog holes when helping foot the turf) thought that HE would sell him some of his.

Not a lot mind. No point in losing the run of himself where money is concerned. He was a sensible man. Yes he would sell him the few acres along the river. They were prone to flooding anyway and not of great use.

And to make it worth his while he would ask for double the price.

His friend could well afford it, he reasoned, as he rubbed his hands together.

Fair is fair.

Now we can  both be rich.

So they came to an agreement on a price that actually ended up being three times the value of the land.

The acreage was transferred over and that was that you would have thought.

But the friend had morals and too late they got the better of him and began to niggle at him and he felt ashamed and could no longer look his friend in the eye.

He began to avoid him.

And the Lotto winning farmer knew he had been fooled and felt hurt that his friend was not honest. He was also saddened by his greed and the realization that his friend was not the man he thought he was.

Soon that hurt turned to resentment and he glared at his friend whenever he came upon him and refused to speak to him.

Of course now they could no longer meet for their evening pint in the local. A custom of theirs since they had lied about their age (and got away with it) at sixteen!  So they both began to avoid that pub for fear of bumping into each other.

The millionaire farmer began to go to one far beyond the valley.

And because he couldn’t afford to be stopped by the guards with so many pints on him (yes losing his friend had caused him to take to the drink more thoroughly and no amount of money could buy off losing your licence due to a drunk driving charge) his shiney new land rover stayed parked at the house whilst he battled the elements on his old black raleigh bike.

You might think one of his son’s would drop him over and back but they were too busy hosting dinner parties for their new posh friends (did I mention they all demanded larger houses)

Meanwhile the other regulars stopped going to the local pub too. The craic was gone from it they moaned.

Sure weren’t the two farmers the finest storytellers in the land and night after night they lifted the rafters with the laughter caused by their jokes and tales.

Without them there was nothing to talk about but the price of hoggets and the austerity measures of the country which made them all wander home depressed and shout at their wives who, in return, refused to bake them rough brown soda bread so they had to resort to white shop loaves instead which made them constipated.

So they began to take their custom to livelier quarters and indeed half of them followed farmer One to the pub far beyond the valley and the other half followed farmer Two to the pub on the other side of the mountain.

By this time the owner of the local pub, getting only a smathering of business went bankrupt and he cursed the millionaire farmer to the end of his days for causing his demise.

….then a year went by and the sons felt that they should upgrade their cars to the present year. oh and possibly bigger models! And his daughters in law complained about the size of the houses so mayb……..?

By now the millionaire farmer was becoming more bedraggled as he cycled the countryside, his coat smelling of damp, his beard long and tangled, looking for a pub that would serve him. (At this stage most proprietors took him for a penniless tramp and turned him away).

Oh and before I forget, the final straw was, that his wife left him.

Unable to bear the sad specimen of the man he had become, she took off with the pub owner from the local and her half of the money.

And if gossip is to be believed they have bought a beach shack in thailand and are running a very successful business serving mojitos and all sort’s of foreign sounding drinks that would be unpronounceable let alone heard of back home .

So indeed, not a happy ending for our millionaire.

Before he died Steve jobs admitted that despite being rich he wasn’t a happy man. He also realised too late that no amount of money could save his life.

So what do I do to keep myself happy when I have no money?

My Yoku’s of course!

I have four favorites.

Shinrin yoku is the japanese word for the art of forest bathing

It doesn’t mean bathing in the true sense but really bathing the senses by going for walks deep into the forest to absorb the strength and calmness of the tree’s and to listen to the sounds of nature.

Kaze Yoku : Wind bathing. (This yoku I have sort of made up, though I’m sure it is already in existence).

To practice it you need to find a rock overlooking the sea preferably along the west coast of Ireland. It works best if the wind is coming from the northwest and strong enough to cause white horses on the sea. Taking care not to wear too much clothing stand on your rock close your eyes breath deeply and let the wind pour over you.

Hadashi Yoku: barefoot bathing.

For this yoku I head west to the burren. Best practised on a sunny day. Remove your shoes and slowly at first, paying careful attention to the undulations of the smooth marble like limestone, wend your way across the sun warmed terraces, letting your feet soak up the energies of the stone and enjoy their freedom away from the confines of shoes.

Jitensha Yoku : bicycle bathing.

 

This one is simple. Just get on your bicycle and pedal along in whatever fashion pleases you, where ever pleases you. Choose country roads, off the beaten track Boreens. Push through gates that lead down dubious looking paths even if they end up leading nowhere.

And do fly down the odd hill with the wind in your hair and the sun at your back while you are at it.

And when you practice these yoku’s you feel like the wealthiest and happiest person on the planet.

Surviving or thriving. (An adequate resolution)

Tags

Divorce, dogs, gratefullness, New years resolution, philosophy, seals, Surviving, the sea, thriving, Whales

 

The shoreline, wooded here and there with alder, hazel and yellow whins, curls its arms protectively around the bay. Those stoney arms, too short to meet in the middle, leave a gap, wide enough for the sea to come and go with comfort and when the tide is out the bay is filled with small islands of smooth humped sand.

Around these islands, sandbanks really, channels of seawater wind their way like medusa’s hair.

When the tide creeps in, which it does so coyly, the islands slip under water without any fuss, like slumbering whales, only to reappear with the next low tide. 

Beyond the gap the atlantic spreads out westwards.

I realize that the two small moving dots I have been watching out in the bay are not cormorants as I originally thought but more likely the heads of two seals swimming slowly in my direction.

Though as they get closer I realize that to be seals they would have to be giant ones.

I wish I had a pair of binoculars but I don’t so instead I sip my coffee and sit patiently (A new thing for me) by the window, waiting for the mystery to be revealed. 

~~~

It’s the first day of the New year,

There have been a few crisp sunny mornings after christmas when I have managed to get to the beach with my daughters dogs but mostly it has been wild and windy.

Storm ‘frank’ has passed , bringing with it sheets of rain, flooding many areas but the seabirds at the back of my local beach don’t mind and the swans happily graze the abundant water cress .

2015 finished yesterday with a splendid sunrise which I was lucky enough to be down on the beach to catch.

But now as the rain pelts down once more, I feel I should a least make some sort of an effort to choose a new year’s resolution and maybe one that will suit being confined indoors due to the inclement weather.

I resolve to be to be more organised in 2016!

Hopefully then I will have more time for writing.

I start straight away (attempting what I have often tried to achieve on such a wet day but have never succeeded in completing).

I pull all the books off their shelves with the idea of putting some order on them.

As with previous suchlike endeavours, I hadn’t got very far when a book catches my eye and I sit back on the book strewn floor and start to turn the pages.

Way way back when I found the courage to leave my husband, a friend gave me a book called ‘Simple abundance’

Basically it suggested ways of being fulfilled using simple inexpensive means.

One example she suggested was picking a bunch of wild flowers and putting them on your table (presuming you had a table).

Another was to corner off a space in a room to give yourself a ‘Virginia woolf’s room of one’s own’  that is presuming you had a house or even still, a room, (at some point along my divorce journey I had neither)

I remembered reading through the book half heartedly and before focusing on one page

Every day, write a list of five things you are grateful for.

At that time I couldn’t think of much to be grateful for. I was concentrating on surviving.

Walking away from my large house by the lake with its woods and mountains hadn’t been an easy decision and the small cold and damp wooden house I found to rent was a far cry from the large stone well heated one of my marriage.

Divorce in Ireland at the time was seen as a huge shame filled failing.

If the man instigated it? it meant that there was something desperately wrong with the woman.

If it was the woman then it meant admitting she had made a mistake in her judgement by choosing the wrong person.

Though I felt like crawling away in shame and going into hiding, I had to continue to work,  so telling nobody at first, I tried to keep my dignity and privacy.

But living in the country leaves you open to much gossip and curiosity.

It was immediately noted that I was coming to work from a different direction and no longer on my bicycle, but instead, in an ancient battered toyota starlet.

I decided to get it over and done with so I told everyone.

Got it out into the open in one fell swoop.

In doing so I hoped that my circumstances would soon become old hat and the gossipers would move along to someone else.

Some people were genuinely sympathetic. Others, the begrudgers, pretended to be but I could see underneath they were delighted at what they saw as the downfall of another.

Though indeed it wasn’t long before they had moved on to their next victim (where is the fun of gossip when it’s out in the open) I still had to endure their pitying looks for another while.

I entered my first line in my gratefulness diary!

I am grateful that I found the courage to divorce my husband.

followed by

I am grateful that I have had the courage to tell everyone about my circumstance.

It was only two things out of five but it was enough to get started on.

Afterall I was still just about surviving.

~~~

The wooden house though cold and damp, was an oasis of peace. It was well off the road. Quite overgrown at the front which kept me hidden from the outside world, and from the back it looked straight out across a sheltered bay and beyond that the atlantic ocean stretched.

In fact it stood so close to the water that I could watch the seals swim by it’s windows.

Those seals brought a soothing rhythmic element to my day and the more I watched them the more I relaxed and felt my stress being washed away.

On my second day there, after I had lit fires to to get some warmth into the place, I sat in the small sun room with a coffee looking out to sea.

The two small dots on the horizon which I initially thought were two cormorants on a rock got larger and to my surprize I realized they were canoes.

I watched curiously as they made their way across the bay towards me.

Disappearing and reappearing, they navigated their way along the channels caused by sandbanks that appeared at low tide.

It was on those sand banks that my seals rested. The elders lay in that distinct pose with tails held high warming themselves in the sun while the young splashed backwards and forwards along the channels.

Every now and again an adult seal would slip gracefully off a bank and give chase.

The canoes were nearer now and making their way steadily to the small jetty below the house.

Curiously I waited until two smiling faces appeared at the sunroom door holding aloft a cake.

Two  friends who lived across the bay had seen the smoke from my chimney and had come to welcome me to my new abode.

That evening I added:

Good friends. Damp (but damned good) cake. Entertaining seals.

I had hit my five a day quota.

Sadly I eventually had to leave the seal house when it was put up for sale, But every morning from that day forward without fail and no matter what sort of a roof I had over my head I wrote my five things.

As the days became weeks, my list got longer.

I had no need anymore to suck the tip of my pen and stare into space.

I could easily find five, then six and seven, eight, nine, TEN things to be grateful for and I could have continued on.

I was no longer just surviving, I was thriving.

~~~

But look! The rain has stopped, the wind has eased.

I close the book and heap it along with all the rest, higgledy piggeldy back on the shelves.

It’s time to get outside, to walk the beach, to leave the past and concentrate on the present and my life ahead

And as I walk, the dogs running happily along the water’s edge,  it dawns on me, I don’t need to be more organized!

Continuing to thrive is adequate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making peace with the Sun (A year on interferon: Part two).

Tags

cancer, friends, gardening, Interferon, life and death, narcissist personality disorder, philosophy, positive thinking, the canal du midi, the yellow bicycle, visualization

If you had been walking or cycling or even boating along the canal du midi in october 2010 you may have seen a woman on a bicycle cycling effortlessly along the towpath.

On a sunny crisp autumnal day.

You may have noticed how perfectly her image was reflected in the canal, so still was the water . 

If you were watching her by her reflection you would see her appear and disappear and then reappear again as the image of her was broken by the trunks of the many plane trees, also reflected, lining the canal bank. 

The bicycle, an old fashioned affair and upright, (A high nelly they were called in Ireland) was painted yellow with red tulips on the skirt and chain guards. The saddle, broad and made of leather was a good choice, for at this stage she had cycled many kilometres and needed the bicycle equivalent of a squishy sofa to travel on. The handle bar grips were also of leather.

Friends had laughed at her when they heard she was doing the cycle on such an old fashioned slow bicycle. ‘You need a mountain bike for that sort of journey’ They advised kindly ‘All that bumpy towpath cycling?  you won’t last a day’

But the woman had faith in her yellow bicycle.

It had taken her through a different journey recently and she knew that it would succeed in this one too.

Anyway she preferred to sit upright without hardship to her wrists. But back to the scene in question. 

She was wearing a loose fitting colorful flowing dress and sandals on her feet . (Another bone of contention between her and her friends)

She looked more artistic than elegant and even in the water you would notice her hair has a slight frazzled appearance.

If you looked closer (mind you don’t fall into the canal)you would see that the wind, made by her pedaling, was causing the hem of her dress to lift, allowing you a view of her swollen right foot.

But it was not her foot or hair or clothing that would catch your attention.

It was her smile. Wide and joyous.

Like the smile of one released from prison.

And that is how she would describe that year.

The year of interferon.

Her savior but her captor too.

Raising her smiling face to the sky she is enjoying the warmth of the sun indeed even making her peace with it! And all the while the pretty ‘Écluse’ houses don’t pass her unnoticed.

Those now renovated into cafe’s enticed her to stop for a cafe au lait and a chance to watch the last of the summer Péniches making their way west to Toulouse (The Écluses on the canal du midi close for the winter on the first of november)

^^^^

Looking at the list of side effects from interferon, it occurred to me that, by the time I had completed the course, there wouldn’t be much left in the line of known ones that I hadn’t experienced.

Nausea, headaches, joint pain, thirst, depression, shivers and shakes, to name a few. And I would be inflicting these symptoms on myself, Injecting myself three times a week with this substance for a whole year without the certainty it would actually work (research of its success was ongoing at the time).

‘You can opt out if you find the going too tough’, my surgeon muttered as if ashamed of putting me through all this, ‘After All we don’t even know how successful it is’.

Opt out! Was he mad? He obviously didn’t know what I was made of and had forgotten my surname? (Never tell a peppard woman that she could give up because the going might get too rough or tough. We thrive on toughness).

‘Thats all very well’ said my mind ‘but this is for a year’. ‘I CAN do it’ I answered determinedly.’I just need to persuade my body that it can too.’

^^^^^

I am an optimist.

I try to find a good reason for everything and interestingly in everybody.

The other day at work we were discussing the toughness in caring for a particularly difficult patient.

‘Arrogant and rude’ were the words they used to describe him.

‘I like him’ I announced. They all turned to stare at me. ‘Well’ I admitted underneath their astonished gaze ‘I know he is rude and arrogant but he has a great dry sense of humour, he is well read and has an interesting outlook on things! plus he is ill’ My voice was sinking lower under their stares of disbelief. ‘And being ill, he is vulnerable’.

This last bit came out as a whisper.

‘Whaat!’ They shouted ‘That may be so but it’s no excuse for being rude! No wonder his wife left him.’

It struck me then how similar this patient was to my own ex husband.

A man I had spent years excusing of rudeness because I saw beyond that to interest and cleverness. (How did I not realise that his rudeness and arrogance towards others and me was not acceptable).

Later, mulling this over coffee with a good friend and mentioning how I never seemed to find a nice man,how I was always meeting up with those no good for me, she pointed out that I was too nice!

‘No! not too nice’ she added taking back the compliment swiftly (our friendship was one where we showed affection by insults.)

‘Essentially it’s just, well, you always looked for the good in people no matter how badly they treated you. It’s a wonder you weren’t snapped up by one of those men with Narcissist personality disorder’  She continued  ‘You are just the type of woman they go for!’.

No sooner had she uttered these words than we both stared at each other, eyes widening in disbelief.

‘Ooops’ She grimaced ‘Eureka!’

In one sentence, My friend had diagnosed my ex husband .

I hung my head feeling stupid and naive and TRICKED.

‘But you were young’ she said ‘And trusting! Don’t blame yourself .’ I was still reeling from our potential discovery when she continued.

‘But now this trait will come in useful’ She filled my empty wine glass which I didn’t remember drinking.

I took a sip and looked thoughtful. ‘Yes’ I agreed ‘I could use it to look for the good in interferon, see it as something positive rather than something negative. Rectify my mistake. Redeem myself.’

‘Ah you didn’t make a mistake’ she said kindly ‘ Finding a good husband is really just luck. Sort of being in the right place at the right time.  In your case it was just being in the right place at the wrong time.’

‘In my case’ I grimaced ‘It was being in the wrong place EVERY TIME’

She ignored me and continued. ‘I read that Visualization is a good way of doing that positive stuff and don’t forget to make your peace with the sun too.  Harboring resentfulness won’t help! You need to let go all negative feelings from your life. Maybe do that sage smudging thingy in your house’

She was joking about the latter. Just as giving compliments made her uncomfortable, the idea of traipsing round rooms with a piece of smoking sage in your hands to burn out negativity would send her running.

Which made me think that for all her positivity she was finding my illness difficult.

She stood up and started searching for her keys.

She was always losing things but having chosen a good and solid husband I overlooked her scatty ways.

Once she even admitted to losing him.

She told me how one saturday morning passing the garden shed and, seeing the door swinging open, she closed it and bolted it securely.

Later when out doing a bit of weeding in the garden, she heard faint knocking sounds but presumed they were coming from her neighbors next door.

Leaning back on her heels she surveyed her weed free herbaceous bed with satisfaction. The faint knocking irritably continued. ‘For godsake’ she thought ‘those neighbours! always at something! If it’s not the mowing machine, its the electric hedge trimmers! and now this hammering’.

She stood up and went in and made herself a cup of tea, calling up to her husband whom she guessed was upstairs writing.

There was no reply. Finishing her tea she went back out into the garden and still the knocking was going on. Louder now. It seemed to be coming from the shed.

Cautiously she approached the shed, it was definitely coming from inside.

Nervously she unbolted and opened the door and there stood her husband still clutching the garden shears he had gone into the shed for that morning!

‘Was he mad’ I asked in fear for my friend.

‘Ah no! he just thought it was funny how we are so well connected. That we both had the same idea of getting some gardening done. Why would he have been mad?  it was just a mistake’.

^^^^

And so I started my year.

It would be a year without shortcuts.

If the interferon didn’t do its job and my cancer came back, it might be my last year, Therefore I didn’t want to wish it past.

If it worked, then I wanted to be able to look back and remember the moments in it that changed my life.

Another friend produced a book.

‘The 90 day cancer recovery book’.

I can’t remember it’s exact name and I have since passed it on to someone else.

It was a book aimed at people who had developed life threatening illness, Not just cancer but heart attacks, strokes, diabetes It was not a ‘new agey’ book but rather a practical one,

It gave you tasks to carry out, starting with a few and gradually adding to them. And in doing each task for ninety days you were rewarded with percentages of survival.

Laughing for example, would give you maybe 2%.

Is your illness a catastrophic incident?  ‘maybe yes maybe no’

How you view it could gain or lose you  1%.

Morning yoga (oh how that left me weak and breathless ) gained me 2%extra time.

Eating good food, another 5%

drinking water and green tea, 10%

A daily walk (i clutched my water bottle like a drowning man his life belt, so severe was my thirst) another 3%

Deep breathing 4%

Little by little I was gathering ‘points’ and adding to my chances of survival.

I started visualization. (a big 7%).

Every morning I visualized that the interferon was like a pod of smooth joyous dolphins leaping through the turquoise sea scooping up and ingesting the black algae (my cancer cells) I totted up my scores.

Things were looking good.

I took other steps towards positivity.

I no longer talked about ‘ fighting or battling’ cancer. Those words seemed too harsh and aggressive and after all the cancer cells were part of me. Did I want to do battle with myself? Instead I talked of ‘gentling’ my cancer cells, of ‘calming’ them.

I renamed as my ‘bad days’ as ‘bed days’ Those days when I felt so shaky and ill that I could hardly hold a pencil,

I took my paracetamol (for headaches and fever) and cyclizine (for nausea)and sitting propped up on cool soft pillows, I wrote my thoughts in my diary and drew what I saw in front of me. My straw hat hanging on the back of the bedroom door in preparation for next summer. (See?  In my head I had already planned to get better).

The bamboo,growing outside my bedroom window. Its leaves, jolted by the wind, dancing bizarrely, catching the light like a Renoir Painting,  was a thing of beauty and my inspiration.

I drew it at every hand’s turn. Catching its different moods and textures from my bed. (Strangely it died around the time I finished my therapy).

On the days I could, I walked. Though everything was an effort. I had to look at the shower for a long time before i was able to coax myself into it.

Changing the sheets on my bed a major task which left me out of breath and as weak as a kitten, but I had no option seeing as I wasn’t one to opt out so I struggled on.

I lost weight, my hair turned brittle, my skin wrinkled.

Days passed, then weeks then months. and one day I injected myself for the last time. It was over.

I had finished my sentence.

^^^^^

It had been planned that when I was finished my treatment I would have an ultrasound of my liver.

If this cancer was heading anywhere, it would head (like a glass of wine) there. If the ultrasound was clear, then that year had not been in vain.

I knew by the way h the radiologist went over a certain spot again and again that something abnormal was showing. He looked at me gravely, ‘It may not be anything but we better do an MRI to be sure’.

Shocked I blurted out, ‘My bike is packed and ready’. The tears ran down my cheeks as I was rolled into the MRI machine. After all that I had gone through, after keeping my side of the bargain! all visualization and positive thinking flew out the window. A waste of a year I thought sadly.

I refused earplugs and the ‘knocking’ that some people found frightening didn’t bother me , nothing bothered me except my utmost desolation. The knocking continued and I began to smile as remembered the story of my friends husband locked in the shed. ‘Feck it ‘ I thought ‘No matter what I WILL go on this cycle’.

‘Don’t move . Nearly finished’ A voice boomed through speakers in the MRI machine.

^^^^

One of my colleagues was moving to a new job and there was a celebratory dinner that night in the small bistro across the road from the hospital. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to be at home curled in a ball, grieving.

‘Come on’ my friends at work said. ‘It will be good for you, distract you’.

So I went.

And drove everyone mad with my fear. Eventually feeling that I was spoiling the party, I made my excuses and left.

As I walked towards my yellow bike, a large figure came looming towards me in the dark, carrying a brief case.

‘I hope you were not in there drinking wine with a liver result like yours’?

It was my oncologist. ‘Well?’ ? I asked fearfully ‘Have you the result?’ ‘It’s ok ‘ he smiled ‘just a fatty cyst’, Go easy on the wine’.

‘Go easy on the wine!!! was he mad? I was about to start cycling across france! Not exactly the country you might avoid wine in’

I jumped on the yellow bicycle and sped off down the road………

^^^^^

I note how my writing rambles. and how towards the end I got sick (pardon the pun)of writing about my illness. It makes me realize though, that writing is as good as a psychotherapist’s couch. I am just sorry that you the reader had to be witness to my purgings. Yes, I am ready to let go of my year of interferon, to wave goodbye to it and send it out of my life. And my thought’s on my cancer? I still believe everything happens for a reason but sometimes, as my leg becomes swollen and tired I will admit to feeling it’s a pain in the butt. But it is what it is and now I plan to load the yellow bicycle, my tent and my camping stove into my car and head west, to cycle small roads. Swim. Sip wine (that fatty cyst disappeared within a year) and have sweet dreams in my small tent with the waves tickling the shore.

The End.

Turning water into wine (a year of Interferon) Part one; The Epiphany).

Tags

cancer, church, dying, Epiphany, grief, hope, Interferon, Padre Pio, philosophy, religions, Saint Anthony, saints, wisdom

Epiphany; A moment of sudden and great revelation or realization.

A friend asked me recently why I sometimes recalled the journey of my cancer and especially the year of my Interferon treatment. Surely, she said, it just brought back all the fear and sickness and would I not be better putting it behind me and getting on with my life.

But for me the year I was diagnosed was the turning point of my life.

It was my Epiphany.

And like a revelation I can only be happy it happened.

In recalling and reading back over my diaries of this time, I stop myself falling back into old negative and destructive ways and remember the promise I made; To live in the present and relish the day that’s in it, for there is no certainty beyond the ‘now’

~~~

Last night I had a thought!

Maybe the miracle of turning water into wine was a metaphor.

Maybe it meant taking something we take for granted and turning it into something exceptional.

From the moment we are born we are heading towards our death.

What is in between can be good, bad, lovely, sad, happy, disappointing, boring, challenging, wonderful, exciting, even frightening.

Naturally we don’t spend much of that in ‘between time’ thinking of death though unbeknownst to us we spend a lot of our living dodging it.

Some of us get hit by it unexpectedly without any time to think, others (like myself) get a warning, which gives us a chance to ask the famous question! (What is life all about?)

Others again live to a ripe old age but even then are not prepared or interested in dying.

I remember getting off the table following my first ultrasound and crying to the radiologist ‘I just want to live. I’m too young to die’! He laughed in a kindly manner and replied ‘I’ve had 95 year olds say those exact same words to me’

We cling to life long after we have reproduced our genes.

We cling to what we know.

The familiar is our certainty

But is it?

On the 21 april 2009 I wrote in my diary

My worst fears confirmed!

Two uncertainties beneath the blue april sky;

How far has the cancer spread and how long now my life?

The only certainty is that I am sitting here,

Watching the dolphins swim and circle in dublin bay

and look!

The first swallow has appeared. 

I decided at that moment, uncertainty was not good.

I had been spoilt by certainty!

I was used to my car starting.

Used to my paycheck coming in.

Water coming through the tap

Food in the shop shelves

I was certain of light at the click of a switch.

I took for granted that I would wake up each morning breathing. That my legs would work and get me out of bed. That I would see my way to the kitchen, say good morning to whoever was there before me and hear the reply.

For the first time it struck me how lucky I had been up till this.

In one day everything was on hold and all had changed.

Now I felt I was just existing.

Waiting to know whether I would live for another few years or only another few months or even just weeks.

Sitting on a rock that day in April, looking out to sea watching the dolphins circle and leap, I lay back on it’s smoothness and turned my attention to the sky and admiring the first swallow, I decided I wanted to lie here forever. I didn’t want this sadness. This unfairness.

I started to cry, grieving for the certainty I thought I always had.

But after a while the rock began to feel hard, and something sharp was jabbing my back. I was starting to feel cold and I realized that for now my body was going to continue to live whether I liked it or not.

And as I sat up it occurred to me that actually uncertainty is always there and essentially nothing had changed except my realization of that fact.

I had also missed an important point!

I could go on living whilst I was waiting. After All I had’nt lost the use of my legs or I wasn’t in heart failure.

In fact I felt extremely healthy.

(I will tell you now, there is nothing worse than been told, when you are feeling well ‘actually you may be dying’.  This maybe one of the reasons why patients diagnosed with some cancers shout ‘NO’ the loudest when hearing their diagnosis. They always continue by exclaiming in a puzzled manner ‘It can’t be so. I feel so well’)

I had also forgotten about something else.

HOPE!

When you Face your worst fear you realise you have two choices.

You can lie down and die or take it on the chin.

On that day in april I sat up, stuck out my chin and hoped for the best.

~~~

How wonderful nature is.

It has it all worked out for us.

Grieving is a well thought out process.

I recognised its stages as they occurred

Denial : ‘No’ I shouted putting my head in my hands when my surgeon uttered the words for the first time and afterwards, surrounded by friends, I kept thinking ‘this can’t be true this has to be a dream, any second i will wake up and go on living in my old nonchalant way’ But those days of denial were working, buffering the shock, giving me time to let the knowledge sink in.

Anger : I thought I didn’t go through this but I recognise now that I did to a small extent. I remember seeing a girl walking on the street laughing and thinking angrily ‘I hope she is not laughing lightly’!! Later laughing at something my daughter said, I remembered that girl and thought, maybe she too was in the process of dealing with illness or loss. How was I to know what anyone else had to come to terms with in life.

Bargaining: God take this away from me and I’ll do this this and this. I returned to spiritualism. I lit candles in every church I passed.

Monkstown became my favorite.

I decided there was no harm in praying to some saints.

My Mother advised me that Saint Anthony was my best bet.

After searching a while I found a statue of him just inside the door hidden behind a pillar. He was holding a child and a lily.

I described the statue to my mom.

She groaned throwing her eyes up to heaven.

‘For God’s Sake Stephanie ! THATS not Saint Anthony! YOU PRAYED TO THE WRONG SAINT’.

And I, Forgetting the irony of it, lept onto the yellow bicycle and cycled like mad back to the church to check, nearly getting killed in the process.

Ha! I was right! It was Saint Anthony! At least it said so on the plaque at his feet.(Unless the cleaning lady had mixed up the name plaques whilst dusting! If she had she would she have a lot to answer for.)

It seemed I wasnt the only one bargaining.

As I became more familiar with the church, I noticed a small alter over to the left on which was placed a framed picture of Padre pio, a book and a pen tied by a piece of string to a small railing (yes theft can happen in a holy place even if only a pen)

Curiosity overcame me and I opened the book!

In contained hundreds of handwritten requests for help.

Sitting there in that quiet church reading, I lost track of time and as I turned the pages I forgot about my own grief.

A grandmother praying for a kidney for her grandson in renal failure.

A mother praying for her daughter who had leukaemia.

On and on they wrote.

Some so sad and helpless, mine became insignificant, and I cried for those with such burdens.

There were simpler requests too (I am sure padre pio sighed with relief  as some of the pages lightened his load)

A wife praying that her husband would give up drinking.

A teenager praying she was not pregnant.

A woman praying that she was pregnant.

A school boy praying he would pass his leaving cert even though he admitted to having a great social life and had not done a bit of study.

A man praying he would get a job;

A girl praying that a boy would text her.

A missing cat.

A barking dog

Dear Padre pio. my parents say if my dog doesn’t stop barking at night they will give him away which would break my heart. he’s my best friend and I know if they would let him sleep on my bed he would never bark! please make them.

There were even some curses!

Please Padre Pio, curse the county council workers who took away the wild bantam hens in dunlaoire park, I loved them and fed them everyday. p.s I know it wasn’t a fox. They lived in the tree’s and brought color (and some eggs) to my life. I will say five decades of the rosary if you do.

This piece was signed by frank who described himself as a lonely old age pensioner.

To everyone their concern was significant and they all bargained for a good outcome and I realised as I added my prayer (just in case the cleaner HAD mixed up the labels and, as my mother feared, I had been praying to the wrong saint) that I was covering all eventualities, leaving no stone unturned.

Oh You may laugh! but when your life is in jeopardy you can’t afford to sneer at any means of help.

I also realised that by praying and bargaining psychologically, I was calmer, maybe because I felt I was doing something.

But I did not put all my eggs in one basket!

My spiritualism was not just reaching towards christianity! I veered towards buddhism too. Meditation and yoga became a big part of my day. I sat and contemplated. Stretched and breathed consciously and slowly I began to change from the wild mad yoke, careering around on a yellow bike, to a calm soul cycling more awarely and meditatively.

I looked to see what other religions had to offer and realised all were singing from the same hymn sheet. Live with a kindness towards others and keep hope in your heart.

Depression; I didn’t have time to be depressed because it had dawned on me that my cancer was not a bad thing but was actually a privilege. A chance to re look at my life and make changes for the good and suddenly I was careering towards….

Acceptance; Yaaaaay I had reached the end of grieving so on with my life and what was left of it.

At that point my eldest daughter stepped in with her advice on the subject.

‘Mom, don’t google! you’ll only frighten yourself! You are not a statistic, you are unique!  Put yourself in your doctor’s hands. They are the best in the country. Do exactly what they tell you. Then if you do die, at least you can’t blame yourself!!

‘Here I am. Make me better’ I said to my surgeon and later my Oncologist.

And the huge weight of grief, stress and worry that I had been carrying fell off my shoulders and into their hands.

I lay complacently on the table and had my surgery.

When my surgeon had finished his side of things he breathed a sigh of relief and handed me over to the Oncologist.

~~~

Sticking a needle that will surely make you feel ill, into yourself when you are feeling well, goes against the grain.

And that is what I was going to have to do for a whole year.

I had promised my daughters I would do as my Doctors said and I was determined to keep that promise.

Of course it didn’t help that it wasn’t a certainty Interferon even worked. But in activating natural killer cells and macrophages (which engulf pathogens and digest them) I could understand the rationale behind it’s use.

For my part my thinking was that, these cancerous cells, though mischievously refusing to die, were part of ‘me’ and I didn’t want to fight myself.

I decided that to manage the year of Interferon, I needed to take a different approach.

I lifted my pen and put a line through the words fighting, battling, winning in my diary and instead inserted the  softer words of gentling, cajoling, chastising.

Oh and Engulfing and dijesting.

End of part one.

I hope I haven’t bored any of you by this self indulgent piece, but I reckon If I did you wouldn’t be still reading HOWEVER  if there is anyone out there starting on a similar journey I wish joy in living in the present because if you are reading this then you are still alive and ‘now’ is all we can be certain of.

It’s a harp, it’s a rocking horse! (feel the fear and just do it)

Tags

cancer, fear of flying, Flying with a bicycle, france, Interferon, jokes, philosophy, the yellow bicycle

I had started to write a piece on fear of death, of cancer and cure by interferon (Interferon works by activating natural immune cells such as killer cells and macrophages) when an incident came to mind that turned into a snippet.

I will continue to write the interferon piece in the hopes that it might help someone starting out on that journey but first…..

And I hope i don’t sound judgemental. 

People can be puzzling.

And odd (I include myself in this)

‘We will miss your oddness’ was a comment made recently when I informed my colleagues at work of my recent decision to change floors.

But there is odd and ODD!

Would you, for example, buy a house in france if, you were living in dublin, were retired and were planning to spend every other long weekend in your new french abode and were absolutely terrified beyond compare of flying?

Would you go through that fear (the fear that you feel when you are about to die ) every ten days? A fear that would last two hours (and that didn’t include the time you chose to be fearful on your way to the airport)?

Would you think it fine to keep your eyes shut as your fingers clutched the arms of the plane seat so tightly that your knuckles turned white for the duration of the flight?

Would you think it ok to be hardly able to straighten your tensed legs on landing?.

Would it occur to you that you were more likely to die from a heart attack from the fear of the flight than be killed in a plane crash?

Well I met someone who was that fearful and yet who bought a house whereby she would spend quite a few hours a month being in that state.

And she was lovely and didn’t seem in the slightest bit odd.

I even had the pleasure of having a meal and wine in the beautiful house she had bought in the tiny village of Montolieu in the montagne noir in the south of france.

It was the year I had recovered from cancer and had come to the end of a wonderful months cycling from the atlantic to the mediterranean and I was preparing to fly home.

We happened ( My fearful friend and I)to be booked on the same flight and we agreed we would meet in the airport in carcassonne.

I had no idea of her fear at this time.

My main concern was finding a box or a bag to fly the yellow bicycle home in.

I had flown over with aer lingus and followed their stipulations to a T.

Lowering the saddle and handlebars. Deflating the tyres. Turning the pedals inwards and packing the whole shebang neatly in a large cardboard bike box that I had begged off my local bike shop.

They made a small fuss in security as the box would not fit through the xray machine and they had to lug it downstairs somewhere to a machine that would scan oversized luggage.

Otherwise it had been a straightforward procedure.

When I had arrived in bordeaux I had binned the box, my plan being to pick up another one on the french side and repeat the process for the homeward journey.

But there were no boxes on the french side, only very expensive bicycle bags which proved too small to fit the bulky yellow bicycle so I was stymied.

I did have a day left to figure it out so I wasn’t panicking (things had a way of working themselves out I always found) and was cycling through a small shopping area in Carcassonne when I spotted a fabric shop

I went in, not to solve the bicycle thing, but because I loved fabrics.

Wandering down the aisles admiring the silks and cottons and linens. I spied a colorful bolt of strong vibrantly coloured material

‘My mother would love to make a tablecloth from that’ was my initial thought.

Then it struck me. I could kill two birds with the one stone!

i could wrap the yellow bike in it like a sort of makeshift bicycle bag and then give it to my mother when it had done it’s duty.

Hauling the heavy bolt over to the cashier, I waited patiently while a dapperly dressed elderly man had the shop assistance measure out ream upon ream of gold ribbon.

‘Every week he comes here!’ the shop girl whispered to me confidentially in french as we watched the man disappear out the shop doors with a spring in his step. He was whistling gaily the brown paper bag tucked neatly under his arm.

‘Sometimes it is silver ribbon he wants. Sometimes it is blue or pink or green! But always it is meters and meters….Mais pourquois? Je ne sais pas’ She shrugged her shoulders in a gallic fashion and turned her attention to my bolt of material.

I left shortly afterwards, my fabric also in a brown paper bag along with a spool of strong thread, a scissors and a needle.

That night in my hotel room, I laid the fabric out and, placing the yellow bicycle on its side on top of it, I wrapped the cloth around as neatly as I could. (not easy after three glasses of the last bordeaux I would have on french soil).

Then threading the needle with difficulty (did I need glasses?) I sewed it together.

Fashioning a sort of handle, I leant my ‘bicycle bag’ against the wall and went to bed.

The next morning half lifting, half dragging it, I successfully got my strange looking parcel from the airport bus into the airport.

‘Its a harp! No! its a rocking chair’ People argued in hushed tones as I joined the check in queue.

I smiled mysteriously.

‘Qu’est ce que c’est?’ the handsome stewart asked me politely

‘C’est un vélo’ I replied

‘Un vélo jaune!’

He nodded in a bored fashion, as though being presented with yellow bicycles, poorly sewn in colorful fabric, was a common occurrence in his line of work.

Running a scanner quickly over it, he placed it effortlessly on the conveyor belt where upon my colourful bundle was whisked away out of mine and the curious onlookers sight.

Ryanair did not blink an eye and I was relieved at their nonchalance.

My phone beeped from the depths of my panniers.

A message from my friend!

‘I’ve kept a seat for you in the departure lounge. I saw you come in’.

It was then I discovered her fear.

She was quaking!

‘I’ll be more in danger of dying cycling home from dublin airport in the traffic’ I laughed trying to cheer her up.

‘Have a glass of wine or something stronger to steady your nerves’ I looked around for a bar.

‘But I can’t drink’ She said sadly ‘I have to drive home from the airport and I don’t want to risk being caught for drunk driving.

‘Who cares about been caught for drunk driving if you are planning to die in a plane crash!’ But I kept my ironic thought to myself.

‘ Hey Ho’ I said to cheerfully to her up as we hit some turbulence crossing the alps.

‘See nothing to fear’

The other passengers were reading magazines or looking out the window.

‘Did you hear the one about the…..?’ I said happily as the plane gave a few bumps ( a normal occurrence when flying over where land mass meets sea)

I was running out of ‘Paddy the irishman jokes’ when the plane thumped down roughly at dublin airport (I had actually repeated a few of them but she didn’t realise it)

She stood from her seat as pale as a ghost and gave me a hug.

‘I don’t know how I would have got through that rough flight without you.’ She said shakily.

I didn’t say that I thought it was actually quite a smooth one but asked her instead when she was heading out again.

Her face brightened as some color returned to her pale cheeks ‘In two weeks time’ she said eagerly ‘And I can’t wait!’

It’s all about the money? I think not!

Tags

architects, artists, childhood memories, fishing, fulfillment, money, philosophy, quotes, Richard Buckminster fuller, the yellow bicycle, wild camping

(A childs fishing net is great for plucking prawns from the sea as they float around the rocks on the incoming tide)

~

“We should do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian Darwinian theory he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.”  (Richard Buckminster Fuller)

 ~

I have an irresponsible attitude towards money.

I blame it on my mother and father (He was a follower of the man I have quoted above).

My mother’s mantra was” Never worry about money! it will always come from somewhere”

But interestingly even though she queried the existence of God (she always said her favorite choice of religion would be quakerism) she would look skywards as she uttered these words.

She may have developed her mantra out of desperation.

She was married to an Architect/artist who would have preferred to have been an Artist/fly fisherman/ideologist/ wanderer/explorer/architect!

A man who hadn’t a clue about the cost of anything and wasn’t great about chasing up money owed to him from various architectural projects.

A man who left all money matters in the hands of his wife.

Once he went into a fruit and vegetable shop to buy some grapes for her when she was in hospital having her eighth child.

After handing over a pound he stood with the grapes in one hand and the other hand outstretched towards the shopkeeper (Whose hand was outstretched towards my father)

After a while my father smiled  ‘I’m waiting for my change’ He murmured politely.

To which the shopkeeper replied equally politely ‘And I’m waiting for the rest of the price of the bunch of grapes’.

So you see I hadn’t a hope.

When money was short my mother had to find various means to make ends meet. This happened more frequently towards the end of her child rearing years.

A time when the last of my siblings were trickling unwillingly through the final years of their education and my father was disappearing more frequently off on his fishing trips. (often taking us out of school to row him around various lakes) Though in fairness to him he usually brought home a large bag of trout for tea.

Luckily my mother was also an artist and  ‘money coming from somewhere’ was really thanks to her hard work as one.

Despite rearing eight children she still found time to create.

And find buyers for her work.

I remember walking down grafton street with her one day helping her carry a suitcase.

Bursting with samples of patch quilting, liberty cotton frame surrounds, padded hand stitched silk hanger covers,  wedding ring cushions with lace trims, we took turns in hauling it to the liberty shop in the Westbury center who if satisfied might order supplies of from her.

This was an embarrassing chore for me as I was at ‘that age’ and my mother always chatted to some smelly drunken old man on the bus on the way into town.

When I showed my embarrassment by nudging her in the ribs, she would tell me to be kind and to remember that she might be the only person to whom that individual would talk to on that day and that loneliness was a terrible thing! far worse than a lack of money.

I would cringe further and sink back in my seat wishing I could disappear into it, fearing that ‘Mr drunken smelly’ would hear her but he would be too busy sucking liquor out of a brown paper bag (well a bottle hidden in a brown paper bag).

Any way on this particular outing way we bumped into Mrs Cranny, my old elocution teacher, in the middle of the busiest shopping street in dublin.

My mother and my teacher greeted each other warmly.

‘What have you in your suitcase May?’  My teacher enquired.

To my horror, my mother laid the suitcase on the pavement and unzipped it, opening the lid out on the concrete.

‘I’m bringing samples to the liberty shop. Fingers crossed they like them and I’ll get an order’ My mother explained.

Mrs Cranny peeked in curiously to inspect my mother’s wares.

‘But these are wonderful’ she cried, lifting out a delicate little cushion of white silk with a cream lace edging and two tiny silk ribbons for holding a pair of wedding rings

‘How much is it? I’ll take it!’ A complete stranger was rummaging for her purse in her bag

My mother And Mrs Cranny looked up from the open case in surprise.

A curious crowd was gathering! and they were all trying to peer over each others shoulders into the suitcase .

Some were actually starting to push each other.

‘Ooooh look at those lovely covered hangers’ one woman tried to reach down between my mother and mrs cranny.

‘Wow I love those picture frames! Look at that detail. They would be a fab present for my sister’s birthday’ A girl in a bank person’s uniform was trying to squeeze her way in.

My mother shut the case firmly and struggled to her feet .

All I could hope for was that no one from my school was in the vicinity

The disappointed crowd moved away and mrs Cranny and my mother kissed each others cheeks with promises of meet ups for coffee in Bewleys sometime soon.

We headed it on to the Liberty shop and there was no cause for panic. My mother got an order for all of her wares.

Heading to the bus stop she stopped to chat to and give a pound to a young girl sitting on the side of the street with a baby in a blanket.

‘Bless you Ma’am’ the girl called out looking at the pound in her palm in disbelief (a pound was a lot of money back then)

‘Hey what about me ? I helped you haul that heavy suitcase into town’

But I kept my thoughts to myself (She needs it more than you would have been the answer ) because that’s also how my mother worked things out. It wasn’t always the hardest workers or those entitled to it that she gave money to, sometimes it was those that she felt needed it most.

But I was young back then and didn’t understand that life isn’t always fair.

Now that I am older and wiser her philosophy makes sense

And I live my life NOT worrying about money.

But It’s not as though I lie about idely waiting for riches to befall on me, and as I haven’t invented something amazing as Mr Buckminster Fuller suggests, I continue to work hard as a nurse and also am attempting to write a book of short stories.

But I don’t do these two things consciously to earn money!  I do them because I love them (which is where my father’s philosophy kicks in ‘ Do what you love doing! If it earns you a living? How wonderful!  If not, just follow your mother’s advice.)’

Luckily my needs are humble and if I was given the choice between a luxurious holiday in the maldives or a cycling holiday in the rainy misty wilds of connemara, cork or kerry on my trusty yellow bike, I wouldn’t have to ponder it at all.

The warm tropical seas. The tall palm trees swaying in the breeze. The evening cocktails by the moonlit shore?

Naaah!

Give me the small fuschia edged boreens of the west of Ireland to cycle along.

The white sands and small rocky coves.

The fresh wind blowing in from the north west causing white horses to rear their heads.

The unpolluted waters where mackerel can be pulled in on a line with a feather, where prawns float on the incoming tide to be plucked from the sea with a childrens fishing net.

Where the black pearls of mussels can be prised off the rocks at low tide and put straight into the pan with garlic, a dash of cream and a cup of white wine.

Pick a handful of wild thyme growing beside your small fire and throw that in too.

Then sit on a rock relishing your feast looking out to the mist covered islands.

Pull a jumper around your shoulders and watch the sun setting in the west (unlike the tropics it will be getting chilly by now)

Then crawl, made drowsy by the freshness of the sea air, into your small tent and drift off to sleep lulled by the pattering of rain on your tent and the splash of waves so close you could stick out your toe and touch the water.

So Here I am!

On my yellow bike, my home a small green tent.

Poor in money but not in fulfillment

‘Money? don’t worry! It will come from somewhere. But this? This is harder earned. This you need to search for.

And it’s getting harder and harder to find it.

No amount of money can produce it.

It’s worth is immeasurable. It is priceless.

And when I’m here I feel I am the richest person in the world.

A barrel for my bed (A dreamhouse story.)

Tags

boats, cattle, cottages, dogs, hens eggs, milking cows, mountains, old people, philosophy, thich nhat hanh, vegetables

Thich nhat hahn said “The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on this green earth, dwelling deeply in the present moment and feeling truly alive.”

I will follow that with my own quote: “The miracle is not to raise lazarus from the dead. The miracle is to connect compassionately and altruistically with those alive around us”.

As I engage with others, especially the elderly, I find that though I may be alleviating their loneliness, what they give me in return is worth a hundred times more than I have given them. 

And even those living on the margins of society, with little material wealth are rich in humour and stories and dignity.

You have heard, no doubt, the nursery rhyme about the old woman who lived in a shoe.

Well I once met a woman who slept in a barrel!

(It was only while taking care of her when she became ill that I realized this and it explained her reluctance to get out of the bed we had provided for her)

Charlotte (not her real name) I hope you don’t mind me telling your story.

A story I pieced together from the snippets you doled out to me on those quiet evenings when you couldn’t sleep.

I apologize if I have let my imagination run away with me. But sometimes you DID fall asleep and left unfinished sentences on your lips which I have taken the liberty of finishing.

Let me start at the beginning;

THE STORY OF THE OLD WOMEN WHO SLEPT IN A BARREL.

Charlotte was not in the habit of sleeping late.

Before the banty cockeral had given its first crow, she was already unfolding her long limbs and crawling out of the blue plastic barrel which, lying on its side in the corner of the room, was her bed.

The room itself was an enigma. A strange mixture of poverty (It had no roof) and wealth (there were piles of delicate antique china cups and saucers heaped unmatching on a sideboard of exquisite mahogany with intricate pearl inlay.

One leg of the sideboard was missing and the structure was supported on a cement block, which, though strong was not the same height as the existing legs so the whole structure leaned at a rakish angle.

The room was clean. The floor swept. A bucket stood strategically under a tear in the tarpaulin which now acted as a replacement for the missing roof. The basket beside the fire was well stocked with dry turf.

A heap of kindling and twists of news paper lay ready. (A particularly observant person may have noted that the twisted paper was pink and from the financial times!)

The ashes were cleared from the grate.

A blackened kettle hung from the crane which appeared to be still in good repair.

A table and three wooden chairs stood under the window but other than these things and charlottes barrel, the room was bare.

A piece of rough hessian hung across a doorway which led into another room.

The entrance door to the cottage was also of hessian.

Pushing it aside Charlotte stepped out into the early morning light and stretched her spindly arms and gave a yawn.

Beauty the old sheep dog, its hair matted, followed her out and stretched too before lifting his leg against the fuchsia bush.

‘Lovely morning Beauty’ Charlotte reached down and gave the dogs head an affectionate pat.

Beauty wagged his tail lazily and sniffed under the bush, disturbing an indignant hen.

Charlotte bided her time by dipping her hands into a bucket of water and splashing her face.

By the time she had dried her face in the hessian sacking, the hen was gone noisily off around the gable of the house.

Crouching down in a movement that belied her eighty five years and ignoring the stings of the nettles, she trust her bare arm into the shrubbery, pulling out four warm eggs.

She put three of them gently into a cracked mug that sat on the windowsill

The forth she broke into a battered enamel bowl and beauty lapped it up without delay.

She rooted in the pocket of her dress (a shift like affaire fashioned out of a clarinda bag with a pocket sewn roughly across the front) and pulling out a comb, ran it through her long white hair.

Then twisting her hair up into a bun with one hand, she snapped a fuschia twig off the bush with the other and jammed it through the newly made bun, pinning it into place.

The two fuschia flowers on the twig lent a decorative air to the makeshift head piece.

The hessian was pulled aside once more and the youngest of her two brothers stepped out blinking in the sunlight.

‘Grand morning’ He grunted and leaning against the gatepost busied himself filling his pipe.

He was tall like his sister, with a thatch of white hair growing through the moth eaten holes of an ancient tweed cap.

‘It is that’ replied Charlotte.

The two of them fell into companionable silence. The tall man puffing on his now lit pipe and the woman perching herself on a fishbox.

They gazed across the sloping fields with their zigzagged pattern of stone walls.

Where the fields eventually slid into the sea, if you squinted, you could just make out a few grazing cows.

But charlotte and her brother, so accustomed to years of spotting sheep as small as rain drops on the side of the mountain, did not need to squint.

Nor did their ears miss the ‘phutting’ sound of a distant engine, half drowned out by the clucking of the still angry hen, the morning birdsong and the lonely ‘maaaa’ of the sheep on the side of the nearby mountain.

‘Tom’s out early’. Charlottes brother remarked nodding his head in the direction of a small boat coming into view from around the headland.

The sea was so calm, with a dash of morning mist over it, that the boat appeared suspended mid air.

‘Who’s out early?’

The hessian was pulled aside once again as the third and final occupant of the house emerged.

He was so tall he had to duck low to avoid clobbering his head off the lintil.

Without waiting for an answer he turned to charlotte, ‘I’ve lit the fire and put the kettle on! Did ye find where she’s laying?’

‘I did indeed’ charlotte replied nodding to the mug ‘and right under our noses too’.

‘What’! her brother joked ‘She laid her eggs in the cup on the window sill?’

Charlotte laughed so hard at his suggestion that she doubled over clutching her skinny stomach.

The fuschia flowers in her hair jangled.

‘Of course not’ She gulped, when at last she caught her breath and wiped her eyes, ‘She laid them here under the bush! I put them in the cup’.

She started to laugh again.

Her brother, caught by her giddiness, smilingly lifted the eggs from the mug and went back inside.

Steam was coming from the spout of the kettle and he used a straight piece of timber to lift off the lid.

Avoiding the steam he dropped the eggs one by one into the kettle of boiling water.

A few minutes passed and she followed him in and took a china teapot off the sideboard, flinging a handful of tea leaves into it.

‘I’ll do that’ Her brother finished lifting out the eggs.

He took the pot from her and poured the used egg water into it.

‘Don’t want you getting another scalding and ending up in hospital again. They might not be so quick to let you home next time’,

Charlotte examined the red puckered area on the inside of her arm before turning her attention to a loaf of bread.

She held it firmly and cut three straight slices.

The butter was kept in willow pattern butter dish with the cover still intact.

Beauty crept under the table as the three ate their breakfast in silence and Charlotte threw her crusts to the old dog.

‘You’ll make him fat’ Her brother remarked, but he threw his down also.

‘I’m off so’ Charlotte stood shaking the crumbs of bread and egg from her dress.

She lifted a sack off a nail in the wall and picked up an empty bucket.

‘Don’t be seen’ Her youngest brother warned her anxiously.

She ruffled his hair ‘don’t worry’ and disappeared through the doorway.

Beauty lifted his head and thumped his tail. He was busy licking up the crumbs plus he was too lazy to follow her.

The track to the well was overgrown with hawthorn, willow and elder.

Summer gossamer hung bejewelled across her path.

The smell of the elderflower was intoxicating and as she passed under it, tiny petals floated down and landed on her hair.

A bee came to investigate and another until it looked like she had a moving halo around her head. She waited quietly, unafraid until at last they moved off again.

Reaching the well, she took the enamel cup from its place on a rocky shelf and kneeling on the moss covered stones, pushed aside the ferns and dipped it in.

She took a long drink.

When the ripples had settled, she smiled at her watery reflection, turning her head this way and that to admire her hair piece.

~

Beyond the well was a galvanized gate.

This was the entrance to Mattie’s field.

Content that there was no sign of her neighbour, Charlotte scaled it within seconds, swinging her long legs over, her wellingtons, two sizes too big did not in anyway impede her agility.

Beyond the gate a cluster of sleepy cows lifted their heads and watched her.

She made her way between them making soft ‘shushing’ sounds and giving the odd cheeky bullock a slap on it’s rump.

In the center stood a large cream colored cow with calf at foot.

The cow stood calmly, appearing unperturbed by Charlottes approach, but the calf backed away in fear.

‘Sucksucksucksuck’ Charlotte coaxed it and reached to scratch behind its silken ear.

It came forward and gaining some confidence tried to stick its head in the bucket. Charlotte laughed softly and turning started to stroke the neck of the cow.

The cows eyes began to droop and as they did, Charlotte crouched down below its udder and quickly began to milk.

The cow turned its head drowsily and sniffed the back of charlottes head but didn’t move off.

The only sounds heard now were the odd buzzing of a horse fly, the irritated thud of a hoof striking the ground and the rhythmic hiss of milk hitting the inside of the pail.

The smell of warm milk rose and mingled with the smell of the nearby elderflowers.

Charlotte, completing her task straightened up, give the cow a pat and climbed the gate again.

~~

Mattie also grew a fine field of spuds, carrots, cabbages and onions, and this field was Charlottes next target.

Tucking the hessian sack firmly under her arm, she marched boldly up to the first row of spuds.

A fork lay carelessly on the ground but she ignored it and scrabbled with her hands into the soil pulling out a few choice potatoes and throwing them into the sack before gently pushing the soil back into place.

She did the same with the carrots.

Her hair loosened and her hair piece fell between the rows.

The two fuschia flowers withered and forlorn looking.

She pulled an onion and head of fine cabbage.

As she cross back the field, she twisted the cabbage off its stalk and threw the roots in the ditch.

The cabbage joined the other vegetables in the sack and she was up and over the gate and back along the path in an instant.

She left the sack beside the bucket which was now cooling in the well and pushing through a gap in the hedge went out into open countryside, to the edge of the mountain where the hedgerow gave way to stone walls and cows to sheep.

She made her way up the soft slope.

Half way up she stood letting the breeze lift her hair and turned her face to it.

(She told me she called this ‘wind bathing’)

Far below her a single car made its way along the winding road, the faint purr of the engine barely reaching her.

The swifts flew high overhead.

Against the cliffs the black splashes of a pair of ravens appeared to be tumbling to their death only to recover and soar up the cliff face again.

A flock of finches flew by and landed in the nearby hawthorn trees.

A startled hare took off out of a clump of rushes and bounded away.

Tom’s boat was now making for the islands.

She stood feeling a sense of contentment before turning and starting to make her way parallel to the mountain.

A tall skinny figure dressed in a clarinda bag.

She began Running, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed.

She cleared the first wall.

She folded her arms across her chest. The second wall was lower and easier.

Someone had pulled down the third, probably to drive the flock of sheep through.

The sheep lifted their heads momentarily to watch her and then losing interest returned to their grazing.

At the fourth wall she feared she would fly so she hugged her spindly arms tighter around her chest.

(What would the neighbours say if she did fly? She told me they already regarded her as a sort of witch)

Her white hair flew out behind her like a cape.

At last tired, she sat on a rock to catch her breath.

~~~

Mattie stood in his field scratching his head in puzzlement. This wasn’t the first time he had noticed the newly disturbed soil where his prize winning carrots were growing and here it was again.

‘Damn rabbits’ He muttered.

He hoped it was rabbits, the other option was unthinkable and he would be the laughing stock if he brought it up over a pint. Though nobody laughed when Johnjo told the story of how the faeries had led him astray coming home from the pub one night.

A twig with two withered fuschia flowers lay on the ground.

He was about to stoop for a closer look when a movement on the side of the mountain caught his eye.

A sheep jumping the wall? hardly! It looked like a human, a woman.

Was it his mad auld neighbour? How could she be lepping walls at her age.

But then they did call her Mad lottie.

A sort of witch, living in that ruin of a cottage with her two brothers.

That cottage should be condemned!  Though he had heard that the brothers, big tall lads, had run the social workers off the land there recently.

Chased them down the boreen with pitch forks someone said!

He’d have liked to have seen that alright.

He looked towards the mountain again but all he could see now were the sheep.

He must have imagined her.

Jaysus he’d better get his eyes tested.

~~~~

When Charlotte arrived home her younger brother was washing the carrots in a bucket by the door.

‘Spuds are on! you did good!’ He looked up at her. ‘I brought the milk back too for ya and Hughie has caught three nice trout’.

Later sitting at the table between her two brothers. Charlotte threw the skin of the trout to beauty and began to laugh.

‘Whats so funny?’ Her brothers looked at her.

‘I keep seeing them social workers running down the boreen’ she gasped catching her breath ‘I bet they have never run so fast in their lives.

The end.

Vergings of a half hearted procrastinator.

Tags

appartment living, bicycle, labels, learning, philosophy, procrastination, words

THE PATH TO THE RIGHT WILL BRING ME TO THE SEA.

Procrastination; To postpone until tomorrow. To defer until a later date.

I should have paid more attention to english vocabulary when I was at school.

Since I started writing this blog I am coming across many interesting words that I am familiar with but not quite sure or can’t remember the meaning of.

Not a thing I am proud to admit to.

But It’s exciting! I see learning as a lifelong passion and am glad that I don’t know everything and still have lots to learn (the meaning of the word ‘Callipygian‘ for example or ‘doryphore’ or  ‘decubitus’ or ‘edacious’ or ‘ensorcell’ or even ‘absquatulate’)

I am proof of the idea that school at a young age is a bit of a waste, that we should be off adventuring and exploring when young and have the physical energy for it and do our learning later when our bodies have calmed down.

An Opsimath I suppose one could refer to me as (but that is subject matter for another essay).

One of the words I came across recently and had to look up to remind myself of its correct meaning was ‘procrastination’.

‘You don’t know the meaning of that!’ I hear you cry in disbelief.

Well I do have a vague idea, but maybe the fact that I am one is reason for my lack of interest in such a word.

Yes I am a procrastinator!

As I say these words out loud I feel a weight falling from my shoulders as when given a diagnosis.

A sort of So thats what I have/am feeling of resignation (and now that I have admitted to it, I can deal with it).

The problem of course is once you have a label you may find that even if you do manage to change, it can be hard to un-label yourself.

Or worse, you may be in danger of settling happily into your label.

Or that if you can’t teach an old dog new tricks (as the saying goes) How do you expect to teach a chronic procrastinator, who didn’t (until just recently) even realise she was one, new ways?

Am I being too hard on myself?

I thought I was just laid back/easygoing/verging on lazy.

Maybe I’m just a half hearted one

Is it possible to be a particular procrastinator, procrastinating only about certain things. Paying bills for example.

On a scale of one to ten which way do I lean?

I will go away now and ponder this and defer my judgement until later.

~~~

When I come back to my laptop I have decided not to procrastinate any longer but to settle down and get on with the writing of this piece.

But!

Its such a beautiful day and what I would really like to do is head off somewhere on my bicycle.

I debate about this for about ten minutes until the bicycle wins.

Now procrastinators should never live in apartments. It is much too difficult to get easily to the outside.

And mine being on the third floor is enough to turn a motivated person into a procrastinator.

But I make a start by taking my bike out through the living room door.

Having got that far I decide to keep going and go through my main door.

Then along a corridor and into a lift, where, lifting my bike up on its back wheel and letting its front wheel climb the lift wall, I can just about manage to fit us both in.

On arriving at the ground floor I untangle myself from where I have got my head caught between the handlebars and saddle and I wheel my bicycle down the reception area.

This is a very pleasant space with some large potted plants that have a notice stuck to each pot ‘Please do not water me‘!

As if!

Procrastinators rarely get around to watering their own plants let alone anyone else’s .

Though we do think about it.

No! the potted plants need not fear me drowning them!

Which brings to mind other people worse than us procrastors. People who are always on the ball, jumping at opportunities, whizzing round, motivated, interfering, controlling, not trusting others to take care of things. Over watering house plants!!

pfffft I am glad I am not like THAT.

I go through another door and one final one and at last I am outside.

By this time I am exhausted and I sit down on the bench outside the door.

Maybe I should call off my cycle and go back and have a cup of tea and finish writing my piece.

But the thought of the of getting back into my appartment with my bicycle is not really appealing either.

I sit and consider my options for five minutes.

The bicycle wins again.

But which way?

To the right the going is flat and will take me to the sea (should I go back and get my swimming suit).

To the left it is uphill and takes me to the mountains (should I go back and get some water in case I get thirsty).

Sitting on the warm bench I turn my face to the sun and mull it over.

I’ll go to the right I decide!

In a while………

Blaithin and me (turning inwards)

Tags

bicycles, dogs, gardens, mint, philosophy, raised beds, vegetables

Its not turning into a gardening blog.

Really its not!

Well maybe a bit of one.

You see I love gardening nearly as much as bicycling.

And like bicycling I learn a lot from gardening.

In fact the two seem intertwined in their nature.

Gardening takes observation and time and cycling does too. (Well my type of cycling that is).

These days I notice a change. Not only in the longering of the evenings, the earlier light in the mornings, the green greenest of the foliage, the clarity of the air, the blueness of the sky after the sudden refreshing april showers, but in myself.

Is it an age thing this turning inwards? My thought’s deepening as I wonder more about the meaning of my life.

I am becoming less aware of the outer me.

Clothes, makeup, perfume and ornamentation are no longer so important.

And more aware of the inner!

I note more intensely the small less gaudy but equally things of wonder, surrounding me.

That patch of tiny violets as the sun strikes them through the dappled light of the tree’s.

The dazzling yellowness of the dandelions growing in the ditch, more beautiful and intricate on close inspection than any carnation.

The carpet of blue speedwell on the bank beneath the slow-to-leaf beech tree.

The dark rich browness of the sod as I turn it over.

The satisfaction of the clean bite of the spade into the soil.

The pinkness of the worms coming to the surface as the earth slowly warms.

The robin waiting her turn as I step away and reach for the fork.

Am I letting myself go?

Maybe yes from a visual perspective.

Maybe no from introspection.

When I stop at the local shop on my way home for the makings of supper, I am aware that my hair is wild and probably host to a few twigs.

That there is often mud on the knees of my trousers. My hands are a bit grimey.

But I am also aware of the happy spring in my step, the rosy flush to my cheeks, the shine in my eyes.

The feeling of wellbeing.

‘You’re looking well’ The man at the fish stall remarks when I hold out my still muddy hand (I swear I washed them)for my piece of salmon.

I suppose a man who constantly has his hands in the innards of fish is drawn to a woman wearing half a garden on her head.

So I thank him for his compliment and in return remark how well he has filleted my salmon for me.

And now I am on a weeks holidays.

‘Take a rest’ My colleagues at work advise me ‘Go away to somewhere nice. A spa maybe, with a few friends! You do have a few friends don’t you?’

They look at me anxiously (Though I am old enough to be a mother to most of them they ‘mind’ me in the workplace)

I nod and smile in aquience

But instead of a spa, I cycle up to my daughters garden where I have lots of company in the form of an amazing amount of Bird’s.

And a small dog of unusual breed.

Her name is ‘Blaithin’ ( pronounce Blawheen) Irish for ‘little flower’.

A Petite Basset griffon Vendeen  of a better personality than any human.

She accompanies me throughout my gardening day, giving her opinion on everything.

Not following but trotting on ahead, her head up and long tail wagging as she views her domaine (After all it is her garden more than mine).

She never argues with me. Likes what I say and also likes when I say nothing at all (and keep saying it )and is quite content to sit and observe me dig.

I am teaching her what not to step on or dig up (she’s very fond of digging) my freshly dug soil.

She’s a clever little dog and catches my drift quickly.

And most importantly she also doesn’t tell tales on me.

Hanna and Rui Have purchased four state of the art raised beds, To contain their vegetable patch but I believe to contain me as well.

Arriving flat packed Rui has assembled them and when I lean my bicycle against the apple tree and take the tools from the garage, I see them lying on the grass.

There is a note on the kitchen table.

Hi Mom,

Rui has assembled the beds.

Just mark where you want them and He will put them in place when we get home.

THEY ARE VERY HEAVY SO DONT TRY TO MOVE THEM YOURSELF,!!

I throw the note in the bin and move them into place.

In a neat row along the fence where they will get full sun.

Old grass cuttings first, some compost I have been making at home, manure and finally topsoil. A quick rake and we are ready to go.

I transplant the broad beans that I have grown in pots.

I sow pak choi, perpetual spinach, lettuce, carrots, peas, garlic (I know its a bit late) onion sets.

Too early for runner beans and climbing french beans yet.

I cover all the beds with  garden fleece (My favorite stuff! I have kept many a carrot fly at bay with it) which I will remove as the weather warms up.

But I will not be contained.

To the left I open up an area for currant bushes (red and black) and gooseberry bushes and below to the right of the beds I start another for raspberries. My plan is to keep expanding until they put their feet down.

Hanna and Rui that is, not the raspberries.

I liken myself to an invasive species, mint maybe, creeping slowly across the garden.

On the morning they look out their bedroom window and find runner beans growing across it and up the drain pipe I will know I have crept too far.

To be continued…….