perspective on a snowy day

I went out for a walk two days ago, when the crowd of worries and thoughts had begun swirling around in my head. “What is to become of meeeeee?!’ An overwhelming time for me; trying to establish what I want, where I want to be, what I am going to do for a living. I have been having trouble even working on one of these things at a time – they all just keep bobbing up in my head, completely out of turn!

I found myself in a wintry forest, alone, until a lone cross-country skier crossed my path. Apart from the gentle SWOOSH of his skis, all was silent, yet alive and breathing and boundless. Above, a glimmery-blue sky and snow-capped mountains.

On that day, seeing the tiny speck of a human (and inside their tiny head, perhaps, as many questions and emotions and worry as I have within my own tiny head!) against the vast, ancient mountain landscape, I realised that my problems really aren’t so big. And to be pondering these things in such a breath-taking place, safe, healthy, relatively “OK”, I also realised that I must have done something very, VERY right in my life to have ended up in that place, on that day.

I am a Dupree.

A dilemma which I have recently found myself in; how to know when my time in a place is done. I have a knack for over-staying. I blame it on my being a Libra. Loyal to a fault, to both humans and places. I have over-stayed on couches, in relationships, in countries that I loved so much that I ignored the little words on the visa stamped into my passport pages…but now I come to a point where, after 12 years in a country that I was not born in, opportunities and, more importantly, inspiration, has dried up. I do believe in signs from a higher being, and at the moment, that being is fervently telling me to pack my bags and get out of there!

All of the things which previously I found made me feel a sense of security, of home, such as friends, a sweet house to live in alone in one of the most beautiful locations I have ever been privileged to see, are gone. The last threads of this tie that have held me to this country for so long are falling away, some very quickly and abruptly, and I find myself wondering why I should stick it out when there is nothing left for me there. I am currently working in another country, due to go home in three months, and I suddenly find myself seeking my next destination. To be honest, I feel like I am seeking an extra-marital relationship! My heart has really belonged to this place for so long, I spent all of my 20s there, good times/emotional times/gut-wrenchingly difficult times, and it is a hard relationship to see come to an end. I know it may not be forever, but it is a serious step away from the home I have made for myself away from my homeland.

Saying this, one of the places I planned to return to in September is Canada. Berlin is also on the list, as is Scandinavia. Oh, and Hawaii.

While I dream of and plan for setting up in these places in future, I must also mention that I am without a trade. I call myself a bit of a ‘Dupree’. And I am fed up with trying to make a living with menial jobs, when these jobs hack away chunks of time that I would like to dedicate to pursuing my passions. I’ve never been able to find that magical balance between the two, if it exists. I have done a few half-hearted attempts at the studying thing, and I have finally, after an exhaustingly long struggle with myself, decided to allow myself to be who I am. And I am NOT a student. I wish I was! Oh, how I wish! The world is much more gentle to people who follow that University – Work path. I envy them. I have taken every single turn-off that main road in my life so far, and to go back to it, even for a year or two, would be crippling for me.

How to combine this constant need for mobility with a sustainable, profitable mode of work? I have done the waitressing/crappy backpacker jobs thing long enough. I find the thought of continuing it at this point to be repulsive. Literally, I am REPULSED. I know my strengths, and my skills, and my passions, and it’s just a matter of being in the right place and making the connections to get started.

I love writing, for one.It’s healing and it never feels like ‘work’ for me. The words just flow out.

See, at the beginning of this post my head was in a spin. I couldn’t focus, I was panicking internally at the uncertain manoeuvres ahead of me and how to carry them out….and by just setting all of this outside of my poor little head, I have regained a teensy smidgen of a foothold of myself.

I thank you, Internet world, for giving us this blank canvas on which we can create, and work out our mind-itches, and see other people’s questions about life. I look forward to finding some answers, SOON! X

moon, mountain, stars – Happy New Year \\2017//

I made my New Year’s Eve ritual simple this year. Not that I am a Mistress of Elaborate Rituals in any way, but this was a fairly straight-forward one. I made a rambling list of what I want to do and see and accomplish this year. I also wrote a letter to someone close to me who passed away in recent years. I put them in a plain white envelope, and let it sit for about an hour, while I pfaffed about the house, mind focusing entirely on calling the contents of the envelope to Life. A more efficient Witch would have probably sat and meditated on the list, but I should say now that I find my mind is in full-on Zen mode while I tidy. Strange, I know, but maybe there’s a reason Witches always have brooms next to them? Just sayin’…
When I felt that the manifestation was underway, I sat out my bedroom window and watched the letter burn. I left it smouldering this time on the ledge until it was ash. And, different to previous rituals like this, I actually did NOT scatter the ashes. I left them overnight outside my bedroom window and let the Alpine mountain wind take them as they wished. It has taken two days of non-interference but by now every little speck of ash is done.
After it had been left down to smoulder, I had a nice little moment staring up at the stars and just…being. In the midst of moving here, re-kindling a long distance relationship and turning it into *very* short distance (i.e. living together), and all of my normal daily mind-grumbles, I forget to Look Up! This was on my list; be more present and WORRY LESS!
I’ve decided, that, above all, this will be a year for setting up the next ten, so to speak. I want to put myself in a position where I can lead a secure, semi-nomadic life. I am now the owner of two different coloured passports which bargain me entry into two very privileged geographical regions. These two regions offer me enough resources for education and enjoyment to last for the rest of my life. My list of where to go next never stops writing itself. The only barriers? Money, and motivation. So, these two shall be my main focus for 2017.

Other projects include putting more energy into this writing blog, making more intricate personal rituals (just for the craic! 😉 ), and another creative project that I am over-joyed to be working on with one of the most important people in my life, my Grandmother. Travel is particularly important this year; I foresee a lot of packing and moving and re-assessing how much ‘stuff’ I plan on hanging on to . This is a tough one, as I am a traveller by nature but rather than be on the move constantly, I have a need to ‘nest’ in each place I live and stay awhile. This means I like familiar things around me and the comfort and temporary security of a specified ‘home. Alongside this, the re-adjustment to being a student, and at that, one on the move quite often, studying at my own pace, is taking a lot of focus and effort also.

This will be an exciting year!!!

Wishing the world a healthful, positive start to 2017 and a remembrance and re-learning of human compassion and love, above all, which is the right of every being. Peace & Love in 2017 xxx

Homes.

Homesickness,

The chronic discomfort that comes along with the privilege of having seen and lived in so many different places. Today my homesickness is for the city in the West of Ireland where I spent the whole of my 20s. A good friend of mine had a health scare within their family, and I’d love nothing more at this moment to be sitting at their kitchen table, chatting over pots of tea and her delicious home-cooked food. Actually, it was in this kitchen, about two years ago, that I found myself acknowledging that my years of bouncing between cities, crashing on friends’ couches, being non-committal to any and all living and work situations, had come to an end. Maybe it was because this was a Mom’s house, with photos around the house, plants, paintings and artwork from the now-grown-up children…it seemed so … wonderful! to me.  I spoke the words out loud ‘I really want to have a Home now’. I said them to no one in particular, but my friend’s Mom, who was preparing food at the kitchen counter, over-heard me and quietly tittered but said nothing in response, leaving the spoken words hovering in the air for a moment, just simmering. A few months later, I settled into a little house on a hill, over-looking the most beautiful mountain-valley scene you will ever behold. A year and half later, I am on hiatus working elsewhere for five months, and I am painfully homesick for my little house. In it, I know where everything is, my shoes are lined up at the backdoor. Nothing is packed up in storage, my whole material and practical life is in that house. The kitchen is fully stocked with things that only a Settled person would have in their kitchen, and that, to travellers, is an often-missed luxury as it takes up too much space in a backpack (i.e. muffin tins! Yeast! A spice rack!). Luckily a friend has been staying with me for a few months and will hold down the fort until I get Home, but I have found, already, after only one month away, that that house means so much more to me than I realised.

We used to have a family cottage that was sold two year ago, right after my Mom passed away. It had been in the family for two generations so far, and when she passed my grandmother realised that no one in my generation was in a position to take it on after her. So, the heartbreaking decision to sell. I never went back for a final visit. The day it sold, thousands of miles away across the Atlantic ocean, I felt it in my heart. More than my parents’ house where I grew up, when I close my eyes I can see every single detail of that cottage on the sea. The wallpaper, the smell, the antique family furniture, my Grandma, always working away in the kitchen, baking bread or doing her crosswords at the big round kitchen table. It belongs to some other family now, and it doesn’t seem right. But I doubt I will ever go and see it again. All of our childhood summers, some winters, were spent there. We lived on the beach, up at dawn, out the door, only coming in when we were called for lunch. Grandma met us at the door with a bucket of water to wash the beachy sand off us – however she never quite got it all and the little footprints of sand all over the house were testament to our adventures. Jake, the village dog, was outside waiting for us every morning. My little friend, Jennifer, who lived next door, would put the kitchen blind up so I knew when her parents were awake and I could go over and get her to play. An idyllic childhood.
Our other cottage, from the other side of the family, on a beautiful lake in Quebec. Also, sold long ago when my Grandpa passed away. Originally it was a pretty rustic little shack on the side of the mountain, looking down towards the water. Early in the mornings my Grandmaman would show me this figure down below, which looked like a floating chandelier in the water. I couldn’t believe it. A moose! Out for his morning swim! I loved when she walked down to the waterside with me and my brother; we’d do a little ‘parade’ and make lots of music with pots and pans. It only occurred to me a few years ago we were actually telling the bears in the area we were coming. How like my Grandmaman not to spoil a perfectly innocent childhood activity with fear…of bears! Ha! The same as the other cottage, we would go to bed with sand between our toes every day.
On the other hand, the holiday season having just passed, I spent Christmas Eve and Day lamenting that I was not with my family in Canada, where I grew up. Our family has significantly shrunk over the last few years, and the thought of my little band of kinfolk sitting around the table as always, minus a few loved ones who have passed on, brought me to tears several times. ‘The Sea is Wide / And I cannot swim over / nor have I / the wings for to fly’ kept playing in my head. There was nothing I could do but hunker down in my current location and be grateful to be alive and well, and in a pretty sweet spot for the winter! But the feeling of being so intensely torn in multi directions…it is one I suppose I will always have and will have to make peace with. There is no one place I love more than the others. It is a complete and equal split.
I have to consider myself lucky that I have so many heart connections with people around the world. The reality is, I cannot be with every one of them all at once. Two years ago, when I had just found what would become my first adult home, I heard a refrain in my mind. ‘Plant your feet, plant your feet’. I realised that when you plant your feet in a place, things grow. I have a garden, but I’m not just talking about that! Opportunities arise, and with this new type of security, you have the time to get to know a different side of yourself. More aspirations can arise, now that you have a base from which to access resources and make connections. I’ll never regret my decision to plant my feet. I owe it to these friends of mine whose home triggered something in me that day, when I spoke the words aloud and the Mom tittered, it set off a chain of reactions that led me to finding exactly what I needed.
Until I can be with them at their kitchen table in Real Life, writing this will have to temporarily suffice. During the process of writing, I in fact WAS transported to their kitchen table. I could almost smell something delicious in the oven, and hear the radio.

The magic of the mind and pen when paired!

Photos in a Shoebox

I was flipping through an online photo account, looking at all of my parents’ childhood photos which family members have, over time, have converted to digital photos for safe-keeping, and it got me thinking…our Grandparents and Great-Grandparents often had only a small bundle of photos and keepsakes to pass on to their children to remember them by. This was before Facebook, the selfie-craze in particular, when one photo could take minutes to take. This one photo, regardless of how it turned out (And how many of them were forever immortalised with scrunched-up faces or dead-serious, disquieting expressions?) was precious. Often it cost the family a lot of money and they only got one shot. If the photo survived the years, moving house, family feuds, housefires, etc., it may have ended up in the hands of some sentimental grand-child, or else it would have long since perished or gotten lost.
With the loss of my Mother three years ago, I started keeping things of hers that I wanted to hang onto to keep her memory alive. Whether for me or, perhaps sub-consciously, for future children – although I am currently very happy as a child-less 30-something! I started to do the same for other members of my family. I did this not in a consciously morbid way, but more in a burst of forward-thinking. It dawned on me that these things are no longer precious. For example, I have thousands of photos, taken throughout my 20s, slightly before, and over the last year or two, of my dwellings, travels, friends, partners…they are stored securely in said online photo account. So long as someone has the password and the desire, after I am gone they can just pop in and nose on through my life’s special moments. I haven’t printed a physical, paper version of a photo in almost a decade. So, this has inspired me to start working on a few classic, real life, photo albums. The idea excites me; this is a sure sign that I should have been doing this all along!
Now, another interesting debate that this sparked between a friend and myself: I realised, while panning through all these photos of the last 12 years of my life, that, quite a few of these photos are of people who have since drifted away or else, in darker moments, done something that has caused me to break away from them. Ex-friends. And ex-partners. So, as I was scrolling through this multitude of photos, selecting which ones I wanted to print hard copies of for the albums, the question that came to mind so, as I paused momentarily over the Select tool, what to do with these captured moments of former friends who, perhaps, left my life on a sad/angry note. There are very few people I still hold onto a bit of anger towards – hey, I’m human! – but does that mean I omit them from the photo diary of that period of my life? However it turned out in the end, that day the photo was taken, in that moment, they meant something to me. We had no idea what lay ahead for our friendship. I suppose it is a lesson in itself to embrace life and take chances with people. Even after a few bumps, when you are feeling battle-scarred, you can look back and see that it wasn’t always bad. Human relationships run their course; the great skill I would like to learn is how to leave them gracefully, with as few bumps as possible. Perhaps the bumps come when you resist the natural life-death cycle of the relationship. And that leaves you with a pile of photos in your hand, wondering what to do next.

How many of Grandma and Grandpa’s old shoebox-collection photos are of people, unbeknownst to us, whose ties of friendship were un-amicably severed in some mysterious drama? More importantly, does it take away from the importance of the photo and the place it holds in that worn-out old shoebox, which could be construed as something more symbolic than a shoebox?

In an age where it costs us nothing to lug around old memories, i.e. store them online, out-of-sight until needed, where has the sentimental value of photos gone, if it still exists at all?

The Boy Called Diamond

Of all of the people I met in Nepal, the one who stuck with me the most was 1-year old Diamond. He was possibly the happiest little human I have ever met. He came in to the room held by his Grandpa, stared at me for a minute – at which point I was unsure of whether he was about to cry or smile – and broke into the loudest belly laugh I’ve ever heard. He sat on my lap for the next ten minutes, facing his Grandpa and Daddy, then turn his head to see if I was still there, and the laughing would start again. I believe I may have been the strangest looking person he’d ever seen! We shared no common language, a significant age and cultural difference, and yet it was like we were old friends. The men in the room were trying to teach him how to put his hands together and bow to say ‘Namaste’ to me…..while watching his little hands momentarily mimic his menfolk before flailing about again a la 1 year old, I got a firmer idea of what ‘Namaste’ actually means beyond the literal translation – ‘the Divine in me sees the Divine in you’. It’s a beautiful way of acknowledging and reminding each other of the basic core of every being. As I’m not a religious person, I’d previously have squirmed uncomfortably around the use of the word ‘Divine’ but in the broader sense I now understand the connection. I believe this is why there is so little aggression in Nepal. Every person I have met refers to me as ‘Sister’, another reminder that they recognise me as a fellow soul – more than just a body – and respect my right to a happy and safe existence here.
Little Diamond, however tiny, already knows this. He looked straight into my eyes with absolutely no fear or hesitation and shared his big belly laugh with me. Not only him, but kids everywhere seem to know this innately from the time they are born. My wish is that this message that we are all here equally, together, and that we cannot be separated through religion, social status, wealth, gender, race, was taught on an international basis from a young age. Children don’t need to be taught it, I believe they already know this. Their innate curiosity about one another is apparent, with little evidence of pre-conceived discrimination or judgment. What happens next is adults get to them with their own damaged world view. And voila!
Thank you little Diamond for your inspiration! Although your hands are small, I believe your heart is mighty! Namaste to you also. xxxx

haggles and things

I don’t know if it is a Canadian thing….but I am completely unable to haggle. Unwilling, also. I’d love to boast that it is entirely an ethical decision, but mainly it just makes me incredibly uncomfortable and ashamed. I mention this to other travellers sometimes and the general consensus is that it is residual of my growing up in a prosperous country. The guilt that I feel when I attempt to get a local vendor to lower their price is crippling. If people I am with haggle, I am mortified. In countries where the people earn the equivalent of my daily wage in Ireland in a month…..what right do I have to exploit them for their services and goods? I get told off by a significant amount of travellers for this sentiment – so far most of these complaints have been funny and good-natured – as my stubborn attitude apparently makes it harder for them to get a good price, but it just doesn’t make sense to me. In cheap countries we travellers already have the benefit of euros or dollars to make our funds go a long way. You know everything will have a price, why cause unnecessary tension for people who are already struggling to buy a tank of petrol for their car, feed their family, pay for their children’s education?….why pick these countries as the target haggling-zones? Why not, if at all, choose the richer countries to make a bargain? They can afford it.

Coming to a country where the maximum salary one can wish for with basic education is 90 US dollars PER MONTH, I do not think anyone should be asking them to lower their prices. The government itself cannot afford to provide electricity for the country for longer than 13 hours per day. And in Europe we waste insane amounts on useless things. There is no heating in buildings, people living in boxes, little children sleeping four or five underneath one cotton bedsheet in the middle of winter, little girls selling their bodies for a meal….I wonder how it is possible to look at this with eyes wide open and attempt to take any more from these people.
Canada is by far NOT a perfect country, however as a child growing up there I was safe, warm, comfortable, educated, and clothed and given the means to travel and make something of myself. When I tell people here I am from Canada, I’ve seen the most emotional responses. Their faces light up at the mention of this particular country. I’ve seen it on odd occasions previously, but never the same as in Nepal. Again, that guilt kicks in. Why did I happen to be born there and they here? I know guilt and sadness solves nothing, but it’s tangible. Most of these people will never have the opportunities I had/have, and yet they don’t show any sign of resentment towards me. They call me ‘Sister’ and bow their heads and smile with their eyes.

Perhaps their ‘Namaste’ is what saves them from the worst sides of poverty; self-pity, anger, a pre-disposition to steal and lie for personal gain….in this sense, Nepal is the richest country I’ve ever been in. And the most deserving of an improved economy. Therefore, little by little, I hope fellow travellers reconsider how hard they fight for that 50 cent discount on a souvenir. It doesn’t make a huge difference in your life, and it potentially makes life a little bit easier for the locals. Be a conscious traveler, not a tourist.

just because i am chatty…

Introverts are not necessarily shy. I’ve been an introvert in denial for years. I love being alone, quiet, immersed in my own world. Out There, however, I am known as the Chatty One, the one bubbling over with smiles and sunshine and long-winded, airy-fairy tales and incoherent ramblings. So, imagine my surprise, after living alone for about several years, when I invite two housemates to share with me, and realise this: I don’t like to talk. Well, I do, but not as much as I thought I did. The relief of coming home to an empty house, to silence and the freedom to BE Silent, was what has made living alone such bliss. I adore it. It has been my refuge. Completely. I never get tired of being alone, I never feel a big push to go and find a crowd. Until now, I hadn’t encountered any situations that would have shone a light on this fact. So, although living with people temporarily has been a huge, somewhat uncomfortable adjustment for me, I am fortunate that it has allowed me to realise this about myself. I always knew in the back of my mind I was an introvert. However, I was never allowed to BE one. It’s as if it was wrung out of me slowly, to the point that there is a bit of irritating residue (that will most likely never come out, nor would I want it to) but the symptoms, as they are regarded in our society, were hidden until now. School terrified me; in primary school I was picked on by older or bigger kids, and I did not like being called on in class. I cried in the morning for years when it was time to go to the bus. The school sent me to psychologists and child specialists to find out what was ‘wrong’ with me, as they felt the level of sensitivity I exhibited was troublesome. I was medicated when I was 13 as they diagnosed me with ‘Social Anxiety Disorder’.

This popular medication has since been shown to have the same withdrawal symptoms as heroin. Luckily for me my parents took me off it before I became dependent on it. I don’t remember much of the time I was medicated, apart from the numbness. Everything was ok, but I felt nothing. In junior high school I was a legit truant – climbing out the windows and simply NOT turning up at school because the idea of sitting in a huge group of kids who just didn’t let me be me was scary. There was one classroom that had a big window right next to my desk and after attendance was taken, the minute the teacher turned away from us or popped out of the room for something, I’d climb out the window. My poor parents didn’t know what to do. I got good grades, so long as I was left alone to work, but I didn’t mix with the other kids much and I didn’t physically go to class. For awhile the teachers sent me to the guidance counsellor’s office to do my work there, but when I managed to sneak away from that, I was sent to a school for ‘difficult kids’. There I met about 15 kids of varying backgrounds with different stories to tell, but all pretty heart-breaking, especially considering my healthy home life. Some were abused, some were addicts, some were homeless, some were pregnant. One guy was a pyromaniac. All were anti-social and incredibly sensitive to criticism.

In order to get back into a ‘normal school’, which for me meant going on to an Arts high school that would allow me to dance a few hours per day as part of the curriculum, I needed to pass an audition as well as an interview to show that I had the right temperament for the course. My family encouraged me to try my best at the interview as they knew this was the right type of programme for me; academic but with a huge emphasis on artistic training. So, I SOLD myself in that interview. All smiles and jokes and chat. I was accepted. And probably due to this, I completed high school. I would have sunk like a stone at another school, I 100% believe. My school allowed a bit more breathing space for the Introverts, the Artsy Fartsy kids. What we lacked in chat, we made up for in choreography, in music, in paintings and sculptures, in poetry. I blossomed. Ours was a school of creative misfits, tattooed and pierced, freakish outfits and tutus and trombones clanging together in the corridors. There were school performances every month and anyone could audition a piece; there were poetry coffeehouses in the evenings for the literary crowd, and there was always a span of performance projects in the works. I had four happy years there, and then when I completed the dance programme and had one year left (all academic), I left to travel and to finish my courses on a distance learning basis. Without my dance training every day, I knew I wouldn’t attend school, although the teachers and students there at that point had become like family.

Somewhere between then and now, I have come to realise that I have traded on personality and chat since moving away from home to another continent at 20 and making my way here. A true graduate of performance! At this point, my own chatter even irritates me. I don’t mean the lively conversations that happen spontaneously and naturally; I mean my need to keep the chat going, even if it is one-sided, the effort expended and the exhaustion I feel seep from me when someone leaves, when I can be quiet again. It appears I’ve been advertising myself for a long time, perhaps because I feel that the Real Me won’t appeal to my audience. It is such an uncomfortable process, learning to be quiet – even when it is all you want to do. It isn’t even about the chat, it’s about learning to just sit with someone quietly and not feel the need to win their approval. About pausing before you speak and weighing whether or not what you have to contribute to the conversation is valuable or whether you are just doing it out of this need to be heard and accepted. Now that I understand this about myself, and want to change it, it’s all about practicing it.

Society isn’t kind to introverts. If you want to get a job, a date, a promotion, a good bargain…you need to know how to turn up the volume and make a good impression. Simple, direct communication is under-rated, and I believe we make a performance out of most transactions, simply based on our need to come across a certain way, as a certain character best suited for dealing with the situation at hand. When you realise that this character is, in fact, incredibly different from who you were born as, it is over-whelming. Freeing, also though. The real work comes when you try to get back to that character and say a gentle goodbye to the Forced You who has been with you for decades. Especially, sadly, because this character has gotten you to where you are in life! The sooner we learn to accept the quiet ones, the ones who blush and cry easily and avoid crowds, the better. Studies have shown that I’m not alone in this; that many people identify as introverts but, for the purpose of fitting in and getting along in life, adopt extrovert qualities out of necessity.  Truth be told, I don’t have an answer to this. As someone whose conditioning into a faux extrovert began in school, I would have to say that that plays a huge part in it. We spend so many hours in school, to learn that you must also spend those hours playing a part like a performing monkey is a lot to take in. I think this does a lot of damage. I am proof of that. The world in fact needs introverts. The balance that they bring to the world is invaluable. Although many are assimilated into the extrovert group, their sensitivity and quiet energy has proven to create many of the world’s greatest works of art, architecture, literature, music, IT innovations…the list of individuals who have succeeded in life AS INTROVERTS goes on. To not recognise and nurture these individuals in their youth is a crime.

Imagine if someone had told Leonardo da Vinci to smarten up and socialise more often! Or Albert Einstein! The sooner we recognise, as adults and teachers, how to support and nurture these individuals before society gets to them and makes them perform, the better it will be for us as a whole. I know it is not black and white, that one can be a bit of both at the same time, but I am talking about introvert qualities in general, which usually culminate in a fully formed introvert, but also some extroverts have introvert tendencies and I think those should be nurtured and encouraged also. The balance has been tipped for a long time now and not nearly enough creative genius has been unleashed for fear of it not being accepted. This is a big challenge. But for now, I am just going to sit and enjoy the quiet.😉

A Little Message To the Grieving

grie.jpg

Lately I am thinking about all of the other people out there who are missing someone. Someone who has left this life and is ‘unreachable’. They say that the first year is the worst, that it gets easier as times goes on….but I am finding that that isn’t the case. So I’m sharing it with all of you; bringing the thought out of the shadows into the open. . . I think after the first year, you’ve stored up so many funny stories, life updates, and experiences that you would normally be sharing with them on a daily/weekly basis…that it starts to feel physically uncomfortable. Before, when you reached this overflowing point where you had so much to say to them, you’d pick up the phone and get yourself settled in somewhere comfortable for a nice long chat. But now that they’re gone, what do you do with all of these words? These things you want so badly to share with them? I am thinking of all of you who are in the same boat, who are bursting at the seams to share these things with that Someone, but can’t. It’s their voice, their responses (that are so authentically THEIRS, they can never be replicated or mimicked by anyone else), their advice and their laugh that you miss. It is seriously kicking my little ass at the minute, my friends, and I think the only way through is to acknowledge it and share the burden. I hope you don’t mind. 😉 For anyone else out there who is feelin’ it, I am with you!! It doesn’t get ‘easier’, you adjust. And the adjusting (to their absence) is the most painful part. Sending you all lots of hugs tonight…

These ARe Your Moments

I consider my Life to be a collection of beautiful fragments, each bookmarked unconsciously as they happen. Ever-growing, minute and milli-second in length. These moments cannot be predicted, nor can you always explain why they mean so much to you. I have a hard time recalling them on command, but for this piece I sat and observed what came to me.

1) My niece Siofra asleep next to me, her hands playing with my earrings in her sleep.
2) My Mom’s hands.
3) Drinking my morning cup on the back step of my kitchen, feeling the sun and wind on my face off the mountains.
4) Floating in a natural pool, high up in the hills outside of Panama City.
5) Alone on a train from London to Edinburgh when I was 18, listening to Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah with my backpack next to me, an empty car, and a full moon up above.
6) Sitting at the kitchen table with my Grandma, playing cards and talking.
7) The smell of my parents house on a Saturday morning as a teenager, when my Dad was off work and the coffee pot was on.
8) The sound of skates on ice.
9) Lying in Parque Monceau in Paris on a hot summer’s day when I was 18, reading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast.
10) Paddling a canoe with my family at our cottage in Quebec, my Uncle’s dog swimming along next to us. The sound of the water lapping at the bottom of a dock or boat always reminds me of my Grandpa.

These things that came to me in this experiment, on reflection, cost me nothing at the time. All of the money I have spent on things and achievements and planned excursions I do not regret, but I have learned to pay attention to these simple moments. You never know which ones will stick. The most beautiful thing is: They are YOURS. Some seem unimpressive at the time, but years later they could be the ones that bring a lump to your throat and butterflies to your tummy.

Pay attention.

Moving out to the Green

I’ve been fortunate in the last two years to have found work and a home in a rural area. For the ten years previous, I lived in a small city. A bustling hub for people in their twenties, parties, festivals, a feverish community of artists….and a lot of noise. To put it short, I burnt out. I spent my twenties pfaffing about different social circles, learning new languages, partying, falling in love, falling OUT of love (waaaaay out of love, shall we say!) and having very little time alone to reflect on what all of this was doing to/for me.
When I finally did make the somewhat impulsive move to leave my job in the city and re-locate, wonderful things happened. Not always comfortable, but wonderful nonetheless. I had time to get to know myself. Without the constant need to ‘perform’ as is the norm for a 20-something year old female with a soft spot for hippies and eccentric play let loose in a city of hippies and awesome eccentrics! I discovered I am innately, NOT, the social butterfly I thought I was. When I arrived in this city, also a new country for me, at 20, I came out of my shell, so to speak. Now, at 31, I am happily and voluntarily going back INTO the shell! 🙂 I discovered that I do not need The Buzz of a hectic and drama-filled social life to inspire me. That silence and stillness does it even better. That eccentric characters are often….eccentric! And a lot of work. And that buzz-chasers who you meet at every party and share drinks with don’t always have the same aspirations or ethics as you. And that, basically, most people are just playing a role. Including you. After awhile it felt like I was at a Halloween party every day, with no clue who I was really talking to under the masks.
My happy place is not Happy Hour anymore, it’s my kitchen step looking out over the valley, or my bedroom window at night with a full view of the moon’s progression across the mountains. I would say it is a quiet life, but the noise the birds and sheep and wind make can be deafening and distracting sometimes! I have a few friends in the area, but don’t mind if I don’t see them everyday. Most of my closest friends are in other time zones, and that is totally cool with me also. My best friend is right here, and although I am still getting to know her, she’s all the company I need for now.