Lift-off

Last week a robot sent by NASA touched down on Mars to search for signs of life. It’s amazing, truly staggering, what humans are capable of, and I take my hat off to everyone who was involved in planning for and carrying out that huge achievement. I was proud to see that some Irish scientists were part of the team building the European Space Agency’s contribution to the mission, and am excited that the first Irish satellite in space is also due to be launched this year. But announcements about Mars exploration, or moon landings, or even trips to space, always make me think about all the wonderful things a bit closer to home. It reminds me of a poem, ‘Fueled’ by the American poet Marcie Hans.

Fueled
by a million
man-made
wings of fire-
the rocket tore a tunnel
through the sky-
and everybody cheered.

Fueled
only by a thought from God-
the seedling
urged its way
through the thickness of black-
and as it pierced
the heavy ceiling of the soil-
and launched itself
up into outer space-
no
one
even
clapped.

Three weeks ago I planted some sweet pea seeds, and one day last week I suddenly spotted a tiny hint of green among the earth. A week later and they have shot up, straight into the air, faster than I could have imagined – the tallest is now 10cm high. It’s wonderful, and my little green shoots brighten up every day as I check to see how much they have grown.

I’ve written before about the proven benefits of gardening, and how growing things can be rewarding and give you a sense of ownership and control. Most of us are unlikely to be involved in any missions to space any time soon, but if you have a spare spot on a windowsill and can get hold of some soil, I heartily recommend this as an alternative.

Rescue mission

It’s been several months since four chickens joined our household around Easter. They have settled in wonderfully, providing delicious eggs but most importantly a source of comfort and entertainment. While their lives have been mostly uneventful, we had something of an incident last month. Our chickens live in a run and during the day we let them roam free around the garden – we consider the risk of escape or danger to be a hundred times worth it as they are happier in a larger space. Every morning my husband or I will let them out into the garden, and then around dusk we call them in – this is very effective, as “home time” coincides with dinner time!

Shortly after my husband went to call them in one rainy afternoon a few weeks ago, he burst back into the kitchen, wide-eyed, dripping wet and gasping: “there are two missing!” This is our nightmare as chicken parents, as they are a target for foxes. We had been dreading going out and finding not all of them there. Thinking back to days of lost children in supermarkets, we knew we had to keep calm and come up with a plan – avoiding if possible, a call to 999.

We grabbed our torches as it was getting dark and raced outside desperately calling “Chicken! Chick- chick- chicken!” – our neighbours are now accustomed to this less-than original summons for dinner every afternoon. We rattled the food tin and desperately scanned the garden. Suddenly, there was a feeble cluck from my left. I shined the torch, and there, on the other side of the very high fence, were our missing hens, looking forlorn and bedraggled. We raced out of our front gate around to where they were – they had clearly taken a shorter route by flying over the fence. I wondered if there had been a reason for them achieving this feat for the first time, perhaps with a burst of adrenalin, without which they weren’t able to fly back over. We don’t clip their wings to give them a chance of escaping predators – is that what they had done?

It quickly became apparent that it was, as while one hen quietly allowed herself to be picked up and thrown unceremoniously back over the fence (tough love from my husband), the other was visibly terrified. We couldn’t get near her, and we couldn’t see her as shining a torch directly was too frightening. Eventually, after more gentle coaxing than he’s ever adopted with any of our human children, my husband convinced her to let him approach, and we gently returned her to the coop.

A quick check revealed the catch on back gate had broken, and it was ajar. The gate is kept closed as it borders a path popular with dog walkers, and we can only assume it was a dog which chased hens over the fence. We reassured ourselves of no injuries to them, but for a few days afterwards we noticed one fewer egg in our morning crop. And then one day we were surprised to discover the usual four eggs, but one of them a tiny, half-size specimen, unlike anything we’d seen before. A quick reference check confirmed the obvious explanation: stress. The tiny egg was from the hen who had been especially frightened by the dog.

From the following day this hen began producing eggs normally again, and we kept a careful eye on her to make sure she was eating and acting normally as well. We have fixed the gate, and the chickens don’t appear to have any lasting fear of it or the fence. But the incident showed that just as in humans, stress can have a physical expression in chickens - the tiny egg was a sharp reminder that trauma and stress is a body and mind issue.

Going on a bear hunt

I have a younger relative who can be a little bit idealistic. He seems irrepressibly cheerful, and comes out with a lot of overly-positive motivational lines which, if I’m very honest, can be somewhat wearing if you’re not in the mood. But he does have one clichéd saying which I have to admit I quite like.

He brought it out once during a visit a few years ago. It was a difficult time, I was tired, coping with an ongoing source of stress, and then another disaster unravelled and it all got a bit much. I was mortified not to be able to devote my full attention to him as a beloved family guest, but he fixed me with a look and told me not to worry, and that everything was going to be ok. “Sometimes the only way out is through,” he said.

It’s a ridiculously corny phrase, and it makes me laugh as it reminds me of the children’s book ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’ by Michael Rosen, which I used to read to my children. “Oh no! Thick oozy mud! We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we’ve got to go through it! Squelch squelch squelch!” we used to sing.

For some reason this mantra stuck with me, and it has provided comfort in times of difficulty ever since. Sometimes things do get tough, and you feel like giving up on all your responsibilities. But in reality, you can’t. You can cut back on some – and I would very much advise it if that is appropriate for you – but some things just aren’t optional. You have to keep going. The only way out is through.

Whether it’s a difficult task at work, family concerns or just this seemingly interminable January (does it stretch on for this long every year?), I take comfort in this notion. It inspires me to pick myself up and keep trudging forward, however slowly, because that’s the only option. I imagine myself fighting my way through a particularly thick and prickly patch of gorse in the Wicklow mountains – sometimes you find yourself so far in that there’s impenetrable gorse on every side. The only way out is through – it’ll be unpleasant, but it will eventually be over, and as my lovely Mum used to say, you might as well get on with it.

Happy new year!

Happy new year!

I’ve been told off for saying that this year. Not because it’s the middle of January and it’s a bit late to be wishing anyone a happy new year, although arguably it is, but because it was deemed “too cheerful” in a time of such dire crisis.

It’s true there are some situations in which it may be inappropriate to give a cheerful greeting if someone is going through a particularly hard time, and I apologise if you, too, find my greeting too upbeat.

But my thoughts are about hope, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wish for a happy – or at least hopeful – year in 2021.

A family member was given Barack Obama’s new book for Christmas, “A Promised Land”, and happily read large chunks out over the festive period. There’s always one!

At first it filled me with anguish – life was so much better in 2008! – but then I remembered the horrors of late 2007 and 2008… not everything was rosy then. And listening to parts of this new book reminded me that back then Barack Obama campaigned for the American presidency on a ticket of hope. It’s easy to think those hopes have been dashed, looking retrospectively at the presidency and what came after it, but Obama’s whole point was that it is worth having hope and believing in the power of change, however unlikely it may seem.

I’m not suggesting that anybody go out and start campaigning to change the world, or that the problems we are faced with at the moment are not difficult for everyone, and extremely difficult for some. But Obama and his writings about “a belief in things not seen, a belief that there are better days ahead,” have reminded me that no life, no period of history, is without its setbacks and tragedies, and that sometimes focussing on hope is the best option. And that’s worth cherishing.

Thank you

What a year. I know most of us will be feeling intensely grateful to be leaving 2020 behind. There have been some highlights, and it’s good to focus on the positive things, but there’s a lot of hope that 2021 will bring better times.

Like everyone, I have found periods of 2020 difficult to get through. Writing these blogs has been a source of comfort, and sharing them with you always brings me joy. I see the comments you make on the website and the replies you email back – each one makes me feel a wonderful sense of connection.

So thank you, for reading these blogs throughout the year, and for being part of that connection. It’s funny to think back to the blogs in March and April about the kindness of strangers at the beginning of lockdown, and the fun of organising events on Zoom for the first time. Some things have changed so much since then, and some haven’t at all.

I wish you a very happy New Year celebration, whatever that may look like this year, and I wish you the very, very best in 2021. I hope you will continue to read these blog posts, and that we can all take on whatever the next year may bring as we have with 2020 – one step at a time, finding positive notes where they can be found, leaning on loved ones when we can and building our own resilience when we cannot.

Silver linings

It’s not controversial to say this year has been an exceptionally difficult one. Who could possibly have imagined this time last December that 2020 would pan out in the way it did? But that’s the way with all unforeseen events, you don’t see them coming, and they can change your life beyond what you would have imagined possible.

I’ve been thinking this week about how we all respond to and prepare for the unexpected crises which occur in any life. I have experienced sudden, unforeseen and devastating events, and I know many of you have as well. You never think it will happen to you, but sometimes it does.

There’s no real way to prepare for these crises, and the last thing I would advise anyone to do would be to spend time and energy worrying about something which has not yet and may never happen. Imagining the worst scenarios and worrying about them will not be any use to anyone.

That said, there is one thing that most unforeseen events have in common: they let you know who your friends are. Time and again I have been astounded by the help and support offered to me by friends, family and acquaintances during a time of crisis. Often, as the saying goes, it may be the people you least expect who come out of the woodwork to help get you through a difficult moment.

I try and remember this support from friends and family throughout normal, non-crisis times, and put a little extra effort in when I can to maintain those connections and friendships, knowing I can count on these people if I need to one day, and that they can count on me. It’s a useful thing to remember as well whenever a petty disagreement or moment of tension crops up, as it puts these into perspective. It also reminds me to spend time on the people who matter, rather than wasting energy on any negative or antagonistic encounters.

2020 has been a tough year for everyone, and there's no getting away from that. But there have been some silver livings - more emphasis on getting outside and spending time in nature, for example. One good thing I'll take away from 2020 is an increased awareness of the importance of friendships and community. So many months of not being able to see loved ones in person has been very difficult, but it has shown us just how important those loved ones are.

If there are any lessons I'll be thinking about in 2021, it will be to keep my friends and family close – metaphorically, even if we still have a little whole to wait before we can be close to everyone we want to see in person.

Defying the darkness

Sometimes it feels like every time I look outside it's either dark or night is in the process of falling. Winter is well and truly here, and with it come beautiful winter sunrises, clouds of breath in the air and cosy evenings in. But after months and months of pandemic-related restrictions, for some even cosy evenings in have lost a little of their charm.

One benefit to the events of this year is that people have started enjoying the outdoors more, as during many months of lockdown outdoor exercise was one of the few available activities. I wrote before about challenging myself to do one new walk every weekend - I did, and it was absolutely wonderful. But outdoor walks have become harder and harder recently, as by the time I have done my weekend morning chores and am ready to set off, it is invariably already beginning to get dark.

Last weekend, I decided to conquer this problem, and stop spending every Saturday morning rushing around trying to get everything done in a hurry for fear of missing my walk if I am not ready in time. Last weekend, I deliberately waited until it got dark. Then off I went, taking a huge bright headtorch with me, to a local wooded area, where I marched around for an hour looking like I was about to commence building work or inspect the trees for defects.

I loved it. The woods were calm and peaceful after dark, and everyone I passed on the way shared a cheery hello or smile caught in the torch beam (careful not to look anyone straight in the face for fear of blinding them) as if we were complicit in something - the secret of night-time walking. I've been on two more nightwalks with my headtorch since, and I'm even planning a run soon.

I prefer the woodlands with my bright headtorch, but I have found an equal sense of magic walking through quiet areas under streetlamps. On an evening with a bright moon I left the headtorch at home, and still managed not to trip up over anything!

Walking or running in the dark isn't for everyone, and I would never advise it if you feel unsafe in any way. But for me the experience is liberating, it feels as though I am claiming back part of my day, hanging on to the fresh air and exercise now hard to come by during work hours. It's my little corner of defiance for this week, nothing is getting in the way of my walk!

Good news

In the last two weeks I have had several lovely messages about the previous blog. Thank you to
everyone who got in touch to say they liked it, and to those who even went so far as to buy the book
I recommended, The Poetry Pharmacy by William Sieghart. It always cheers me up to hear your feedback, and to see your comments on the online posts on the website.

Lockdown continues, and so do my walking and poetry reading. Sometimes when life presents
challenges you just have to keep going, and work out how to find the joy somewhere. My poems
have been a solace recently so I’m going to share another one by the same poet, Sheenagh Pugh. This one is about future possibilities, and I find it very hopeful. Sometimes I reassure myself by thinking that if life is so unpredictable that a pandemic can cause so much devastation at the drop of a hat, then surely there is scope for something good to happen equally as unexpectedly?

Take the announcements this week and last week about the early success of two of the Covid-19 vaccines being developed. The first announcement was completely unexpected news, at least for me, and while it’s not the end of the pandemic it brought a sudden hope to my day. It also reminded me that not all unexpected news is bad news, and that there is plenty of scope for future changes to be good ones.

What if This Road, by Sheenagh Pugh

What if this road, that has no held surprises
these many years, decided not to go
home after all; what if it could turn
left or right with no more ado
than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin
were like a long, supple bolt of cloth,
that is shaken and rolled out, and takes
a new shape from the contours beneath?
And if it chose to lay itself down
in a new way; around a blind corner,
across hills you must climb without knowing
what’s on the other side; who would not hanker
to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know
a story’s end, or where a road will go?

Open to surprises

My daughter told me the story of an acquaintance of hers, who is a successful, popular young man. He’s in the same industry as her and she always felt a little intimidated by him, until one day during lockdown she noticed a post from him on social media. It said he had started regularly sending friends WhatsApp voice recordings of himself reading poems aloud, and asked would any of his online acquaintances like one too?

My daughter was tickled by this, as the ‘macho’ young man had not seemed to her the type to be reading poems aloud, much less in order to send them to his friends and colleagues. We laughed together, and she said that she admires this man even more now, as he clearly has the confidence to be who he is, even if that means admitting online that he reads poetry.

I like his idea of recording poems and sending them to other people. It’s a personal touch, and a way to stay connected to people you can’t see in person at the moment. It also means sharing poems, which can be a lovely thing. Poems can sometimes offer us reassurance, amusement or hope when things are a little tough.

I have a beautiful book given to me by a dear friend of mine called The Poetry Pharmacy. It’s by William Sieghart, and contains more than a hundred poems by different poets, listed by the affliction they may help, from ‘glumness’ to ‘fear of the unknown’. It was a touching gift from my friend, and while poems cannot actually solve any problems you may have, I find they often cheer me up when the issue is not too grave.

One of my favourites is ‘Sometimes’ by Sheenagh Pugh. She has said since the poem was published that she doesn’t like it all that much, but as Sheenagh Pugh herself admits, poetry is as much for the reader to interpret as for the poet to intend, and readers have every right to enjoy a hopeful interpretation of ‘Sometimes’.

She has stopped publishing the poem herself but given permission for it to be reproduced in blogs, so here it is:

‘Sometimes’ by Sheenagh Pugh

Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

A bit of joy

 I have a new favourite book this week. It’s not the latest bestseller, or even a timeless classic, but an old, slightly dog-eared, copy of a walking guidebook for my local area. It’s designed for tourists, and I actually came across it when I went away on holiday elsewhere and got hold of a walking guide there by the same publishing company. I loved using it and had a vague memory of buying a similar book for my own area years ago, so when I came home I dug it out. Recently I’ve been going through the walks in it one by one, and ticking them off on the index list.

It’s been a huge joy to find new and unexpected walking routes. I’ve found some real gems which I never knew existed, and have rediscovered a love of old haunts. The book has also given me the motivation to venture to more challenging or less easily accessible routes.

These walks in the cool autumn air through forests of colourful leaves have done wonders to cheer me up. Like most people I imagine, I’ve been feeling run down by the seemingly never-ending nature of this pandemic. The announcement of level five lockdown restrictions this week is a hard thing to come to terms with, however much we may have been expecting and speculating about it in advance. Six weeks feels like a long time, much as it may be for our own good.

So to help ease the pain of these new restrictions, and to combat the feeling of time sliding by in a never-ending fog of pandemic misery, I have set myself a challenge. Six weeks, six good long weekend walks. I am going to write a short review of each, and take a picture, in order to document my challenge. Even if the level five restrictions are eased after the four week review period, I’ve decided I’m going to continue for my six weekends. It’s a project that will take my mind off other things, and add a bit of much-needed fun.

The next six weeks will be hard for all of us, as the last seven months have been. Is there any positive challenge or activity you can come up with to take the edge off? For some people it may just be a case of getting through the weeks, and there’s no need to add increased pressure to that. Others may find a challenge or activity helpful or enjoyable. I shared my idea with a friend of mine, and she decided she is going to go for much shorter walks more often, aiming for ten minutes every day. She has promised to update me on her progress, and I’m looking forward to doing the same.
 

With best wishes,
Mags