And now I rejoice in knowing exactly what the second thing would be.

Some months ago, I put my name on a waiting list with nomadic artist Rima Staines, for her to create one of her clocks especially for me. It felt really extravagant and slightly strange. I’ve never commissioned a piece of art for myself.

I love Rima’s work. It plunges you deep into a slightly unnerving world of folklore and fairy tales, dark forests in which you’re never quite sure what magical being might be peeping out from behind the next tree.

I wanted a clock to celebrate the adventure of my ageing. The attraction was something about a clock ticking away the months and years by my side. This was my “brief” to Rima:

What sort of clock would I like?  I envisage a magical, wise, wild older woman who could lead me through my own middle age into cronehood. Long white hair. Bare feet. Rich autumnal colours shading into winter. Moon and stars. In a forest, perhaps? Or a cave mouth? My September birthday means my Celtic sacred plant is ivy, representing regeneration. I don’t want do be too prescriptive but that’s a flavour of what I would like.

Rima emailed last week to tell me the clock was finished, on its way, and to warn me not to look at her blog if I wanted the clock to be a surprise, because it was pictured there.  With heroic self-discipline, I resisted clicking on the beckoning link to The Hermitage. After a few days the doorbell rang, and the postman stood there with a large flat package.

Upstairs I ran, and peeled off the first layer of packaging. Then the next. I was full of tension. What if I didn’t like what Rima had done for me? What if I was disappointed? Another layer. What if it was broken? Then a piece of red cord velvet revealing the final layer of packaging, about 10″ by 8″, bound by russet raffia. And then the clock.

It is so perfect, so beautiful, so intricate I got goosebumps, I had tears in my eyes. Here it is:

The wood is yew. You can see more photographs and hear the story of its making at Rima’s blog, here. If you want to commission one of her clocks, go to Once Upon a Clock (worth it just to be hypnotised by the ticking and the turning). Thank you Rima, I’ll treasure this forever.

Elsewhere:

Another artist whose work I love (and some of whose products I use) is Teesha Moore. I recently found her channel on YouTube, here, which has some great practical instructions on visual journalling, showcasing her unique style.

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I was really struck by this post by Sunrise Sister at Mind Sieve a few days ago. It’s a moving exploration of how families can be reluctant to share grief, and the way in which that can prevent proper grieving.

There were echoes for me in Sunrise Sister’s observation that her family was “very logical in its handling of death”. My family and I have certainly leaned toward the stiff upper lip in dealing with our bereavements.

And you know, I think that approach has been absolutely right for me.

Death is certainly in a strange place right now in our society. It’s hidden and yet it’s everywhere. It’s simultaneously sentimentalised (strangers drive miles to place flowers and soft toys on the spot a child died in a car accident they heard about on the news), taken for granted (do we even flinch any more when we hear about the latest car bomb in Pakistan?), and regarded as an affront against the omnipotence of humanity (there’s huge pressure to “fight” death, even when it’s time to let go; we don’t die, we “pass away” after a “brave battle”).

So how do we deal with bereavement and grief when they hit our own lives?

I certainly don’t think we should attempt to hide our losses. Sunrise Sister and some of those commenting have suffered after being prevented from visiting dying loved ones. The planning and attending of funerals can be healing as well as intensely difficult. Many people overprotect children and young teenagers, shielding them from death and grief, which only has the effect of making death something frightening and mysterious, not a natural part of life.

And I also think we have to grieve in a way that’s right for us. A close male relative of mine asked the family not to attend the funeral of his son, who had been killed in an accident. We’ve never discussed it, but my suspicion is he simply couldn’t cope with the burden of our grief in addition to his own. I really understand that.

It seems to me the emotional pendulum is swinging too far. There’s a growing pressure to be too open with our emotions. Almost a feeling, probably fuelled by the Oprah generation, that if we’re not sobbing in public we  are not properly grieving. (I do understand that’s not what’s under discussion at Mind Sieve.)

At the deaths of my father, my mother, my aunt, my brother, I haven’t hidden my tears from my family, but I haven’t made any effort to share them. We’ve known we’re grieving, there’s been no need to speak of it. My mother’s dry face at my father’s funeral embodied a universe of tenderness and sorrow. Personally, I’ve used writing  (occasionally publicly in this blog) and art to express something of the hole blown in our hearts when someone we love dies.

So here I am wondering what the point of this post is? What am I trying to say? Perhaps that grieving is a lonely and lengthy process which eventually leads to healing, and I’m not convinced there is any authentic way of sharing this solitary journey on a deeply personal level.

What do you think?

Image by Sir Mervs

Elsewhere:

Perhaps, though, my preference for lonely grieving is simply laziness – Rebecca has a really good post here about the temptations of solitude and the lessons of community. And The Feminist Shepherd quotes Emily Dickinson talking of our “etiquettes and embarrasments”.

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It’s full moon dreamboard time again, hosted by Jamie Ridler.

This lunar month is the full frost moon. Jamie suggests we look back at our hopes for this year and what we may still bring to birth during this final period.

My “word” for this year is heart. You can read about it here. All year, I’ve been filling my heart with reflections, with friendship, with images, with music, with ideas, with stories, poems and prayers. Like a hibernating animal I’m ready for the frosts of winter, my heart full with fuel to warm me through the cold. I’m ready to sink into a darker, more introspective place.

Somewhere behind my eyes I see our ancestors darkly gathered around fire against the cold. They sing their stories, they store their food, they know not all those around the fire will see the spring.

As the dark gets longer and more profound each day, nature seems to conspire with the great night silence, part of the ancient rhythm of monastic life.

My dreamboard is above; my dream is this:

I yearn to be held in the great hands of your heart – oh let them take me now. Into them I place these fragments, my life, and you, God – spend them however you want.

Rilke, quote taken from
Seven Sacred Pauses
by Macrina Wiederkehr

Elsewhere:

Gather round the fire at Abbey of the Arts to read poems of the ancestors. And of course visit other dreamboards at Jamie’s site.

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The winter quarter of Samhain brings the gifts of restoration and renewal. As the cold weather closes in, so the soul is led to more reflective depths. It is traditionally associated with the remembrance of the ancestors, with the coming of death and the conception of new life. In the human growth cycle, Samhain corresponds to the period of old age when wisdom, freedom of spirit and clarity are experienced. Samhain is a good time to celebrate the lives of all wise elders, all those whose actions and ideas have brought resolution and peace, all holy ones whose sacrifice have brought new life and opened spiritual thresholds to all.

Caitlin Matthews
A Celtic Devotional

As I sit here on All Hallow’s Eve, awaiting the little trick or treaters, I reflect on some of those who have gone before: my grandfather, whose sacrifice was to die in the trenches of World War I like millions of his generation, never having set eyes on his new-born son; that son, my father, who led a life full of love and duty; my mother, who put aside her own ambitions to raise a family of five, including my brother, who loved intensely and who died last year; my aunt, who kept to her faith despite enormous sadness, and who died of cancer bravely and matter-of-factly.

I remember also the 25,000 people, mostly children, who have died of hunger today. And all those unknown voices who scream to us from the memory of the Holocaust, the voices suddenly silenced on the 9th September 2001 and in other terrorist attacks, the Rwandan genocide, those who have died in Darfur, martyrs of many faiths, including victims of the inquisition and the crusades, and so many other victims of genocide, war and hatred.

Perhaps it’s not inappropriate today to remember especially all the women, and many men, tortured and killed as witches during the “burning times” – the witch-hunts that took place across Europe around the 15th and 16th centuries.

I’m thankful that today my pagan friends are free to practice as they wish, although this is far from the case everywhere.

The photograph above is of a memorial to those persecuted in the Salem Witch Trials in the 1690s. The words on the doll read:

Hatred and prejudice now banished
Let love reside
Across the veil of time our ancestors call
We are still wise ones through it all

Who do you honour today?

Image by bowtoo

Elsewhere:

Let’s listen to The Elders we have still with us, that formidable group of leaders brought together by Nelson Mandela. And tomorrow, on Dia de los Muertos, check in with the shrines that will be appearing on Susanna’s Dia de Bloglandia page.

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It’s Wishcasting Wednesday at Jamie Ridler Studios and we’re encouraged to wish for a treat.

Oh, how can this be? I’ve been ruminating on this one for hours and I cannot think of a treat to wish for. How do you define treat? To my mind it’s something reasonably small but a bit luxurious and out of the every day run of things. And by virtue of having to wish for it, something you can’t easily get for yourself. But what?

Food? Nah, nothing that takes my fancy. A nice pedicure? Nah, don’t like people touching my feet. Listen to some music? Well OK, but I can do that any time, it’s not a treat. Revel in a trashy TV program? All I need to do is go flip the on switch. Read the latest Patricia Cornwell? I am.

OK, the treat I wish for is not to feel so jaded about everything and regain that childlike specialness that sees almost everything as a treat.

Image by pinksherbet

Elsewhere:

Go check out all the other Wednesday Wishes at Jamie’s place.

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(This post’s for you, BM!)

In the week since I’ve come back from Ireland, I’ve started a new job and been on a Benedictine Oblate weekend at Turvey Abbey. Quite an unaccustomed whirl for me lately!  Now I’ve had time to collect my thoughts and a few photographs of the Irish trip, here’s what I loved.

The journey

The train journey, speeding through England, the moment when the trackside road signs became bilingual and I knew I was in Wales. Cutting through North Wales towards the coast, beautiful ruined castles clinging to mountainsides contrasting with tawdry caravan parks.

Boarding the ferry. I was so excited about going across the Irish Sea for the first time to the land of my ancestors (well some of them at least, I’m a bit of a mongrel).  I found the open deck at the top of the ship and shivered there for the last hour of the journey. That moment of excitement when the clouds on the horizon resolved themselves unmistakeably into land (the photograph above). The feeling that we were standing still and the land was moving towards us.

Dublin

Greeting Kayce (Lucy) at Dublin airport and eating a totally delicious brunch together at the Elephant and Castle in Dublin’s Temple Bar, just down the road from our hotel. Catching up as if we were sitting casually in a neighbourhood cafe together rather than having travelled across continents to meet again.

A day of culture (the Chester Beatty Library) and cheesy tourist stuff (an open-top bus tour, where we briefly befriended a fellow-traveller, from Fairbanks, Alaska). Our first pint of Guinness.

Back to Dublin airport the next day for a replay of the opening scenes to Love Actually, greeting Christine as she flew in from Vienna. She and I had never actually met, although we’ve corresponded and read each other’s blogs for ages. Within minutes that didn’t matter at all.

Driving off into the wild in our hired silver Jeep Sport Wrangler, Kayce at the wheel.

A man from Sligo once told me that when he was young, people went out rambling. “The route they took depended on which way the wind was blowing, tidbits of stories of who was visiting from outside the area, the way your feet met the path you were on. Going left or right depended on which foot your weight was on when you came to the crossroad.”

Patricia Monaghan
The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog

Kilkenny

The sheer friendliness of the people we met, including the car park attendant in the medieval city of Kilkenny, who took ages showing us round and recommending somewhere to stay (that’s after he’d finished laughing at the size of the Jeep – I suppose it was big!).

It was through his good offices that we found the gorgeous Butler Court Guesthouse, run by Yvonne with help from her husband John and the dog Bob. A converted carriage house and stables, the rooms are comfortable and airy. You can see a photograph of the courtyard gardens above, a great place to sit and eat breakfast on a sunny day. I would recommend it to anyone.

We stayed in Kilkenny long enough to enjoy the castle (left), local arts and crafts and gardens, and to eat a delicious, inexpensive meal in Bollard’s Bar, where the waitress was incredibly attentive.

(I for one spent a lot of time comparing the rudeness and meanness of the English notion of service very unfavourably with what we found in Ireland.)

Wicklow

The next day, having been seen off by our car park attendant friend, who was still amused by us, we drove up through Hollywood (no, not that one) and into the Wicklow mountains.

Now here was the country I’d dreamed of.

The sheer grandeur and incredible antiquity of the land made me think of something else from Red Haired Girl from the Bog, which was my reading material during our trip:

Ireland is still what novelist Edna O’Brien calls a “pagan place.” But that paganism does not conflict with a devout Catholicism that embraces and absorbs it, in a way that can seem mysterious, even heretical, elsewhere. In Ireland, Christianity arrived without lions and gladiators, survived without autos-da-fé and Inquisitions. The old ways were seamlessly bonded to the new, so that ancient rituals continued, ancient divinities became saints, ancient holy sites were maintained just as they had been for generations and generations.

Patricia Monaghan

Going home

Our last night was spent in Wicklow town itself, and then it was time for us all to go our different ways, me back to England, Kayce and Christine on to their pilgrimage to Glendalough.

We parted in Dublin, where we’d met, and I was sad to hug my friends goodbye.

On the ferry back, I had a moment of clarity which I’ll always treasure. The ship was far more crowded than on the way out. The sea was choppy and I was feeling a little sick. There were screaming children running around, people drinking, a few of them behaving boorishly. And then, sitting on a tacky red vinyl bench among the detritus of unpleasant cheap food and plastic rubbish, I was somehow given to realise that everyone on that ship shared a common humanity. That despite everything, we also all shared a spark of divinity.

It’s difficult to describe such moments without sounding trite, isn’t it, but I carried that realisation about the human family with me all the rest of the way home.

May the hearth be gladdened
by the laughter of children
by the kinship of clan
by the wisdom of elders
by the memory of souls passing
by the joy of souls yet to be born
No word or thought to darken the day
No remembrance or sorrow to trammel the night
But sun, moon and stars to brighten the gathering,
Songs, smiles and stories to share their delight.

Caitlin Matthews
A Celtic Devotional

I didn’t have nearly long enough there, I have to go back.

Photographs mine, click on the image to see it larger

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After nearly six glorious months of not working (apart from the occasional workshop and a bit of coaching), I’ve undertaken a six-month part-time human resources consultancy gig, which I started this week.

I’ve been asking myself “well what have I done, what have I learned” during my time out. At first, I was quite despondent. The lack of external structure to my days has made many of them feel wasted, opportunities missed. I’ve been undisciplined about many things.

Then I reminded myself that these months were to be about “being”, not “doing”. I realised I have a body and mind no longer weary, that shapes are coming into focus gradually of new understandings found, new imaginings almost within reach.

I think sometimes we need to take things slowly, we need to be gentle with ourselves, and as I’m finding it is only by looking backwards and reflecting that we see our journey has changed us subtly, we are not in the same place we started.

I feel… well actually I feel more, I feel more open emotionally, more sympathetic to others, less judgemental. Don’t worry, I’m not about to put myself up for sainthood, but these months of inactivity have changed me, and I’m blessed to have had the opportunity.

Image by mysza831

Elsewhere:

By coincidence, a dear friend emailed me this morning a link to Fiona Robyn’s newsletter, which contained a great post about slowing down: Cornflowers and Roadkill.

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The following post is my contribution to this year’s Blog Action Day. It should have been published last Thursday while I was away but the pre-scheduled publishing I set up didn’t work!

Helpless?

If you Google the phrase “climate change”, you will get 48,000,000 hits. If you read the news over a few months, you’ll get what feel like as many different opinions: the climate is changing; no it isn’t, the planet goes through cyclical changes naturally; mankind is the cause of climate change; or not; climate change has already happened; no it hasn’t; it will be irreversible in six months, six years, 60 years, never; it’s already irreversible; it’s a problem, but science will come up with a solution, it always does.

This sort of confusion, and a certain amount of sensationalism, turns us off. It frightens us, it makes us feel helpless.

But I think we’d have to be irrationally trusting to conclude there’s nothing to worry about. We’re holding our future up to ransom.

The climate is changing

Here’s what a recent Save the Children report has to say:

The consensus on climate change is clear: it is already happening and is likely to lead to an increase in the frequency and intensity of natural disasters. It will be people in the poorest countries, especially children in those countries, who will bear the brunt of these disasters, despite having played no role in causing climate change. The resulting impact on children is likely to be dramatic.

• Malaria, currently responsible for the death of around 800,000 children under five years old in Africa each year, is set to increase.
• The number of children dying each year due to the effects of malnutrition – currently 3.5 million – is likely to increase.
• As a result of slow-onset or recurrent natural disasters, parents may feel compelled to withdraw their children from school or send them out to work.

What we can do

So what can we do? Here’s one suggestion, from the World Wildlife Fund:

We can change the way we think, and we can change the way we act. Small changes made by enough people become cumulative and are incredibly powerful.

Why not start by calculating your carbon footprint. There are lots of sites where you can do this. Here’s one.

What else can we do? Here are some concrete suggestions. They’re not new, you’ve probably heard them before. How about picking three to begin with?

• Turn off the light when you leave a room
• In winter, turn the central heating thermostat down a couple of degrees and keep warm by wearing jumpers
• Don’t leave the water running while you clean your teeth
• Don’t leave any electrical device on standby, switch it off
• Cut back on meat and dairy
• Even if you only have a window box, grow a few herbs and vegetables
• Boil only enough water for what you need
• Holiday locally and/or travel by train, fly as little as possible

Then there’s the vexed and serious question of the car. If you must run a car (I do, at the moment), there are many things you can do to mitigate the effect at least in part: plan carefully so you don’t make unnecessary journeys, keep the tyre pressure correct, drive more sedately.

Friends of the Earth have an excellent guide to practical steps we can all take, including lots of information for the driver. You can download their 50 Top Tips here.

Political action

So there are personal habits we can change. But political impact is important as well. Why not choose one of the major environmental charities and join them. Support them financially and if you can, get involved with a local group as well and actually do stuff. Write to your Member of Parliament or Congressional representative. Write to newspapers. If you’re an employee, ask your company what their policies and practices are on environmental issues.

Becoming an activist is not that difficult, and even sounds rather glamorous, n’est pas? You can download a guide here.

It’s tough but not impossible – yet

Writing this post and researching the links has been easy. Taking action is tough. But let me repeat what I said above:

Small changes made by enough people become cumulative and are incredibly powerful.

If you’ve written a Blog Action Day post, do leave me a note in the comments.

Image by asrainman

Elsewhere:

Here are some useful links:

• Guardian newspaper Climate Change Q&A
• BBC Climate Change site
• Explaining climate change to children
• Informed views and ideas from Casaubon’s Book
• Colin Beavan’s seminal blog No Impact Man

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The title of this post is Irish Gaelic for “Goodbye for now”. I shall be away for a few days, meeting not one, but two very special friends in Dublin. I look forward to catching up with the blogging world next week.

I have a post pre-written and scheduled to publish itself for Blog Action Day on Thursday. Comments are warmly welcome, but I’ll be unable to respond to them until I get back. If you want to join thousands of bloggers trying to make a difference by writing about climate change on Thursday, it’s not too late. Sign up here.

Meanwhile, slán go fóill.

Image by visualpanic

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I should begin with a declaration of disinterest: I’ve never had children and never wanted them. Although I’ve begun in the last few years to like and even love some individual children, I still find them less than pleasant en masse.

Today I read two news articles that made me wonder about people’s motivation for having families.

The first was the current journey of St Therese of Lisieux’s relics through the UK. St Therese is my patron saint, the one I was named after. If I hadn’t been born near her feast day I would have been Clare (of Assisi) instead, which I’d much have preferred, so I’ve always resented Therese a bit. And what a goody-two-shoes she always seemed to me.

It’s her family history I was thinking of today, though. Her parents, Azelie and Louis, had each separately tried to become monastics, but had been rejected for various reasons. So Azelie prayed for a large family she could consecrate to God and upon meeting and marrying Louis, set about it, having nine children, five of whom survived to adulthood. All of these surviving daughters, including Therese, eventually became nuns. Hardly surprising given the parental pressure.

Now let’s turn to the second news item, about an American Christian movement called the Quiverfulls. They take their inspiration from Psalm 126 (127):

Truly sons are a gift from the Lord
a blessing the fruit of the womb
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.

So these traditionalist Christian couples are also in favour of large families, for similar reasons to Azelie and Louis, if slightly more martial in flavour: they see their children as future leaders and spreaders of their very literal Bible beliefs. They tend to “believe in male headship – the principle, also derived from the Bible, that men should lead households”.

Isn’t this interesting? On the face of it, how could one disparage devout Christians for wanting to honour God with their families? And is there actually any non-selfish reason for having children? Apart from the biological imperative to continue the race, perhaps most parents want children as companions, for mutual love and so on.

But this feels to me different. It feels utilitarian. It feels as if these children are being born and raised not as loved individuals, but as a means to an end. What do you think?

I’ll tell you one thing though: I often long for the kind of certainty in faith families like these seem to have, even though I disagree so strongly with many aspects of their interpretations of Christianity.

Image by Trenton Schulz

Elsewhere:

If you’re interesting in finding out more about Therese of Lisieux, I  recommend Monica Furlong’s biography.

I’ve only just discovered that one of my favourite spiritual writers, Macrina Wiedekehr, has a blog called Under the Sycamore Tree. I’ve included it in my links. I love this quote in one of her posts.

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