itsjustnoteasy

Exploring…

Kylemore Lough, Co. Galway. Authors own image.

There’s something quite exciting and beautiful about exploring. Also a sense of wonder and perhaps a little bit daunting, going into the unknown.

I sometimes wish every day was an adventure to somewhere new or something new, but then I guess, if it was everyday, it would be less exciting to discover it, or would it?

I don’t like mundane. I don’t like feeling in a rut. I don’t like everything to be the same, every day, like groundhog day. I am easily bored, so need a challenge or a change of scenery or learn a new skill, whatever, to keep my mind stimulated.

Currently I am attempting to learn Spanish, French and Irish (Gaelic) via duo lingo. I would like to have some comprehension and understanding of it and speak it enough to get me by. Its not easy and there are times I think I will never grasp it.

Soon I will be turning 60, so I want to be fit and strong. As a girl, I loved gymnastics and was very nimble. So now, my challenge for this year, is to be able to do a handstand again, without using the wall and perhaps cartwheel and hand flicks too! I do not like the gym, but I want to go into the next decade, strong, lean and fit! The practice has begun and is hilarious. I know there are plenty of 60 year olds and 70 year olds who are very fit and strong, but alas, I am definitely not what I used to be……yet! Watch this space……

First attempt at handstand, against the wall…. tiktok @mamacita9788
Discovering what I can do, or attempt to do…….

I love being out doors, in nature, going for walks, checking out the beautiful scenery that mother nature provides.

I love entertaining, from time to time and having friends over.

Sometimes I love to do nothing but enjoy my own company, curl up on the sofa and watch tv, or read or write something. Today is one of those days!

I have just been away for a few days with a friend to Connemara. We stayed in Clifden for one night and although there was a weather warning for wind and rain, we were pleasantly surprised that we got sunshine!

The landscape in Connemara is just spectacular. Rugged, wild, majestic giants of mountains, hills and valleys. Turquoise and blue oceans. We were blessed.

En route back towards home we decided to stay elsewhere another night. Sligo, only an hour from where I live, seemed a good place. Luckily the hotel had a vacancy.

We arrived, freshened up, got changed and headed out into the town for a couple of drinks, a bite to eat and then back to the hotel for a cocktail. Spontaneous extra night of chatting, connecting and exploring another town and what it has to offer at night time.

I have not stayed in either Clifden nor Sligo before, though I have previously visited both places during the day.

The hotel in Clifden, The Abbeyglen Castle Hotel, just a few minutes walk from the town, was a lovely warm and welcoming hotel. A brief and entertaining history talk about the hotel, with complimentary prosecco before dinner, was a lovely touch. The dinner was delicious and the entertainment was a hoot. I would definitely stay again. In the lounge room, decked with several comfy chesterfield sofas, beautiful art work, objet d’art and complimentary sweets in glass jars, for the taking, what’s not to like! 10 out of 10 for the little touches as mentioned above and especially for the warm welcome and attentive service of the staff .

We were recommended two pubs in Sligo town. W B Yeats town, I might add! Connollys (opposite the Glasshouse hotel over the bridge) and Hargadons (on the main street). We had a drink in each. Nice old world type pubs, good atmosphere and a friendly crowd. Hargadons was also good for food, but we got there too late for that. They stop taking orders for food at 7.45 ! We got a nice fish and chips in another pub called the Harp because by now we were ravenous. Fish was delicious, nice light batter and not too greasy,then it was back to the hotel for a cocktail and bed!

We were well worn out after our couple of days travelling, exploring, nattering, eating and drinking. Over all, a great couple of days away, letting the landscape in to nourish the soul.

Painting..

when a writing prompt takes you on a journey

Writing prompt : to use these 5 words….. Antoine, impasse, century, Montparnasse, espresso……

The River

Her beauty was a picture that could not be unseen

Oblivious to his eyes, she painted so carefree

Pont neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, it stretched from east to west

For her the bright days painting, brought respite until the sun set

Cheerful in her creations the Seine was like a friend

The calming waters ran and flowed and she did not have to pretend

Just a simple girl, happy in her art

But night-time she would transform when dancing in Montmartre

And he a man of finery, a noble man no less

An 18^th century revolutionary, a pioneer, a chemist

The discovery of oxygen and the role it played in combustion

Antoine Laurent Lavoisier a scientist, a husband, a humanitarian

While pondering Yvette the river running into the Seine

His goal to make the water pure for the Paris citizens

Is where he stumbled on the bridge, stopped dead there in his tracks

This beauty was a goddess unlike his wife in Montparnasse

He stood and watched her patiently as she packed away her paints

Then slowly he approached her and asked if she could wait

Excuse-moi mademoiselle, bonjour enchanté

May I accompany you across the bridge and join me in the café

I watched you paint the river Seine, a beauty you must show

Let us sit a while, talk, and drink a small espresso

Well taken aback she was for sure by a man of such standing

To want to acquaint with the likes of her was really quite confounding

Yet obliged she did, with a little wry smile, and indulged him in his quest

They sat and talked a little while quite content to be his guest

And soon the days and weeks passed by and here they would rendezvous

There was no denying the chemistry that charged between the two

And so it was inevitable that lovers they would become

And enjoy the flesh of the other despite where she came from

Oh, noble man he was a fool so lost in love and lust

With this courtesan upon his arm as day turned to dusk

And neither one could step across the river of such divide

An impasse, then they must submit, had stalled them in their stride

And so it should be noted that a parting must be done

For she was only decent, when painting in the sun

Insomniac

When sleep eludes me

And I lay awake in the quiet of the dark Tossing this way and that way

My eyes so heavy

And an ache in my heart

I can at least take comfort in the rememberings of you

even though

The grief is the thing that tears me apart

Letter writing

Can you remember the last time you wrote or received a letter, hand written. Chose the paper, licked the envelope and stamp and popped it in the post box? if not, perhaps its time to take up the importance of letter writing again.

I remember the anticipation and excitement when the post man would walk up the drive and I hoped and wondered if any of the letters were for me.

When I was 14, there was no such thing as social media. There was letter writing and a phone plugged into the wall, or in a phone box in the village, if you needed to call anyone.

This was our means of communication back in my youth of the 70’s.

Nowadays, we have txt, email, and all platforms of social media to communicate.

Today I ran our session at a weekly writing group I attend. The theme I used was the importance of letter writing.

It is said that letter writing originated, according to the ancient historian Hellanicus, with Atossa, the Queen of Persia. She was around 50 years old when she wrote the first letter around 500 BC. She was a woman of great influence, skilled and learned and people wanted to emulate her and become literate. She created this genre of communication which eventually formed the basis the postal service as we know it today (selectabase.co.uk).

So why, you might ask, do I think it is important? Well, it isn’t just a catalogue of events that are happening. It is a record, a hand written record, of time, place, thoughts, feelings and events. Even the handwriting itself, is a source of comfort and conversation, unlike txt.

It is personal, recognisable and often a source of joy to receive a letter, through the post, from a loved one, a friend, a partner or family member and long after the txt or email has been deleted or left in the in box, the hand written letter is a tangible document, that can be kept and stored.

I have letters that are 45 years old from friends of my youth. They are to me like treasure. Two of the writers of these letters are no longer with us, both passed young, so the letters are priceless. I run my finger over the ink. They bring me back to a time in my youth and they make me laugh. They are a source of comfort when I feel sad, they are evidence of all the antics that went on and a portrait of innocence of teenage girls. I am right back there, at that time, and I love that.

What strikes me though is nothing changes. The same trials and tribulations and angst we felt as teenagers, is felt by teenagers today.

I have a couple of books which I referenced in the group. One was ‘Love Letters of the Great War’. What was surprising about some of the letters contained in that book, was the positivity written. One talked of the lovely sunrise, the smell of lavender, the dew on the leaves shining like diamonds. I thought how sweet to write such positive things, during such a terrible event, so that his wife could feel comfort. What a treasure, that hand written letter must have meant to her.

The other book I referenced was ’84 Charing Cross Road’. This book, set from 1949, contains all the letters from Helene Hanff, a writer in New York to Frank Doel bookseller of Marks and Co Antiquarian book shop in London. The friendship which developed between the two and other staff members is fabulous. So much so that there were exchanges of Christmas packages, birthday gifts and even food parcels, due to food shortages in Britain after the war.

Both are books I would recommend. They are wholesome and heartwarming and bring us to a place and time, that is right at the heart of the writers.

I think I like poetry because it too is often quite like writing a letter. It expresses thoughts and feelings especially to loved ones. Patrick Kavanagh’s ‘In memory of my mother’, to me is like a love letter to her, it is so poignant, so beautiful and something I can relate to, having lost my own mother last year.

Finally, another poem, described as the greatest poem composed in either Ireland or Britain by Eibhlin Dubh Ni Chonaill. She wrote a lamant about her beloved husband, Airt Ui Laoghaire, who was killed. The year was 1773. The poem is known as a caoineadh (keena) a keen, a lamant for Art O’Laoghaire.

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1712381318811033

This keen, this lament has been the inspiration of the the Book ‘A ghost in the throat‘ by Doireann Ni Ghriofa. A book that spans time and distance, yet, connects these two women in txt and became an influence in Doreann’s life.

Whether today, or tomorrow, write a letter, with your own hand, write it to a loved one, let them recognise your handwriting as is drops on the floor through the letterbox, let them delight in the news you wish to tell and let them keep this treasure, in a box, or bag, or book and let this be a way to future proof yourself in their life and beyond.

A Midnight Dreary

When love is blind, it can be hard to see the woods for the trees

Images – authors own.

Once upon a midnight dreary – inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s, The Raven – a prompt for my writing group.

Happy he was the day he wed

The girl of his dreams, ‘I do’ he said

His heart filled with love, just bursting with joy

She so quiet, reserved, coy

A spring in his step, a glint in his eye

So happy and full, it oft made him sigh

The touch of her skin, the smell of her hair

The deep blue of her eyes

He could not help, but stare

She’d walk by the lake, a gentle stride

And carrying her book, she would escape or hide

She’d sit by the tree, the large Sycamore

And sometimes she’d lay right down on the lawn

One day, early evening, as a fog did descend

He saw her talking, he thought, to her friend

On closer inspection, he saw it a man

And wondered whether, she needed some help

He then heard laughter as she threw her head back

And saw him caress her, lay his lips on her neck

A red mist grew inside him and he spotted the gun

One shot, then two and the deed was done

Into the lake, he sailed her away

And night after night, he replayed that day

And once upon a midnight dreary

He swore he heard her sweet voice so clearly

Repeating a word, he could not make out

Until closer it got, until it was loud

‘Murderer, murderer, I’ll curse you for life

For my life had ended when you made me your wife!

My Mother …

Mother – The matriarch, a woman, a parent, a friend…. A person like no other….

mother, child, matriarch, friend….

It has been a year since my mother died

And when I think of her, which is every day, several times

As much as I mourn her passing, it brings to mind, her living

Her living past

Entwined with mine

Memories from childhood

A time, for example, when she lay out a new dress upon my bed, as a surprise for me

because that morning, I cried when she put my hair in a ponytail, and I didn’t like it in a ponytail,

‘I look like a boy’ I cried, I was 7 years old

I think of the time I tried to cycle my brothers bike out the gate and it was a bit too big for me

I wobbled on its frame and my little hands on the handlebars wobbled it this way and that

Until I fell off and she came running to help me up

I cried, first with the pain, then with laughter, and she cried with me and we were both in hysterics, laughing. I was 8 years old.

I think of the time when I was 9 years old and I fell in the canal. I could not swim. I was terrified she would find out

She did, of course, mothers always find out!

She hugged me tight because she knew I was alright, unlike her brother who had drowned when he was only 14 years old

I saw the pain and relief in her face and I knew then, I would learn to swim and not mess about the next time I had a swimming lesson at school.

I think of her laughter, her smiling eyes and the way they would light up

Her joy and excitement as I brought my own children into the world

Her love, her kindness and her generosity

I think too, of times when we would disagree and fight

Of how we would overcome the obstacles and begin again

I think of her courage at learning to drive in her late 50s and passing her test first time

I think of her learning to paint when she couldn’t even draw, and produce wonderful pieces of art, which hang on my walls

I think of her sacrifices to keep house and home together, when she could have been free

I think of her garden and how she nurtured it and brought it to life

When I think of my mother, I think of her beside me and I see her face, and that makes me happy

I think that even though I know she has gone, I know too, that she is still here

my mother…. A woman of substance….

Before….

Living with grief is a way of life one has to adjust to…..but its just not easy

I think of everything in terms of ‘before’

especially when I look at photos,

or where I was on a certain day, occasion, that sort of thing.

For instance, a week before I knew, I brought the girls to see the new house.

A day before, I knew, I drove up to Sligo for a week-end of pampering

and relaxation, because he was due to have major surgery the following week.

The next day would become the ‘day I knew’.

It was the day before I collected the keys to the new house and you were to soon come to visit.

That day, was the day that the world changed.

That was the day that became ‘before’.

Everything after this day, became dark and grew darker with each passing day.

Until 9 days later it grew so dark it was black, because now you were gone.

You were gone and we were all still here, bereft, bewildered, lost

in shock, despairing and gasping for air.

Nine days of clinging on to hope, searching and praying for a miracle,

but it wasn’t to be.

It’s almost three years now, yet everything since then, after then,

has been foggy, unstable.

The shift is like an un-anchoring of a ship, and the ship

is adrift, wading through unknown waters and somehow stays afloat,

but it’s rocky out there a lot of the time.

And when calm waters come , it give a sense of solace, for a short time.

Until the remembering slaps so sharply and slams the reality of it all

so intensely that the ship almost tips over and sinks.

Before you left, the world was so much brighter and lighter

and after? Well, I carry you in my heart, every minute of every day

The day ‘I Knew’ photo authors own – ‘waiting on the shore’ Rosses Point, Sligo

This place

I am not of this place

Nor am i of that place

Or any place

I am of a thousand pieces of dust

Gathered like a magnet, over millenia

From the stars in the skies

From fragments of the earth

And droplets from the oceans

I am merely passing through this place

Travelling through time, eternal

Greet…

Even when its not good, or happy, necessarily, we still smile and greet eachother this way……

Good morning

Good night

Good day

Goodbye

Happy go lucky

Happy ever after…….

What a disaster we think we can master

Affairs of the heart

Before the day starts

With a sentence beginning with ‘good’

When such an expression can leave an impression, misguided or misunderstood

No matter the greetings

They merely are fleeting

Neither happy nor good nor true

But still we insist that to greet one like this

Is the right and polite thing to do

When morning has broken

And sadness has spoken

At leaving the night all alone

It can feel quite lonely

Cos the night could be the only true comfort the morning had known

Goodbye’s can be painful

And even disdainful

The parting can be such a wrench

So the ‘good’ needs some context

Cos it can be quite complex

Thus, maybe it’s time to reflect…..

Who are you?

Who are you, do you know. How many versions of you are there?

‘Born free, as free as the wind blows, as free as the grass grows, born free to follow your heart…...’ (song by Matt Monro)

I heard this song today for the first time in years. I used to watch the series, when I was a little girl. It was about an American couple living in Kenya who adopted a lioness called Elsa, and they basically protect her and other animals.

What occurred to me today was that, we are not really ‘born free’. Born innocent, yes, born pure yes, born without any pre-conceived ideas – tabula rasa, perhaps.

Unlike animals, who from birth, can basically stand on their own two feet and only seek their mothers aid for nourishment and sustenance, us humans depend on our mothers/caregivers for much more, in order to survive.

Over the weeks, months and years we are steered, guided, nurtured. We are told what to do, how to do it, when to do it. We are socialized. Taught how to conform, to abide by rules and regulations. We are born into a culture that will dictate our beliefs from early on. Born into a country that will dictate our language. Born into a family that will dictate our social status, initially. We can of course veer off that path and either rise above, spiral down or remain the same.

We become what we have assimilated over the years from all of our interactions, with all of our relationships, all of our roles, role models, and all of our experiences. Mix that with our own unique personality, our strengths, our weaknesses, our beliefs, our idiosyncratic ways and we become ‘someone’.

However, do we remain that someone? or can we morph into ‘one’ ‘me-one’. Do we, as we get older change our ways, change our beliefs, do our strengths ever become our weakness and our weakness become our strength? Do our roles define us. We all have more than one role. We do not merely exist in isolation.

Are we free to change? To shake off all that we believed to be true and real. Is it OK to challenge ourselves and evolve into someone else. Same face, same body, but different mindset.

Do we owe it to ourselves to shed one skin and welcome another? Should we feel bad if we choose ‘me’ exclusively, regardless of our threads and ties to anyone else and their expectation of us? Their view of us? Their idea of who we should be?

Is there a certain time in life when we can do this, or do we just dream of doing this? Should we encourage this and bid ‘adieu’ to our old self and our old set of hand me down beliefs, morals and expectations and welcome in who we are about to become.

Many times over our lifetime, I believe, we re-invent ourselves, one way or another, question ourselves, change our minds, our opinions, our expectations and standards. What seemed important once, becomes insignificant at another time. Dancing to someone else’s tune can become laborious, wearing, and grind us down.

How many of us wish to metamorphose, like the caterpillar and fly like the butterfly and be free? Live in the moment, no demands, no expectations, wipe the slate clean and start again, with fresh eyes. Unlearn everything and relearn at our own pace, dance to our own tune, assimilate our own beliefs and step into the world a new version, whether upgraded or downgraded. Above all, true to you.

Of course, this usually comes with age. Usually when we have less time in front of us than behind us. In our quest of searching for meaning, and seeking approval, we often lose ourselves, in the everyday mundane conformity of what is expected, and we deliver.

Sometimes, though, the delivery guy, not only needs a break, but needs to change course and break free…….