Category: Family

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.

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

International Women’s Day

Are we Idealists or realists? We are women, we are fighters and survivors. If we have support each other and stand together, we can achieve anything!

Photo – authors own – A house of women…. Supporting & advocating for one another……

How do we empower. How do we motivate. How do we succeed in being equal?

We first of all must observe. Then we must teach, then we must learn. Women can learn from other women not just from the inequality from men.

The teaching, observing and learning must start in the home. If we have great mentors, advocates, ambassadors within the home, to build us up, make us strong, motivate us, be a role model for us, then we are off to a good start.

Even if, in the home, we see something we do not like, do not agree with, think is not right, we must learn from it,challenge it and take that ‘education’ of it outside of the home.

Take our knowledge, our beliefs our motivations, our voice and strength with us, into the world, and use it as our toolkit. We can keep adding to the toolkit, each time we feel inequality and injustice, is staring us in the face. We must reach into our bag of tools, stare right back at inequality and challenge it.

Seek out like minded people. Seek out your tribe. Help each other out. Build each other up and most of all, be there in the wings, having each others back whenever we get knocked down. Then get up again, build again, stand firm again.

The only way to succeed at anything, is to keep on trying.

From the oldest to the youngest and the youngest to the oldest a flow of ideas, ideals, experiences  and perspectives will surface. From female to female, female to male and male to female, there will of course be differences of opinion, power struggles, ideas and idealism. However, the key to be heard, is not power, but persuasion, respect, open mindedness and fairness. It is only then, that we strive for parity.

Happy International women’s day…keep on going… 

FATHER CHRISTMAS

No, not ready,  not this Christmas  day, give me a place to hide away.  Christmas,  its roots carved out of religion, with family at the heart  and etched in tradition

From childhood memories of excitement and wonder, tipping downstairs, skipping steps with my brothers..

‘He’s been, he’s been’, we’d exclaim with such joy, unwrapping and passing the games and new toys.

And mum would be there, a smile on her face, excited for us as we danced and embraced, eachother, our gifts,  scalextrix and dolls and dad would come in and join in the fun 

The house, it was happy on each Christmas  morn,  and father Christmas so brilliant for bringing such fun.

And mum would be busy preparing our feast, the kitchen awash with all sorts of treats…. the turkey the stuffing, she’d make it from scratch, the tastes and the flavours could never be matched.

We’d sit round the table, a family of 5…grateful and thankful what the lord had provided.  

The choir hymns  still ringing from the midnight  mass, and i’d sit in pure wonder at all that we had

For santa, he was, the father of christmas for sure, bringing peace and good will to our family’s door.

Back then we were ignorant to the true full facts, that Christmas wouldnt happen without mum and dad.

What happiness they brought with sacrifices made and now how I’ll miss  them on this Christmas day

So no, not now, not ready just yet, I’ll leave santa to the chrildren, so they wont forget, the joy and the treasure and the gift of it all the christmas, the magic, so they can recall

How special and awesome their own mothers are, allowing father christmas to capture their their sweet precious hearts.

For the mothers and fathers gone home to the lord, we’ll love you and miss you on this christmas morn…..

Every Picture…..

When does the virtual world cross paths with our real world,? I think, more often than we care to think.

At my mother’s house, I came across some old photos, of me, my brothers, mum, dad and many other family members.

As I flicked through them, it brought back so many memories. Good ones, sad ones, fun ones and cringe ones and plenty in between.

It occurred to me though, as I looked at some of the old ones of me, and some of the most recent ones, that my smile was not reflective of how I was actually feeling at the time that the snap was taken.

In the world of social media which we now live in, we often give out about people living in a virtual reality, only posting positive photos, lifestyles etc. I am one of those people.

I post my life on social media…… well, in the main, the perception of my positive life. I mainly post my photos because I once had my camera stolen with 5 weeks worth of holiday snaps on it, of my children and I. I was heartbroken, so from then on, I upload to facebook, to preserve the moment!

The thing is, we are all probably guilty of living or portraying a virtual reality ,pre and post social media.

In the collage of me above, at different ages and stages of my life, my smile seems almost the same giving the impression that I am happy, yet my reality of when some of the pictures were taken, couldn’t be further from the truth.

There was loss, significant loss in some of the photo’s, a miscarriage, a marital separation and the most recent being taken 11 days after my mother died.

Every day we go about our business, we smile and we say we are ‘doing fine’. For the most part I know I can pretend that I am fine for my ‘outside face’ but that is because it is important to have a break from it, from the sadness, the pain, hurt, grief or whatever it is that makes us ‘not fine’. We need distraction…well I do. That is how I cope.

I allow all my feelings to live in me, sometimes they consume me, they niggle at me, and I push them back and sometimes I let them break free. I do not or try not to let them define me, because each day, they are different, more intense, less intense, more manageable, more tolerable, less tolerable etc and as the days, weeks and months pass, we learn to live with our pain, our loss, our hurt and our wounds.

It is important to feel all the emotions, just as it is important to try to escape them, be distracted from them, and talk about them, even when we think we can’t, and when we can’t talk, we need to find a place, a person a friend, who we can trust enough, love enough, that we can sit in our silence or our turbulence and they will allow us to just sit…. and sit with us.

So, yes every picture really does tell a story, but it is really only the subject person, in the picture, that knows the whole story….. the rest is just a virtual reality.

“One can be the master of what one does, but never of what one feels”

Gustave Flaubert

Wisdom…..

What do you think gets better with age?

Some are born with more than others, but I feel, as we age we grow more wise.

A poem I wrote a while back for young girls/women is, I think, an example of wisdom.

This Body…

Don’t be fooled by this body
so slim and so lean
Caressing the contours
Having boys wet dreams
These arms are so strong
Though feeble they look
And the breasts are more
Worthy, than for you just to suck
These legs are so shapely, smooth and long
But will only be open for who I say, belong

Do not assume that it’s yours for the taking
This body of mine, took years in the making
It stretched and it grew, filled out and amazed
the strength that it carried in the blood and the veins
This body of mine one day will grow old
The breasts you desire will sag I am told
The legs long and shapely, may fill more with fat
I cannot be fairer or clearer than that

So do not be fooled by this body of mine
Instead you must love what is there in my mind
For there you will find the truth, I confess
The sexy, the funny, the intelligent prowess
My mind is the thing you must first desire
For my body will only, set yours on fire
And too, one day yours will fail to perform
So for me I make sure, it is you I adore
The body is nothing but bones and mere flesh
But the mind you see is where we become enmeshed
A wondrous source of beauty and wit
It’s here where the fire of desire should be lit
For it will grow sharper and lead us the way
To a future together in all that we say
The body of course, will bring pleasure and joy
But do not be fooled or distracted, dear boy
If you’re up for the challenge, then of course let’s begin
Soon we will know which one shall win
The pressure is on, you must decide
But do not no fear, there is no place to hide

©️ Caroline S. T

Humble pie…

What’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten?

The most delicious thing I have ever eaten was a variety of tastes from all the members of my family, that was sat around the table, each vying for attention, giving their opinions and each throwing in their two penneth worth and showing me how to eat my humble pie, listen, apologise and learn from my own mistakes….

This is when I knew for sure that they knew they had freedom to express their feelings and views…. Mother is not always right, even if her heart is in the right place….

Author: itsjustnoteasy

The Foreigners….

Do you ever notice how we behave in any given situation. How treat, react and respond to people and things. How, at times, we have a sense of entitlement and ownership and will do whatever is necessary to get what we want, no matter how big or small, or who we may trample on. Even the silly things, can turn us into competitive monsters!

authors own…

The shuffling, the whispers, eyes flitting, one way then the other. Hushed voices. Observing each other with the suspicion of a Russian spy, and with such curiosity that it could well lead to what happened to the cat!

Contemplation of their own moves, their own tactics. I can hear the cogs turning in their minds, even my own, guessing which one will succeed. Some look up, heavenward, some look away, trying to be nonchalant, undeterred, unaffected.

They pretend they are not playing the game, but i’ve been watching them closely. It’s easy when you’re on the other side of the fence.

Human behaviour…. Sure don’t we think we are civilised, superior, dignified and righteous? At times we are. Just see how we meet and greet our neighbour, the local shop keeper, the milkman, the priest. Look at the great deeds some do for others. So caring, so selfless, so civilised.

But, put us amongst the different nations, put us in a different country, a hot country. A hot country with a pool! Well, civilisation is at it’s finest….There, early in the morning the queue forms. People waiting anxiously for the man with the key. They are beginning to twitch and sweat under the heat of the sun and the weight of their towels, their many, many, many towels, which they are going to relieve themselves of when they lay claim to THEIR sun loungers, poolside, shade side, sunny side.

Just where the hell is the man with the key to the door, the door to paradise, the key to the sacred sun lounger area beside the pool?

Ahhhh, here he comes, eyeing the growing crowd, he slows his step and looks at them with confusion, fear, horror! They inch even closer to the gate, muttering and mumbling, elbows at the ready to nudge their neighbour out of the way, trample on them if they must, in the stampede that is about to erupt…

But, key man, the keeper of their focus and desire stands there bemused, confused, belwidered, not knowing what to do next. The energy is electric, the tension is palpable but like any brave solder, he ploughs through the malevolent crowd, makes his way to the front, unscathed and watches, in jubilent amazement and wonder at the idiotic, half-witted behaviour of the foreigners……

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com