Tag: #writing

December….

Photo by Bich Tran on Pexels.com

“How did it get so late, so soon”? Dr. Seuss

It’s almost upon us….December. Never mind that very special person with a beard and red suit, who comes bearing gifts and leaves them under the tree for all the ‘good’ children, it is also almost the end of another year!

So what did you do this year? Was it hectic, was it fulfilled, was it the same as any other year? Were you in the doldrums, did you realise your dreams, edge closer to your dreams, change direction? Did you endure it with sadness and lose someone significant? Questions, questions, questions!

My year began with deciding to go house hunting in the sun for a holiday home. Having lost both parents in the previous two years, one after the other, my brothers and I shared the proceeds from the sale of their house, our family home. It was a difficult time, but we had to be practical.

I am usually so bad with money, in one hand and out the other, like sand falling hurriedly through my fingers. I really didn’t want to squander what my parents had worked so hard for, and so, the search for a holiday home in the sun began.

By April I had picked up the keys to my place in the sun in Spain and have managed to go there 4 or 5 times since then. For that I have been very grateful (especially to my boss, who has let me have flexi time at work) and of course to my parents, whom I think they would approve of how I spent ‘their money’.

I managed to slip and bash my head whilst in Spain, which required 4 staples and a night in hospital. Thank God no lasting damage…. it could have been a lot worse! It was also a bit of a wake up call.

I visited there with my brother on one occasion and my grandchildren on another. I also visited with one of my friends. I was happy to share this new ‘home’ with them and let them imagine me there should I ever leave Ireland.

Each time I went to Spain I wanted to stay longer and longer and longer. So much so that now, as this year is drawing to a close, I have put my house up for sale, with a view to going to my place in the sun and then deciding, ‘what next’.

Travel has always been on my bucket list. I want to go to places I have never been, if only for a short time, few weeks, few months, longer if possible. Travel without worrying about having to go to work. To just do what I can do with the means that I have.

Impulsive by nature and not one for sitting still for too long I think, ‘what’s the worst that can happen’? With each year rolling quicker and quicker into the next, losing loved ones along the way, good friends and family, it is a stark reminder of how quickly time flies and how precious life is.

I also turned 60 this year so realise there is a lot less time ahead of me that what has gone before. With that in mind I want to take the bull by the horns and try something new….. again.

Is that selfish, is it reckless, is it foolish or is it brave. Maybe it is all of the above! I can only live my life. No one can live it for me, so on that basis, I should just bite the bullet and give it a go…… once my house here actually sells that is!

However, there is a caveat to that. I change my mind like the weather. I drive myself nuts with all my different ideas and plans, but at least, I have ideas and plans and that is what matters isn’t it? To keep thinking, hoping, dreaming, planning and then ‘doing. If we don’t try, nothing changes right?

I moved to this current house 4 years ago. A lovely house in a lovely part of the country. During that 4 years I have grieved 3 very significant people. Started a new job where I currently still work and couldn’t ask for a nicer boss who also became my very good friend. Met several really nice people in my neighbourhood and joined two writing groups where we meet once a week.

I have been welcomed here and made to feel ‘part of the tribe’. People I would never have met, if I hadn’t made the move. I wonder then, who and what is waiting for me in my next move? That is what fills me with excitement and a strong sense of curiosity.

In the words of Anais nin “life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage”

So, here’s to another, almost, end of a year and hopefully an exciting new year ahead with new adventures!

Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

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.