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The signal for our satellite dish had been obstructed by this year’s outstanding growth on the lime tree in my neighbour’s garden.  He had cut out some branches, to no avail, and a decision had to be made, cut down the tree or move the dish to the chimney and it was my decision, said my friendly neighbour.  I chose to save the beautiful tree and have the satellite dish moved.

On Friday last, my neighbour’s brother, James, an all-round technology expert, arrived to move the dish.  Ladders were produced, tools laid out on the garden table, and the operation began.  The two brothers worked together until children had to be ferried to various locations and there was a pause of about an hour and a half in the proceedings, during which time James and I sat down for a cup of coffee and a chat.  At this stage it was also raining quite heavily and there was nothing else to do other than to remain indoors and do what Irish people do very well, tell stories.

We talked about building houses, losing money, growing up on a farm, mothers-in-law, being true to yourself, Feng Shui, ghosts, geopathic stress, water divining, astrology, nature spirits, cats, music, the passing of loved ones and finding solutions to problems by leaving them aside for a while to give the chemistry time to work, in the interval.  Intervals can be as short as the space between musical notes, or as long as it takes to grieve a loss, in each case necessary to make the music or to help us sing our song.

Without knowing anything about my past, James told me the following story. Just before his father died, he had asked James to take him to where he had been born.  He didn’t wish to go to the house as other people were now living there, but he went to a particular spot in the fields to look towards a hill which contained a graveyard.  He said to James ‘Outside the consecrated ground of the graveyard is where all the stillborn children are buried’.  James had listened respectfully to his father, and no questions were asked.  He had accepted that his father had wanted to make a return visit to where he had been born, and this observation was by-the-way.

Not long after, his father died, and at a family gathering, one of James’s aunts remarked about them being a family of eight, and James was thinking, there are only seven in my father’s family as he named all his aunts and uncles.  He questioned his aunt, and she told him that there had been a stillborn baby girl in the family.  And he then knew the reason why his father had wanted to return to this particular spot, to acknowledge his sister, and perhaps even to let her know he would be passing over soon.

In the telling of this story, I was so deeply moved, remembering my own two stillborn little girls, and my stillborn brother whom I had never known about until I had had my own experiences. The lid had been sealed on that particular box in the hearts of both my mother and my father, but thankfully, in more enlightened times, I didn’t have to lock up my grief.  However, having been dropped into these memories all out of the blue, I have been plunged into an emotional tour of my own and my parents’ disappointments and sadness, and I realise, in my own way, in order to get on with life, I respond to many situations in ways that are not congruent with what I am feeling deep inside.

James had enabled the signal to reach the satellite dish, and unconsciously unblocked my channels for essential messages to get through.  Now I can stop running away and begin living my own truth.

I haven’t made redcurrant jelly since I was giving dinner parties in the early nineties when my favourite dish to serve to my guests was a stuffed crown of lamb with redcurrant sauce.  However, when making redcurrant jelly, I have always been appalled at the amount of sugar which is used but now I know there are two wonderful herbs which can come to the rescue to reduce the amount of sugar by at least a quarter, namely, angelica and sweet cicely.

Some years ago I planted these herbs in my garden and they are just ready at this time of the year to coincide with the ripening of the summer fruits. I got my act together yesterday, combined redcurrants, sugar, sweet cicely and angelica, and have produced two pound jars of the most heavenly redcurrant jelly.

Now I want to have a party.  Anyone interested?

And here’s a photograph to whet your appetite.

Redcurrant Jelly

By way of letting you know that my auction bid was successful after all – see New Experiences post – here are some photographs.  My garden has produced a magnificent crop of redcurrants this year, and here they are first on the bush and second, on one of the Bohemian glass plates which I acquired. I hope the beautiful colours will lift your heart as much as they have done mine.

From Garden

to plate

My friend Cathy announced that she was going to contribute to me gaining some new experiences to help me discover what lay outside my present sphere of activity.  A woman of her word, she collected me last Saturday morning to attend a viewing of the contents of the country home of the late Sally Walker who, along with her husband, had been devoted to the development, care and running of their 40-acre gardens, Fernhill, in the foothills of the Dublin Mountains.  This is practically on my doorstep.  I didn’t have too far to go to step into a new world.

I had never been to either a viewing or an auction and had no idea what to expect.  Cathy was interested in a quantity of linen and lace to put to use in her 500-year-old, lovingly-restored Castle on the edge of The Burren. I was a timid observer.  As we walked around the rooms I met many people I knew, not locals, but customers from that well-known, Dublin 4 food shop, most of whom had difficulty recognising me out of mufti.

Despite many familiar faces, it took me a while to find a comfort zone, other than outside in the beautiful, naturalistic setting of the gardens with the tiniest glimpse of Dublin Bay shimmering on the horizon. And then I spied them, a pair of gilt metal and turquoise glass candlesticks hung with cut-glass drops.  I was immediately transported back to the parlour of my great-grandmother’s home in Co Armagh, the contents of which were kept under lock and key by one of my uncles who lived there on his own when I was a small child.  Each time I visited him, I would sit at his kitchen table chatting while he finished his mug of tea, home-baked bread, country butter and damson jam, after which I would request a visit to the treasure trove of antiques in the parlour.  The shutters would be folded back carefully, giving him an opportunity to open a window and air the stuffy room.  As soon as a slight breeze came through, I would hear the tinkling of the lustres on two tall vases which were placed close to the window.  It was a tender memory for me, and I just had to run my fingers gently through the lustres on Sally Walker’s candlesticks to hear that delicate sound again. Having made this connection, I experienced a feeling of sadness seeing this lady’s personal choices for her lovely home, on view to the nation, to be auctioned off and scattered the length and breadth of Ireland, and perhaps further afield, like seeds dispersed by the wind to another resting place.  But what to do when one’s affairs need to be tidied up to allow remaining family to get on with their own lives, as has happened time and again in my own family.  On reflection, I think the sadness is to do with a feeling of disconnection from my own family of origin, perhaps to be remedied in the near future now that I have more time and energy for travel.

I went to the Auction on Monday on Cathy’s behalf, ready to bid for her selected items.  Initially, I was terrified, but soon got the hang of what to do. Light-hearted banter between the auctioneer and some of his well-known clients eased my fears for my maiden voyage.  There was certainly no recession in South County Dublin on that day as many items soared past their suggested value.  Dealers came and went, knowing exactly what they were looking for, late arrivals had to be content with standing in the driveway following their catalogues and listening to the proceedings via loudspeakers. Dark clouds and heavy showers gave way to bright sunshine as newcomers were being directed to nearby fields which were opened up to accommodate the overflow.  It was going to be a long day in the country without a picnic. I plucked up the courage to leave some bids and headed home for lunch.

I may not have come home with anything to grace Cathy’s Castle, but I did return with a firm link to a special place in my heart. I am now happy to embrace future adventures in the spirit of childlike wonder.  Meanwhile, I remain firmly rooted in the present, like the pink roses and the Scots pines which had silently absorbed the bidding knowing that Sally Walker’s lifelong passion for nature and the countryside will last forever in her generous gift of the provision of an abundant habitat for the essential work of the earthworms, bees, butterflies and birds for whom there will always be a home at Fernhill.

There is a great debate on at the moment as to whether Irish as a language should remain a compulsory subject on the Irish schools’ curriculum.  Suggestions have been made to incorporate learning about Irish tradition and culture along with an introduction to the language and to drop it as a necessary subject for the Leaving Certificate.  I agree with this approach.  There are some very descriptive words and phrases in the Irish language which give us a sense of connection to the spiritual world, help us to respect the God in everyone, and which make us aware that unity gives all a chance to prosper.

One such word is meitheal which captures beautifully the essence of a whole endeavour.  It means a gang of workmen, or a band of reapers, and has been applied, in the past, to the co-operative nature of bringing in the harvest when all hands gathered to help each farmer complete the cycle of sowing and reaping.

A couple of years’ ago, I found myself in the midst of a modern-day meitheal.  It was a summer evening, and I had called to one of my best friends with a wedding gift for her daughter and husband-to-be.  They had just begun to put together the sheets for the Order of Service, surrounded by pieces of card of varying sizes to be assembled, scissors, doubled-sided tape and ribbon.  The young couple wanted to go out to spend their last evening together before their faithful commitment the next day.  We looked at the clock and decided that the only way to complete the job in order for everyone to be satisfied was to form a very creative production line.  It was extremely interesting how we all fell into doing the jobs that each of us could do best, we laughed and chatted, shared scissors, spilled coffee, drank tea, stroked the cat, and the cards were finished in an hour and a half.  Everyone was smiling.

Today, we are being urged by ecologists to change our relationships towards ourselves, others and our planet Earth in order to invite back the fragmented parts of ourselves and help weave a more sustainable way of living for all.  Words like meitheal could be an essential component of this rich tapestry.

Last week some family and friends called to my home to find out what they could do to help as my back had finally told me in no uncertain terms that I hadn’t heeded my own words (see Crossroads blog) and it has produced enough pain and attendant tiredness to keep me away from work for several weeks.

Each visit had necessitated a perusal of the bottom half of my kitchen dresser. One friend wanted to retrieve sugar for her coffee while another was looking for space for some of the shopping she had done for me for the weekend. I was so deeply embarrassed by the mess therein that I decided to clean it out once I was more mobile and flexible. On so doing, in amongst spilled flour and dried pasta, etc, I discovered some angelica which I had candied (without the green dye) about 3 years’ ago. While it didn’t look the best, it had still retained some of its sweet, musky, seductive flavour and I have been nibbling happily on it ever since.

Now that the seeds from the original plant have produced four new angelica plants, I can get to work again, putting it to better use than reclining in an untidy store cupboard. According to food writer, Sophie Grigson, ‘its Latin name, angel of the archangel, derives, according to one source, from a dream in which an angel announced that an infusion of angelica would halt the spread of plague’. Well, if it can do that successfully, maybe, just maybe, it can hit the sore spot, and help with the healing of my back.

I also found a kilner jar of apricot and nettle wine which I had made as a Spring tonic around the same time as the candying of the angelica. On sampling, I was surprised that it tasted far better than when it was first made. Evil warded off and blood purified, what next but a big thank you to all my family, friends and neighbours who offered their support in the last week and who continue to keep in touch. I am very grateful for your love, kindness and friendship.

I switched on the light
In the darkened room of my existence.
Powerful, life-enhancing words tumbled forth,
Cascading like a refreshing, mountainside waterfall,
To cleanse my emotional wasteland.
Negativity dissolved like a soluble substance
On the tongue of my speaking,
Translating into a new language
For the expression
Of the progression
Of my awareness.

On Saturday morning, 1st of May, I received a phone call from Ben to ask if his friend had come in to pay for his groceries as he hadn’t had the money a few weeks’ ago. It had amounted to 6 euros and 10 cents and he wanted to be reassured that it had been paid in full. I put his mind at rest. His friend had called the previous day to settle up.

Then he enquired about our latest grandchild and said he had intended to buy a card to welcome the new baby. He would do it the next time he was passing on his way to an AA meeting which is accommodated in the grounds of our local church.

Next, he asked ‘Do you know where I am this morning?’ Many ideas rushed through my head as to where this honest, homeless man might have spent the night. Down by the riverbank, in a shop doorway, in an abandoned car, in a covered park bandstand, or perhaps even in a shelter for the homeless?

‘I am in Ranelagh Park, listening to the birds singing. I wish I knew more about the birds, their names, how to identify them. It is beautiful here’, he told me. I suggested that for this morning he could sit and receive their birdsong. He could come to know the birds through their singing first, and then he could start putting names on them. He said he would do just that, wished me a ‘God Bless’, and that he would wave in to me on his way to the AA meeting at 11am.

Ben is bent almost in half, unsteady on his feet, and is frequently bleeding and drooling through and over skin that hasn’t been washed for a long time. When I don’t see him for a few months, I wonder has he passed on, and then unexpectedly I will glimpse his misshapen figure weaving unsteadily through the traffic and I smile with happiness while other motorists are stopped in their tracks to allow him safe passage. Another day has woken up to receive a man who doesn’t whinge about the weather, the effects of the recession/credit crunch, global warming or cooling, or the price of the tahini, water and rye crackers which he buys for his picnic. His days are perfect, and so are yours, and so are mine.

I am seeing the Spring blossoms

as I have never seen them before,
pink
white
caressing my perceiving,
my senses invited
to Nature’s wedding reception,
the blossoms a love-infused bride,
the trunk an elegant groom.
We are all privileged guests
of this natural union,
silently listening
as the branches
and leaves
whisper their applause.
Let’s catch this bouquet
of abundant flowering,
sharing in a simple gift
of Nature.

I wrote this poem the Winter before last, while sensing the presence of my late partner in the first glimpse of morning

CONNECTED BY BEAUTY

Dearest One,
You passed my bedroom window
In the flight of a winter bird,
The lightest whisper
Across my immediate landscape,
Your shape described
By a swift, speckled-brown movement.

Snowflakes fall
Making fresh music with the air
Forming a delicate dance,
Some ushered by the wind
To a skater’s glide,
Others parachuting
In a patterned freedom.

Nature is offering
Her magical surprises,
Partnering my awareness
With a palette of love.
Connected by Beauty
I take your hand
For this heavenly, morning waltz.