How heavy is the wind

A strange thing happened.

I was jogging up to Phibsborough when I heard a woman call, “excuse me, excuse me” from the doorway of her home.  At first, I thought she was calling someone else, but I quickly realised it was my assistance she was after, so I crossed over the road to help her.

I didn’t want to help her.

I wanted to do my 5 km jog and return home to a hot shower, warm tea and toast with butter and marmalade.  The moon was still sitting perfectly in a blue sky, and I wanted to enjoy the run without interruptions or disturbances.

When she saw me jogging towards her, she said, “ah, there you are now,” as if this were a pre-arranged appointment that I was late for.  She was having difficulty pulling her shopping trolley out of the doorway and onto the pavement, so I tried to help her manoeuvre it, while she wandered back inside her home.

The shopping trolley was made of grey and black plaid material.  The leather pouch on top was battered and torn, and the handle worn down from years of use.  I stood next to the trolley, waiting for her to come back outside, and I noticed that I was quite cold in just my shorts and T-shirt so I said, “I don’t think I can stay very long, you see I’m in the middle of a jog!” 

She came back outside and locked her door, pushed the trolley into the main section of the street, and held onto my arm for balance.

“You can help me up to the shops for my messages” she told me and so I nodded and said, “OK then”.

We walked at glacial speed towards the shopping centre, and I felt more disagreeable, irritable, and grumpy with every slow step.  If only I’d ignored her calls, if only I’d kept on running, if only I’d started my run a few minutes earlier.  I didn’t want to be the human walking stick for this elderly woman, and I felt put upon, annoyed and cross.

We started to talk and soon discovered that we shared an interest in the litter problems of the north inner city.  I told her that I regularly do a two-minute-street clean as a volunteer and she told me that was a “total waste of time”.  Her solution to the problem was more incarceration, a specific type of military service, and the highest fines that could be issued.

Oh, I don’t like this miserable old woman, I said to myself several times as we walked, I don’t like her at all.

Finally, we reached the shops. 

I asked her which shop she wanted to be deposited in, and she told me the Off Licence.  This surprised me, and stopped the trajectory of my thinking.  She was no longer a miserable, elderly person, but perhaps an eccentric, funny, lively old thing!  This transition made me want to be her friend.  I wanted to be a benevolent, helpful, and kind person in her life, who might visit regularly to hear all her anecdotes over tea.  If only I knew what type of alcohol she was going to buy, as this information was needed for the conclusion.  If she bought four cans of cheap cider, then that would be a lonesome ending.  However, if she were to buy gin, vodka, or champagne, she could indeed be a funny old character whom everyone would love. 

The choice of booze would confirm it.

When we reached the doorway of the Off Licence, she dismissed me without fuss.  She said, “one of the girls will take me back” and I looked over to the member of staff at the cash register, who smiled warmly and said, “morning Rita, what can I get for you, the usual is it?”

I was superfluous to her tale.

I said, “bye Rita, it was lovely talking to you,” trying to cement our friendship, but she didn’t look back.  I jogged off into the distance and Rita carried on with her adventure.

The next day, in another part of Dublin, another woman called, Gabrielle Ní Challaráin, was on the radio talking about Omicron.  The emotion of this exhausted health worker stormed through the sound waves with terrific strength.  Gabrielle said Omicron was the direct result of our refusal to vaccinate the world.  She said that we all deserved everything the climate was going to throw at us if we were this morally bankrupt. She sounded fed up and angry and she wondered how much longer she and her colleagues could continue.

She started to cry on air. 

I was surprised, because we don’t usually see or hear people cry on air.  Sometimes we notice the tears of the bereaved, the mourners and the grievers, but hardly ever from the commentators, leaders, governors or those who give us the news.

It sounded unusual and out of place, but comforting. 

As if she were giving us all permission to weep.

Crying in a time of a pandemic is appropriate for us. 

We should all cry, frequently and with gusto! 

Cry for pain and sadness, anger, and worry.  Cry at how surreal it still is, week after week, month after month, (and later this month), year after year.

Let’s all cry and howl at the new moon together. 

Let’s comfort one another and see for ourselves how heavy is the wind.  Let’s grieve and be sad, sleep and be quiet.  Rest in this dark mid-winter, rest, recuperate, rest and be well.

How heavy indeed is the wind.