Shorter than me

Author: Ruth Powell

  • Everybody’s Having Fun

    Once a year, the Sun God demands a sacrifice, on the morning of the winter solstice, of three young maidens.  They are to wade into the cold water, and give of themselves freely, so that the rains can be secured for next spring.

    There were no fine, young maidens around yesterday morning, so Julia, Teresa and I threw ourselves into the Irish sea at 8.28am, in time for sunrise.  The Irish Sea quickly spat us back out again, as the sacrifice was unwanted.

    The three of us have been sea-swimming every weekend, from April until the shortest day, for five seasons and we have a very strong safety record.  Many a time we’ve abandoned a swim at the 40 Foot if it’s too wild, and we only ever swim at Vico on the calmest of days.  We only swim when there are others in the sea, and when our capabilities match the conditions.  We swim when it feels right.

    Yesterday, it didn’t feel right. 

    The wind and tide were low, but there was a very strong swell, which made it challenging to walk down the stone steps, into the sea.  More importantly, while there were lots of spectators, sitting on the rocks to enjoy the sunrise, there was only one other swimmer in the water.

    A random stranger took charge of us and began to give instructions.  We should go in via the side steps, we should time our entry and exit well, we should be careful and watch the high waves.  All of this was interesting and potentially helpful information, had we paid any head to him.

    Instead, what followed was a spectacular 90 seconds of seriously unhinged chaos.

    Julia was the first one to get battered into the railings, but undeterred she did a 360 turn around, caught her breath, and dived headfirst into the oncoming high waves.  Teresa followed steadily, with a magnificent belly flop into the cold water.  I didn’t even get off the steps before a wave took me under, and for a while I was neither on the steps, nor off the steps, but simply under the water circling around within the swirl.  Eventually, my hand found the railing, and I popped back up again, and waved at our Stranger-Instructor to tell him everything was OK.  Teresa and Julia stayed afloat for a minute, before climbing up the ladder, back to dry land.

    The sunrise spectators were watching, in horror from the rocks, as we dived, jumped and fell into the water.  They looked like a Greek chorus who could be singing, “why did you go into the water, on such a choppy day?  Why, why, why why?” 

    And why did we?

    I blame the Internet Machine.

    The Internet Machine has made babies of us all. 

    It makes me impatient, desperate for attention, unwise and envious.  There was a part of me yesterday, that wanted to go into the water for the photo I would be able to share on my social media.  My desire for the solstice swim, pictures and all, was stronger than the inner voice telling me to go around to Sandy Cove for a calmer swim.  No one would have minded if I hadn’t swum.  Yet, this is the life we live.

    We spend more time online than offline and even our offline lives are fodder for our content.  We over-share, post for likes, offer up our secrets and private moments in exchange for attention, and we make poor decisions.

    If I have one resolution this year, it is to leave my mobile phone at home more often.  I plan to treat it like a land-line, and leave it tethered to a wall, in the corner of the living room.  I will go outside without it, like I always did, and check it for important messages a few times a day.

    This is a funny old time of year, with the darkest of days and the longest of nights, designed for sitting around a fire, listening to stories.  Yet, the busyness of Christmas is marketed for relentless commercialism, high energy social interactions and envy.  Instead of giving and receiving blessings, we can feel fatigued, bluesy and alone.

    Some people are having fun. 

    And some of them are stuck in traffic behind Chris de Burgh, waiting at airports, getting stressed by family, hungover, resentful and sad.  Some people are having a happy, joyful and hilarious time and some people are doing both things.  The Internet Machine seems to think we must be blissed out all the time, if we are to be happy when the fully rounded human being can feel happy and sad, excited and low, jealous and kind, all at the same time.

    That’s our primate condition.

    Yesterday morning in the sea, I was scared at the hairy bits and exhilarated by the beauty.  I was happy the situation didn’t escalate, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  I won’t make that mistake again, but I completely understand the pull.  I am grateful I have such wonderful friends in my life, who I can count on to laugh with, at all the times. 

    This Christmas, I wish you wisdom.

    I wish that you may discern between which political arguments you will pursue with your family this season, and which ones you will let lie at the door. 

    I wish that you buy yourself one nice gift, to unwrap on Christmas morning.

    I wish that you notice how lucky you are, to be here at this festive time.

    I wish that you enjoy the tinsel and decoration and note that they are temporary.

    I wish that you are blessed by your elders, or your Sun God, or your Santa, and that they thank you for all you did for others throughout the year:  that you loved, comforted and supported the people in your lives, and that they did it back to you.

    Happy Christmas, and a happy new year.

  • Our Flag

    I wander among them, the fiddlers and the fishermen, the goddesses and the followers of the moon. The poets and the selkies.

    They opened the door, and I walked in.

    They promised me honey and pomegranate and we feasted and we danced. After morning tea, the older women gave me gloves and taught me how to tend the land. In another chance meeting, they showed me how to clean an ancient well. Sometimes I smile before I rest.

    I curl under our flag, and it warms me.

    It settles me when my mind wants to chase after the wind, and the rain, and the cattle, straight over the cliff’s edge and fall over into where the ships wreck on rocks underneath. Something whispers, “only follow the star that knows the way”.

    Then it admits change, “No. Better still. Only follow the star that isn’t sure which way to go yet”.

    Our flag feels like that childhood blanket, with a satin edge. Velvet from a curtain that kept the draft from the hallway. Warm silk, from imagined ball gowns, in children’s books.

    The guiding star of home.

  • Book Review:  Leaflight Moon by Monica Corish

    I first met Monica Corish in the old Irish Aid Centre at the top of O’Connell Street, Dublin, back in the summer of 2012.  She was facilitating a creative writing workshop for returned volunteer development workers, and I loved the Amherst teaching method she used, and the lovely tone and style she applied to it.  I left the workshop thinking, “that went very well”, and we started it then.

    I attended many of her workshops after that.  I went to more sessions at the Irish Aid Centre, then at the Comhlámh offices on Parliament Street and later again, online.  I met her creative partner and partner in life, the writer, Tom Sigafoos and I enjoyed learning from her.

    I always loved her poetry.

    Her beautiful, “Slow Mysteries”, (2012, Doghouse), is a sublime collection of poems about Monica’s home, “and where are you from, and who are your people?”  and Monica’s travels, both in and outside of Ireland.

    In, “And yes, the waves were sparkling”, she takes us to Donegal Bay where the sea was “the happiest bluest turquoise/ I had ever seen” to Ntarama, Rwanda to witness “our own unbearable grief/ for the loss of unbearable joy”.

    It’s testament to her skill as a writer, and creative coach that she can lead the reader safely through difficult terrain.  And it’s those guide-like ways that have come into their own in her debut novel, “Leaflight Moon” (2025, Púca Books).

    “Leaflight Moon” is a story of Sligo, Ireland in 4000 BC, when our ancient hunter gather-ancestors, met the first farmers, who cut down trees and kept their animals in cages.  It’s an extraordinary tale and it’s a wonderful story.

    At first, this period of time, might be disorientation for readers without knowledge of prehistoric landscape.  But what Monica does, and where some of her magic lies, is she treats her characters from six thousand years ago, with the same respect and dignity as she might new friends from the coffee shop, from across the street.  She assumes they have desires and fears, and she gives them voice, through her poetic prose.

    Monica describes the landscape of the time beautifully.

    “The waning-crescent Moon moved slowly through a cloudless sky.  The sea was perfectly calm, the horizon straight as a reed.  They paddled past mountains – WolfHowl – Eyrie – Blade – Boar – all leafing green and speckled white with sloe thorn”.

    Monica’s characters, who change names as they grow and learn more about the land, and their place in it, are fully capable of making mistakes, doing terrible things and learning from their tragic errors.  Monica takes the reader by the hand and whispers, “I know this is a bit unusual, but I am a storyteller and a poet, and you can trust me.  If you stay with me, I’ll show you a story as ancient as the moon”.

    Some of her characters have issues with the newcomers, and their modern ways of doing things.  Some of her characters fall in love, and experience pain, grief, sorrow and loss.

    One of the interesting aspects of the pages, is how characters can sound so reflectively modern, without us suspending our disbelief.  The assumption that they couldn’t possibly be as thoughtful as we are now, is removed, as it is their relationship with the land, the seasons, the animals and of course the moon, which leaves us lacking.

    Whoever, “us” is.

    Change is inevitable in this book and the desire for our species to adapt is essential if they, and we, are to survive.

    “Leaflight Moon” needs concentration, in a world where our concentration is sold to the highest bidder. The reader has to orientate themselves in an unfamiliar setting and Monica is there to help us.  Characters change names just as we are getting to know them, and we need to adapt if we are to keep up.  Why shouldn’t our ancient ancestors get the attention they deserve as we sit around our virtual fires and listen to the stories under night fall?

    I was lucky enough to go to the Sligo launch of “Leaflight Moon” and was delighted to meet so many alumni from Kimmage Development Studies Centre, where so many volunteer development workers studied either before, during or after their overseas work.  And of course, the Yeats Centre, where the book was launched, was full of Monica’s supporters, friends, family and other story tellers.

    I was then later delighted to hear that “Leaflight Moon” won, the Carousel Aware Prize (CAP), award for fiction and the Golden CAP for best independently published books, at the award ceremony in Chapters Bookstore, on 10 October, 2025.

    Monica is a poet, creative coach, teacher and friend and now she is a successful novelist.   She has done so much, over the years, to support other writers through her writing circles, workshops and mentoring.  Her warmth and wisdom deserve the success she is having with this book, and I hope she is enjoying every moment.

    Much love Monica,

    From Ruth, Dublin.

    You can buy copies of Leaflight Moon in Chapters Bookstore, and Books Upstairs (Dublin).

  • Time in dream aura
  • Time in dream aura

    Time in dream aura

    Time in dreams darkens now

    A veil falls over, stillness hushes the house.

    Curtains close, lights turn on, fires lit.

    Candles put in holders.

    The wet, the wind, the cold.

    Courage that it changes, like it did before.

    Not long now, not far away before the solstice brings relief.

    Turn inwards, and gently rock

    and float on late autumns’ rivers

    and let them take us, where they flow.

    We did it before and we can do it again.

    If you let your mind remember

    that evolution and eternity are not done with us yet.

    They are preparing for the sequel.

  • In autumn walking

    The falling leaf, is not the tree, not even in the river.

    Not even in the early light, nor later during dusk.

    These leaves resting here, are reminders of disappointments,

    and bookmarks for the days, they didn’t alter, when the wind changed shape.

    These leaves this side, further up the sheltered path, are soggy from their wildness.

    They didn’t know life off the branch, would be so exhilarating, vivid and short.

    under the arc, more leaves are gathered, once dried out from the fear of it.

    Fears muzzled in late night shoulder whispers, that echo, “why not?”

    And in autumn walking, also these leaves.

    Harder to see, harder to hear.

    These are the tender leaves, the gentle memory leaves, that tell of us of a time when the tree itself was tiny.

    These leaves smile.

    They are serene.

    The ancestral leaves, familial leaves, our ancient leaves.

  • Storytelling for UCDVO – “Under blue skies”

    A few weeks ago, my friend Zoe Liston invited me to a storytelling event, at University College Dublin Volunteers Overseas (UCDVO), where she works as the programme and education officer. 

    Together, with five other story tellers, and musician Seamus Hyland, we told tales about volunteering at home, and further away and I was delighted to be involved in such a beautiful event.  The other storytellers were Safia Hassan, Bulelani Mfaco, Kelvyn Fields, Jo Kennedy and Oein DeBhairduin, and I was so happy to be involved in such a caring afternoon.  The stories were recorded alongside some of the music Seamus played, and you can listen to all six here.

    Or you can read my story, “Under blue skies”, below.

    ———————————————————————————-

    Under blue skies

    People don’t always remember how beautiful Mongolia is. 

    There are snow-capped mountains that dip down into wide valleys with freshwater lakes.  Camels roam and wolves hunt under midnight moons, and the air changes shape when the seasons move.

    In those days, the city was growing as many people moved away from the countryside, towards the opportunities in the capital, Ulaanbaatar.  Young students rushed over the half-built pavements, chatting as they walked from their dormitories on the east of the city, to the universities on Sukhbaatar Square.  They studied subjects that would bring them work in the future like translation, business and computer studies.  Dreams of travelling come with price tags.

    Other people came to the city to find work.

    One couple, an older herder couple from the Gobi, couldn’t afford to stay in the countryside anymore as it was too harsh, too unpredictable.  A cousin told them they could earn money as a taxi, so they packed up everything and moved.  They drove students over Lion’s Bridge to the dormitories near the Wrestling Palace, and they drove tourists from the hotels to the train station, that would take them to Beijing or Moscow. 

    The older couple, this herder couple from the Gobi, carried all their possessions with them.  They kept bags of clothes and wooden stools and framed photographs in the boot, and on the back seat of the car, and they waited to find a new home.  He was too old to herd animals on his own.  Their children, big now and living in America, couldn’t help keep the fire burning, and so the nomads moved.

    Except he wasn’t a very good driver, and she liked to sing songs.

    His herder boots were too heavy for the silver-grey pedals of the car.  She sang songs about roaming camels and the wolves that hunted under the midnight moonlight.  She sang songs about riding horses at dawn and of making food for her children, who were now, too far away to eat it.  She sang songs about the everlasting blue skies over the steppe in Mongolia, and she sang songs about remembering.  He liked the songs about archery best of all.

    The sky was blue.

    The sky was almost always blue, when an international Volunteer waved down the car and asked the older couple to drive her to the dormitories on the east of the city, where she was renting a room.  She too, had come to the city for her work, and she directed them over the Lion’s Bridge, near the Wrestling Palace and right at the dormitories.  Volunteer hardly ever took a taxi, on her allowance of 200 dollars a month, but the river under the bridge was frozen, and conditions were treacherous.

    The woman offered Volunteer tea, from the flask, but Volunteer shook her head.  The woman ignored this and poured some lukewarm tea into a plastic cup and placed it on Volunteer’s lap.  This made Volunteer even more annoyed than she was before she got into the car, so she looked out of the window, to avoid more conversation.

    There was ice inside the windows and the car smelled of petrol.  The man’s skills at herding yaks and horses did not transfer to driving.  The man couldn’t see out of his window and had trouble changing gears.  The car lurched forward and skidded slowly into the oncoming traffic, on the opposite side of the road.

    Volunteer screamed out loud.

    She reached for a safety belt, that wasn’t there, and as she did so the plastic cup of tea spilt over her lap and legs.  She shouted at the couple.

    The car stopped in the middle of the road, while other cars carefully drove around it.  The man corrected the car’s position and got it facing the right way again.  The tea wasn’t very hot and hadn’t made its way through Volunteer’s heavy winter coat.   All three of them were safe again, and there was no need to worry.

    The older couple, this married couple from the Gobi, were embarrassed and when they pulled up outside the dormitories, they refused to take payment for the ride.  They gave Volunteer a packet of biscuits from the supermarket and thanked her for coming to Mongolia.  They said they were sorry for scaring her so much on Lion’s Bridge, and it was true, they were very sorry.

    They were sorry they no longer lived near the freshwater lake, where the camels roamed and the wolves hunted under the midnight moonlight.  They were sorry their children had to move so far away to other lands, and they were sorry that the songs about remembering, always made them sad.

  • Review of the International Dublin Writers’ Festival

    My friend, Katie Moynagh, was the one who told me all about the International Dublin Writers’ Festival, and so it was she who called me to the adventure.  Katie writes beautiful poems and short stories, and I enjoy listening to her read them aloud, and I trust her opinions on all things literary.  All the same, I declined at first, as I had other plans for that weekend, but as things moved around and I adjusted my diary, I found myself in attendance at the festival, at the Academy Hotel, just off O’Connell Street, in Dublin city.

    As soon as I arrived, I felt the fear.  What on earth was I doing attending a writers’ festival in Dublin?  I wasn’t established, successful, well read or reviewed.  I like to write, of course, I do, but what did I think I was doing? 

    I met Katie in the foyer.  She smiled, and said she was happy to see me, and suddenly I felt better.  It turned out, no one minded at all, about my status or lack of it.  In fact, everyone was far too busy having a great time, to worry about my worries, and soon I didn’t worry either.

     There were over 20 presentations over the next three days divided loosely into the creative inspiration of writing, and the business of writing.  There were presentations by writers, publishers, agents and companies offering help to writers.  The Irish Writers’ Union of Ireland were there, talking about their “Grand Theft Author” campaign, which tries stop Artificial Intelligence (AI) from stealing writers’ work.  There were Hollywood screen writers, and a member of the Ottoman Imperial Family.

    There was even an improvisation session.

    Some writers read their pieces aloud in an open mic session, and I enjoyed hearing Katie read again.  Some writers got to pitch their ideas for books and plays to our new friends from Hollywood, and after the scariest 90 seconds, received constructive feedback.

    If there was a dark cave, during the weekend, it might be my reluctance to monetise my hobby of writing.  I love writing.  I’ve always loved writing.  I love my daily practice of trying to put into word form, the experiences of being in this world.  I try to connect, with my honest, messy and incongruous inner world and try, if I can, to make sense of it.  The idea of selling this seems ugly.

    And yet, of course, I would. 

    In a heartbeat, and a nano second and without asking any questions.  Which is why I joined the Irish Writers’ Union of Ireland, so that if I ever did get a book deal, someone would read my contract for me and tell me if it was safe to sign.

    As well as joining the Union, I bought some books.  I made some new friends, and I absolutely adored being surrounded by writers, and people who love the business of writing, for the whole weekend.

    I really thank the lovely organiser, Laurence O’Bryan and his team at Books Go Social, and I look forward to seeing everyone next year.

  • Review of the School of Myth Summer School Programme July 2025

    For four days and nights in July this year, I was lucky enough to be one of the sixty participants on the School of Myth summer school programme, at a manor house, on the edge of Dartmoor.  We listened to Dr Martin Shaw, tell us ancient Celtic myths, Arthurian stories, and folk tales from Siberia, for hour after hour, and day into eve.

    Sometimes, the stories were accompanied by the smell of an open burning fire, and sage.  Sometimes, the sound of drums walked the stories in.

    When was the last time someone told you a story?

    When was the last time you gave your full, undivided attention to a storyteller?

    Martin would start each story in the same way, by asking us, “shall we go?”  We would answer him, “let’s go!”

    For a second time he asked us, “shall we go?”

    And again, we shouted back, “let’s go!”

    Finally, when he asked us a third time, “shall we go?” glee and laughter filled the room, as we cried back loudly, “LET’S GO!”

    Martin then took us gently back to kingdoms far away and long ago, and into deep, dark forests and sacred rivers, and to a lake that three large cows walked out of.

    It was magnificent.

    I arrived at the manor, with my pre-conceived modern ideas that this workshop or retreat would have an agenda, and name tags and a welcome folder with all the necessary handouts.  In preparation for the week, I had re-read The Hound of the Baskervilles, because it was set on Dartmoor, and I thought it would get me into the mood.

    Oh blessed, sweet, gentle child.  I was in the wrong century.  I did not need those things.  I would need to go further back.

    What I needed to do, was listen carefully.

    What I needed to do, was hear the stories with an open heart and kindness.

    What I needed to do, was be still and leave distractions at the train station at Newton Abbott.  What I needed to do, was walk down to the ancient stone bridge, turn right at the fairy forest, walk past the Alpacas and take a long relaxing swim in the lake, under the silver-grey clouds, in the grounds of the manor.

    The other participants were storytellers:  writers, actors, dancers, teachers, yogis, grief counsellors, psychotherapists, NGO workers, preachers, a hypnotist and a shaman.  We were all on the edge of Dartmoor, looking for magic.

    On the last night, we watched a performance of a few scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream outdoors, and then we huddled around the bonfire.  Some people wore flowers in their hair, and there was music. The staff of The School of Myth were kind, and thoughtful, and prepared our feasts, and took care of us.

    I’m not sure why I went, but I’m happy I did, because it changed my life.

    I’m not sure how, or even if the changes will be visible from the outside, but something has shifted my heart.  A tiny piece of me has altered indefinitely, and I will never be the same.

    Since my return from the moors, I’ve been swimming in Martin’s back catalogue of work:  his Jawbone YouTube channel, and his books.

    I thoroughly enjoyed “Smoke Hole:  Looking to the Wild in the Time of the Spyglass” and “Red Bead Woman:  Consequence and Longing in the Myth World”.  I’ll need to re-read both books many times if I want to ponder them carefully and reflect wisely.  I’ll need to read his other work, and see him when he comes to Dublin in October, and hopefully go back to summer school, next year. I’ll stay in touch with some of my new friends, and I’ll learn more.

    Once in a while, this life offers up beauty, joy and safety in ways we couldn’t have planned for, or imagined.  When it does, it’s our duty to note the extraordinariness, bow our heads, and gratefully say, “let’s go”.

  • Made in Dublin: into today

    When the greens are different.

    Not of the light luminescence of spring, but a darker green now.

    When the richer greens are more complicated, and more mature, and heavier.

    When the green of the grass is fuller then, than the younger grass, only then are the ants ready to fly.

    One evening in July, between the dusk and sunset, when the temperature, light and humidity are just right, and when the grass is long enough and strong enough, to launch them. 

    Then and only then, can the ants file one by one, and fly into the sky.

    Straight up, and into the wild awaiting air for them.

    Their first flight with their new, tiny, translucent wings takes their weight and the wind, and takes them high, into the blue sky still.  The clouds wait, and the air supports them.

    Off they fly, into today and into the summer eve’s blue.  And it will be the blue that’s a part of it.  When the sky is Maya blue, or cornflower blue, or wait, of course…cerulean.

    Some ants are brave and Gung ho.  They fly off on the adventure with big, lascivious grins. They can’t wait to mate, and start new colonies wherever they land, far away from the backyards where they started from.

    Other ants have summer melancholia and are wistful for their old homes, which were familiar and safe.  They feel vertiginous, and nauseous, and teary.  They will never enjoy the evening acrobatics, or the free falling or the dangers.  They look backwards, towards the homes where they once belonged.

    Some ants are neutral:  neither excited nor dreading the event.  They simply accept it’s what they do, on this one night in July, alongside all the other ants.

    All the thoughts and doubts.  The awe ants, and doubting ants, sad ants and excited ants, joyful ants and naughty ants, funny ants and deeply, earnest ants. 

    All flying in the sky, spectacularly.

    All the other ants, know the moment of flight from the temperature, the light, the humidity and the way the green grass looks different now, from the luminescence of the spring.  But now a darker green, a more mature green and a more complicated colour. 

    This tremendous journey under azure skies, timelessly.