Author: Ruth Powell

“We spend January 1st walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched.

Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives…not looking for flaws, but for potential.”

― Ellen Goodman

6. Meditate with Sharon Salzberg

Since the last new moon, I have been doing a 28-day online mindfulness meditation challenge with Sharon Salzberg called, “Real Happiness”. It was number *6 * of my #50finethings, and I loved it very much.

I first heard about Sharon Salzberg through an online Coursera course that I did in the first year of the pandemic, called “Buddhism and Modern Psychology,” with Robert Wright.  During the course, Robert Wright mentioned Sharon Salzberg several times, and I like to think that if the three of us met, we would all be terrific friends.

I love the way that Robert and Sharon teach wildly abstract concepts effortlessly, with humour, and a lightness of touch.  They seem to enjoy their own failings and they’re very encouraging to all their students.  At the end of their classes, you conclude that it’s easy to wish all sentient beings happiness, wellness, and an end to their suffering:  why not?

Sharon’s 28-day course was broken into a short morning meditation practice, a piece of teaching and an answer to a previously posed question.  It was all wrapped up with two live zooms, and I really did enjoy it.

I was drawn to Sharon’s thoughts about “anger”.

Sometimes I experience anger.

Sometimes I deny the feeling and blame it on the menopause, the politicians, being 50, grief, or the pandemic.  At other times, I’m seduced by anger and want nothing more than to centre myself in it and I follow it into the waves.  I think Sharon was encouraging neither; try not to avoid it or make it the focal point of the day.  Simply notice it and move on.

I’m going to try to do that!

7. Submit writing to magazines and competitions

In her beautiful book, “Writing Down the Bones,” Natalie Goldberg describes a writer as being a person “who writes”.  Over the last two years I’ve posted around 100,000 words onto my blog, but this year I’m going to learn how to edit.

This year I’m going to try and rewrite more, and I think the best way to do that is to submit my writing to magazines and competitions, and to readers who don’t know me.

To that end, I sent out a piece of flash fiction called “Blanket Street”.  The lovely Daizi Rae and April Berry asked me to read “Blanket Street” on their Bare Books podcast. Then the very kind Byddie Lee asked me to read “Blanket Street” at the Armagh County Museum  and finally, it will be printed in the Flash Fiction magazine on 12 April. 

This was a good start to the year and a very exciting adventure for “Blanket Street”. I’m going to submit something every month in 2022, and I’ll let you know how I get on.

8.  support Amnesty Ireland

I support Amnesty Ireland through a monthly direct debit, by signing their petitions, and by sharing their online content.  I wish them a successful year in 2022.   They have a specific Ukraine campaign out now, because of course they do, and they’re the experts in this field.

9. Learn Spanish

When I was 18, I went to Warwick University to study history. 

Part of the course required students to learn a European language, so I signed up to do Spanish.  I failed the course and my first year spectacularly, but I often thought I would like to try Spanish again.

32 years later, and here I am learning Spanish, but this time with the DuoLingo app!

No teacher, no classroom, no homework, no course book; just a short lesson every day on my Smartphone, and plenty of practice. 

They’ve gamified the App, so I spend a lot of time collecting virtual hearts, gems and crowns.  I move around league tables with millions of other learners, and it makes me laugh and chuckle.  It’s a completely new way of learning and I’m really enjoying it.

Maybe this is part of what being 50 is about? 

Having the confident modesty to attempt new things for no other reason than it might be fun.  I don’t really care about the outcome of this Spanish thing.  Maybe I’ll reach intermediate level before December or maybe I’ll be stuck at Level One forever.   Maybe I’ll become fluent and move to south America, or maybe I’ll give up and start learning French. 

It really doesn’t matter, and maybe it’s OK not to worry.

#50cosasbuenas!

10.  Learn a poem by heart

On her website, “The Marginalian,” Maria Popova recently posted a poem called “Achieving Perspective,” by Pattian Rogers, which was read aloud by David Byrne.

The poem was so beautiful I decided to learn it by heart. 

I haven’t learned a poem by heart since school, and it’s much harder now. 

First, I looked up all the new vocabulary and then I repeated every word and line until I could recite it.  There’s something a little bit magical and mystical about knowing a poem in this way, and especially this poem.

If you can, have a listen to David Byrne reading it here. 

Or if you prefer to read it, it’s written below. 

A big happy new moon to you.  I hope you are well and that you’re enjoying #50finethings.  I hope we can meet again like this, at the next new moon. 

See you next time. 

ACHIEVING PERSPECTIVE
by Pattiann Rogers

Straight up away from this road,
Away from the fitted particles of frost
Coating the hull of each chick pea,
And the stiff archer bug making its way
In the morning dark, toe hair by toe hair,
Up the stem of the trillium,
Straight up through the sky above this road right now,
The galaxies of the Cygnus A cluster
Are colliding with each other in a massive swarm
Of interpenetrating and exploding catastrophes.
I try to remember that.

And even in the gold and purple pretense
Of evening, I make myself remember
That it would take 40,000 years full of gathering
Into leaf and dropping, full of pulp splitting
And the hard wrinkling of seed, of the rising up
Of wood fibers and the disintegration of forests,
Of this lake disappearing completely in the bodies
Of toad slush and duckweed rock,

40,000 years and the fastest thing we own,
To reach the one star nearest to us.

And when you speak to me like this,
I try to remember that the wood and cement walls
Of this room are being swept away now,
Molecule by molecule, in a slow and steady wind,
And nothing at all separates our bodies
From the vast emptiness expanding, and I know
We are sitting in our chairs
Discoursing in the middle of the blackness of space.
And when you look at me
I try to recall that at this moment
Somewhere millions of miles beyond the dimness
Of the sun, the comet Biela, speeding
In its rocks and ices, is just beginning to enter
The widest arc of its elliptical turn.

When it did finally come, the end of the pandemic arrived at 6.00am on Saturday 22 January, without much warning.  That is to say, the restrictions were lifted as the government lost control of the containment plan and gave permission for the virus to wade freely through the population, at will.

“We beat the virus!” said the Humans.

“OK,” said the Virus.

Two years’ worth of celebrations was a lot to ask of one Saturday night, which is why many stayed at home.  In the end, the city was busy but not overrun, and most were home before dawn.

Maybe it’s all over, but apprehension is understandable. 

For two years we’ve been conditioned to think we’re complicit in murder every time we leave home, so an adjustment period may take some time.  Maybe it’s scary going back to normal, because normal wasn’t that terrific for many people, in the first place.

I’m about to do a stock check.

It seems like the right time to look at the things that fill up my life and to decide what I’m happy with, less happy with, and fed up with.  I’m going to reflect on the segments of my life, with love, and have a bit of a clear out.  #50finethings is an honest evaluation of life in my 50^th year:  with its resolutions, evolutions, and mezarooshans.

On Saturday, driving back from the climbing wall, I asked Julia how often she would like me to write an update on my #50finethings project.  I suggested once a month, or just once at the end of December.  She said she would prefer weekly updates and a final evaluation in December.   Obviously, that’s not going to happen, and with that in mind:  every new moon I will write a short update about how I’m getting on. 

I don’t really know what this project is, where it will go, or what will emerge. 

We’ll have to wait and see. 

I’m also aware that all the things I do with my days, are reliant on the fact that we live in an immorally, unequal world.  Today is the first of February, which is St Brigit’s day in Ireland and, New Year’s Day in Mongolia.  Today is an excellent new moon on which to give my first updates.

These are my #50finethings, so far:

1. Read

I love to read.  I wonder if there’s anything I enjoy as much as getting absorbed in a new book, story, and the characters I learn to know.  I’ve read so little over the past two years, and I would like that to change in 2022.  Following an idea by Jackie Lynam, I’ve decided to read 50 of the 100 short stories in The Art of the Glimpse edited by Sinéad Gleeson.  So far, I’ve read Under, Two in One, Sometimes on Tuesdays, Antarctica, and Women are the Scourge of the Earth.

This is my new Saturday morning pleasure, and it will be one of my #50finethings, and it makes me smile to think so.

2. Run

I love to run outside.  I run slowly and not very far, but sometimes there’s a moment when the breathing, landscape and thoughts all evaporate and it’s just the shadow of the run, moving with itself.  I run a 5 or a 10 km route a couple of times a week, and I never regret going outside.  When I’m not running, I feel the slow irritation burn within, and the clouds start to gather. 

This year I’d like to run a total of 1000 km, which is the distance between Dublin and Paris.  Maybe I’ll get stuck halfway and need a hip replacement just outside of virtual Dover.  Maybe I’ll arrive in Paris, ahead of plan, and do a lap of honour around the Champs-Élysées.  We won’t know until I’ve tried.

Either way, I did 120 km in January, and it’s one of my #50finethings.

3. Write

In her wonderful book, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron talks about the benefits of a daily writing practice.  She suggests that everyone should write a few pages every morning before the day begins.  These pages are streams of consciousnesses rather than edited stories, or pieces to return to.  

Just writing, that’s all, simply writing.

I did it years ago, and then I forgot how much I liked it, so I’ve started doing it again.

It’s one of my #50finethings and it’s going quite well.

4. Pick up litter

I realise that picking up the litter from my street, for an hour every second Sunday, isn’t going to prevent the impacts of climate change.  I am also aware that personal responsibility can never compete with much needed corporate and political systemic change.  That said, picking up rubbish is good exercise, shows my neighbours I love our street, prevents me from complaining about said litter, and allows random strangers the opportunity to tell me how marvellous I am. 

Also, I get to wear a HiVis vest. 

Ideally, I’d love a clipboard and a walkie talkie too, but for now the HiVis vest will suffice.

In 2022, I will collect 50 bags of rubbish for the An Taisce’s National Spring Clean 2022 campaign, and it will make me happy to do so.

5. Only apologise for things we are to blame for

Welsh people, women, migrants, and the working-class apologise too often, for things we are not to blame for.  We apologise to people on the street who bump into us, to people who are late for meetings, to colleague who don’t return our emails.  We start sentences with the words, “I’m really sorry to bother you,” and we apologise for the rain.

This year I am going to be a polite, courteous, and respectful human being and I am also going to stop apologising for things I am not to blame for.  

I feel excited and unsure.

I don’t know what all this is about, but let’s find out together.

You can join me if you like, and do your own 50 fine things, or you can sit back and relax, and watch me do mine.

That’s also fine.

Let’s see how we get on.

I’ll see you on the next new moon with my updates.

#50finethings is a distinctly complicated, but fun way through resolutions for a person’s 50^th year on the planet. 

A mix of resolutions, evolutions, mezarooshans, and fine things to do.

I divided my 2022 resolutions into 8 main categories with five sub-headings (or zones) under each category.  I added another 10 bonus zones under a main category I called “SURPRISE”.  This provides me with #50finethings to usher in my 50^th year. 

Some are new, some are old, some are being given new life.

Every new moon, I will report back on some of the zones, and let you know how I’m getting on.  However, it would be so much more fun if you joined in too.

How to get involved:  simply begin.

For me, January will be about reading, writing, collecting litter, and running.  These are the four zones I’m going to concentrate on first.  Meet me back here at the next next new moon (Tuesday 02 Feb,) to share your updates and experiences.

I look forward to hearing about them. 

Go on you fine thing! 

#50finethings

Her father named her Carol because she was born on 12 December.  Her favourite Christmas song was the Little Drummer Boy, which she liked to remind people was originally called the Carol of the Drum, and which she would sing at every opportunity.  She loved to sing, even though she couldn’t carry a note, and she would belt out the little drummer boy all through December.

Our finest gifts we bring (pa-rum pum pum pum)

To lay before the King (pa-rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum).

She was a hopeless singer, and couldn’t carry a tune for a penny, but she enjoyed singing along to all the Christmas melodies.  I remember the year we got a record player for Christmas, and she sang along to Elvis’s Blue Christmas for most of the evening.  Dad tried to get his new Christmas album on the play list, but my mother insisted we had Elvis on repeat.

We remember the dead at Christmas and on their birthdays, don’t we?

This will be my third Christmas without my late mother, but the funny thing about grief, is how much it changes.  Sometimes my grief is painful, sometimes it brings kind memories, sometimes I’m indifferent to it.  I think of the colours of grief as varied as a rainbow, with unimaginable textures, and indescribable variants.  Sometimes her death still feels incomprehensible, and at other times, like she was almost never a living person.

Some people light candles.

I think of mam when I run in Pheonix Park, or when I swim in the sea, or when I go up a mountain. There’s one tree in Pheonix Park that I nod at, when I jog past.  She seems to be there.

She was born on 12 December and her father named her Carol.

Shall I play for you (pa-rum pum pum pum)

On my drum.

I thought of all the Covid grievers this week, as another Tory resigned over lying.

One shouldn’t anthropomorphise Tories, but when you see them cry for the cameras it’s very hard not to laugh.  Of course, they’re not actually crying, as you or I would cry.  They are performing in public, to keep whatever power and privileges they have.  That said, this new leaked video was different because I think that’s the first time we’ve watched them practising their lies. 

That was new.

Maybe this is the end of Johnson? 

Maybe the mourners and the grievers of all the Covid victims feel like his lies and condescending lack of action is tantamount to complicity in their deaths.  That’s an awful lot of grievers, and an awful lot of voters.  Wouldn’t that be a fine gift for Christmas?

Remember in June 2020, when the daily case numbers and deaths from Covid were in single figures and sometimes 0?  Eight more weeks of restrictions then, might have eradicated the virus from the planet, forever.  Sadly, we decided to open the shops and restaurants instead.  People sometimes say, “we just have to get on with living with covid”. 

Well…

This is what living with Covid feels like. 

Masks, hand hygiene, social distancing, annual boosters, vaccine passports, sporadic new measurements as variants emerge, postponed and cancelled plans.  This is what we chose.

This is my last blog for 2021.

Thank you for reading, for encouraging me, for saying nice things about how my writing is improving, and for commenting that my writing sometimes makes you smile.

What I’ve learned about living in a pandemic is what I knew all along.

Nothing happens in a vacuum, and we’re all connected.  Many people are selfish to their core, and only value money and power.  Others are as beautiful as ancient trees, and it’s those I shelter close to.  My grief for my mother is invariably connected to Christmas, her birthday, and I am invisibly connected to all other grievers; even those I do not know. 

Love, forgiveness, and kindness. That’s it, really, isn’t it? 

So, for this Christmas, I wish you radical gifts. 

I wish that you are forgiven and that you can forgive others.  I wish that you can give and receive kindness and love.  May this Christmas bring you real peace, ease, and rest. 

If you grieve, may you grieve well. 

Hibernate this season and cover yourself in the memories of brightness and the warmth of love.  May you have peace not only in your heart, but in your gut. May you have a pure quietness of the mind.

I love you. 

Thank you. 

Stay safe. 

Then he smiled at me (pa-rum pum pum pum)

Me and my drum.

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.

The water droplets that are trapped inside a glass, that is draining on the kitchen counter, make a sound.

As the water transforms magically from H2O into plain old O, the sound of the transition travels.

What a journey!

Like jars clanking and rattling on a tray, or a creek from a water pipe somewhere in the building, or a submarine sinking, or a nuclear reactor echoing.

Drip, drip, drip, and transform!

The shower dribbles, and the water on the inside of the window slides, and this movement goes unseen, while the spider plants dance to the piano music from next door. 

Bed bugs bite, but tell me, do they snore? 

There is more microbial life on an eyelash than these eyes of ours will ever see.  At least, not in this universe.

If I designed a universe, I would keep water.

I would offer classes for tender heartedness to the autumn leaves; wet muggy leaves and dry, crispy, flying ones. 

I would invent biscuits, tea, photographs, and cats. 

In the end, love is all there is, and the rest is distraction. 

You know that! 

Or you knew it once, but you have forgotten. 

Laughter with a friend, a picnic near a river, skating, and a song you can’t stop singing.  Nothing you can buy or own, but you keep them safe, for reviewing. 

A dream of a memory remains a dream.

Remember them back, they’re yours.

Is that physics or magic, or must it decide?

Listen to the leaves, they might know.

At the corner of Church and North King Street in Dublin, is an intersection with two lanes going north, south, east and west, with an additional two feeder lanes.  This is all watched over by a Daybreak Convenience Store, Baynes and Company Solicitors, a Ramen soup café and the DragonFly Acupuncture Clinic.  I pass by the chaos, a few times a week, after my runs in Phoenix Park.

The juxtaposition between the park and the traffic couldn’t be more striking. 

What I find more interesting than the differences in noise and air quality, is the difference in people’s kindness.  Over in the park everyone is smiling, taking photos of fallen leaves, playing hide and seek with small children, and hand feeding the deer seedless grapes and raisons.  Back at the intersection, the evil side of human nature is on display.

It’s here at this intersection you see the under belly of our species.  Car after car of single, distressed drivers trying to get from their Home Building to their Work Building and back to their Home Building, as quickly as possible.

Driver after driver overtake, nudge, ignore safety rules and take risks hour after hour, and day after day.  Nothing ever changes at the intersection of horror, and everything here is distasteful.  Drivers will risk getting stuck in the box of shame, right in the middle, rather than wait for the light to go green. 

Many drivers don’t believe that the red lights apply to them.

Another thing I find fascinating, is the counter behaviour of pedestrians at this intersection.  Ordinary people, who probably act very reasonably in their work place or at dinner with their family, turn abnormally aggressive, in this part of Dublin.  I’ve seen pedestrians scream, shout, yell, kick out and throw their fists, after close shaves with the drivers, who Must Keep Moving.

One of the crossings has a middle island where the pedestrians can rest. 

People must hover here if the lull in traffic doesn’t last as long as they hoped.  Sadly, there’s only room for one or two brave, intrepid crossers, and definitely not room for three or four.  The recently settled people on the island can’t, or won’t make room for newcomers, which leaves a batch of people on the road, right in the middle of the feeder lane facing the oncoming traffic with only their rage and anger to save them.

The drivers beep their horns, and the pedestrians shout back.

But no one can hear them shouting because the traffic noise is too loud.

Those of us who traverse this intersection often, shake our heads in disbelief, horror and mild amusement.  It happens all the time. If only there were signs there to help people make better choices.  If only there were big, massive green lights and huge, gigantic red lights, to help people get through this intersection safely.

There is a sign on the wall of the post office parcel collection depot that I noticed.

In addition to the many Please Wear Your Mask signs, the new one says:

PLEASE FINISH YOUR CONVERSATION ON YOUR MOBILE PHONE BEFORE YOU APPROACH THE COUNTER

Because now we need to sign up ordinary, decent humanity.

How rude can people be? 

Someone had to make that sign, and tack it to the wall, and hope that people would read it. We must put signs up in public, in order to ask people to behave well.

We must also put up signs to stop them from harming themselves. 

I saw a sign in the supermarket coffee dock, the other day, which said, “please keep your cup upright when scanning at the self-service check out”.

Who are these people that need a sign to tell them to keep their coffee cups upright?

Are they so hopeless, that when they go home, they have a sign on the fridge saying:

PUT FOOD IN YOUR MOUTH AND CHEW.

Is there a sign above their beds saying:

CLOSE YOUR EYES AND SLEEP

Or perhaps one over the toilet that reads:

SHIT HERE, AND THEN WIPE YOUR ARSE WITH THE TOILET PAPER TO YOUR LEFT

I’m sorry. 

I blame November for my grumpiness; I blame the dark nights and the damp.  I blame the billionaires, the liars, and the politicians, who don’t lead and inspire, but who corrupted the garden of Eden, that this could have been. 

Sometimes I look at the evil under the intersection, and I don’t mind that we’re on a trajectory to extinct ourselves.  I think we’ve done too much damage to the planet and to ourselves, to ever make a good recovery.  It’s time for this iteration of humanity to pass quietly away.

We can leave the place to the polar bears, the kittens, and the rabbits, and let them inherit it without the noise, litter, poor air and ruined waters.  They can share it kindly with the monarch butterflies and star fish and sea horses.  Let’s bequeath it to the gentle spider under the street lamp, and a swan on a lake in Shrewsbury.  Let’s leave it to the seagulls in St Steven’s Green, and the ones caught eavesdropping on the quays, in week 10.  Let the seals from the Dun Laoghaire bathing spot, enjoy space and room to play, and let the lemurs, penguins and bears enjoy it all the same.

Some of the most magnificent scenery lies between the Shrewsbury Hills and Hereford, which can be watched from the window of the train that travels from Holyhead to Abergavenny.  The hills are mounds, that ramble with more sky above than before, and it’s a stunning stretch of countryside.  Tudor houses, lakes and forests are the backdrop for the views, and with a cloudless blue sky above, there’s nearly nothing as beautiful.

After unseasonably heavy rain of late, some of the fields are water-logged, which seems so incongruous from the view from the train. One field, that might have previously been used for food for cows and sheep, or growing crops, had ducks and a single swan on it.  The animals seemed so at ease, floating around on a field of water as if this was exactly what they should be doing.  All water covers ground, that was something else a long time ago.

I watched the swan and ducks last week, returning from a trip to Wales, and it was interesting to me, that no one else looked out of the window.  All the other passengers in our carriage were engrossed in their own screens, including one woman who was talking to her friend for a straight 90 minutes.  They missed the floating ducks and swan, and didn’t notice the rambling hills.

When I got home to Dublin, I had a great surprise. 

One of my neighbours in the building has bought a piano! 

Sadly, I didn’t see them bring it into the building, which was a shame because I would have enjoyed that.  I have neighbours above, below, and either side of me, and just this week I discovered that there are also neighbours behind me.  Until now, I thought that the kitchen wall, where the cooker, fridge and microwave live, backed onto the stairwell and the lift area.  This is incorrect.  It backs onto number 32, and their new piano.

I lurked in the hallway for a few days, trying to discover where my flat ended and the neighbours began.  I felt my way along the hallway floor, but outside the apartment, to try and find out where it ended.  For seven years, I have been completely mistaken about the shape, size and edge of my home, and it’s mildly disorientating to discover the truth. 

My flat is not where I thought it would be.

Luckily, the pianist is very good.  I’m enjoying Practice Hour as much as anyone. I get a cup of Earl Grey with milk, and a modest afternoon snack, and I listen to the scales going up and down.  The pianist starts with a series of short exercises, then leads up to longer sections, and finishes with the fuller piece of music.  It’s delightful, and when it’s over I clap, and then go back to my business.

Non-musical people always say things like “I’d love to play the piano” without at all realising how much time and practice goes into such a skill.  The piano player next door sounds terrific, yet they still practice every day from 4.00pm – 5.00pm, and probably will do forever.  It’s like going for a run, or a swim or a haircut.  It never ends; it just keeps on going on.

The gentle piano music has been a wonderful antidote to the darker nights, which have surprised me yet again this year.  Every year, just after Halloween, we are amazed that the nights get so dark, and so early.

Every year.

“I can’t believe how dark the nights are, and so early!” I say to people on Whatsapp.

They agree, they can’t believe it either!

And on we go.

But going back to the ducks, and the swan on the field of water somewhere near Shrewsbury.

I wish I could be as carefree as they. 

I wish I could float around and be calm, and enjoy it, and not worry about the pigs and the sheep. I wish I could say “quack,” or whatever it is that swans say, and delight in all my days.

Orange is the sound of autumn, and the Hunter’s Moon can’t be photographed.

Leaves fall to the ground in perfect harmony with air, and these Mandelbrot fractals of time collect the memories.  Left alone, old fallen leaves protect the roots of the trees from the rain, and frost to come.  Nature’s crispy dry blankets.  Be gone leaf blowers, and let the older leaves protect!

Memories of autumns are sepia toned photos in shoe boxes hidden under beds.  They are daydreams of running through leaves, in faraway child memories.  Collecting leaves for art projects.  Crumpling them up in cold hands.

Thoughts of autumn beguile nostalgia for summer, a feeling of grief, and the time to move on.

There’s a second of sound, where the breath of the person and the thoughts they have, are in unison with the light retracting.

Some people can’t comprehend a never ending universe, while others wonder if it ever ends getting smaller.  What’s the tiniest it can be, and how can such an invisible virus do so much damage? 

How can it still be causing pain?

Friday 22 October was the day the Irish government promised the pandemic would be over.  All of the last restrictions were to be lifted, and normal services would resume. Obviously, this has not happened.  The cases are increasing, while the availability of ICU beds are decreasing, and at least one school has closed already, and gone back to teaching online.  Luckily, no one really believed the government when they said it would all be over today; and yet, we are disappointed.

Pretending everything is normal is the best Halloween costume we could wear.

“Hi, I’m Ruth and I’m pretending everything is normal!  I’ve spent the last 19 months concerned about the pandemic and just like everyone else, I’m a little disappointed it’s not all over yet.  Yes, let’s use that word; disappointed”.

Complaining about my shit is churlish when there’s been an excess death rate of close to 20 million people in the past two years, but complain I do.  Since it all began, I’ve lost one job, have a precarious rental situation, worry about my family in another country, and cross my fingers when I go to the supermarket.  I still don’t want long Covid, or short Covid, or mild Covid or horribly fucking fatal Covid.  I don’t want any of the Covids thank you very much, and I really don’t want to pass it on to anyone else.

On we go.

It feels a little damp in the mornings now, and the wet air lingers.  So I swim in the sea, and I jog slowly around the park.  I write, read, and collect the litter other people throw on the ground on my street.  I watch silly shows on the laptop and laugh at corny jokes.  I wait for it to be over, and I don’t know when that will be, so I wait for it to be over again.

Did you ever watch someone looking at themselves in a mirror?

Did you ever see someone apply make up to their face, while looking in a mirror near the washbasins in a public toilet?  Or see someone check for remnants of food in their teeth, in the rear-view mirror of a car.  Did you ever see someone adjust their hair, while they were looking at goods through a shop window?

Did they ever see you looking?

There’s a wave of light to catch when they hurry back to this world, and leave their reflected image behind.  There’s an essence of time between the moments, when they hope they didn’t seem too pre-occupied with themselves, and they might even try to make fun of it.  There’s a second of sound, where the breath of the person and the thoughts they have, are in unison with the light retracting.

At this time of year, things start to get spooky.

As children, we always loved the Hall of Mirrors in the Fun House at the Fair.  Our bodies were made to look too tall, fat, tiny or mysterious by the specular reflection.  We laughed at the nonsense of it all, and we knew this image didn’t really exist.  We only looked that way in the mirrors.  All the same, they did what good fair grounds are supposed to do; they frightened little children.

Even amoeba act differently when being observed in petri-dishes.

The first mirrors were invented 8000 years ago and were made with obsidian, which was grounded and polished until it reflected reality.  Until recently, only the wealthy owned mirrors, but all throughout time it was always seven years bad luck if you broke one.  Some people believe that mirrors can trap the dead souls, and recommend that you don’t look in a mirror at midnight.

This is the time of the year when things begin to get spooky.

Sometimes, when the moon is out and the sky is clear, I think about an antique compact, powder mirror I once found in dressing table, in an old house in England.  It was in the third drawer down and was elegant and sophisticated.  It was round, and made of silver, and perfectly engraved with a circular pattern that could go on forever.  When I opened it, I could smell the old powder and I thought of the woman who owned it.  She hoped through the mirror portal, and said hello to me, but she didn’t stay too long.  I felt her in the breeze brush past me, her necklace, cigarettes, and pearls.  I put the compact, powder mirror back in the drawer, and for all I know it could still be there now.

This is the time of year, when things all around you, can start to feel spooky.