Well I think we can all agree that week two was pretty shit, no? Whether you’re a sunny optimist or a fiery pessimist, you’ve got to agree week two was just a little bit woeful.

Some people have come out this week as the Covid Optimists. They have been reminding us of the unexpected joys and pleasures of the pandemic, for example, the improved air quality and the fish in Venice. They’ve been celebrating the now possible one-tier health system in Ireland, and the opportunity to spend quality time with the kids and old friends on House Party. They are using their abundance of new time wisely and they seem to be saying “look I know COVID19 isn’t all about me, but isn’t it great to learn ancient Greek and T’ai Chi all the same?”

At the other end of field are the Covid Sceptics, who believe that this virus will herald in the end of times. They point to the empty shelves in some supermarkets, the spitting stories, and the fact that some people can’t socially distance properly. They believe that the post-Covid society will be based on greed, hate and jealousy, and they think it’s a shame that it took a global crisis, and fear for our own selves, to implement decent health care.

I feel that most of us are still dithering around somewhere in the middle, very unsure about the whole thing, and slightly behind in our catching up.

My favourite new people though, are the ones who seem to allude to the fact that they may have been through all this before? You know the ones. Those people who offer helpful advice and suggestions and say things like “you should keep to a regular schedule and keep to business as usual. That will help you in the long run”.

How, for the love of God, do they know this information?

Did we have one of these pandemics before? Did the whole entire world, apart from a small area of Antarctica, go into state supported lockdown before? Did I miss that one? Maybe I wasn’t paying attention that time? Maybe I was on a zoom call?

No, of course these people don’t know what they are talking about. They are winging it. And you know what, if winging it makes them feel slightly less on the edge, then good for them. I guess you and I can pretend we believe them and then the triangle of self-delusion is complete.

So, I had my first panic attack a few days ago in Fallon and Bryne. Yes, I know that no one expected the apocalypse to have chicory, but one must keep standards up in these dark times. I was wandering the aisles and I had a delightful moment where I forgot about reality and I gave my full attention to all the posh food and the treats for the evening. Just for that time, everything was fine and nice and pleasant, and I was even looking forward to the walk home and dinner and a film. Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, near the cured meats, I saw a woman coughing into the open air! Coughing into the abyss. I scowled at her, as did the other shoppers and I almost went to speak to her about her appalling coughing hygiene when, all of a sudden, and out of the blue, I started sneezing myself.

I covered my mouth into the inside of my left elbow while I tried to raise my right arm to speak. “I have these allergies” I said quite frantically “in particular, I’m allergic to dust and house-hold mould”.
The other shoppers turned their attention from Coughing Woman to me, and their faces contorted with wild hate.

“Really” I repeated “I have a very sensitive nasal passage” but it was too late. I had to pay for my goods very quickly (some anchovies and capers) and I headed home in shame.

Anyway, ever since that day and now for every day at around 5.30pm, I feel like I’m going to vomit. It’s really very odd, but just like clockwork, vomit. During these times, the unambiguous and agonising fear that people I know are going to die takes over and I feel sick. The faces of those I am worried about come into my mind’s eye and the only way I can make them go away is to do a sort of surreal “whac-a-mole” with them. I imagine hitting them over the head with a bright, yellow, inflatable hammer (the type you might win at the fair) and then their faces flow away, and the panic passes. It lasts for about 15 minutes.

If it wasn’t for the dread, all this would be ok wouldn’t it? I mean, I like reading and watching 18 hour documentaries about the American war in Viet Nam, I enjoy watching silly films from the 80s and listening to the radio, so none of the indoor living stuff bothers me so much. It’s just the relentless fear, and dread and worry.

That’s all.

But if you’ve made it to the end of week two, well done you and even more well done if you’re a chirpy-silver-linings-type of person who is keeping the rest of us sane with your helpful comments and free, online yoga sessions. If you’re still under your duvet and refusing to come out until all this is over, that’s OK too. Just make sure you don’t get bed sores and try and open the curtains once a day, as they say it makes all the difference.

Of course I’m so grateful for my health, the health of those I love and the security of my shelter. I’m also grateful for the wonderfully inappropriate, offensive and core-achingly-funny chats I’m having with some girlfriends in these times. Jokes and comments that I couldn’t possibly repeat and some moments where I’ve cried with laughter. But what I thank God for most of all this week, is without doubt, my internet access.

I’ll finish with a haiku I wrote in response to the Covid19 crisis. It doesn’t have a title yet, but I posted it on Facebook yesterday and some people seemed to like it.

Good luck with it all, and I’ll see you next week.

Shit, shit, shitty shit
Shit, shitty shit shitty shit
shit. Oh, so shitty.

 

 

 

Well done you!

Yes you, my imaginary little audience. I don’t know if you’re a friend or a family member, a colleague or a virtual acquaintance, but I do know that we share something in common at this moment, and that is that we are both experiencing life in the time of corona.

Now I don’t know if you’re coronafearful or coronazen or somewhere in between, but I do know that you have an opinion about it all and that you are worried about something: maybe your health or the health of another, your business, your job, rent, how you are possibly going to entertain the kids, and take care of your older people, or just how you are going to not die of boredom now that the pubs and cinemas are closed.

If you’re based in Ireland, you have just completed week one of social distancing, so again, well done you. The first seven days of any new way of life are going to be hard, right? The first seven days in a new job are horrible, the first seven days of dry January are appalling, the first seven days of any new regime are terrible.
Right?

Well maybe don’t ask me, I’m new here myself.

One week ago the schools and the colleges in the Republic of Ireland were closed down, and those of us who could were told to work from home for the next two weeks. I knew it wasn’t going to be just two weeks, which is why I packed up my desk plants from the office. I didn’t like to leave them there on their own and it suddenly became very, very important that I take them with me. One is a lively old spider plant that has given me such joy, and the other is a purple and green thing, that was almost destroyed and died, but now lives out its old age in a pot that’s too big for it. I carried them down Capel Street, while people bought toilet rolls and pasta and I took them home.

I haven’t done this before, it’s all unprecedented, so I don’t have any tips or advice. But I have been on a few international volunteering placements before, and it feels intuitive to treat this new way of life a little bit like that?

Bear with me as I explain.

Firstly, I think it’s ok to be feeling a little bit sea-sick at the moment, as this is week one of adjustment. Everything is a little different, and a little strange and we have to get used to the new surroundings. We all have new pressures now and life has changed quite dramatically. Even small tasks are going to take a lot longer now, and we probably don’t know the new language.

Every day so far, I’ve felt a whole variety of emotions from happy and calm, to scared and frightened and all under an umbrella of denial and disbelief. I am so grateful that I have shelter, a permanent job and that all my family and friends are OK at present. It’s nice to take books I haven’t read down from the shelf, and drink coffee in bed and go for walks when I want to. It’s a bit mischievous to watch films in the afternoon and then to suddenly decide that what I really want to do is a half an hour of yoganidra. It’s lovely to write.

I am also frozen with fear about the health of my VIPs (my Vulnerable and Isolated People). This visceral fear takes me to the verge of screaming and I feel like I need to slap myself across the face harshly and give myself a glass of brandy, like they used to do in those films from the 50s.

“Calm down God damn it” I might say to myself “you’re not helping anyone with this hysterical behaviour!”

Maybe, like me you could do with a good cry? A proper snot inducing, hyperventilating, sobbing waterfall of a cry that goes through several tissues (which will obviously then be disposed of quite safely). Maybe it’s a good idea to pop on a film which you know will get the tears flowing, and then blame the tears on that.

“It’s not me overreacting and being melodramatic” you might say to yourself “it’s this very upsetting film, God damn it!”

But you know what’s funny? I have a wardrobe full of clothes and I’ve been wearing leggings and t.shirts for a week now. I have four different handbags hanging in the hallway and I also personally feel a little bit superfluous to the needs of society. While I’m here reading and practising zen, the health workers, shop keepers, drivers and front line staff are actually doing something of value.

Funny isn’t it?

But anyway, well done you and I mean that sincerely.

These are indeed the most unusual of unusual days so whatever you’re doing, it’s right. If you need to run, or hide under the duvet or learn to speak Spanish or cook yourself into oblivion then do it, and do it without guilt. If you have your health, shelter and a permanent job, try and relax into this new way of living and try and stay calm.

This is just week one of adjustment.

This is just life. This is the whole of it, with its fears and its beauty, its shame and its joy. This is what it is.

 

“Smaller than us”

“Smaller than us” is a collection of short stories, flash fiction and vignettes from Ruth Powell accompanied by a selection of photographs by Carolina Murari.

The stories are fictionalised versions of nearly factual events and the photos are representations of moments, seen only by the photographer. The piece of work is a series of snapshots of moments and reflections of memories from two different observers at two separate times.  Despite their geographical and historical disparity, the observers note the common thread of humanity, which links us together, and highlights our connections over our variations.

Ruth and Carolina are launching their work at the Winding Stair on Friday 01 November from 6.00pm – 8.00pm and will have follow on drinks and refreshments in the Lord Edward pub, afterwards.

Please come and celebrate the launch of “Smaller than us”, either at the Winding Stair, at the Lord Edward or at both.

 

 

 

Chisel these vows down for me, sculpt them in stone.

Protect them with satin from a wedding dress.

Weld these vows on for me.

Carve them in wood.

Play them on the keys of your piano.

Whisper these vows out for me, let a floating cloud hear, that I adore you today and forever.

Let the guests know

as they feast and they rejoice

that you design the very light of my essence.

So love, and love and dance with me.

Stillness, let it breathe.

May they know, that I adore you forever.

 

(photo by Mateja Jaksic)

When your eyes, are the eyes I see me with, then I am indigo.

Not scattered lost light, with no edge or depth, but indigo.

Not a lonely black cat, in an alley you can’t see, but indigo.

Dazzling ice beams, a rainbow colored calling, the brightness and the light.

When your eyes, are the eyes I see me with, then I am indigo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I think about you, you are the Cenotes.

I am sitting in a room where a Picasso is hanging, when I first hear some notes from a cello.  It’s raining outside and the people say it’s the first rain in six weeks.

I’m thinking about drifting and sinking, so I begin to climb down the slippery ladder steps into the water of a Cenote.  I’m afraid that I might fall, but I don’t.

Deep in the middle of Mexico, I remember something that I had long forgotten and it makes me happy.  I balance my breathing and concentrate on just one-step at a time.  For each note of the cello suite, one-step down.  In the end, I’m at the bottom, and the water looks delightful, this indigo cave water is warm and serene.

I breathe into the sound and I forget the rain.  I feel the bedrock limestone of Yucatán groundwater, and I forget to remember Picasso.

I have eased down slowly.  The air is different here, inside the earth.  And I can’t seem to remember the journey at all.  So I swim under it and it smells like history.  I hear a familiar voice say to me, I know you because you’ve been here before.

Is this my own echo, or am I the echo beneath?

Floating on my back, I adjust to the salty warmth and the memory of my ancestors dancing.  My heart expands but I can’t stay here too long.  Beneath the water, the urge to stay is strong, but a waning gibbous moon reminds me to go back to the brightness.  One stroke at a time, movements in harmony with the cello notes, back to the music, to the room with the Picasso in it.

Back to the rain.

I don’t know if you heard, but there was a referendum in Ireland last month.

To recap, the citizens of Ireland were asked if they wanted to repeal or retain the eighth amendment to the constitution, which, in practice, criminalised abortions here in Ireland, but allowed women and girls to travel to the UK for terminations instead.  Over 66% of people agreed that this amendment was hypercritical and unjust and it was repealed on 25 May 2018.

I was always pro-choice.

I was born in the middle of the Welsh vallies at the start of the 70s in Michael Foot, Neil Kinnock and Nye Bevan’s constituencies.  I remember the miners’ strikes and living in working class Thatcher’s 80’s Britain vividly, so it’s hardly a surprise that my political views are a little left of centre.  Most left-wingers are pro-choice, so I held that belief too.

So far, so easy.

I have always believed in “equality” and I have spent my working life involved in education, or in development-based organisations that try to fight inequality.  And my first “action” to support the repeal the 8^th movement was on International Women’s Day, 2017, when I posted something fairly vague and vacuous on Facebook.  I said that it was unjust that some women and girls could travel to the UK for terminations but those without financial security had to take the unsupervised abortion pills in Ireland.  Those with money could be medically cared for, and those without money were essentially breaking the law and risking 14 years in prison.  The issue was so clearly about equality for me that I didn’t even do a spell check before I posted the paragraph.  And posting this on Facebook came with absolutely no risk to myself.

A year later on International Women’s Day 2018, I posted more!

I talked about equality of access again, and I started mentioning women and girls who had refugee status and asylum seeker status who could not travel to Britain.  So the legislation was discriminatory and affected the most vulnerable women in our society the most.  But I was talking about “those women over there” and not me.

Not me.  Those. Over. There.

The Together For Yes campaign kicked-off and I started doing the odd bit.  I donated money.  I bought a badge.  I signed up to a fun-run, and yet I was still taking no personal risk to support this campaign at all.  I had a sympathetic opinion, which was almost academically removed and charitable rather than felt with a passion, because I still did not relate the issue or the fight to me.

Then something happened.

It became very clear, after an almost Kafkaesque conversation with someone from the department of Justice, that my application for citizenship would not be ready in time to register to vote.  Then I realised that I had to do more than tweet.  I actually had to get out into the streets and start talking to strangers.  My logic here was that if I could “convince” someone to change their mind and vote YES, then this was my YES vote by proxy.

So I did a bit of canvassing and leafleting.

I was terrified at first, because I genuinely thought that I would be asked on all matters fertility related and possibly quizzed on other areas of the Constitution.  I soon discovered that most people actually just wanted to say what was on their minds, and discuss any sticky points that they had.  It was generally quite interesting and quite engaging and I like to think I helped one or two people come to their own decision to vote YES.

But here’s the thing.

In less than 15 hours’ worth of volunteering on the campaign, I experienced quite a high number of uncomfortable moments.  Up until this point, I was still talking about “those women over there”, but when you are told, by strangers in the street, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself, that you are Satan, that you’re a slut who needs cleansing and that you are a lost cause who is going to hell, you start getting angry.  Not sad or blue, or sympathetic to the cause.

But really fucking angry.

It dawned on me then, that I was asking permission for the rights to my womb. How incredible it was that some people believed that they had the right to say NO to me.  How dare they think they could?  Then the pronouns changed, in the most exquisite of ways.  I stopped talking about women and girls and started saying “us”.  I stopped talking about women with refugee and asylum seeker status and started to say “we”.  I started to say “me”; I started to say “I”.

Two weeks on and I am still in shock and recovery.  Leafleting made me think that the amendment would be retained, and I’m still struggling to be kind to those who voted NO.  Their right to have a clear conscience and sleep well at night, because they think abortion is morally wrong, would have affected my right to choose what is best for my womb, in the most profound of ways.  I am trying to remember Nietzsche’s warning that when fighting monsters we must be careful that we ourselves do not turn into monsters and the Dalai Lama’s advice that life without love and compassion is not really a life.  With this in mind, I will try and make more of an effort to be kinder to those who voted NO next week.

Maybe next week I will be kinder to them.

My final social media post related to the criticism that the YES supporters were celebrating the result of the referendum, and I wrote this:

“I’ve heard these awful and malicious lies that some people were out drinking champagne on Saturday afternoon, and into the early evening. I assure you I was drinking Pinot and Prosecco. When will these lies ever stop? Fake News!”

Finally, I was using personal pronouns.  I was putting my hat, my passion and my womb into the discourse and I was taking a bit of a risk.  Finally, I realised that to stand by the women and girls of Ireland, I had to be counted as one of them.

And I am so very proud that I did.  I am just sorry I was so late.

When we cast our vote on May 25^th to repeal or retain the eighth amendment we will send out a powerful signal to the world that will impact on women, families, communities and movements far beyond Ireland.

In spite of the strong progress that has been made in the advancement of women’s rights in the past decades, there are some very troubling counter-vailing trends across Europe, the US and many developing countries – with women’s reproductive rights and access to abortion as particularly fraught flashpoint for this.

In some developing countries, we have seen the tragic and horrific consequences of harshly imposed restrictions on abortion access. In Paraguay in March of this year, a fourteen-year-old girl who was the victim of rape tragically died during childbirth; her body too young to safely carry out a pregnancy[1]. In 2015, an eleven-year-old child was forced to carry a pregnancy to term in spite of the enormous risks posed to her health as a result[2]. In El Salvador, women have been imprisoned for more than 10-years for miscarrying – under suspicion that they may have acted deliberately to induce miscarriage or stillbirth[3].

Even within this context, the eighth amendment to the Irish constitution is a harsh and inflexible measure. In Ireland, procuring an abortion, regardless of age, circumstance or associated danger (short of an immediate threat to one’s life), potentially carries a fourteen-year prison sentence. The stories of the inevitably tragic consequence of this are many; for example, in March this year it was reported that an Irish 12 year old was given an abortion in England which she would have been forced her to carry to term under Irish law despite the dangers posed for someone so young or else faced a criminal penalty[4]. It should be a sobering realisation to all of us in Ireland that our eighth amendment lends credibility and legitimacy to the implementation of similar horrendous laws and their tragic consequences around the world.

The imposition of Trump’s “Global Gag Order” last year further jeopardised the health of women in developing countries. The global gag order withholds funding from any non-U.S. organisation that offers abortion services, information or referrals. As a result, millions of marginalised women cannot access contraception, family-planning information, abortion where required or full healthcare throughout pregnancy[5].

In our neighbouring European countries, the anti-abortion lobby is growing in strength and boldness. Rather than focusing on the issues that have been demonstrated to reduce abortion rates – access to free contraception, informed medical-led family planning, sex education, the lobby is focusing on shutting down women’s access to care. In Italy, doctors face huge pressure and intimidation to join the register of “conscientious objectors” to abortion, leaving women in many regions of Italy forced to travel long distances[6]. Protesters are gathering outside abortion clinics in the UK to intimidate women as they go in[1]. In Poland, legislation has been proposed to impose further restrictions on access to abortion – and has been met with strong resistance[2].

Whether in Ireland, or Europe or developing countries, it is the vulnerable and the marginalised who are consistently most penalised by the controls placed on their bodies and their choices. It is the girls and women who can’t afford contraception, who are victims of abuse, who are in controlling and abusive relationships, who suffer health difficulties and disabilities, who do not have the means to travel. These girls and women deserve better than coercion, criminalised and for society to turn a blind eye to them. They deserve support, understanding and the best possible healthcare.

In Ireland, we have seen the strength of a grassroots movement grounded in compassion for women in crisis and commitment to the advancement of human rights and equality. In so many countries, communities and households around the world, women are fighting a similar battle. We can stand with them and support them. In the year of the centenary of women’s suffrage, it seems apt to quote the suffragette Millicent Fawcett, “Courage calls to courage everywhere”. The courage of so many Irish women and girls to tell their story and the courage of us in Irish society to fight for them can send out a powerful signal to women and girls around the world fighting for justice and rights.

Repeal the Eighth Amendment for women and girls everywhere.

Vote Yes.

By Janet Horner.

[1] https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/ealing-council-abortion-clinic-ban-protests-marie-stopes-london-labour-party-a8298621.html

[2] https://www.irishtimes.com/news/world/europe/nationwide-protests-in-poland-against-move-to-restrict-abortion-1.3438363

[1] https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2018/mar/22/paraguayan-rape-victim-14-dies-giving-birth

[2] https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/aug/13/paraguay-11-year-old-gives-birth-abortion

[3] https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2017/12/el-salvador-upholds-30-year-sentence-stillbirth-case-171215104626774.html

[4] https://www.irishtimes.com/news/crime-and-law/garda%C3%AD-investigate-12-year-old-s-abortion-in-britain-1.3431941

[5] https://www.hrw.org/news/2018/02/14/trumps-mexico-city-policy-or-global-gag-rule

[6] https://www.opendemocracy.net/5050/claudia-torrisi/abortion-italy-conscientious-objection

I met an old friend this bank holiday weekend…

We hadn’t seen one another in many years, so I was happy to sit with her for an hour in Phoenix Park; it was a sunny day in Dublin and we chatted for a while.

I asked her how she was holding up during the debates around the referendum, as I knew she terminated a pregnancy some time ago, and I just hoped that the news and the posters weren’t too upsetting for her.  She told me no, that this wasn’t the case at all.  Rather, she said she was going through a period of profound healing and growth.

Six years ago, my friend decided to terminate her pregnancy for a labyrinth of complicated and personal reasons.  At that time, she had asylum seeker status, so she was unlikely to get entry clearance for the UK, where she could have legally terminated her pregnancy.  So she decided to buy the unregulated, illegal, unsupervised abortion pill online instead.

She started to experience severe pains very quickly so wondered if she had read the instructions carefully enough.  English is not her first language so she wasn’t sure if she had done what she was supposed to do.  She also wondered if she was experiencing “abnormal” or “normal” pain as she had nothing to compare it to, and found it hard to contextualise.  At one point she thought she might go to the nearest accident and emergency department, because she was starting to feel faint and she started to panic that everything was going terribly wrong.  But she had heard that this illegal pill carried with it a 14 year prison sentence, and so postponed presenting to the A&E department for as long as possible.  When her brother found her unconscious on the bathroom floor, he very wisely called the ambulance, and possibly saved her life by doing so.

The excellent health workers cared for her for four days and then discharged her and she went home.  No one arrested her, but she lived with the fear that someone might, at some time, come knocking on her door, arrest her and send her back to her own country. She said she had lived with this fear for six years.

She told me, while we were sitting in the park on a sunny day in Dublin, that every time she sees someone wearing a badge with YES on it, or a t.shirt with the word REPEAL on it, she wants to kiss them gently on the cheek and say thank you.  She told me that for the first time in six years, she hasn’t felt like a criminal, but feels supported and cared for instead.  She told me that she believes the people of Ireland will vote with their hearts this time, and that one day, hopefully very soon, people in her position will be able to access safe, regulated and compassionate health care in Ireland.

This referendum is not about abortion, it’s about legislation that is hypocritical to its core, completely unfit for purpose and impossible to uphold.

Please vote YES on 25 May 2018.

 

 

 

I would have voted YES.

My application for Irish citizenship will not be processed by the time of the referendum, so I will be unable to vote.  I should have applied for citizenship much earlier and I’m sorry I can’t vote.

I would have voted YES.

I would have voted YES to repeal the 8^th amendment, because I don’t believe that a woman should have to travel overseas to terminate a pregnancy or take an illegal, unregulated abortion pill without medical supervision at home, and risk 14 years in prison for doing so.

I would have voted YES because this current legislation is hypocritical in the most extraordinary of ways; and it makes everyone in this society complicit with this hypocrisy.  We all know women who have travelled, and we all know women who have bought the pills online.  Even if those women haven’t shared their stories directly with us, we know them.  Can we ignore them for much longer?

I would have voted YES, not because I “agree” with abortion or think that abortion is “good”, but because life can be strange and complicated and terrifying and odd.  Because it’s not about me, and what I believe or where my opinion is.  It’s about all the women in our society.  All of the women in our society.

I would have voted YES, because of the health care advice from the World Health Organisation, because the Migrants’ Rights Groups in Dublin are supporting it, because many doctors and lawyers are supporting it.

I would have voted YES, because the current legislation doesn’t prevent terminations of pregnancies.  The current legislation is unfit for purpose and doesn’t serve the society I live in.  The current legislation needs to be changed.

If the 8^th amendment is repealed I would welcome more education about sexuality in schools, with more access to contraception, including the morning after pill.  I would welcome a mature discussion about how to provide the best services and care to the many different types of women who have to face the most difficult decision a person will ever have to make.  But let’s repeal it first.  Then we can look at long-term health advice, counselling and interventions afterwards.

I would have voted YES.