I am stir crazy, so here's a poem.

**********************February************************

February is: a dull grey beach leaden with fog.

A huddle of birds under woebegone hedges.

Dirty snow marching alongside tread-heavy tire tracks.

Wasn't this the year I said I'd go south

And stay until the northern sun would beckon me

Back to its splendid silky summer of endless evenings

And carefree hikes on iris laden cliffs with the turquoise

Sea tossed into sparkles by the gleaming jet black hillocks

Of the cavorting whales and their retinue of hagdowns?

Fog with leaden beach grey dull a: is February.

Riff

Riff

Definition:
riffing. 1. talking via stream-of-consciousness thinking 2. freeform talk 3. first-derivative talking. I sat down to write you a letter and then picked up the tape ......

I do this riffing thing. Ephemeral thoughts. None of it cohesive enough to remember but I am sometimes astonished at my own brilliance. Then poof, thoughts evaporate, coalesce into something else, another bauble in the imagination, darting like dragonflies in the twilight.

I went out today for the first time since last Wednesday. Not for long. But enough to release me from that helpless invalid feeling. At my age, and so much loss behind me, there's an untold thrill on being this side of the daisies.

I was going to share a picture of my back and butt here but hey, the fact that I nearly gagged when I put up that small mirror and surveyed the damage in the big mirror? I kept thinking: that blackness all over your back could have been your head.. I'll spare you and myself the gory evidence.

I'm working on a non-fiction piece for Canada Writes, in case any of you are interested, there's the link. It's one I wrote years ago and it was published somewhere small but I can't remember where and I'm editing it down from 3,000 words to the 1,500 required. It's a funny (not at the time) account of an absolute weekend-from-hell in Winnipeg. I will share when it's all re-polished and submitted.

And I was reflecting yet again on this time of loss. I so miss my BFF and writing to her every day of the small stuff, you know? And then another friend dies in Ontario, only 63, had survived her first bout of cancer 10 years ago and then was taken to hospital with a bad flu last Wednesday as I was somersaulting down my driveway and subsequently CatScanned and she was riddled. She was dead by Saturday. She was a vibrant, well-travelled woman. And memorable for her distinctive voice and outrageous hair and kindness, she was very kind.

The ranks are thinning, my friends, we need to make the most of what's left of it.

Starting now.

Flashing Lights

Where Ansa is on our driveway became covered in snow a few days later so the ice underneath was not visible.

Yup. Many of those lights to write about.

(1) Flashing lights: A really, really bad fall on the ice resulting in the stars and moon in front of my eyes. Short term memory loss. Swellings on lower spine. Like the humps of a camel. Pain. Oh pain. Increased blood pressure.

(2) Flashing lights: Emblazoned on neon inside the skull - call Daughter.

(3) Flashing lights: Ambulance pulls into driveway, they check my swellings, stretcher me, put me into ambulance. Two lovely, lovely women.

(4) Flashing lights: they pull the ambulance over periodically to check my vitals, BP, sugars. I am IV'd.

(5) Flashing lights: inside hospital, overhead, on probing lights into eyes, ears. They have called ahead I am given a room in spite of other sick souls in corridor.

(6) Flashing lights: I am moved to a long steel table and my whole spine xrayed. "Sorry," says Blaine the technician,"This is very painful." "Not at all," I say back to his belly laugh, "I've given birth twice."

(7) Flashing lights: As I am released four hours later: no bones broken, tissues bruised and swollen but unbloodied. Strong bones, my doctor says, really, really strong bones. A light of overwhelming gratitude fills me. This could have been catastrophic and it wasn't.

Yeah, I hurt. Yeah, I walk like I'm 105 and I don't recognise the purple and pink and black swollen mass all over my behind and down my thighs. And I'm told this will worsen before it gets better. And I'm not sleeping well as I keep waking with pain.

BUT, so very many have it so much worse. So very much worse.

Thanks for all your kind thoughts and wishes out there. They mean so much.

Stuck Between Grovelling and Smarmy

"We like the plot Miss Austen, but all this effing and blinding will have to go."

What have I been doing?

I'm glad you asked.

I thought to find an Irish literary agent. Brave, impudent perhaps, of me. As it's challenging - not so much the finding of one but the abject, begging tone one wants to keep as far away as possible from the request missive.

Along with that, the d and f on my keyboard decided to go on strike, I may have overused them. H'm. Desperation. Failure. FFFS.

I started my hunt in Cork, the city of my birth and the one that keeps yanking me back by the scruff of the neck every year, sometimes twice in the same year. I found one. Whether she feels she's found me is yet to be seen.

But I spent untold hours polishing up my biography, smoothing my various synopses into full disclosure of my works and oh, that was hard. You're not allowed more than 300 words to summarize individual pieces. And then the cover letter: wheedles, cajoles and despair omitted. Pleasant, light, unconcerned (but not too detached),grammatical, succinct.

I did say this was the year I was going to get really, really serious, didn't I?

Well, I am.

Bread and Butter

I love making bread. Irish soda bread, spelt bread, real honest to goodness yeast bread. As do some of you out there. With real butter. I reflect on a conversation a long time ago with my mother.

"There's a way you'll always know if someone cares about you," said my mother one time in the kitchen where she was preparing sandwiches.

"Tell me," I said, I was probably about twelve.

"You'll know by the way they butter your bread."

"What do you mean?"

"Someone who really cares about you will butter your bread right to the edges with no empty places anywhere, not even the edges."

And you know?

She was right.

Hunkering.

Our winter begins sometime in February always. Now it has snowed here. Savagely. But I am taken care of. Odd that. I only worry about reality. I don't worry about possibilities or what ifs. Tons of snow: I worry. I look out at it and worry who is going to take care of the massive might of it, carelessly drifted into high unclimbable barriers, rendering egress impossible for car or human.

Pat comes along with his plough once the last flake has floated to earth. How he knows this, I'm not sure. I call it magic. He did this at 9 or so last night.

And Leo comes along with a bright red shovel at 10 this morning and frees up the garage that has a two foot high snow drift in front of it and corrects my dismal attempts to smooth a path from my backdoor in order to let the dog out.

See what I mean?

And now it's pelting down this kind of fog-rain-snow mix, bitter tiny flakes of icy fog coming down in a thick curtain. But I'll be taken care of. This I believe.

I do a little shoveling for the dog but having seen a 33 year old man drop dead in front of me one time as he shovelled I have tremendous respect for the effects of this strenuous activity on the heart. Especially at my age.

So today? I bake bread, I simmer a stew in the ancient old crockpot, I re-edit another 100 pages of a book that someone is interested in, I look at the really rather lovely afghan I am working on (pictures to follow in a week or so) and ponder the wise words of a friend on the phone yesterday:

"Why do we wait for bad weather to give ourselves the permission to do exactly what we want to do and have the kind of day we truly want?"

So yes, I am disciplined but in a good hunkery way. The house is full of the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the aroma of the stew, in between I'm reading a most fabulous book - more on that later too - and my knitting beckons for later on.

Hunkering is excellent. It doesn't need bad weather.

At all.

The Unfortunate Sanitization of Language

The Exploits River in Badger, Newfoundland.

I've noticed this in so many reports in newspapers and on the web. As if the English language goes through some sort of grinding modifier to render it innocuous and then spews it out the other side in politico-spin or media spin or whatever you'd like to call it.

The blandness of the language has me rolling my eyes and then closing them and regurgitating word for word what I anticipate are the next few tired old profundities uttered by whomever. I am always correct in my assumptions.

Thus it was with delight I read a report in today's newspaper on the town of Badger, Newfoundland. Don't get me wrong. Not a delight in the misfortune of the flooding expected with the rising waters, but in the language used by the Mayor of Badger.

He is explaining the elevation of the water level of the Exploits River which seriously threatens the small town. Badger doesn't need or want spin doctors to smooth out the language. Listen to the rhythm of his words as he paints the Exploits River with personality:

"She just took all that friggin' ice that was even up above us and she took that ice and she pushed that down around the corner."

and

"She built up that much pressure and plus the temperature got up a little bit in the middle of the afternoon and she made a big pullout."

She be some powerful woman, that Exploits River.

My thoughts are with the town and its her safety in the challenges it she faces.

Lemonade in a Cold Climate

There's a story behind this sweater you see. Yes, I'm wearing it in my house today. Yes, I have layers of clothes on underneath including long-johns, thick socks, serious slippers (doncha hate those fluff bundles femmie kinds? I do).

I knitted one of these sweaters for myself well over 40 years ago and my father loved it so much for those cold nights on Sherkin that I paid attention to my mother's pleas to present it to him. Which I did and he wore it many, many times. But only on Sherkin. A man has to have his dignity out in the real mainland world.

That sweater had a "thing" about it. It felt like someone's arms around you. You could smuggle things across borders (don't ask) with it on. And it fit anyone who borrowed it. And you could use it to dry off and warm up after swimming. And nurse a baby underneath it. I missed it. But thought to get it back one day. But next thing, a few years later, bro and sis-in-law and I go off for a day's hiking and lo and behold there's my lovely sweater. On him. I remarked on it, how toasty and blankety it was and sis-in-law sez : "It's his favourite, he loves it. Your dad gave it to him." And I shut my trap.

And then, still mourning it but resigned, about 25 years ago I took to the needles and made myself a copy. Gargantuan as before. Three could fit inside it in comfort.

And I NEED to wear it now. Mr. Chimney was here and gave me a quote and ordered stove pipes and liners and brackets for my stove and I await. In this portable blankie.

And the lemonade? I can't even count the offers of spare bedrooms, meals, and a couple of fun ones: "put on a t-shirt and shorts and come for a few minutes and walk around our house in our heat."

And heaters. And concern. And phone calls checking on me.

Daughter says today: "Only that we live here and experience all this astonishing community of sharing and caring would we believe it. Hearing about it on the outside beggars disbelief."

I've never known anything like it. And I only gave you a tiny taste of what has been offered to me in this latest life challenge.

Newfoundland I love you.

And I know you love me back.

When all else fails, start in on your tax return.

Yeah, that is what I did from about noon on today with a few meal breaks.

Unfortunately, my tax return is still complex due to many ventures.

Don't I sound like a millionaire?

Far from the truth. Way far. But I rent out bits of my property in tourist season, I prepare a few other tax returns, not many. I glean a few dollars from writing and sale of my cards and I conduct workshops and oh yes, I'm one of those trusted citizens who can sign off for your passport or legal documents for a small fee. And marry the pair of you if you want, though that hasn't been requested yet.

All that is to say I have to track the income and expenses of each entity separately which is a right old nuisance when the total doesn't amount to a hill of beans and I slide up and down over the official poverty line all year.

So this morning I had a chimney fire. Pretty scary. The wind was savage and blew open the door of my stove while my back was turned and next thing.....

The sound inside the chimney was fierce and I ran outside (I admit to panicking a little) and there was a mass of black smoke pouring out of said chimney but fortunately no flames. The stovepipe went red with the heat and the brick and plaster chimney breast on the second floor was so hot I couldn't touch it.

And I never thought to phone the fire department. Imagine. I calmly called to cancel an appointment I had with a client I am training and then sat frozen in the house. Now I see I should have called the FD for they have special powder/salt they throw down the chimney to kill the fire. I am hopeless at this unpredictable stuff.

Now it is 10 hours later and the chimney breast is still warm to the touch.

But hurray for social media. A friend in Ontario (a chimney expert) gave me instructions - number one being 'do not light your stove under any circumstances as the bricks and liner are compromised now' and 'find yourself a chimney expert to install a new liner'. He came through on FB also and he's coming on Monday to sort me out.

And then I unclenched my mouth and flexed my paralyzed body and began the 10 hour job that is my tax return.

Did I tell you about......?

My Clock.

This is the one that sits in front of my computer beside my printer. I think I paid a $1 for it yonks ago in a thrift shop. I seriously don't like digital clocks. My age or something. Time seems more real to me when it's on a round face with three hands.

Bonus with this one is that the slightest movement makes it waggle and wiggle itself. Adding a further sense of urgency to tempus fugit.

And the pink. Why is pink a ridiculous colour for a clock? Or anything serious? A pink computer. A pink fireplace. A pink printer. A pink truck. See? I told you, didn't I?

Additional bonus: others covet this clock.

But it's mine.

All mine.

Did I tell you about.....?

My Snake.

In an effort to distract myself I am amusing myself with taking photos. Of odd things around my house. Well, not odd to me but maybe to you.

This loooong snake I designed and knitted some time in October of last year. He keeps out the chilly drafts from my front door. And is a colourful addition to the original hall which is wood panelled and darkish with the outside wooden storm door fastened against the winter elements. Not that we're seeing much of any of that this year.

You don't want to know what he's stuffed with.

And no, I haven't named him.

Carrying On

The act of being creative (for me) is healing and validating.

Today, January fled the scene and February opened her unpainted canvas with green grass and dazzling sunshine. And warmth.

I recognise, as if for the first time, that any kind of creativity requires discipline and the perseverance necessary to take apart and begin again. And the concentration required is a reprieve from repetitive hopeless thoughts.

It was thusly with a new afghan I am designing and knitting for a friend. I treated myself to some new wool in those "new" colours (pumpkin - everything old is new again) and cream and an oceany mix and I took the time to design and measure and swatch and started it and then recognised about 6" into it wasn't going to work. So rip, rip as I watched "J. Edgar" which says a lot about that particular movie. If you feel compelled to read my review go here.

And I started all over again with an adaptation to my original design and this time it worked.

#4 Bro has a valuable connection to someone who may be interested in a book I wrote so I will explore that opportunity along with others. And keep plugging away at writing and revisions and editing.

Being curled into a ball of grief has its upside. Feeling the feelings is necessary in order to clear the darkness and let in the sunshine.

Thank you February.

Grief

I remember on one of my many trips to Dublin we were reading side by side on her patio, birdsong trilling around us, the scent from the overhead baskets of tomatoes and strawberries perfuming the sun warmed air.

"You know," she said, "You're the only one in the world I can do this with. Isn't it perfect?"

Perfect. Yes.

There are multiple aspects to grief, thousands of manifestations. An enormous sense of never being the same. Ever again. And that's just one.

In spite of myself I go to the labelled email folder last night. Helen. Thousands of emails. It's like a compulsive first bite of something decadent, sinful and addictive.

And I realize some things that weren't obvious to me before.

She played her buttons close to her vest. She didn't let too many people in. Maybe it was the long history we had. Nothing could sever the trust, the implicit faith in that shoulder always being there. That acceptance. The sheer unconditionality of it. I really don't feel that way about anyone else. I always think I will be rejected, abandoned, condemned and shunned once I show you the inner me. It's happened far too many times before. It's my default setting. Therapy hasn't helped. It's like a permanent internal condition akin to an irremovable birthmark. Part of my psyche. And we knew these things about each other. In particularly bad patches we would sign off: "Remember I love you."

And we meant it. All warts exposed, all insecurities, all struggles. It didn't matter.

We'd speculate how we could do better, help each other climb over the stiles of our challenges and pain.

We'd talk each other through depression and bafflement over loved ones' behaviours.

And a little nugget:

A Canadian friend emailed me yesterday and said:

"Remember that day in Ballydehob and my nails were all a mess and Helen went off immediately and bought me stuff to deal with them."

I'd forgotten.

She'd only known my friend for a couple of days.

But her caring expanded to friends of friends of friends.

I miss her so.

The Books of 2014

Here I go again with the books I read, tossed, trashed and adored in 2014. 88 of them! Imagine! I never quite reach my target of 100, though I do try.

The best - my five star ratings for 2014 though not in any particular order. If you want to read my more detailed critiques, click on Goodreads and find Wisewebwoman. I must say I was pleased there were so very many good books in my list. They far outweighed the disappointments.

The Very Best
Benediction - Kent Haruf
Heft - Liz Moore (2nd time!)
Flight behaviour - Barbara Kingsolver
The Breakwater House - Pascale Quiviger
The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry - Rachel Joyce
The Various Haunts of Men - Susan Hill
The Pure Heart - Susan Hill
The Quiet American - Graham Greene (re-read)
Friend of my Youth - Alice Munro (again)
A Long, Long Way - Sebastian Barry
Wild - Cheryl Strayed
House of Hate - Percy Janes
Private Life - Jane Smiley
The Novel - James A. Michener
The Stolen Village - Des Ekin
All My Puny Sorrows - Miriam Toews
Annie Dunne - Sebastian Barry
The Razor's Edge - Somerset Maugham (re-read)
The Gingerbread Woman - Jennifer Johnston
The Temporary Gentleman - Sebastian Barry
Practical Magic - Alice Hoffman
The Rich Part of Life - Jim Kokoris
The Road Past Altamont - Gabrielle Roy
The Help - Kathryn Stockett

Here is the complete list:

(1)Benediction - Kent Haruf*****Fabulous, lyrical read
(2)Heft - Liz Moore (again)*****
(3)Abide with Me - Elizabeth Strout***
(4)The Burgess Boys - Elizabeth Strout****{BC}
(5)Astray - Emma Donoghue****
(6)The Sentimentalists - Johanna Skibsrud****
(7)The Spinning Heart - Donal Ryan (Thanks #1 Bro!)****
(8)The Breakwater House - Pascale Quiviger*****
(9)The Dinner - Herman Koch***
(10)Flight Behavior - Barbara Kingsolver*****
(11)The Last Child - John Hart (loan)*couldn't finish
(12)The Book Thief - Markus Zusak*****
(13)The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (loan) - Rachel Joyce*****
(14)The Calligrapher's Daughter - Eugenia Kim
(15)You Before Me - JoJo Moyes****
(16)The Various Haunts of Men - Susan Hill*****unputdownable
(17)Darcy's Utopia - Fay Weldon***
(18)The Pure Heart - Susan Hill*****
(19)The Night Lawyer - Michelle Spring - 0- tossed-bilge
(20)Half-Blood Blues - Esi Edugyan {BC}*
(21)The Ministry of Special Cases - Nathan Englander
(22)Dancing with the Virgins - Stephen Booth *avoid
(23)A Closed Eye - Anita Brookner****
(24)Justice for Sara - Erica Spindler***
(25)A Bit of Singing and Dancing - Susan Hill****
(26)Habits of the House - Fay Weldon****
(27)Until Proven Guilty - J.A. Jance 0(dreadful)
(28)Injustice for All - J.A. Jance tossed
(29)Trial by Fury - J.A. Jance tossed
(30)The Quiet American - Graham Greene *****(again)
(31)Friend of my Youth - Alice Munro (again)*****
(32)The Risk of Darkness - Susan Hill***
(33)A Long, Long Way - Sebastian Barry*****
(34)Private Life - Jane Smiley*****
(35)Death on the Ice - Cassie Brown{BC}****
(36)Burial Rites - Hannah Kent****
(37)Still Life with Breadcrumbs - Anna Quindlen****
(38)Wild - Cheryl Strayed*****
(39)The Evolution of Jane - Cathleen Schine{BC}0
(40)A Candle in her Heart - Emilie Loring***(for its archaic time)
(41)Trading Places - Fern Michaels 0 awful(from Emma)
(42)House of Hate - Percy Janes*****
(43)The Orenda - Joseph Boyden**
(44)Incidents in the Rue Laugier - Anita Brookner****
(45)Silent Wife - A.S.A. Harrison****
(46)The Novel - James A. Michener*****
(47)Stalking Irish Madness - Patrick Tracey (loan)***1/2
(48)The Stolen Village - Des Ekin***** (thanks D!)
(49)The Betrayal of Trust - Susan Hill**(I'm offya now Susan)
(50)Rails Across the Rock - Ken Pieroway
(51)The Deception of Livvy Higgs - Donna Morrissey -dropped, bored stiff
(52)Spadework - Timothy Findley**
(53)Beacons - Joseph Dobbin (not rating, a friend)
(54)The Razor's Edge - Somerset Maugham (re-read)*****
(55)All My Puny Sorrows - Miriam Toews*****
(56)The Ocean at the end of the Lane - Neil Gaiman 0 awful
(57)Big Brother - Lionel Shriver***
(58)Annie Dunne - Sebastian Barry*****
(59)Certainty - Madeleine Thien* 1/2 way through I just didn't care anymore
(60)The Shadows in the Street - Susan Hill**
(61)The Boy who Walked - Michael Friis Johansen 0 too dry
(62)The Gingerbread Woman - Jennifer Johnston*****
(63)The Temporary Gentleman - Sebastian Barry*****
(64)In the Heat of the Night - John Ball****
(65)The Survivors Club - Lisa Gardner***
(66)Ghost Light - Joseph O'Connor****
(67)A Goat's Song - Dermot Healy***
(68)Piano Teacher - Janice Y.K. Lee{BC}**
(69)More Then 50% - Hilda Chauk Murray**thin material stretched far
(70)The Endless Knot - Gail Bowen**
(71)Practical Magic - Alice Hoffman*****
(72)The Rich Part of Life - Jim Kokoris*****
(73)No Turning Back - Ida Linehan Young***
(74)Grass - Sherri S. Tepper
(75)The Road Past Altamont - Gabrielle Roy*****
(76)Wild December - Edna O'Brien 0 awful
(77)The Girls - Lori Lansen**
(78)The Help - Kathryn Stockett*****
(79)Cuffer Anthology 2013 - various
(80)Frog Music - Emma Donaghue**disappointed
(81)The Secret Place - Tana French***
(82)Split - Tara Moss *
(83)The White Bone - Barbara Gowdy* second attempt, couldn't finish.
(84)I've been Working on the Railway - W.Chafe***
(85)Cop Town - Karin Slaughter****
(86)The Ghosts - Mary Swan (struggling - it was a gift.
(87)Burying Ariel - Gale Bowen**
(88)Hold Tight - Harlan Coben***

Eggs

It is in noticing the small things and being cheered, even slightly, by them that we give ourselves a bit of a gee-up and then other gee-ups start to pile up quite nicely.

The husband and adult children of my darling friend were overjoyed when I created a closed group, members only, for my friend Helen. I called it "Helen's Circle" and I posted some of my pictures and then one of her sons posted a baby picture of her and I found our Confirmation picture and put that up. And we cry a bit but the joy is there too when we look at her and the portrait of her and the World's Most Impossible Dog (she was a dog rescuer and worked tirelessly for the Dublin SPCA). And this dog? I don't think any dog was ever more despised. It bit, it barked, it was completely and totally unlovable and this opinion was shared by all her dog-loving family and friends including me. The dog, Robyn, laughed all through her obedience classes and then proceeded to bite her husband every time she saw him and after that snack would bite the hand that fed her (mine, a few times).

So those eggs? Ramana had posted about the wee things in life and I thought to keep my eyes open for them. I got the ceramic eggholder in a thrift shop for a whole dollar but it gives me unremitting joy when I put my hardboiled eggs in it. And the eggs are happy eggs from my friend who names her chickens and gives them the run of the place. These eggs are art.

And my office missed me when I was away. They bought me an espresso maker, one of those old-fashioned stove-top ones. I do whine about not having strong coffee. They fixed me. Sweet, yeah?

And I get a message to come for dinner from dear friends for Sunday evening. Always beautiful company and beautiful, thoughtful food.

And I start a project tomorrow that will enhance my community in a small way I hope.

And some lovely phone messages that I finally played yesterday.

So I'm counting my eggs.

They are many and they're all delicious.

Rejection

A famous writer said this to me a long time ago: "The more material you send out the more you'll be rejected and you know what? The pain of rejection lessens."

It does. Seriously. A short 2 hander play I've been trying to get staged for a while now was scheduled to be performed in February. But cutbacks. Now the powers-that-be inform me that they can now only put on 3 plays for the festival rather than 5 and mine didn't make that particular shortlist.

Next.

My Lips Are Sealed for Now.

Do you ever feel you'd love to write about something that's really fogging up the old spectacles but you know you can't. And you sit on it and stew on it and privately journalize it and think there might be a short story or even a bloody novel in it but there isn't. The words stream on and there just isn't any way of getting rid of it, it is fraught with anger and sadness and a kind of resignation and despair and you'd love to spit it out at the world.

You know?

And you can't. Because of breached anonymity.

So many of you out there writing long and hard for years on such a platform as this must know whereof I write. Of which I write. Of.....

I suppose a good old suck it up might work, down the road that is. But right now and for the past while? It makes me seethe. It's not an uncommon loathsome behaviour I witnessed but I haven't seen it written about before. And I can't seem to work my way around disguising it. That breached anonymity thing you see.

I mentioned my dilemma to a family member and they had a great time with it - acting out how TV programmes handle such matters with changed names and disguised voices and descriptions. To the point where it took on a life of its own amidst our helpless laughter.

But this was no laughing matter and quite serious. And the desire is burning within to put it all out there rather than privately.

So I'll distract myself and tell you I returned from dear old Ireland today.

And yeah my heart's still broken and it all feels so surreal and I'm dying to tell her all about it and I can't.

So there it is.

Hence the picture I took of my three beloveds up above.

To cheer me up.

Healing Gifts 2

One might never meet someone or talk to them but when you do, pow, in the first 20 seconds you have an ease and comfort that is astonishing.

It was this way with a young woman who came up to me at the removal of my BFF from her home to the church.

"I know you. " she said simply.

"Yes," I said, "Of course. You're Gillian."

And we hugged and cried.

BFF had loved the ex-partner of her elder son's. Like we do. We hate to witness the breakup of our children with those we become fond of and whom we consider "ideal".  For us, the elders, perhaps, but not for those who move on.

Against the odds BFF remained close to Gillian as both her son and Gillian moved on to other partners and started families.

BFF was a tower of strength when Gillian ' s 1st daughter died at 5 months. I remember the daily emails from that period (BFF & I exchanged 1000s of emails). I had two miscarriages so understood a little of the grief and relayed words of understanding through BFF to Gillian.

So to finally meet her was wonderful. She adored BFF and was devastated by her death.

And the best news of all was that she's now the mother of two healthy little girls.

And yes, we're staying in touch.

Healing Gifts

Three to be precise.

The first is a very old friend and in the way of busy,  we lost track of each other. She had 6 children and I, single working parent pre-interwebz what does one do to sustain a palship?

She wasn't a friend of my now deceased BFF but felt driven to trek down to the south side of Dublin from her north side home to the funeral. She's never done anything like this in her life as she doesn't drive and finds the complicated 3 system transit necessary to do this daunting to say the least.

But she did it. And here we were today at Wynn's old hotel in Dublin catching up for 5 hours. Her children are all scattered, her husband dropped dead on the El Camino 4 years ago and she rattles around her big old house by herself. A traditional housewife,  she had to learn how to write cheques after her husband died.

I always knew even when she was 18 that she would be an Irish mammy. She always knew I was far too independent in my thinking to ever settle for that.

And you know what? After 40 years, the love was there, the openness and the honesty.

And yes, the laughter. And the memories she has of my beloved mum are priceless.

"I could have you come live with me forever," she says.

So next time I'm in Dublin,  yeah, I'll have her give me a test drive. Forever can change to never in a heartbeat.

There's something so healing about all of these events and that's just my 1st story.

Words

I have a clearer understanding now of the old expression "words fail me." The inadequacy of language to convey the depth of sadness, the never-agains of death, the disbelief, the overwhelming loss, the guilty rage of the eternal screaming of WHY?

Why not? Is flung back against me. Why do we consider ourselves and our beloveds so immune from the chilly skeletal fingers of the Reaper?

I am glad I returned to Ireland. Glad I was there for family and friends. Glad I let myself be comforted by dear ones. Glad to hook up with a long lost friend who showed up at the funeral with the dim hope I'd be there.

But the enormous loss. Words are completely inadequate.