THANK YOU FOR THE MAGIC....

I am not a big fan of science fiction.  I don’t like Dr Who or Star Trek.  I don’t understand black holes and the concept of a huge infinite universe melts my brain completely.

But a fiery sunset can take my breath away.  A rising creamy moon spills magic onto my world.  There is little quite as beautiful as a shimmering tent of stars overhead on a dark night.  These things speak to my soul.  They tell of wonders that exist just beyond my understanding and comprehension.  They never fail to move me and remind me that there is so much beyond this world; that our journey is far more than we can see or feel or touch.

On the 20^th of July 1969 Neil Armstrong took his ‘giant leap for mankind’ onto the surface of the moon.  For decades it seemed to me that this was the pinnacle of man's achievement in space.  Nothing has ever come near to wonder of that first space walk.

Sure, I am aware of probes to Mars and the fact that we have a Space Station hurtling around us where all kinds of experiments are carried out.  My twitter feed for the last few years has occasionally told me about ISS passes and what time it might be visible over Dublin.  I think I saw it just once.  It was not much more exciting that knowing the aircraft overhead is a Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to New York. 

Then on the 5^th of January a tweet appeared in my Twitter timeline with this photo.  The caption read Tonight's Finale: I'm not quite sure! Ireland, Wales or England, through a gap in the cloud. Where is this port town?

The tweet had originated on the ISS and was sent by a Commander Chris Hadfield.  Commander Hadfield had found Dublin and Ireland was just beginning to find Commander Hadfield.  More stunning images followed including the one below of the moon setting over the Earth.

Who knew Canada had astronauts?  But they do and to borrow a line from a famous ad... If  *insert beer name* did astronauts, they would do Chris Hadfield.

Commander Hadfield is exactly what I thought an astronaut wouldn’t be.  He is creative.  His photographs show a remarkable eye for composition and the words he chooses to accompany these pictures are beautifully crafted and carefully chosen.  But more than that, as I quickly discovered, Chris Hadfield is an accomplished musician. 

In February he posted a video of his accompanying a children’s choir from Canada, singing a song called “Is Somebody Singing” ... you just have to listen to the words.... It captures beautifully the magic of looking at our world from 240 miles above in space.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvAnfi8WpVE

I was hooked.  Hadfield posted photos of cities and towns and landscapes, as we had never seen them before.  We saw amazing weather patterns and sometimes con trails from aircraft far below. And we saw moon rises like never before.

On the 18^th of February he posted a magnificent night time shot of our capital city with the words Tá Éire fíorálainn! Land of green hills and dark beer. With capital Dublin glowing in the Irish night.  And an entire nation fell in love.  Irish in space – imagine that.

He sang Danny Boy for St Patricks Day, he made videos explaining life without gravity but most of all he captured the magic and wonder of our little blue planet.  He showed us a little of what he could see from his ‘tin can in space’. 

There have been many nights in the last six months when I have gazed skywards.  I could have been putting something in the bin, or locking the car or calling in the cat and I have smiled, knowing that up above my head somewhere was the charismatic Canadian with a guitar.  An astronaut with the heart of a poet and the soul of sage. 

Commander Hadfield, a man of science, sees the wonder and the magic of our universe and of our planet.  But more than that, he knows exactly how to capture it for us so we can get a taste of the magic, the beauty, the wonder back here on earth. 

I would dearly love to have five minutes some day to interview him.  To hear him speak of this wonder, to hear if it has changed him, to know how it feels to see life from 250 miles above this little blue planet....  And to know what he is going to do next....

Thank you Chris for sharing... it’s been wonderful.

KITTY. 2003 - 2013

Yesterday we lost our beautiful little 'kitty'.  She was ten years old and until Monday she had been very well.  Kitty was a wonderful cat - with a coat as soft as feathers and a girly meow which sounded more like a squeak.  She was part of our family and we are all very sad that she went so unexpectedly and so early.  We never knew she had a huge tumour.  She died peacefully at 7pm yesterday helped on her way by our Vet and in my arms.

As a tribute I have edited two previous posts from the archives. 

She enriched our lives for a decade.  We will miss her.

FROM MAY 2010..... BANG BANG BIRDIE

I am very glad that I don’t own a gun and that I live in country where it is generally against the law to own one. Because if I had a gun, last week I would have shot my dog, Dylan. He had a charming dose of the trots.  This week I would shoot Mrs Blackbird. Yep, that’s right. Mrs Blackbird. I would point my gun and BANG. Feathers all over the place. And then PEACE. QUIET.

Now before you rush to judgement – let me ask – have you ever heard an agitated Blackbird?  They make the most annoying racket and it goes on and on and on. The problem Mrs Blackbird with this particular bird is that she is a mammy. She must have a nest full of baby blackbirds in the tree at the end of the garden. I am also assuming that this particular Mrs Blackbird was a bit sloppy when it came to doing her background research on a suitable location for her nest. She clearly saw the tree and letting her heart rule her head, decided “This is it”. “This is my tree. This will be my new home.” Had she come back for a second viewing before finally making her mind up (and had she bothered to tune into Kirsty and Phil she would have known all this), she would have realised that she was making a nest at the end of a garden belonging to four cats.

Now my cats are generally laid back, lazy moggies who venture into the garden to lie in the sun or do their business. They have a cat flap to facilitate these comings and goings. Youngest of the foursome is Kitty and she occasionally brings home a field mouse. She has never (to my knowledge) caught a bird. But anytime any of the cats venture into the garden at the moment, Mrs Blackbird comes flying out of her fabulous tree, roaring and bawling all kinds of birdie obscenities. She perches on the swing and keeps up her tirade until the cat in question retreats indoors again. But when Kitty puts one paw into the garden she goes ballistic altogether. Squawking and screeching at the top of her lungs and dive bombing Kitty as she wanders down the path.

But this morning took the biscuit altogether. I was sitting at my laptop trying to work on a story. I have gotten somewhat used to the incessant squawking but all of a sudden it seemed to go up a gear and get louder. “Oh shut up” I roared as I turned around to see Kitty sitting indoors on the window sill and Mrs Blackbird perched on a patio chair directly outside the window telling Kitty exactly what she would do with her if she even put one leg into the garden. I was stunned.

I will admit to admiring Mrs Blackbird’s tenacity and her dogged protection of her offspring. But clearly her hormones have gotten the better of her and I am worried for her sanity. Without a gun I am just praying that all her babies fledge successfully and soon. And that Kitty stays as lazy as she is, so we can all live happily ever after!

A FEW DAYS LATER I POSTED AN UPDATE.....

I believe in Karma – otherwise known as what goes around comes around.

The Mrs Blackbird – v- Kitty saga has continued apace since I posted ‘Bang Bang Birdie’ last week. Although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, Mrs Blackbird has upped her game. Kitty now only has to pass a downstairs window and Mrs Blackbird zooms up the garden, screeching bloody murder. 

Kitty’s favourite daytime haunt is Mia’s bedroom, where she either curls up on the bed or sits on the window still surveying the garden. No more. Mrs Blackbird (who clearly has a powerful set of binoculars in her nest) spots her immediately and takes up position on the outside sill, yip yipping for all she’s worth.

Kitty is now terrified of going into the back garden and has taken to exiting and entering the house through windows at the front of the house. Needless to say we all think this is hilarious and have been regaling neighbours, friends and family with stories of Kitty being totally intimidated by a blackbird. “Kitty is a scaredy cat” and “Kitty’s afraid of a blackbird” echoes through the house regularly and guess who laughs loudest – yep, yours truly. What I had missed however, was the gimlet eye Kitty was throwing my way in the last day or two.

Last night, Kitty clearly decided to take matters into her own paws in order to restore her feline credibility. And so she did what Kitty does best and caught a mouse. A little field mouse, which she (brace yourselves ladies) brought into my bedroom, through an open window, at 1.30am this morning. Needless to say she had chosen her moment cleverly as my other half was away. 

So I woke up, alone in my bed, aware that Kitty was making odd sounds in the bedroom. I sat up and turned on the light. And there she was staring straight at me, saying “scaredy cat? Lets see who is scared now?” At her feet was the little mouse. As the implications of this situation seeped into my sleep fuzzed brain, I prayed “please God in heaven may this mouse (who was not moving) be dead”. 

With that the mouse took off under my chest of drawers. And Kitty decided to leave him there as she vanished under the bed. By now I was up and out of bed and lifting anything off the floor that I thought a mouse might climb into (shoes, bags etc), I then opened the curtains so that the open window was clearly visible and accessible, on the off chance that Kitty might think enough was enough and remove the mouse from whence it came. Wishful thinking all. Mouse stayed put and so did Kitty.

There was nothing for it but to leave them to it and hope that by morning Kitty would have done her worst and I could then remove dead mouse from the room. I decided to sleep in the spare bed in Mia’s room. But as soon as I lay down, my mind was full of what could transpire during the night. Mouse caught up in my duvet, taking refuge in my pillow, my dressing table being thrashed as Kitty pursued him across it, Tom and Gerry style. No, I decided I had to be grown up about this and go in and get rid of mouse. So I took a deep breath and woke up Mia.

Mia, I should explain is my youngest. She is 9 years old and she (like us all) loves animals. But Mia loves animals in a different way to the rest of us. When she was a toddler I would regularly find her barefoot in the garden with ants crawling over the legs. She loved wood lice and made homes and cities for them. She collected snails. And lately she has been bugging me to get her a pet mouse!

"Mia I need your help!”   

Mia readily agreed to be the one to remove the mouse. I equipped her with my industrial workman gloves and got a torch and we re-entered the room. All was as before and Mia on hands and knees reported that “ahh, he’s cute and yeah he is there, under the chest of drawers”. We discussed tactics which broadly speaking involved me moving the furniture and shouting instructions while Mia calmly and swiftly cornered little mouse, cupped him in her gloved hands and headed for the window from where he was launched into the night.

Mia also intervened when I attempted to grab Kitty and launch her after the mouse!

 And so it was that at 3am this morning Mia and I were in the kitchen having a celebratory glass of juice and me handing over the €5 bribe reward to my darling, brave, heroic, animal loving daughter. As we retired back to bed, we passed Kitty on the stairs and I swear she was grinning from ear to ear! I don't think I will slag her anymore!

'UNTIL THE NEXT TIME

I have been getting a huge reaction to my piece 'Until The Next Time' which was broadcast on Sunday Miscellany on RTE Radio 1 last Sunday 21st April.

You can listen to the podcast of the programme by clicking the link here.  My piece is about 31 minutes in.

Here is the script of the piece.....

“Well, that’s about it I suppose.... no more news.”

I hate these words as they usually signal that our conversation on Skype is coming to its natural conclusion.  Except that there is nothing natural about Skype.  It’s contrived and forced and virtual.  It’s the best thing we have when we are 9,000 miles apart but it’s not real. 

We finally hang up... after the lengthy ‘bye so, ok bye, ok love you, ok bye, bye, bye’ thing we do, as my cursor hovers over the red ‘hang up call’ button on screen.  Then there’s that horrible noise that sounds like something being sucked down a drain and she’s gone.

The picture of her, dressed in her pink PJs lying on her bed stays with me as I imagine her jumping up to head off to brush her teeth.  A few moments later and she will return to climb into bed under the lightest of cotton sheets, her beloved black cat settling down beside her.  I sit staring at my laptop and curse that yet again I have nothing interesting in for lunch.

Then I curse the bloody weather and freezing temperatures, I curse Enda Kenny and his entire cabinet, I curse Fianna Fail before them and finally curse the gaping huge distance that separates me from my first born. 

I allow myself a few minutes to wallow in the frustration of not being able to give her a hug..... or to receive one of hers.  I desperately want to be able to smell her hair and wonder at glow of her beautiful skin.  I want feel the air around her shimmer as she laughs.  I want to  savour the sound as it falls all around me.   

Then I get cross with myself for feeling sorry for myself when I know so many in this country are suffering fates much worse than mine.

I bang cups and plates around in the kitchen and the dog looks at me with his doleful eyes, sensing that there is violence and anger bubbling gently somewhere just beyond his perception. 

I make a cup of tea and sit at my kitchen table.  The dog settles at my feet.  And for the hundredth time I realise that right now what I want more than anything else is to have her sit opposite me and to talk rubbish and gossip and giggle.  Hell, I would even take an argument with her if it meant being able to share her space, to be in her energy. 

I want to look around me and see the imprint of her life in mine.  A handbag here, a scarf there, shoes abandoned by the front door.  I miss her always, but sometimes desperately.

She is probably sleeping now in the heat of the Perth night, under the languid movement of a ceiling fan.  I think of all the nights when she was little and I would check her room before I retired to bed.  Bending down to stroke her hair and pull the duvet up higher. I didn’t know then how precious those days were.  Perhaps it’s just as well.

I don’t know when I will see her again and perhaps that also is just as well.  Because right now all that is keeping me sane is the vague hope that somehow, in the not too distant future, the possibility of making the trip to the other side of the world will suddenly reveal itself.

 I drain my tea.  “Come on dog, let’s go for a walk”.  The pain has passed.  Till the next time.

WE WON'T SEE HER LIKE AGAIN...

So among the many celebrities who tweeted about the death of Margaret Thatcher was one Mr Harry Styles of those nice boys One Direction.  Harry tweeted “RIP Baroness Thatcher x”  Succinct.  Uncontroversial.  The reaction of the One Directioners was brilliant however and was captured by @counteractmagazine....(via @peteheat)

 I live with two such One Directioners – ages 12 and 14, and over dinner last night the 12 year old asked why all the fuss about the death of Margaret Thatcher.  She wasn’t too clear on who Mrs Thatcher was.  Her older sister knew she was a “British Prime Minister from history”.  Sometimes my children make me feel very old.

Margaret Thatcher came to power in Great Britain the year I left school, 1979 - so in many ways she helped shape the world into which I emerged.  However as a 17 year old I was far more interested in having fun and boys than in politics and so wasn’t really that bothered about her views on deregulation and privatisation. 

Those were dark days in Northern Ireland with violence and killing becoming so normal that their reporting was almost reduced to a kind of white noise on news bulletins.  But every so often something happened to make the horror of what was happening just 80 miles up the road very real.  Bloody Sunday was one such day.  The killing by mob of the two off duty soldiers in 1988 was another. 

As was the 5^th of May 1981, the day Bobby Sands died.  I was 19 and on holiday in Majorca when news came through and I remember my disbelief that Sands, who had been elected to an MP while in jail, had actually been allowed die. In the full glare of the world’s media, the British Government had just allowed him to die.  I remember hearing about rioting in Northern Ireland following news of his death.  But most of all I remember the British newspapers in the following days reporting the words of Thatcher in the aftermath of what she termed Sands’ suicide. “Mr. Sands was a convicted criminal. He chose to take his own life. It was a choice that his organisation did not allow to many of its victims".

The British Government stuck to their hard line stance.  And the horror continued.  Despite appeals from various parties and especially from the women involved including mothers, the IRA hunger strikes continued and men kept dying.  Margaret Thatcher didn’t flinch.  It was a darkly depressing summer full of foreboding and a deep sense of unease over where this might end.  The last man died in mid August.  By autumn the British Government had conceded to the prisoners demands. 

I sat at my suburban dinner table last night and tried to explain ‘the troubles’ to my daughters who are half English.  I really couldn’t illustrate the horror I saw almost nightly on TV news bulletins through the 70s and the 80s.  I was at a loss to explain how, although taking place on this island, the troubles seemed remote until something happened which we feared may escalate tensions and drag us also into the quagmire of death and destruction. 

The hunger strike deaths of the summer of 1981 carried just that fear with them. 

As I looked at my children’s faces as they listened, I realised that I may as well have been describing a movie I had watched some years ago when TV was black and white.  They had a passing interest but the reality and the real horror of what I was trying to articulate was lost on them.

As I stacked the dishwasher I thought of how precious peace on this island is... and if we are to learn anything from our past it is to guard, to protect and most importantly to nurture this ‘peace process’.  The men and women who worked so hard to bring it to a reality have given our children something very special.  As for the children of Northern Ireland they have given them their future.

As for Mrs Thatcher.... well I guess it would be true to say...  “ní bheidh a leithéad ann arís”.!  Please God.

Oh and tonight I may attempt to explain The Falklands War..... give me strength!

SOME GREAT IRISH READS POST PADDY'S DAY

All the hoopla and hype surrounding St Patricks Day (especially the drinking madness) leaves me cold and wishing for beauty and peace of the mountains of Wicklow.  But this year I also had a furkle about for some wonderful Irish books which I think reflect our culture and heritage.  They are all great reads.

My suggestions and reviews are now up on the writing.ie website and you can read them here.http://www.writing.ie/readers/post-paddys-day-reads/

IF I WERE POPE FOR A DAY.....

On the day that the Pope announced his retirement to the shock and awe of the Catholic world I had some fun on Twitter, suggesting that I should put myself forward as a possible contender for the vacancy in the Vatican.  I do rather fancy the jewel coloured robes... very flattering to the fuller figure and as for hand-made shoes... I bet they are so comfortable.   I also fancy living in a fully staffed palace in Rome which is one of my favourite cities.  Yep, the idea of being Pope is one that appeals to me greatly.

So with my Twitter buddy Carole Whelan (@carolewhelan) lined up as my personal assistant (or GlamAss as she prefers to be called)  it seemed that I was all set to begin electioneering.  But I needed a manifesto.  So I got to thinking about what I could achieve on my first day as Pope – with the help of all the staff I would have at my disposal.  So here it is.   My first day as Pope.

In the morning I would dress in the most colourful bejewelled robes available.  I would slip my feet into the famous papal slippers.  I may not bother with the mitre... I reckon I don't need to the extra height.  Suitably attired I would begin my first day's work.

The very first thing I would do would be to announce the conversion of the Vatican from a palace into a holiday resort to provide respite and a break for carers from all over the world.  My Vatican would be a place of rest and recuperation for those who spend endless hours caring for a loved one.  Those who volunteer and make our communities a better place to live would also be welcome to stay for a break in my Vatican.

Next job would be to instruct that all crucifixes (images of torture) be removed from churches and replaced with images and statues of angels.

I would then sit down and write two letters.  The first letter would be to all children in catholic schools telling them that Jesus message was one of love..... pure and simple.  I would tell them that he didn’t qualify that love.  So we may take it that all love is equally precious and beautiful... including gay love.

My second letter would go to every convent, parish and monastery asking them to comb the streets of their local town or city at sunset in search of the homeless.  I would ask that they offer every person they find sleeping rough a hot meal, bed, shower and breakfast.  I insist that they do this every evening at sunset.

Then I would have lunch.  One fabulous lunch served to me in the opulent surroundings of the Pope’s apartments. 

After lunch I would head into the Sistine Chapel where I would ordain the first women and marry the first priests.

Ceremonies over I then would instruct the conversion of Castel Gandalpho into an animal rescue centre where all manner of four legged friends would find a place of safety and love.

Another letter would be written dismissing all the hierarchy and instructing that all bishops’ palaces be given to their local community for use as centres for artistic expression.  The gardens of these palaces would have to be used as animal sanctuaries.

Over coffee and some fabulous Italian pastries I would call on my papal staff to help organise an auction of all the papal fine robes and handmade shoes which could take place the following day.  The money from their sale would be used to provide education for girls in countries where they are denied this basic right.  If necessary the girls would be brought to Rome if education in their own country was not possible.

I would then organise a second auction of other works of art etc (other than what I would consider belongs to the people of Italy – such as the Pieta etc).  The money from this auction would be used to form a foundation to work on the elimination of child poverty around the world.  I might ask Bob Geldof to head this up!

Over a splendid dinner I would dictate a Press Release to be issued the following day announcing the end of the Papacy.

  

I would then pen an article which I would publish here on my blog suggesting that local churches elect a committee of men and women committed to following the way of Jesus as opposed to the teachings of Peter.  These committees would be the new priests.  

In my article I would also ask the faithful to begin to re-imagine God, not as a judgemental father but as a loving, forgiving, endlessly patient embodiment of Mother and Father.

That done, I would don some fabulous papal PJs,  pour myself a big glass of some very exclusive papal red wine and put my feet up and watch Tonight with Vincent Browne via the 3Player.  But not before booking my ticket back to Dublin with Aer Lingus for the following morning.

What do you think?  

MAGDALENE REPORT - A SMOKESCREEN?

24 hours after the Magdalene Report was delivered to cabinet and I am still engulfed in a deep feeling of unease about the whole thing.

This unease began as I listened to Taoiseach Enda Kenny in the Dail yesterday, telling us he was sorry for various things but unable to say sorry to the women who were incarcerated in these labour camps.  As an Irish citizen I am deeply offended that the leader of our country couldn’t or wouldn’t do that on our behalf. 

The report into the Magdalene Laundries was commissioned by Government to investigate if there was state involvement in the running of these facilities.  The report states categorically that the state was most certainly involved – on various levels.  It states this unambiguously.

The state referred girls and women to these institutions via the courts system, the health system and informally via the gardai.  The state paid subventions to these institutions for various categories of women incarcerated there.  The state inspected these facilities regularly and various state departments were clients of the Magdalene laundries. 

This is the core truth of the McAleese investigation.  Therefore it is crystal clear that the state first and foremost owes these women a sincere and heartfelt apology for their appalling treatment even if it was in “an uncompromising Ireland”, to quote the Taoiseach.    

But according to Kenny and Minister Kathleen Lynch (speaking on last night’s Primetime) before an apology can be issued, the Government needs to be study the detail of the report.  The other details are largely irrelevant and are being used as a smoke screen to hide behind while an assessment is made on the cost of retribution. 

However, there is one assertion made in the report which I find incredible.  Apparently having studied the accounts of the charitable orders that ran these facilities, McAleese says they didn’t make a profit. They were being run on a barely break even basis. 

I am not an accountant and my mathematical ability can be very ropey at times but I fail to understand how a business that was being run with a completely free workforce and some clearly very large contracts couldn’t make a profit.  The laundries were being run by orders of nuns who presumably didn’t individually earn large salaries either.  Where did the money go?  I find it incredulous that the Magdalene Laundries didn't make a profit.

Is this part of the smoke screen?  We know from previous reports into institutions run by religious orders that they like to hang onto their money... but it is outrageous that they are not held accountable financially to these women now. 

So while many of us are incensed by the absence of an apology, are horrified at hearing the testimony of many courageous women, some of whom were children when they were placed in the care of these factories, our elected representatives and our religious orders are concerned about the money. 

I wonder what it is about the Magdalene Laundries and the story of these women that has been so problematic for repeated governments to deal with. 

The abuse and torture of children in other religious institutions was met head on with a formal apology to the victims in 1999, a statutory inquiry (resulting in the Ryan Report), and the setting up of the redress board to handle compensation to the many thousands of claimants.

But the issue of the laundries was ruled out of this enquiry and it has taken until now for it to be looked at seriously, after governments repeatedly claimed that Magdalene Laundries were privately run and nothing to do with the state.  It is also worth noting that the number of surviving women who are entitled to payment and pension contributions is relatively small – probably no more than 1,000.  And let us remember they have earned this payment.

So why is the case of the Magdalene Laundries so different from the other abuse scandals?  The most obvious difference is that the victims are exclusively women.  And there is of course the link to ‘fallen women’, ‘unmarried mothers’ or Magdalenes as the nuns rechristened them on entry. 

The reaction of government to the outcome of the McAleese report shouldn’t really surprise me.  The continuing stigmatisation of single parents, particularly women in this country lies just below the surface, just below the veneer of political correctness.

It can be very subtle but it is as insulting as Enda Kenny’s assertion that at least the Magdalene women didn’t suffer sexual abuse.  And invariably it is justified by concerns over the cost to the state of these single mothers. 

I was recently chatting to a well educated, business man in his late 50s when a young girl in school uniform walked past.  She was heavily pregnant.  Without missing a beat he commented “another one who will be living off yours and my tax for years”. 

Some months ago I was on a panel discussion on radio outlining the bizarre situation I had experienced as a former single mother having to adopt my own daughter when I later got married.  Having heard my story a fellow panellist was asked for his reaction.  He immediately commented "well I think Barbara should have gone after the 'natural' father for maintenance".  At no point had I made any reference to money at all.  But clearly this man (again well educated professional man) thought that until I married I had been a 'burden to the state'... which was not the case.. but equally is not the point.  It is the mindset that disturbs me.

The Magdalene Laundries flourished in a deeply patriarchal society that ceded power to an equally misogynistic church.  Whereas we seem to have broken the power of the still misogynistic church, this country has a way to go to rid itself of patriarchy.  Why else have we not legislated for the X case which seeks to safeguard a pregnant woman’s health?  Why else have we had at least two budgets that have seemed to target women unfairly in carrying the burden of austerity?

Is it any wonder I feel such deep unease in my own country?