MA & THE ARROWS

On a bright sunny and warm August day in 1987 I held my tiny 2 week old baby daughter close to my chest as my breath was stolen away by the RAF Red Arrows zooming in from the west to swoop over the air field at Baldonnel. I could feel the noise and the speed right through to my bones. I had never experienced anything like it. In 1987 Ireland was a very different place and with ‘the troubles’ ongoing in the North of Ireland and so the Arrows didn’t land on Irish soil. They flew in from RAF Valley in Wales and having thrilled us with their display of precision flying, they tore back across the Irish Sea again. It was probably the first time an RAF flight had officially crossed Irish airspace since the days when Baldonnel was itself an RAF base.

The next time I saw the Red Arrows was again a special occasion. They displayed at the Galway Air Show on the 26^th of June 2005 – which also happened to be my mother’s 70^th birthday. My mother is a bit of an airplane nut. She loves airshows – even the more pedestrian ones. But she is a huge fan of the Arrows. So what better way for us to help her celebrate her big birthday than to decamp for the weekend to Galway and enjoy the aerial acrobatics of the RAF’s finest?

The airshow was great and the Arrows gave their usual brilliant performance. Afterwards we returned to our hotel to get ready for mother’s birthday dinner. We arranged to meet in the foyer at 7pm for drinks. So there we all were, gathered in our finery, awaiting the arrival of the birthday girl when the lift doors opened and out she stepped...... flanked on each side by a Red Arrow. Yep, one on each arm, resplendent in their red jumpsuits. I am sure mother was dressed to perfection but I only remember the enormous smile she wore as she floated towards us.

By the time we had all closed our mouths, the arrows had gone. Mother was still hovering above ground as we sat armed with our meagre presents knowing that we could never match the gift the Red Arrows had just bestowed on her. As we regained our composure, attention turned to my poor husband who is a professional photographer and who was so stunned he forgot to pick up his camera to capture the moment. He was mortified. He disappeared.

We ordered drinks and listened as mother babbled on excitedly about how charming and handsome the fliers who were her escorts were. Next thing the photographer reappeared and ordered mother up to her feet. He bore her away and the result is the photo above.

The Red Arrows were having a private reception in another part of the hotel but readily agreed to pose for a picture with mother when the photographer admitted his failure to get a picture downstairs. This photo which they all later signed is one of my mother’s prize possessions. She moved a family portrait in her hall in order to give it pride of place!

I recount this story now because two weeks ago the Red Arrows were displaying at the Bournemouth Air Show and one of their aircraft crashed. The pilot was killed; some believe this was perhaps due to his staying with his aircraft in order to direct it away from nearby houses. If true, this would not surprise me. The pilots we met in Galway 6 years ago were gentlemen and they made my mother’s 70^th birthday one she will never forget. Oh and this weekend the mother is off up to Portrush in Northern Ireland for their annual airshow which promises Vulcan’s Tornedos and F16 – mother will be delighted!

CONNEMARA

Air heavy with the sweet tang of salt and seaweed.

Riotous hedgerows bursting with orange crocosmia, creamy pink honeysuckle and purple thistle heads.

Splashes of red fushia buzzing loudly as unseen bees do their work.

A lone cow stands upon a rocky outcrop.

Water softly lapping and slapping seashore stones.

Early morning crisscross trails of the overnight transatlantic flights as they finally find the North Atlantics edge,

Each flight tearing a rip in a wraparound sky,

Of cloudscapes like celestial cities.

Magnificent castellations and turrets and cruising spaceships,

Reflected perfectly in the still water below.

The horizon folding the image at its centre.

A hurl of rain against the wall of the cottage,

Twenty minutes later a burst of yellow sunshine.

Hidden religs – uneven fields of bones and raggedy assemblies of holy relics and plastic flowers.

Agus an Gaeilge – beautiful guttural sounds gurgling in the throats of local men in the fields.

The smell of turf fires in August,

At dusk the plaintiff cry of a curlew,

And the Connemara light, especially in evening, as the sun dips below the horizon on this western edge of Europe.

OUR WORK IS DONE.... MAGGIE UPDATE

On Saturday we will be packing our Maggie's bags and baggage and dropping her back up to the wonderful people in the DSPCA, from where we hope she will be adopted quickly to her new forever home. Our work is almost done.

As you know from my previous post Maggie was one of the wildest and most frightened little cats I have ever encountered. It took us 2 days to coax her out from under our sofa. Then another day or two to get her to start (very gingerly) to play with some feathers on the end of a stick.

It's been one small step at a time and has been a team effort in this house, to finally gain Maggie's trust. We have taught her that humans can be her friends and I hope that none of our species undoes that lesson. We had a secret weapon in our 'taming' of Maggie and that was Simba (fatcat).

I don't want to take from the great credit due to Simba for playing his part but we all know that he was highly motivated by sharing Maggie's dinner which came in jelly and is clearly a lot tastier than the cat biscuits he usually has. But it was amazing to watch Maggie relax almost immediately Simba arrived into the room. Animals never cease to fascinate me.

The first week we had Maggie was difficult. It required huge patience and I did worry that perhaps some cats are just wild and not tameable. But the joy in watching this little scaredy cat slowly make friends with us and learn the joy of being petted and sit on a knee is sublime! Really.

The DSPCA is snowed under in kittens and cats who are looking for homes - permanent and foster. Check out their website www.dspca.ie

MAGGIE

The August Bank Holiday weekend is the last hurrah of summer – next stop Halloween and sure then it’s Christmas. According to the Celtic calendar we are now in autumn and the August Bank Holiday roughly coincides with the ancient festival of Lughnasa, which marked the end of summer and beginning of the harvest. So how was it for you? Were you away? Did you have fun?

What’s that? Me? Did I enjoy my bank holiday weekend? Em, well, em.... it was busy and eh, different!

It is not the first time I have wondered what personality defect I have that insists on throwing complications into my life when things are chugging along just fine.

Regular readers of my blog will know that just over a week ago we fostered Hector from the DSPCA. Hector was only with us for 4 days and unfortunately was very unwell and had to be put down last Tuesday. So we were in mourning for him for a week but as we love animals and like to do our bit for their welfare, we offered our services again for fostering another kitten!

So having welcomed a new student to our home on Sunday, on Monday off we went to Mount Venus Road to collect our latest project. We were told that this kitten was in need of socialisation for two weeks and was approximately 12 weeks old. Maggie was clearly a nervous kitty but seemed OK in her crate as we gingerly carried her to the car for the journey home.

We set Maggie up in the kids TV Room which is bright and has a view of the road. We thought that she might like to watch out (cats love looking out windows – did you know that?). I took the lid off her cat box and braved her spitting at me to pet her very gently on her back. She spat and hissed and I gently continued, trying to reassure her in a low soothing voice. Meanwhile Dylan da Dog was exploding with excitement in the hall and started banging the door down. I got up slowly and went out of the room leaving Mia with Maggie. As soon as I was gone, Maggie apparently darted out of her box and under the sofa. And that is where she spent her bank holiday weekend.

So me, where did I spend my bank holiday weekend? Well most of Monday I spent feeling like a failed foster mammy, as I lay on the floor with my bum in the air as trying to understand why I could not see Maggie under the sofa. We then worked out that as the sofa was a recliner, she had climbed up into the innards where she was perched on one of the bars. So we were all afraid to sit on the sofa in case we inadvertently decapitated her.

Hours passed as I tried to talk her out. In the end my eyes hurt from the dust (you should never look under the sofa) and I had a sneezing fit which did nothing to ease kitty anxiety. Our poor bewildered student who speaks very little English arrived home to find dinner late and her host covered in dust with a red nose from all the sneezing. I did my best to explain about the kitten in the sitting room and how she was welcome to go into the room but to make sure doors were left closed and to not sit on the sofa! A look passed over her face as I am sure she fought the urge to phone Mama in Lyons to report that her Mammy in Dublin was a nutter with delusions of kittens in the sitting room!

By Tuesday we had decided to adopt a patient approach. My girls asked me endlessly what if she never came out? “Em, I replied” I guess we would have to phone the DSPCA for help.” I had visions of my sofa being ripped apart in order to retrieve Maggie from its bowels. I will admit that I was slightly worried. I will admit that I did call on St Francis for some help.

That evening I had a small brainwave. We are the slaves to four cats already. The largest of these moggies is called Simba (or more usually FatCat) and he has brought disgrace on our family on more than one occasion. He has attacked Granny when she was calling in to feed him while we were away. The blood stained trousers were kept as a souvenir of his occasional lapse in how to be a good domestic cat behaviour.

When the girls were younger their parties were fraught with danger. Simba generally had to be locked in the utility room for the duration from where he howled the house down – scaring the life out of the little girls of a more delicate disposition.

We tried behavioural therapy under the supervision of the vet who suggested feline valium in order to teach him to relax. I was instructed to give him quarter of a tablet once a day for three weeks leading up to a particular party by which time his behaviour should have been adequately modified. I don’t know if you have every tried to quarter a valium but it’s well nigh impossible. Having festooned the kitchen floor in valium shards and having nearly sliced my finger off in the process, I gave up. We decided to give Simba a valium on the day of the party. It worked a treat.

He slept through all the festivities, albeit snoring loudly and with his tongue hanging out.

He remains a cat I love dearly but whom I cannot trust especially with older people or small children. I have been known to sprint out the front door because he has wandered in the garden and is 'making friends' with an elderly couple or a young family with toddlers. "Sorry" I mutter under my breath "he is not allowed talk to people" as I struggle to lift his bulk and transport him back indoors. His teeth haven been filed and his nails kept short in order to reduce any possible damage!!!

However Simba is the only one of my four kitties who welcomes stranger cats into the house. So – back to the original story here (keep up) – I decided on Tuesday that I would bring Simba into the sitting room in an attempt to show Maggie how (nearly) domesticated cats behave.

Simba understood the brief exactly. He identified the sofa as being Maggies hiding place and lay on the floor emitting “it’s so relaxing here” vibes. It worked. After about 15 minutes a little black and white head poked out from the edge of the sofa.

It took about an hour for her to come out fully and then she was always alert and would race back to the sofa at any movement or sound. But this was progress.

So Maggie has started her rehabilitation from wildcat to domestic moggie!

We have a long way to go .... I will keep you updated!

Is It Time To Get Tough With Charities?

I am stunned by the current ongoing controversy concerning UNICEF and the ‘sacking’ of its Chief Executive, Melanie Verwoerd. I have no idea as to what the real story is behind the headlines, although I am sorry that she has said it was a result of her relationship with Gerry Ryan and the publicity surrounding his death. There is clearly far more to this story than that.

However what concerns me is UNICEF’s use of their funds.

On their website front page there is a large “Emergency Appeal” for donations for East Africa where they tell us “nearly two million children under the age of 5 are in dire need of help”. On a side bar, the organisation tells us that €30 will provide life saving anti malaria drugs for 40 children. UNICEF is committed to saving children’s lives all over the world. They appeal to us for help – in making donations, in volunteering etc.

So could someone please explain to me how they can justify handing over €200,000 to a ‘sacked’ Chief Executive? They are also rumoured to have retained the services of a professional PR agency to assist them in dealing with negative publicity surrounding this current controversy. Such ‘professional assistance’ could be costing as much as €2,000 per day. How many children’s lives did they say could be saved for just €30?

I am horrified by this seemingly cavalier attitude to spending their money on ‘administration’ and salaries. And I doubt that as a charity they are alone, in the organisation of their priorities.

I know that charities need to employ staff in order to get their work done. In a past life I spent 10 years working for a National Charity myself. But I do think it is about time that charities were forced to publish on their websites just how much of our donations is going on ‘administration’ and how much will actually to the cause we think we are supporting.

I for one do not want to feel that my hard earned €10 is actually going to help pay for the CEO’s company car or towards the fees of a high end PR agency. There is something morally very wrong here. €2,000 a day to deal with negative publicity of UNICEF’s own making? Once again – how many children’s lives could that save?

Most charities are facilitated in their work by an army of well motivated people who volunteer to raise money and undertake other various tasks. Overseas charities also rely on their field workers who seem to have a vocation to help the world’s poor. I admit I don’t know but I doubt if these workers are paid high salaries. But what about those at the top of these charities? Are salaries of €100,000 such as Melanie Verwoerd was reportedly earning, commonplace? If so, is this morally right? I know that high profile people such as Verwoerd can raise a lot of both money and profile for the charity. but that said.. are you comfortable with your donation going towards funding these huge salaries? Surely extra money she might raise should go towards those that UNICEF purports to help rather than her salary?

I think it is time we asked all large charities in this country some hard questions. How much of their revenue goes on salaries and how much of our donation will actually go towards the cause itself?

Am I naive?

HECTOR

What will we call him?

The girls chirruped happily in the back of the car.

“Meooowww” said the little ginger bundle in the cat carrier.

“Dewey”?

“Ginger”?

Negotiating the slip road onto the motorway,

I indicated into the traffic.

“ His name is Hector” I announced

"He has the same colour hair and he will be great craic."

Hector it was.

That was Friday afternoon.

He fitted right in.

He felt part of the family.

I could see trouble ahead.

How will we ever let him go?

“We are not having 5 cats” I announced,

"He goes back to the DSPCA in 3 weeks and on to his forever home.

Let’s just give him a great start."

So began ‘Hector’ weekend.

We all wasted hours with this feline joy machine.

He played – a bit,

He ate – a bit,

He loved – a lot.

On Sunday evening he was sick.

He was not very interested in eating.

But he still liked to wander about

Greeting and trying to make friends with the other felines

I could hear the faint ringing of alarm bells rang in my head.

On Monday he was up and down.

But he didn’t eat.

Not one scrap.

I found him once or twice just sitting on the sofa,

He looked so sad.

Monday night I spend the entire evening watching rubbish on the TV

Hector slept on my chest,

Happily.

He purred.

Every so often he stretched out his paw,

And looked up into my eyes

We connected.

I willed him well

I said goodnight.

Tuesday morning, Hector was still very sad.

I phoned the DSPCA

Bring him they said,

The vet will have a look at him

This time it was just me and him on the motorway

The car was very quiet.

His temperature is low the vet said

We will keep him in and see how he gets on.

We will phone you tomorrow.

I never said goodbye.

I went home,

Cleaned his litter tray and food dishes

Ready for his return.

I got no call.

My husband phoned – ‘any news of Hector?’

I phoned at lunchtime.

I phoned again.

At 5pm the nurse phoned me back.

Hector didn’t make it.

He had some deadly kitten virus,

There was nothing they could do.

I held my girls as we all cried.

Hector was one of those special creatures,

Somehow he touched all our hearts.

We only knew him for four days

But everyone knows it only takes a moment to fall in love

Hector - we are so sad your life was so short

But we feel so lucky to have been your family just for that time.

It was a privilege to share your last weekend.

Who knew your forever home would be beyond this world.

The DSPCA do wonderful work for unloved and abandoned animals. They always need help. If you can foster an animal or adopt one check out their website. They also need your donations.

Sharing your life with a four legged can bring tears, can be hard work but despite all that, for many of us it is one of the greatest joys of life.

DO WICCANS HAVE HYMNS?

As I listened to Enda Kenny’s speech last week, I could feel the hair stand on the back of my neck. Not because Enda is a powerful orator – because he is not – but because I was aware that I was listening to history being made. I was listening to Ireland moving out of the shadow of the Catholic Church and into the light of a new dawn.

I have long struggled with my relationship with the Catholic Church. It was easy to turn my back on it completely when I was a teenager, only visiting at Christmas. The ostentatious wealth of the church with its hierarchy of celibate men living in luxury at parish level and in the splendour of palaces as Bishops, galled me and seemed very far from the life of Jesus. But as I got older I became aware of a deep need for spiritual element to my life... there was a void where the church used to be. I really deeply wanted to feel a connection with ‘my higher self’, my soul, my connection to the divine, or all that is.

Then my brother died, very suddenly and I was lost. So was my family. A local priest visited us and helped us prepare for the Catholic ceremonies of death – the removal and funeral. That priest was wonderful. He spent hours with us – learning about my brother so that on the day he delivered a homily that was so ‘right’ and so personal about my brother, it was almost impossible to believe he had never met him. To this day, I think the very best ritual of Catholic Church is the funeral Mass.

After that I thought that maybe I should stay with the church – try to affect change from within? But when my second daughter was born, almost 13 years ago I had something of a spiritual awakening. Deep in my bones I suddenly became aware in a very raw way that the Catholic Church’s attitude to women was not only wrong but deeply offending to me and indeed to God. Who was this Father God? Having just given birth I knew that God has a feminine face. I wondered should I become a Wiccan.

As my children (all daughters) got older they attended the local National School and so were ‘streamed’ for Communion and later Confirmation. As they began preparations I told them it was entirely up to them as to whether they wished to make either sacrament. I did this only to appease my conscience – not because I thought they would opt out – think of the money they would not make! But that’s another blog post. So we embarked together on the preparations with me constantly reminding them that most of what the church teaches especially around sexuality is completely wrong. “Confession is also nonsense”, I told them. It was far from ideal in my mind – a typical Irish solution to an Irish problem.

So we are now (more or less) all official Catholics in name only. We don’t go to Mass. I have tried to teach them the comfort and power of praying. I have tried to help them to imagine a different God to the Father God of the Catholic Church. I have stressed the importance of personal responsibility and of helping each other. I have told them that Jesus asked us to “love one another”. Everything else is baloney.

Had the so called ‘Princes of the Christ’ remembered this simple command, perhaps they would have handled the “rape and torture of children” and the paedophile priests who committed such horrible crimes, differently. Perhaps they would have done the right thing.

I know I am someone who has stood with one foot still inside the church door for the last 13 years. I have kept it there hoping that the Church would change. I was afraid of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. And so I held on – on the edges.

But it’s very unsatisfactory to live like this, especially when I have a deep need for a spiritual dimension that is rooted in community. I can plough a lone furrow with my own brand of spiritual code, but I miss walking into my church at Christmas greeting my friends and neighbours. I know that the next time I have to face a close death, I will be looking to the only place I know in order to help me make sense of death and to facilitate a fitting send off for my loved one!

I have not entirely resolved any of this dilemma. But I no longer feel alone. Enda Kenny’s speech in the Dail last week, was powerful because he articulated the feelings of the majority of people on this island. He said what I am thinking. I was relieved to hear his anger and outrage. I was also relieved to know that our Government, unlike all those that preceded it, will no longer allow the Catholic Church to place itself above the law and beyond reproach.

I would love to think that the Catholic Church might reinvent itself completely from the top down, divesting itself of its wealth and pompous attitude, allowing women to take an equal role and proclaiming that sex is a wonderful gift from God. I wish it would because I will still miss the way Christmas hymns sound in a sacred space, the feeling of community that belonging to a church brings, and the rituals to mark life’s milestones.

I know they have no churches but I wonder do Wiccans have nice hymns.

Image of the Triple Goddess - honouring women in the three phases - Maiden, Mother and Crone (moon in her waxing, full and waning phases). By ecowitch on photobucket