Sunday Lunch

 

Sunday Lunch

(Written December 2020, 9 months into the Covid 19 global pandemic)

Oscar Peterson’s Hymn to Freedom got its turn on my Spotify playlist recently while I was in my kitchen making a hearty beef stew. I lowered my head to catch the rising waft of aromas coming from our big red pot. Not bad. Not bad at all. Happy with my efforts I placed the lid down carefully and eyed the bottle of red sat on the kitchen cabinet. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had the entire place to myself. I hadn’t been having many days with just myself recently so this solitude was welcome - and needed. I poured a velvety curved stream of red into a Waterford Crystal wine glass, a splash of Spanish vino into an exquisitely sparkly piece of famous Irish glass. The decadence! I love being alone with a posh Irish wine glass sometimes. As the song hit its rousing crescendo my heart soared with it,  the reverb surged up into my throat and a few tears started blinking in my eyes. Jesus Christ- where was this coming from? I wasn’t pms-ing…  A rising wave of unexpected hot emotion or (maybe delayed shock) followed the tapping of the piano keys -beat for beat. I was crying.  What a year. Jesus Christ. What a crazy year…. 

I had company at my kitchen table, all of a sudden, on this most curious morning. One after the other in they came, uninvited! The events and feelings of the previous nine extraordinary months were suddenly sitting at my kitchen table, rendering me useless. I sat down. Fear, introduced herself first, sitting at the top of the table, vying for most attention (as is her habit) “Don’t ever forget me” she announced in a very controlled voice- “I was first through the door remember, when this shit show kicked off in March”- and by God I’ll be the last to leave!” She splayed her hands out and clenched either end of the table like the director of a company at some tense board meeting. Enter Chaos- who flung herself across the room knocking all and sundry off the table including my nice glass of red. She was shouting in a near manic state, twirling around the table, eyes out on stilts, and changing direction every two seconds.  “I’m stopping the whole damn world, I’m upending everything you know to be true and normal and know this- I’ll hang around to lessening degrees for a helluva long time- so get used to living with me” she cackled deliriously.  Change showed up next.  She was sitting at a small round table (for one) encased in a Perspex box at the other end of the kitchen. She cut a lonely and weird figure.  “This is how we do things now m’ love,” she said through a clinched smile that hid her lips into one red stern line - forget about past notions of carefree dining with friends – that will take a lifetime to come back- if ever!”

My stew bubbled over in to a great big frothy mess and caught the flames of the gas quickly bringing me back to myself. I leapt to the oven in one hop and turned off the gas. Fear, Chaos and Change took no notice, they were deep in action now, back and forth to each other, getting louder and louder. I couldn’t hear my lovely music anymore. I cleaned the mess. It dawned on me that I would have to tend to such normal things during this pandemic, life has to go on. With my back turned to the door, squatting to pick up the pieces of my broken glass, a gentle tapping on the door turned me round on my heels. It was a gentle, firm but constant sound. Was there one final guest stood outside? Another emotion coming to join me in my kitchen? I’m not sure I wanted to meet any more. 

A faint yellow light was coming through the gap of where the door and floor met. I pulled down the handle and opened the door slowly. nothing there. “Hey”, came a tiny voice. “Down here, I’m down here”.  I lowered my head and there she was. She looked up at me, then peeped her head round the door. While doing so a very warm and huge comforting light  started to flood my kitchen in a warm buttercup yellow bath. The others were silenced by the power of this very small guest. 

“Good afternoon”

“I’m Hope"

“Please make space for me”

I gave her my seat.

Pokémon Mega Evolutions, COVID-19 and slugs for eyebrows

The loud speaker called for all passengers to make their way to Gate 105 as boarding for Ryanair flight to Palma “was now commencing”.  I took one last swig of my overpriced flat white coffee, gathered up the annoyingly awkward carry- on bag I had bought in Palma (and now regretted buying) and limped heavily to my gate. Gazing out the window at the familiar grey Irish sky I heard a thick Dublin accent “ Ah Jaysus folks, do yiz want to go on yizzer holidays or wha?, will ye come on there now and board the flight please ladies and gents!” An airport worker in a high viz vest and a rain jacket summoned the Mallorca bound few. The Ryanair staff at the gate gave a few chuckles. The weather may drive you to drink at times but the Irish are a witty lot. I miss that sense of humour. 

Among the passengers were a group of ‘young ones’- mostly in their twenties- all fake tan, ripped hot-pants and slugs for eyebrows. I would certainly bet my life savings that social distancing was the absolute furthest thing from their minds. Later on as we filed into the cabin I had to ask one big chunk of a lad to take himself and his swollen pecs out of my personal space “please and thanks”. With his mask dangling carelessly under his big Magaluf awaiting head, he apologised. No harm done but virus or no virus he was invading my travel bubble big time!  Back it up there young fella! I could feel his cider infused breath on the back of my neck. Nice. And put your bloody mask on properly too while you’re at it! All that aside, the travelling to and from Ireland felt fine.

The flight 2 weeks previous out of Palma was deserted- only 7 passengers in total. It was probably the least crowded space I’d been to in months. I remained hyper vigilant but not totally paranoid. Apart from one drunken German moron immediately discarding his mask after take-off as it was "against his human rights"- poor man- *Cue long eye roll –it was largely an uneventful late night flight. Reassuringly said German mask -refuser was met by three members of Dublin airport police on arrival. They hauled his soon to be heavily fined arse into a waiting squad car in gale force wind and rain.

Welcome home!

Knocking on my brother’s door at 1.45 am on the outskirts of Dublin city, the precipitation from The Irish Sea pounding off my bronzed forehead the steady throb of the broken toe reminded me that newly broken bones don’t like flying. Not one bit. The brother, not long in the door himself after dinner and a few drinks in the city “to mark the first haircut” opened the door and welcomed me home with big yawns and a scratch of the head. With his more -on- top new crop he wasn’t too unlike a white Fresh Prince of Bel Air.  “I called up the house around 7 or 8… and said to the cabbie go home smell ya later…”  

But he is an absolute top dog so I’ll not judge his locks too harshly- this time!

“Auntie Ciz, will you come look for worms wiv me?” asked little Henry G, my best pal. His astonishing brown eyes drawing me into his innocent world of Pokémon characters, playdates and warm morning hugs. His little sister, a total character in her own right, was occupied in the kitchen -taking over the world. She’s not yet three. Reuniting with these two and hugging them in person after months of zoom calls and facetimes was incredibly special for me. I happily spent the next 3 days hobbling around the garden identifying worms with my crutch and watching award winning Pokémon Mega Evolution moves in the living room. Awesome stuff! No walks in the park or the Wicklow mountains this time but not to worry- laying on the couch like a vegetable, tasting make believe pizza and sipping pretend coffee was handsome compensation. They are pure sweethearts.

The soft drizzle welcomed me back to Cork. My mother having driven us both back to Mallow, flicked on the kettle. Due to the ‘current virus climate’ that hung the air I spent most of my time in Ireland sofa side, only leaving the house for a very short walk/hobble on the beach, and a carefully socially distanced coffee with a very special friend that has been through an incredibly tough time. Not many friends or family were on the phone with invites to their homes and I completely understood that and respected it too. Although it wasn't ideal, staying at home was the best thing to do. 

So readers,  it wasn’t exactly the best holiday I’ve ever had what with all that forced sitting around, looking out at the biblical drizzle, not being able to walk, nor drive or a ‘blessed bit’ as my mother would say. It was a reeeeeeeal test – for me and my poor Mammy. We’d both looked forward hugely to this trip home, after all, the world had all but stopped turning since we last met in December. I had envisioned nice day trips, long walks, some overnight stays, long evenings spent catching up with family but all that diminished with the quarantine “rule” and of course the restrictions bestowed on me by the digit on my left foot! But we made the most of our time together and had plenty of giggles at home and I will always be pleased I went back. Apart from one foolish argument we just eased back into each other’s company again and talked about all the usual stuff - family, the virus, friends, the virus, who had died locally, the virus, our health, the virus, the world and local economies, the virus, travel, the virus and of course-the price of wine in Spain v Ireland! We drank lots of tea and I scoffed homemade brown bread with cheese and Ballymaloe relish, with a side of cheese and onion Taytos. Mr. Tayto for the absolute win every time!

Fourteen days later I was again Palma bound and looking forward to seeing the lovely smiley George.  Waving goodbye to the Dubs, the closed pubs and those ever present dreary clouds I felt for the briefest of seconds like a bit of an outsider as I carefully climbed the steps onto the aircraft. Finally in my seat, far from other passengers, I started scrolling on my phone. I wondered what my mother was doing and if she was OK. “The Goodbye” was stirring to say the least. I was already missing the idea of not being able to see her every week for a chat and an ol’ hug. The actual act of saying goodbye- standing in the hallway trying to control your breath to stop the big tears from taking over, is always the hardest part. Then like a train gathering speed, I close the door and the chord severs a little more and life moves on. Beautiful life, in all its unpredictable, difficult and juicy glory. Once that wretched farewell is done with – I find I’m OK. But it’s not easy. It hurts in the deepest of places- that place in your heart where only your mother will ever reside and where memories of the grandest of Irish upbringings will stay forever.

WAITING PATIENTLY FOR THE WORLD

I waited for “that” feeling of hope

I waited all day

It never came.

I waited for “that” feeling of joy

I waited all day

It never arrived.

I waited for “that” feeling of cheer

I waited all day

She didn’t show her face.

I waited for “that” feeling of love

I waited all day…

Then suddenly and with no warning as I washed the dirty dishes, I fell in love again with the whole entire world. Everyone. Everywhere.

Their hope is now my hope.

Their joy is now my joy.

Their cheer is now my cheer

Their love is now my own.

We wait patiently for a world that will wake up from this nightmare as one.

A human race, united at last.

Mother

No matter what my age, where my residence, or who may be loving me, I will always want my mother the most.

Sitting in my brother’s apartment in Palma the other day I had quite the sudden urge to write about my mother. I rushed home and whipped out the laptop almost immediately. It was quite the powerful force. She’s not dead or anything thank god, nor is she anywhere near death, thankfully, so what follows is a living obituary of sorts I suppose, for the one human that knows me the best, the one woman who has seen my life span from being a helpless infant to now, a Mammy that prepared me for life as best she could with whatever she had at the time. She, who taught me how to go out into the world, how to taste life- sweet and sour, how to laugh at myself, how to bear loss and pain and most of all how to remember one very important lesson:

To live honestly and without regret.

My mother is quite the blend of traits. Just as content to be sitting alone by the fire, reading, with a thimble (or more!) of reasonably- priced red wine from Supervalu or dancing the mambo in Colombia, alongside fine boats and yachts, her blonde bombshell of hair frizzing wild as her eyes in the humid Caribbean evening air. She is also known to sit and pray/meditate for us, her children, her family, her friends, my friends,  friends of friends, asking the powers that be to guide and keep everyone safe from harm. She has a tremendous ability to remember everyone in those prayers- an ability only surpassed by her even greater ability to whip up a roast dinner, two batches of scrumptious brown bread and a ‘lovely moist' coffee cake -all before midday. And she always has the home fires burning in the relaxed sanctuary of her sitting room. It’s my heaven- with colourful cushions.

I’m living abroad now, as is my brother. So only one of her three children live in Ireland. I suspect she would prefer it weren’t so as I think the older we get the greater the desire to have loved ones close to the nest, but that’s the way the cookie crumbled. And although the distance isn’t huge it still takes some getting used to. Homesickness is a very hard thing to describe without sounding like a little girl. But I sometimes miss my mother so much I feel like that little girl again. My heart gets an intense ache to see her and it knocks me for six. It will get easier I know. I realise I’m not in Australia or a million miles away and I can always come home very easily for the important things, like Christmas and weddings as it’s only a hop skip and a jump over the sea but…that’s not entirely the point, you see, because it’s the everyday stuff with her that I miss more than the big stuff. I sometimes long to be able to pop in to see her at home, unplanned, where we'd sit together sipping a coffee and having a chat before we'd both get on with our days or evenings or whatever the case may be. That’s what I yearn for. Just that. I miss hearing the doorbell of my old house ringing, knowing it’s her outside with her red raincoat and her red riding hood wicker basket on her elbow. I miss being able to meet her whenever I want. Calling in after work to unwind. She’s pretty much always ready for a chat, to be an ear for my worries and my doubts. Hers is a soul that laughs with mine, very easily, and very often. I miss having to leave the room to try and control the hysterical laughing, tears rolling down both our faces as wave after wave of giggling render us useless for minutes on end. I miss the way her special brand of hug massages my heart. There is nothing quite as comforting or reassuring as standing in your warm kitchen and getting a big bear hug from your Irish Mammy.

The bond between us is as deep and as bountiful as the ocean that now separates us and I will always want her the most. My Mammy, my best friend in the whole wide world.

Xxx

Living The Dream. Fact.

Nothing is ever as it seems. We all know this to be true. So when people say to me that I’m so lucky to be "living the dream",  I wince slightly. I’m definitely following some sort of life path, one that may have been laid down for me many moons ago- who knows? But I’m certainly not living some sort of picture postcard perfect dreamy life. What I am doing is following my dreams, which is an altogether different type of gravy!

My actual dreams, the ones I had as I lay in my old and jaded bed back in Cork helped me to find my way here, to beautiful Spain, and to a fresh new start in life. They literally showed me the way forward. But I am not living any dream, folks. Nobody is. 

We make decisions and we make choices, the results of which bring us into different phases of life. A dream, a gut instinct or a past experience may help us in the making of those choices but ultimately we just have to take action. Life then becomes whatever you make it. A dream life doesn’t just magically happen against an orange sunset sky! You put yourself in the way of new options, new places and new people. Then rinse and repeat. Every day. For the rest of your life.

This search for a ‘dream life’-  a notion that has become the holy grail of existence for millions of people worldwide is absolute balderdash and it can be a dangerous thing to pursue. We can of course and should follow our dreams in so far as is possible in an effort to change or improve our situation and maximise our god given talents. But this rewarding and often exciting path is too paved with sacrifice, fear and insecurity. 

My life is lovely. I love all the new energy around me and all the changes have been very welcome and wholly life affirming. It does help that the Spanish sun shines brightly on me most days now- that definitely helps with the positive vibes but sunshine or not, change at any age requires three main ingredients-  creating new priorities, trusting yourself and most importantly- letting go of the past!

The facts of life for me as I start the year 2020 are as such:

I live on a beautiful sunny Mediterranean island. Fact.

Its beauty takes my breath away. Fact

I have fallen completely and utterly in love with a wonderful Spanish man. Fact.

I have made great new friends. Fact.

I believe I may have been destined to live here. Fact.

I am slowly starting a new career. Fact.

I have given up a good salary, a house and financial security to follow this new path. Fact.

That still scares the bejaysus out of me. Fact.

I decide on a daily basis to not let that fear take hold. Fact

I miss my mamma mostly every day. Fact

I have less stuff. Fact

I want less stuff. Fact

I need less stuff. Fact.

Happy New Year. Fact.