Birth Day Lament

Each year, as the month of March makes her appearance, as my birth date rolls around once more, I think about the dreaded question - 'What are you doing to celebrate your birthday?'. I say 'dreaded question' because for a time my birthday became synonymous with a lack of control. I carried out ideas suggested by others, like an actor performing from a director's script. Carrying out my duties to others because I was incapable of saying 'No' to suggestion that I did not favour. This, of course, was a situation of my own making. Like the coach described (at some training I attended recently) I was caught in the victim role of Karpman's drama triangle. I recognise this now and I oscillate somewhere between bemusement and amusement when I ponder these experiences. I feel a slight swell of pride in knowing, like Oprah says, that 'I've done the work!'.

The last few years I have enjoyed my birthdays. They have been simple, spent with those I love and hold dear. All drama absent. Developing the ability to say no has been ground breaking. It has fractured some relationships but typically the ones that have been impacted are the very ones that were in need of re-examining. Ones which weren't in the best of shape, ones that were exhausting, destructive and in need of change. Much like my poor judgement in letting go of junk in my home: in my cupboards, clothing rack, book shelves, video collection, cassette tape collection, 7 inch vinyl collection, boxes of letters and keepsake boxes and that table piled high with this, that and the other, I struggle too, to let go of the emotional junk in my life. My tendency leans heavily towards keeping it 'just in case'. But here is what I have found interesting of late - I have changed. 

I am finding it much easier to have those difficult conversations. I am able to stand back (over time of course) and identify my own shortcomings and to some degree, able to stand in someone else's shoes. It isn't always a quick revelation, nor comfortable but I can say that as my forty fourth birthday approaches, I feel proud of myself for putting in the work. Most lessons in life have not come easily to me. I am not a quick thinker or a fast learner but I am a grafter. After forty four years, I understand that one of the greatest gifts I have is the ability to knuckle down and work hard. I have spent many years feeling cursed by my mother's words - 'You'll get there in the end!' which she uses normally when I am facing challenges or difficulty of some kind. 

These words have followed me since girlhood, like a pesky stray dog. I despise these words which she did use, has used, does use and will use (all without a second thought, all without meaning malice). I feel the hackles on my back sharply rise, my body stiffens, I want to snap, I want to bark, bite and show my teeth. She means well but these words are powerfully reductive. Instead, I do the work and I graft, reframing years of habitual pigeon holing. Negative words used as encouragement are like wolves in sheep clothing and I do not believe in fairytale endings. So here it is, the difficult and the testing, reframed from the position of victim to a position of my own making, a position hopefully outside of any drama, any triangle. What is this position? Well, it is this: I am nowhere in sight of the whisperers or callers, I have taken flight and cannot be found for these words to take hold. Alright, I admit that at times I may open a cupboard full of junk and the debris begins to spill but I know now. As soon as the junk begins to make a mess, I grab it all and throw it straight out. No sifting, no indecision, no guilt. Nothing. It's trash. It stinks and out it must go and straight away too. Job finished. The fine work of an experienced grafter. 

NB The writer published these words at least a week after they were written, unable to decide whether to post the entry or not. Said birth day has now been and gone. No one was injured in the passing of this week or so leading up to the post forty birth day.

Further and further out to sea

Today marks the day that my father died. For a day of such huge significance however, it is not a day that I normally dwell on. I'm always aware in the week that precedes it that it is coming but there is no tradition or event or ritual that is followed to acknowledge the date or passing of time. Perhaps another part of the loss, is the fact that my father is buried far, far away in the country of his birth, so there has never been a place that my family members and I have ever gathered to commiserate or to show our respect. There is no place to lay flowers, no gravestone to clean or polish and this is not something I have ever grieved since it has not been a part of the journey of loss for me. My faith, even since my bereavement at such a tender age, has always given me the assurance that my connection to the father goes beyond any place that his body lays. That said, one of the greatest tortures of my younger years was the tiny seed of doubt that questioned if my father had indeed passed away. Since I never attended his funeral and never saw his lifeless body, perhaps there had been a mistake? For years, if I saw a man who resembled my father, for a moment, that fleeting hopeful, betraying moment, as my heart rate soared I would believe he was alive. Alive! Only for the inevitable - the slightly embarrassed realisation of my error quickly followed by the almost indescribable burn of the loss once more. 

It's interesting to me that when I mentioned in passing to my children that today is the day that their grandfather died, they were empathic yet unperturbed. The story of their grandfather's life very much surpasses any focus on his death. By this I mean, my father and his story is inherently built within the fabric of their own lives. He is living and present in this way. He is part of our conversations and a part of our storytelling. He is part of them in name and his blood runs through their veins, something they proudly wear on their sleeves.

Up until I was I think five or six years old, I obsessively carried my baby blanket around with me. It was named 'shawlie'. One day my brother, my elder by seven years, challenged me to throw my shawlie into the sea. I watched my companion of five/six years slowly and then very, very quickly disappear up and over the crashing white waves suddenly processing that this was goodbye. I had thought I was ready to say goodbye, I of course was not. This is still how I feel about my father's death. I think I am ready to accept the abscence and say goodbye once and for all but of course I am not. He is further and further out to sea, drifting always, out of my reach. If I squint, I might just catch sight of him. Some days my hand almost reaches his, on others my hands do not even leave my sides to reach out into the distance and yet, there are those days where I see him standing alongside me on the shore. He is quiet and so am I. He seldom appears in this way but when he does I am left with the whispers of him for days and days.

When women gather together

During the christmas break, my neighbour popped round to invite me to a gathering. To be precise, she was inviting me to celebrate 'Nollaig na mBan', which translated means 'Women's Little Christmas'. On the 6th January myself and around fifteen other women came together in celebration. Some people knew each other but many of us were meeting for the first time. Words on our printed invitation given to us by our lovely host, gave us a wonderful incite into the history and sentiment behind our gathering, which pitched the evening beautifully. Here are some of the words:

Nollaig na mBan or Little Women's Christmas is an old custom that's still celebrated by women all over Ireland. It goes back to the days when large families were the norm. Men never lifted a finger in the house to help, and were never expected to.

But each year, after the christmas holiday, tired women finally got a break - for one day, at least. On January 6th (the same day as the Epiphany) men would take over of the housework, offering women a chance to go out to relax with each other.

The words that stayed in my mind both before turning up that night and through the duration of the evening were these, 'offering women a chance to go out and relax with each other'. It was an incredibly special evening, one where you find yourselves looking around the room and sensing that something out of the ordinary is taking place. The exchange of histories, the sharing of family traditions and stories, talking about hobbies and re-finding oneself through re-finding certain activities or events. One of the things that I found really interesting was that on many occasions, conversations came back to what our struggles were, what drew happiness from us and about how comfortable and strong we felt to be joined together for this celebration. Put quite simply, we listened to one another sharing our story, sharing our song. It felt both revealing and vulnerable, comfortable and comforting. One compadre in attendance at the end of the evening shared with us all, how meaningful it felt to be gathered together and how much she realised she had missed that kind of relationship with other women, and how important these relationships are. 

I was personally very moved when different women began to share songs that meant something to them. To sing aloud in a living room with all eyes focused on you whilst you sing words that truly mean something to you is very powerful. I was asked to sing and I was surprised at how much my heart pounded with nerves. 'Do you sing?' a few began to ask me. 'Yeah … yes, I do' I suddenly heard myself replying. I did sing, but my butterflies only let me remember a few lines of my song before the words escaped me and my friends smiled and allowed me to retreat! I still get goosebumps when I remember each song that was sung that night, even my own. And although I'd wished i'd nailed it and performed beautifully and precisely, somehow the message was clear. It was just fine. What I gave in that moment, in those few lines, was received and enjoyed and celebrated. That acceptance and those smiles flashing at me, like pretty paparazzi camera lights as I looked around the room, my eyes opening and closing trying to re-call lyrics. That acceptance I will cherish and store. That acceptance will nurture me through the year. That acceptance has given me a renewed hope about what it means to gather together, what is means to be united by gender and by a desire to grow and nurture relationships. It made me think of my word for the year 'Root' and how important it is to give time to relationships, a reminder to make sure that the roots of a relationship are tended to, that the relationship is then able to receive all the nutrients that it needs so that it can bear fruit and flourish and fulfil its purpose. This is my desire.   

Linking this post up to: