Dearbhaile Bradley

Sitting here listening to the wind whistling, rustling, grumbling and the rain splatter as if someone is scooping up and throwing handfuls of water at the windows. Inside it is quiet, candlelit, soft, home. My batik is on the wall opposite where I sit. It has been hung in every home I’ve had since Maya gave it to me twenty eight years ago. It is all I need to make any room my home. But even as I arrived and this sweet little space was all sad and forlorn, I felt the welcome of the Brigid’s Cross over the door and the beautiful elephant bookends that now enclose the books I brought with me.

And this room has proved a kind home. It is completely free from accusation – it never says “The dishes aren’t washed. The place is a mess. What are you doing now? Why haven’t you finished that? What’s that doing on the table? What time do you think this is? What’s that racket?”

It’s not perfect. It’s not, truthfully, madly comfortable. I’ve given up on the chairs, other than as somewhere to deposit bits. And I live entirely in this little room as the space upstairs is uninsulated and therefore freezing. I’ve made up a nest, with a bit of foam and cushions that is where I sleep at night and work in the day. Why do I love it so much?

Because it’s like the hug of a true friend who knows you’re hurting and that there ain’t a damd thing they can do to make it better beyond that holding but they’ll go on hugging you for as long you need it. I am deeply grateful for this kindness. I am afraid of what will happen me when I leave it. It took me two weeks to get from weeping to words and now that I’ve found flow, I want to keep going. I don’t know if I can keep going once I am no longer held in the gentle undemanding caress I’ve found here.

In terms of what I imagined I’d have achieved in my time here, I thought I’d do a 100 yard dash and discovered that the starting line is a 5 mile hike away. But now that I’ve found my stride I wish, oh how I wish, I could live here, just like this, and spend my days reading, thinking, writing, revising. The rate at which I produce work is slow, painfully slow it feels sometimes. But it’s all I want to do. I don’t want to go from here and lose the gifts I’ve been given here.

I have worked on this paper for the Bardic Council seminar like I used to write papers to present at academic conferences. Only then I was spinning a dozen other plates, teaching, counselling, supervising, parenting. How I love this process! I am in my element, pinning down the ideas and opinions of others on a map so I can then locate myself and say here, this is where I stand. And what I love about the “bardic path” is the way it demands the integration of emotion and intellect, passion and scholarship, the heart and the mind. I have far more to say about the awen than I could possible cover in the limited time I have available on the 13th December but I am happy with what I’ve written. I know that what I have put together is as good as you’d get on a post-graduate academic course, because I used to teach on them.

I should be an academic. One of the things that reduced me to tears was finding the PhD proposal I was working on 1992 when I was teaching at Durham. “Counselling and the Planetary Crisis” I called it and what I wanted to consider were the implications of our emotional responses to the various global threats for counselling theory and practice. So far off the map then, I couldn’t find a supervisor. Now it’s called eco-psychology and I read books by other people covering ideas I thought about twenty years ago.

And now it is the glooming, time to close the curtains. The wind has died down so that now it is all whisper and hush, but the rain is louder, no longer intermittent, a quiet backbeat. I have been indulging my insatiable appetite for books on CD, borrowing from two libraries here. Fionnuala sent me a box of books on CD when I’d the operation on my eyes. I spent those early weeks, when my eyes were recovering, listening to stories and developed an addiction to listening rather than reading. One of life’s greatest pleasures is listening to a good book well read.

Here I’ve listened to Stephen Rea reading Seamus Deane’s “Reading in the Dark”. It’s a book I’ve already read three times but to hear it read like this has been heavenly. What a powerful story and such exquisite language. He’s a poet, Seamus Deane, yet another wonderful writer from Derry. The precision and lyricism of his language are pure delight. I swear there is not a word, not a word, out of place. There’s one scene where there’s a bunch of men talking at a funeral. It’s like a Greek chorus, a sort of chant, every phrase is perfect; this is exactly how men here talk at funerals. Stephen Rea’s Derry accent is faultless as he brings out every nuance of meaning in the words. Brilliant, just brilliant. I’m talking Jane Austin good here. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and I will never for the life of me understand how it failed to win. I now know what I want, what I really, really want is a man with a dark chocolate voice who loves to read aloud to me, as Mark did, lifetimes ago.

And now it is Sunday morning. The symphony of rain and wind that has lasted three days and nights is over. It’s cold, bright, sunny. I’ll finish my coffee and walk the lanes before heading into Galway city to post this blog. It has been wonderful here, a perfect retreat. How blessed I am.

Love and light to you all,

Dearbhaile

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
Mary Oliver

This question has stayed with me ever since Autumn Equinox when in the final session of the Council of All Beings weekend I found myself with too little time left for the exercise I’d prepared and used Mary Oliver’s question to focus the “Going Forth” section of the weekend. I thought I was here to write but…

Oakfield

I am here to be quiet.
I am here to forget what time it is.
I am here to breathe fresh air,
to listen to birds,
to sit on rocks and be thankful,
to let my tears water the earth.
I am here to live slower.
I am here for stones, space, silence,
to discover how moss comes in different colours,
the perfect crimson of a single bramble leaf,
how beautiful a thistle is.
I am here to look at clouds,
to see a convocation of dragons where the peace dove was.
I am here to be quiet.
I am here to forget what time it is.

Things here have not turned out as I imagined. I visualised a routine of writing, walking, revising, cooking. Instead I’ve felt like “an unsuccessful pot/ wavering into shapelessness”. It’s a seasonal process this confrontation with grief, loss, disappointment and failure. Samhain is a fitting season for facing up to challenging truths; it is a time for re-assessment.

This is the perfect setting for such unravelling. The cottage is a cocoon, a sanctuary. It’s little and dark and often cold but oh, so quiet. No-one knows me. I’ve no definition, no expectations to live up to. Fail again and it is only my own heart that’ll break. No-one is affected by my despair or how I am with it. I know none of us know how long we’ve got left on this planet but the combination of space to reflect, and the series of events that lead up to it, have turned this Samhain into a confrontation with mortality. Mandy’s death reminds me of the other people I’ve loved who have died early of cancer. My name’s now in the lottery and death is my buddy who helps me focus on what’s important. And as far as I’ve got with this question, the question of what I’m doing with this one wild and precious life, this guide-rope on the rickety bridge, is that what I want is authenticity, to be real.

Given that I am me and subject to turbulent internal weather, I am in the right place. I love the barren russet drumlins and glowering clouds of Connemara. I wander boreens in sight of Lough Ross, elusive as the rainbow’s end. When I stand still, silence embraces me. I wish I could properly convey the delight to be found in clouds. With the thyroid eye disease I couldn’t look up so was effectively missing the top half of my visual field. Now I’ve been given back the sky.

My second day here, I drove over the hills to the coast. They may be a pleasure to look at, these bare hills and lovely lakes, but you can’t eat the landscape. It’s easy seeing why Cromwell drove the Irish into Connaught; he let the land save him the bother of slaughter. And this was a “famine village”. There are ruins everywhere which I imagined might be remnants of that time until I read “Connemara after the Famine” a journal written in 1853 by Thomas Colville Scott who spent five weeks here surveying the “Martin Estate” which covered most of Connemara. The people lived in clay and wattle hovels not houses as we’d recognise them. The journal is a fascinating read. It is touching to see how his humanity breaks through his prejudices as the suffering around him challenges his stereotype of the indolent papist Irish. Now this area is known as “G4”, famous for the huge ostentatious houses that sit uneasily next to ivy-coated rubble, rock and scrub. The old post office of thirty years ago may be remembered but it appears that earlier history has been forgotten.

I am saturated with poetry. I am not longer sure if I want to attempt to write at all or simply to appreciate what others have written. I am stuffing myself with images and ideas. I’m reading the collected poems of Patrick Kavanagh, another acquisition from Oughterard library. I’d forgotten how bitter his wit can be or how uneven his writing. For all he wrote some outstanding poems such as “Epic” and “The Great Hunger”, some of his work is hardly more than doggerel. Tatamkhula Afrika’s collection “Nightrider” is awesome . He was a South African poet who died in 2002. I don’t think many people outside of Africa have heard of him but his work is superb; beautifully crafted, compassionate, honest, full of the authenticity I crave. Reading his poetry, I am often moved to tears and I am never left with the thick-headed frustration of not understanding what the poet is on about that I’ve experienced at times reading Heaney, Muldoon or Plath. Here was man who spoke truth beautifully, simply and directly.

Africans value the social importance of writing rather than its purpose as individual expression. So do I. In the debate on what makes a poem bardic, I argued (not as clearly as I would wish) that social importance is a key criterion in determining if a piece is bardic. A poet does not necessarily speak for any particular people. In contrast, a bard belongs to a tribe, a community. I dreamt of bringing the magic of bardism beyond the confines of Glastonbury but once I’m no longer in the community who so honoured me, I am left questioning the appropriateness of continuing to call myself a bard. This reflection has been influenced by encountering someone recently who advertises themselves on the internet as a “spiritual teacher”. There are certain titles that I don’t think we can claim for ourselves and “bard” is one of them.

And I’ve been thinking about those mad Irish bards who spent days buried in underground chambers in hope of imbas (the Irish word for awen). This retreat was undertaken with a similar aim to their more extreme incarcerations. I’ve remove the usual props of my life to create a space in which I can find out what holds true without them. It certainly feels akin to sitting in the dark waiting for possession.

So dear friends, internet access is problematic so I don’t know when I will actually be able to post this. Love and light be with you all,
Dearbhaile

Samhain night,
Night of magic, night of spells
Night of the thinning of the veils.
Night of portend, night of signs
Night when the dead can walk again.

We are here to remember
All those who have passed over
Friends, relatives, older ancestors.
All those whose love we know
Guides us from our spirit home.
Hail and welcome, all ye beloved,
Hail and welcome all ye wise,
Hail and welcome, guiding spirits,
Hail and welcome this Samhain night,
Night of magic, night of spells,
Night of the thinning of the veils.
Night of portend, night of signs
Night when the dead can walk again.

Reveal yourselves to we who wait
Patiently this special night.
We are the tribe who would live
In rhythm with the seasons.
Join us freely if you choose
As we gather here in love
This samhain night,
Night of magic, night of spells
Night of the thinning of the veils.
Night of portend, night of signs
Night when the dead can walk again.

Cutting back and letting go.
The year begins in ending.
This turning of the wheel of life
Is death preparing for rebirth
So let’s begin our year with celebration,
As Lord of Shadows and wise woman Goddess
Stand by this threshold to winter,
To bestow on us the gift of wisdom
In all its bitter-sweetness
This Samhain night,
Night of magic, night of spells,
Night of the thinning of the veils
Night of portend, night of signs
Night when the dead can walk again.

As the darkness deeply holds
And nurtures seeds of life,
We hold strong our intention
For the healing of our world
In these days of waxing dark,
Time of dreaming, Samhain season.
Night of magic, night of spells,
Night of the thinning of the veils
Night of portend, night of signs
Night when the dead can walk again.

We shall remember and love anew
Meet again and know
All those we hold in our hearts
This Samhain night,
Night of magic, night of spells
Night of the thinning of the veils.
Night of signs, night of portents,
Night when the dead walk among us.

Samhain greetings my dear friends,
Last Samhain, ah, last Samhain underneath the full moon and stars at the foot of the Tor, I shared this poem round a huge fire with people who totally “got” it. A glorious experience of belonging, of being fulfilled, of a dream, oh a dream held in my heart many lonely Samhain nights of scrying, coming into being. I belonged. I was understood. I was with “the tribe who would live/ in rhythm with the seasons”. I’d been living in Glastonbury seven years and it had taken me seven years to find myself here. Ah, sure it was a night such as any Bard would rejoice in, full of Awen, a circle gathered to entertain each other and give due honour to those only some of us can see when the veils are thin. I count this night among my riches, the silence that followed this sharing a moment when I felt that I was absolutely where I was meant to be and doing what I was meant to do.

Each year has its own flavour, each Samhain is different. Always it is the opening into the new cycle of becoming. Each new dream is harvested from the past. Samhain is not just the night we celebrate; it is a season, a time to reflect, to dream, to be with the dark that “deeply holds and nurtures seeds of life”. This year, this sweet New Moon Samhain, is a calling to find stillness even as I am travelling. This year there is no gathering and I am alone “cutting back and letting go” preparing to enter the silence of the writer’s retreat that I felt so called to this Lughnasadh.

I have time to remember the rituals of my childhood, the delights of Hallowe’en when we were allow out in the dark where you could meet ghosts for real. Hallowe’en meant making turnip lanterns and ghoolish decorations. It meant Dad stringing an apple from the kitchen ceiling and taking turns to try and bite out the sixpence Mum put in it. It meant rings of laughter as we dunked for apples. It meant dressing-up and saying our party pieces and playing with sparklers. It was fireworks and the spinning Catherine Wheel on the shed door sending out rays of colour. And best of all, it meant the fortune-telling apple tart with the bride’s ring, the bachelor’s button, the pauper’s penny and the bishop’s half-crown waiting to be found.

The room I am in is beautiful. The walls of the room are a dance of blue, green and white swirls. On the ceiling are CDs that make rainbows of the light, and in the morning play with the rising sun. I have the space to light a candle to honour the dead, to spend some time thinking of all the people that died this year. Samhain is reflective, a time for contemplation and completion.

I made a pilgrimage to visit Mandy’s grave on my way here. I found Liam in the lovely little café he runs with his girlfriend Lindsey on the beach at Llanfairfechan. I remember him best from the days when Mandy was working and I picked Liam up from the local primary school every day. He was a sweet child and he’s now a man any mother would be proud of. “The Beach Hut” is a lovely café with home-made food and fresh feeshias on the table. Liam was so kind, filling me in on Mandy’s story, describing the celebration of her life that I would have been part of if I could and giving me precise directions as to how to find her grave at Boduan, the green burial site on the Llyn peninsula. It was quite a trek, as it’s not far from Pwhelli but you drive along in sight of the sea for much of the journey and Boduan itself is a patch of woodland seeped in peace. I felt Mandy’s presence before I saw her grave. I talked with her and sang to her and put my tears on the earth. I watered the oak tree her grandson planted by her grave with Chalice Well water. Then I sang to all the ancestors and asked once more, as I have often asked before, that their wisdom might guide us.

And so for the month of November I am focusing on writing. I am back home in December when I am going to be hosting a seminar on the nature of Awen as part of the Bardic School that Nathan’s organising. Tim Hall and Dreow are hosting the first one in November (not sure what date but it’s in the Library of Avalon) so I’m not going to be able to be there. Those of you who subscribe because I’m supposed to discuss Bardism should definitely check it out. As for the second one, I’ll put it on my schedule once I’ve clarified when exactly it is on.

Please let me know you’ve read this and comments are very welcome although don’t expect a speedy reply as my access to the internet is severely limited for the next month.

Love to you all,

Dearbhaile

.