Dear generous reader,
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There was a lively reaction to last week’s post about libraries, with many people reaching out online (in the comments section and privately) to detail their beautiful memories of libraries. It was touching and wonderful to confirm that these institutions are so valued. For those of us who live in, or close to, towns with libraries it can be easy to take them for granted. I took a quick poll among a few friends at a recent meet-up and many of them didn’t have a library card. I don’t say this to scold, merely with all our online access to information and entertainment, it’s no surprise that taking a trip to a physical library might be deemed low-priority. In Ireland you can register for membership online but you must provide a photo ID and proof of address in person to seal the deal.
May I suggest if you have ‘planned’ to do this task for a long time, just set a deadline and sort it out. You will join a venerable tradition of demonstrating support for the value of collating and providing information (in whatever media) to all citizens. Go in and inspect your local library: discover what services it provides and what groups meet there. You are probably going to be surprised at what’s available.
Last week I was searching for libraries in a county in Ireland where a friend of mine has moved, and I was saddened to notice that her small local library has been closed, and in limbo, since COVID. So, there’s always work to be done on expanding access. The nearest library is a twenty-minute public bus ride away, which in rural Ireland isn’t so dependable. Right there is a simple obstacle to access that isn’t so easy to overcome if you have a busy schedule, kids and no private transport.
This inequity is a typical blind spot if you are in better circumstances, but access to libraries should be aimed at those who benefit the most from membership.
While digging into services at libraries here, I discovered there are libraries where you can sit and read by a lightbox with a high LUX1 rating, which is thought to improve the well-being of people affected by SAD (seasonal affective disorder). During winter there are only about eight hours of daylight in this country, and we often suffer though extended periods of overcast skies, so lightboxes can be beneficial.
I also learned that if you have a learning disability you could borrow a C-Pen from some libraries:
‘The C-Pen Reader Pen is a portable, pocket-sized tool that uses a natural speaking voice to read the words on the page out loud. It has a built-in dictionary so you can easily access the meaning of words as you read. The C-Pen doesn’t need internet or WiFi to work, so can be used anytime or anywhere. It can also read in other languages such as French, Spanish, and Italian.
They are the ideal support tool for people with reading difficulties such as dyslexia or aphasia. They are also of benefit to people with vision problems or those learning a new language.’
What a fantastic resource! And before my investigations I didn’t know either of these facilities were available. What other wonders could you discover by going to your local library?2 I know… ideas in books!
It’s officially storm season in Ireland, during which we get a succession of ‘bad weather events’. As the westernmost island in the European area we often bear the brunt of whatever malcontented meteorological episode is flung at us from the North Atlantic, but the country is subjected to five different air-masses, which accounts for our endless churn. No wonder we talk about the weather so often — it is quite variable.
At the start of the season (officially the 1st of September) the Irish Weather service, Met Éireann, along with their counterparts in the UK (Met Office) and the Netherlands (KNMI), release the list of new storm names for the next season. Storms don’t merit a moniker unless they are liable to cause ‘medium’ or ‘high’ impact in one of the three partner countries.
‘This enables consistent, authoritative messaging to support the public to prepare for, and stay safe during potentially severe weather events.’3
In the past all storms tended to receive women’s names, but now it is far more egalitarian. Here is the current list.
We’ve just experienced the wrath of Storm Debi, and she certainly packed a big punch despite her tiny name.
From about 4am-5am on Monday morning I could not sleep due to the jet-engine roar of the wind buffeting my house. I live about 10 km from the Atlantic coast so there’s little to dissipate its raw force before it arrives on my doorstep. Luckily, I don’t live near a river, because the downpour, high winds, and pummelling waves can cause tremendous damage even upriver.
One of my local towns was devastated by Storm Debi — a cafe, shops, businesses were all swamped with water from an overflowing river. At the coast, boats were picked up like toys and deposited upon quays. Carparks near the shoreline turned into lakes filled with bobbing vehicles.
I will not pretend to be a Stoic when it comes to situations like this. I find them exceptionally trying, despite logically knowing there is nothing I can do except make preparations and hunker down. After that, I can only hope the stampeding weather beast doesn’t barrel directly into my home and trample all over it. Despite a few flickers we didn’t even lose power — my local village, however, had a complete power-cut throughout Monday. There is nothing that truly reminds you of the importance of the basics than a loss of electricity.
What do you do in a power-cut?
In our house (depending on the time of day and if we can travel to a local town for supplies) it’s usually the moment to eat anything that doesn’t require cooking, to broach an alcoholic beverage, and haul out the boardgames. I usually have a thermos flask of hot water ready for an emergency cup of tea. The extra fluffy robe is donned over warm pyjamas. Candles are lit. When you expect the outage will not to last very long this can be cosy and atmospheric. The novelty wears off when all your appliances are dead and you begin to worry about the food in your freezer.
For entertainment, we usually rely on Scrabble. Martin is very good at it. As I mentioned before, my brain is not well adjusted to breaking words down into parts so despite being a writer I am mediocre at Scrabble. I tend towards an accepting attitude that I’m unlikely to win and aim to do my best. This brings us to the philosophical discussion: is the point of games to win or to enjoy yourself? I think it depends on the game. Some are designed to bring out a strong competitive streak in people. I don’t enjoy that aspect, especially when people start to get fractious and annoyed. I don’t love losing, but I don’t possess the need to vanquish my fellow players and dance on their bones.
For instance, from my childhood I remember Monopoly as a long, drawn-out trial in which my siblings and I displayed a range of behaviours from cheating, to forming alliances, breaking alliances, and arguing over the ‘house’ rules. It often ended in arguments and grudges. Eventually I declined to play it, because it brought out qualities in myself that I didn’t like. If you can play a game with an attitude of fun and camaraderie then it can be source of pleasure. It’s no surprise that I generally enjoy multiplayer games in which people team up for the greater good, such as role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons. When it comes to video games, I favour solo play or a cooperative mode. (You can read about my love of video games in this newsletter post.)
But that early on Monday morning, with anxiety strumming my nerves, I had no tolerance for anything complicated so we defaulted to a deck of cards and Martin gave me a crash course in playing Twenty-Five. I have played before, but so rarely that I can never remember the rules. My mother is a natural card shark and adores Twenty-Five — card games were a regular form of entertainment when she was growing up. She does want to win, and is a crafty player. I thought of her as we began our game knowing that she would have loved to be involved.
Perhaps it was the fatigue, stress and my indifference to winning, but out of five games I won three. I was quietly pleased, but the overall strategy worked: I was too focused on the game and its tactics to pay attention to the storm. Debi raged for a time, and noting our lack of reaction to her tantrum, careened off to cause trouble for others.
And I was able to go to sleep, finally.
Then there’s the clean-up, which wasn’t too bad for us, thankfully. Lots of people weren’t so lucky. This evening I walked in my local woods and saw the fallen trees. It makes me glum to witness their snapped trunks and final resting places. Many of them were much older than me, and in one night they were knocked down to become part of the great recycling.
It also made me ponder the seasons of storms in our personal lives. How we can go through periods when it feels like it’s one squall after another. Just as we are picking up the emotional pieces another random gale rushes at us and throws it all up in the air again. It’s hard to regain balance and perspective during those cycles. It can ease off after a couple of weeks or months, but sometimes it seems to go on for years.
Often this personal bad weather is indifferent to your capacity. It is simply storm season, and you must find shelter, (hopefully) the support of friends, and wait it out. Every now and again you get to stroll about outside before the next klaxon. It can be dispiriting and overwhelming at times.
I’ve mentioned before that our brains are keyed to pay attention to signs of danger. This was an important survival trait, but it is less helpful in our era of infinite information-streams projecting terrible scenarios. We replay the worst-hits in our mind because we think that’s going to protect us, when all it does it spoil the lulls in the tempests.
When you’re facing a series of cyclones, protect your peace of mind as a priority.
Sometimes you’ve got to turn off the power and break out the cards. You can’t change the weather, but you can refocus your attention.
Dictionary.com: ‘a unit of illumination, equivalent to 0.0929 foot-candle and equal to the illumination produced by luminous flux of one lumen falling perpendicularly on a surface one meter square.’ The unit of measurement is known as a ‘lumen’. On a good day with direct sunlight humans are exposed to anything up from 40,000 - 100,000 lumens. On a dull, overcast day you might only get 100! Most lightboxes generate 10,000 lumens, which you would normally only use once a day for about 40 minutes. They can be expensive, however so allowing this free access is fantastic. Yes, I own a lightbox… and often forget to use it! This is my reminder to myself to start switching it on again!
I didn’t even mention that many libraries have exhibitions that change regularly, which add a visual layer of enjoyment to the visit.