Good evening readers!
Here on an island, tucked up in the northern hemisphere, we’ve just experienced the quickening of a time jump, the Spring Equinox and an Easter holiday. In short order grass is stretching up, fields are ablaze with dandelions (terribly miscast as weeds) and blossoms are puffed up and shredding in April breezes.
I often think of the lines from T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Dead Land’:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
April is my birthday month, so I’ve always pondered this opening by Eliot, where new life is presented as struggle. Even when wanted, even when we are low, we can resent the intrusion that Spring brings. We have adjusted to the slow pulse of winter. It can be a shock to be frogmarched toward longer days and ice cream smiles. Emotionally, we don’t always match that optimism. Sometimes we might even yearn for the dour days of winter which provide excuses to stay at home.
But that’s not how life works. At least in this country with its temperate climate and gales that can whizz up from the Atlantic and batter us senseless.
At the moment there is inconsistent promise in the air - if you go out and experience it. Yesterday there were hailstones, rain, wind and sunshine. You have to be quick on your feet and always wear a raincoat.
Umbrellas are a waste of time in the West of Ireland. I’ve seen more savaged umbrellas in Galway than anywhere else in the world. Their fabric skin ripped from their metal skeletons, upside down in street corners, crushed into garbage bins, or hanging out of trees.
The tourists don’t know any better, but locals realise that it is essential to own a raincoat with a hood that ties around your chin that will withstand a sudden squall. I have at least three of them. The warmer winter one that covers me to my knees, the medium one for spring and autumn, and the lightweight one for summer showers. It is a Goldilocks carousel, but the one that is just right changes daily.
Even so I am often caught out. The blessing of using a car to get to your destinations is that you have the boot (or the trunk, as Americans say) to hold the ‘emergency’ equipment. I usually place an extra raincoat and a pair of boots in my car throughout the summer, as that’s when I’m most likely to fall prey to Ireland’s sly weather sense of humour.
Despite what I’ve said I do have an umbrella in my car, but it is a large, sturdy one that might allow me to lift off, Mary Poppins style, if the wind was strong enough. There are occasions when you need shelter for two, but you require gear that’s up for Galway’s temper tantrums.
I mentioned in the last newsletter that getting out of the house every day is one of my antidotes for difficult times. I don’t always succeed but I do aim for it. It can feel like a chore but it’s a fundamental way to reconnect with reality.
Walking in nature is easy in good weather, but there is a grim enjoyment from being caught in bad weather that’s not life-threatening. Rain pelts your face, smears your view and soaks your clothing so it become slick to your body and uncomfortable. Yet when you are as wet as you can be there is a strange liberation. You can embrace it and feel fierce and in tune with the world. You can bare your teeth at the gusts and shout at it to feck right off, you are not intimidated.
You might get a smack in the face with a twig, but that’s just a causal reminder of who is boss.
Hopefully your boots are up for it. One of the worst experiences I had in this department was discovering that there was a crack in the treads of my boots about five minutes after I left a friend’s house in wintery London when I had to walk through slushy snow to take a tube to meet two friends and walk around a fair. I spent the whole day squelching in freezing damp socks.
But oh, the glory of coming home, having a hot shower, and changing into soft, warm clothes! And the joy of a new pair of walking boots that allows you to splash through muck and puddles with abandon.
For those of us who are over thinkers and populate online worlds, these encounters with physical reality are vital reminders of the importance of our bodies to our well being.
I can admit that I spent a great deal of my life stuck in my head, analysing and ruminating, and not paying enough attention to my body’s demands. This is simply noted in how quickly we learn to ignore the thirst impulse. How often have we put off getting a glass of water because we are too involved in reading an article or watching a YouTube video? We become accustomed to viewing our body as an inconvenient flesh vehicle for our mind. It tries to alert us to when we are stiff from not moving, or when we have eaten too much, or to suggest that the next glass of wine might not be the best idea based on past experience.
For all these helpful warnings and pragmatic hints we view it as an enemy. Quite early on we can develop a critical attitude to it. Yet we constantly ignore the messages it gives us on how to improve our situation because those suggestions are inconvenient to our lifestyle.
Years ago I had a wonderful dog called Minnie (she passed away, sadly, as all good dogs do). She drank when she was thirsty, pestered me for food when she was hungry (she was part Labrador, so she was always hungry), dropped balls at my feet when she wanted to play, whined when she wanted to be let out, and absolutely sulked if she didn’t get a walk on time. She also did her yoga stretches every time she got out of one of her frequent naps, and of course remained quite flexible as a result. She believed in fun! Why so serious? There were smells to investigate and squirrels to chase. She would sigh loudly at me when she laid her head on my lap and give me side-eye.
I often considered her a wise teacher about the importance of getting off the computer and to pay attention to physical sensation.
Years ago I heard a doctor on the radio who said that if he could write one prescription for health it would be for people to get a dog - they reduce stress, they’re great companions, they get you out of the house, and they often encourage and help you with social interactions. Like anything they come with a number of other issues, but they ground us in reality. There is no better example of learning to value this moment, right now than living with a dog.
Life is a series of lessons we learn repeatedly. Some stick, and others keep coming around because humans do have complicated and difficult lives. There are people who work physically demanding jobs. They don’t need much advice about the importance of the body. That is the source of their livelihood. They can come home and binge-watch the latest TV show because that’s their way to relax after using their body all day.
What I’ve noticed more and more is that when I spend too much time scrolling or letting the next episode of the ten-season comedy show automatically begin, that I feel a queasiness in my body. It’s easy to ignore, after all many of us - myself included - have perfected the art of ignoring those signs. But it’s like being sickened by illusion.
If inclement weather and work mean that I miss getting out of the house for a day or two I start to notice a restlessness in my body. It’s partly because I’ve habituated myself to getting out in nature, as I no longer have a hound to sigh at me dramatically. This becomes a kind of profound, deep longing to walk paths under trees, listen to the breeze sighing through leaves, and experience sun on my skin.
Yesterday, I saw a gap in the bad weather and forced myself into my car to my local woods, where I got a mere 30 minutes among the trees. Yet as soon as I was under the crisp blue sky and the waving blossom-heavy branches I was so grateful for the instinct that drew me outside.
More and more I think that in the future people will be asked if they are reality deficient. Have you left the house? Did you look up at the sky? Did you move your body?
This is the energy bar that we can reach for to help us, especially when we are enduring crisis or stress. I can remember a moment of great personal suffering when I looked up at a beautiful spring morning, in the middle of a busy city, and I realised that it was a gorgeous day and many people where enjoying it. Life flowed around me, and I could also change.
That moment of clarity shifted the pain in my heart a little. I was able to widen my perspective and realise this problem did not overshadow the universe.
The slight bounce in my step did not immediately translate to my heart, but it softened the ache.
And one day, it vanished completely.
Getting back to the practical everyday realities… as part of the fourth Summer Frights Horror Writing School, presented by Alex Davis events, I’ll be giving a workshop titled ‘Take it Eerie: Writing Unsettling Scenes’.
With a range of ticket packages available, you can pick from guest workshops, feedback sessions, one-to-ones and more. It commences on 8 June, 2023, and you can snap up early bird tickets until the end of April.
The confirmed Speakers are
Dave Jeffery (A Quiet Apocalypse series, Frostbite, Finding Jericho)
Maura McHugh (The Boughs Withered, Judges: Psyche)
Alison Moore (The Retreat, Eastmouth, The Lighthouse)
Teika Marija Smits (The Forgotten and the Fantastical series, Russian Doll)
Ashley Stokes (Gigantic)
Simon Kurt Unsworth (The Devil’s Detective, The Devil’s Evidence)
If you fancy writing uncanny fiction, this will be a valuable starting point.
"Have you left the house? Did you look up at the sky? Did you move your body?" -- Questions I ask myself every day, and if the answer is ever no, no matter how late in the day it is, I do it.
"But it’s like being sickened by illusion."
So true, and I agree so much with the premise. I have pushed myself to step out more often, and enjoyed it every time no matter the weather. Reality is what I need more of.
Also, you're in Galway! One of my friends and fellow artists is there as well - Roisin Cure! We spoke about Galway and sketching in the winds on my podcast. :)