Dear hanging-in-there reader,
I’ll aim to keep this newsletter efficient because the entire day I’ve been listening to a mournful banshee wailing about the house, heralding the arrival of Storm Jocelyn to our shores.
If I was to judge the main attraction by the opening act then I would be concerned about Jocelyn’s forthcoming intensity. Jocelyn is only two days behind Storm Isha, which was quite the commotion. We lost power for a couple of hours, but I’ve nothing to complain about considering how many other people suffered.
The above is a screenshot taken with my phone, of all the areas in the country without power about twelve hours after storm Isha hit. Ireland looks like it hasn’t taken down its holiday lights — that’s bad luck!1
Whenever we have these problems I always consider the technical crews who are being lashed by rain and wind in order to restore power to those of us in our homes watching our batteries deplete by candlelight. Not to mention the emergency services who are risking their wellbeing to save others on seas and mountains (there are always hikers who woefully misjudge their excursions). As long as the roof stays on and the water doesn’t flood in the door, I’m okay.
Back in November I talked about our storm season after Storm Debi ran amuck across Ireland, and in that piece you can read about when and how these tempests are named.
Our annual batch of inclement weather is a fact of life for an island on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and we must accept the cycle and hope for the best.
It got me thinking about waiting, and the awfulness of limbo. No wonder the Catholic Church invented Limbo as an eternal waiting room adjacent to heaven as a potent symbol of torment, without the agony of hell. We all understand the uneasiness of stasis.
It’s also not much of a surprise that Irishman Samuel Beckett chose to centre his famous play around being stuck, anticipating arrival (or salvation), and never being satisfied.2 The protagonists (you cannot call them heroes) Vladimir and Estragon, are apathetic fools, perpetually expecting release from suspension, placed upon them by the invisible Godot.
So often we want some other force to grant us liberation. In a fit of energetic zeal, we may even stir ourselves to contemplating action.
VLADIMIR:
Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! (Pause. Vehemently.) Let us do something, while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us! What do you say? (Estragon says nothing.) It is true that when with folded arms we weigh the pros and cons we are no less a credit to our species. The tiger bounds to the help of his congeners without the least reflection, or else he slinks away into the depths of the thickets. But that is not the question. What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come—
ESTRAGON:
Ah!
POZZO:
Help!
VLADIMIR:
Or for night to fall. (Pause.) We have kept our appointment and that's an end to that. We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
ESTRAGON:
Billions.
VLADIMIR:
You think so?
ESTRAGON:
I don't know.
VLADIMIR:
You may be right.
In a typical play this point is when the characters seize their chance to make a difference, but Beckett confounds the expectations of the audience by reminding us that so many people become calcified by indecision. They continue to wait upon the whims of another, perpetually late, abstract force.
You go to watch Beckett for the poignant existentialism, not to be cheered up!3
I’m not an innately patient person, but over the years I’ve encouraged the trait. As my husband will attest, long queues, traffic jams, and people who amble aimlessly on city pavements irritate me quickly.
My mind is rarely quiet, and that energy can transfer into my body when I’m agitated. Thus, I get into a mood for tidying or cleaning when I’m trying to distract my thoughts.
Yet, conundrum! My thoughts follow me about no matter how many closets I tear through. Over the decades I’ve learned to face this human dilemma by a better management of the frustrated ‘conversations’ I’m conducting in my head.
My Estragon and Valdimir can have complex discussions over how long that person is taking at the ATM
E: Perhaps they’ve never done this before?
V: That’s generous of you, they’re so drunk they are considering each number like a choice between beer versus whiskey. ‘Hmm, how many ales have I consumed so far, hang on where’s my wallet, phew it’s in my hand, oops, what’s my PIN?’ Oh, and now they’re taking a phone call!
In the past, when in the seclusion of my car, my narratives were spoken out loud, and tended to involve colourful language. My husband has been known to suggest I take a couple of deep breaths.4
Encouraging my internal miscreants only makes them more pugnacious.
These days my internal dialogue may involve something a touch more judicious.
V: Check out that old lady bending the ear of the Post Office clerk! Come on, grandma, buy your stamps!
E: Maybe she’s lonely.
V: Right, I suppose… well, she should hurry up.
E: What’s the rush?
V: I have that thing, you know, and there’s the parking meter…
E: Oh look, there’s a poster for a local concert. Maybe I’ll go.
V: Now she’s pulling out paperwork!
E: Imagine a future day when the trip to the post office is the highlight of your week.
V: Yes… well. Hmm.
E: Yay, it’s our turn.
V: ….
Not every conversation is so civil in my mind, but I aim to be more curious and less curmudgeon.
But when you’re waiting for the storm to hit, or to hear back about test results, or a response about a bureaucratic quagmire, encouraging patience requires more effort. Because there’s more scope for frustration and so many potential consequences to imagine. Our brains love to spin stories based on every one of those eventualities. Most of them will never happen.
Before the storm hits I can write this newsletter. So if the power goes out, the walls shake, and the gutters overflow with water at least I know I used the interim period well. And then, I can light candles, pull out the scrabble board, and attempt to give Martin a decent match. It could even be… fun!
Speaking of waiting… our sun is putting on a spectacular show at the moment. Our beautiful star has an eleven-year cycle that ranges from quiet contemplation to explosive expression, and we’re reaching the tantrum stage, known as the solar maximum. We’re in ‘Solar Cycle 25’ — i.e. the 25th since 1755, when recording of such activity began — which kicked off in December 2019.
Early this morning two solar flares, one in the sun’s northern hemisphere and one in its southern hemisphere, erupted at the same time. Spaceweather.com reports:
The combined intensity of the two explosions reached category M5.1.
This is called a "sympathetic solar flare." Sympathetic flares are pairs of flares that occur almost simultaneously in different active regions, not by chance, but because of some physical connection. A statistical analysis of such flares in 2002 proved that they are real and linked by magnetic loops in the sun's corona. An even bigger 40-year study of sympathetic flares found that the pairs can be separated by more than 90° in latitude.
Today's sympathetic flare caused a shortwave radio blackout over Australia and Indonesia: map. Ham radio operators and mariners may have noticed a loss of signal at frequencies below 30 MHz for as much as 30 minutes after the flare's peak.
This is after the X5 solar flare that erupted a few weeks ago, which was the largest solar flare recorded since 2017. It takes approximately eight minutes for the light to reach Earth from such an activity. Thanks to the Earth’s upper atmosphere, the radiation is not dangerous, though the resulting ionisation of the ionosphere can cause problems depending on the strength of the flare (see above). It can also result in gorgeous aurora displays for us to enjoy.
Although the astronauts in the International Space Station usually aren’t in danger from solar flares5, I’m sure they might resort to some deep breathing exercises while they wait out those eight minutes in their outpost in low Earth orbit.
In comparison, Storm Jocelyn seems a tad less threatening…
By the way, those lightning icons indicate faults that have been fixed.
Yes, I’m aware the Beckett was raised Church of Ireland, though he later became Agnostic. It could be suggested that the state of Ireland — especially during Beckett’s era — was always waiting upon others to confirm its sovereignty.
I’ve often laughed during a Beckett play, but usually because of bittersweet recognition.
He would not make the naïve mistake of urging me to ‘calm down’.
Thanks in part to the Forbush decrease.
Oh boy, could I relate to this, feeling as though I've been in limbo for nearly four years now! 😬