shame

Leave the floor washing and follow your heart

| Mairead

We had a great night sleep. Very gentle rolling at 3am but otherwise smooth as a lake. We’ve just had breakfast, the highlight of which was the coffee. They must have a new machine… No the real highlight of the breakfast was the servers, they are always smiling.

We’ll be sitting around for the next six hours so I might as well tell you a story.

(Map of the National Museums in Dublin, all free entry)

About a month ago I decided to be waaay more organized preparing for this trip. I’d pack all my clothing early. I’d tidy the house and garden and I’d have neat little craft boxes with only a few crafting options to keep me focused while I was away. I thought it would make the last week easier – I love easier. As it turned out the last week wasn’t easier but the whole month was much more interesting than usual and I’m glad I did it that way but that’s a different story. This story is about a war museum.

On Wednesday morning this week I was right on track with the preparation and it even seemed possible I would have time to wash the kitchen floor (long overdue and a bit sticky to be honest.) Then my sister sent a text. She’d seen a video about an art exhibition in Collins Barracks which she knew I’d want to see. I did want to see it, I’d love to see it! It was opening to the public at 10am that morning and she didn’t know how long it would run. This might be my only opportunity.

Of course, I couldn’t go. The sticky floor. The meticulously planned day. The last few groceries. That bathroom could do with another run over. Plus there was a small possibility I could slip in two more craft projects under the bed in the van but only if I started unpacking the garage now. There was definitely no time for an art exhibition.

So I went to the art exhibition.

It was the right thing to do. I don’t exactly know how to explain it to you without expanding the story… How are you fixed for time? I have six hours to spare here.

Ever since I did an art course at BIFE (Bray Institute of Further Education) the story of how some women (a lot of women) were shamed and rejected by society in Ireland because they were pregnant and not married, was calling to me. There was a special place  these women were sent – Magdalene Laundries, commercial laundries where the women worked without pay.

(One side of the courtyard at Collins Barracks)

At first I thought that you had to be pregnant to be sent to a laundry but orphans were sent there too. Sometimes when a woman died and her husband couldn’t cope he would send his children to a laundry or to the industrial schools. Sometimes speaking up for yourself or being a little different was enough to get you sent to the laundry. It was hard to get out and some women stayed all their lives.

I found the stories very upsetting. Something of the shaming of these women played into my own stories of shame.

(There were recordings of Laundry women)

Fortunately I had an outlet on my course and I started making art pieces inspired by their stories. I made white porcelain aprons for the white aprons the women had to wear in the laundry. I made pregnant grubby aprons on the reverse of stretched canvases for the shame they endured. I made buttons, loads and loads of ceramic buttons, for all the buttons they must have sewn back on the shirts of Ireland.

After the course I wondered what I could do with the things I’d made, how I could share them. Could I make a statement with them? Weirdly my stories of not being good enough and not knowing enough surfaced and I did nothing.

(A list of the Industrial schools in Ireland. I saw on this list that there was one in my home town. The scissors is made by the artist with glass)

Then last June my sister sent me a text (yes same sister, she’s lovely isn’t she?) to tell me there would be some of the women of the laundries going to the Lord Mayor’s house in Dublin. A committee drawn up by the government had gathered them together to discuss what they had gone through and to consider what could be done now. They would also be visiting the president of Ireland. This would be an opportunity for the public to show their support to the women. I went and stood on the footpath outside the mansion house and clapped and waved and cried. Something good happened there. Something opposite to pointing the finger and shaming. Ireland was different now.

Next morning I had an idea. Imagine if these women knew that Ireland had changed. You see most of them had kept their shameful secret. They had gone to London or America or Australia or somewhere no one would know what happened. They had started again. That’s the lucky ones, the others had died in the Laundry or were still there when they closed in the 1990’s and were moved to nursing homes. They had told no one of their time in the Laundry. How could they? What would people think of them? They didn’t know Ireland was different now.

It is different now, isn’t it?

(Covered walkways around the courtyard at Collins Barracks)

I started a social media campaign. By that I mean I set up a Facebook page, a website, a blog, a twitter account. I posted and connected. I wrote to the minister of justice. I pestered friends to share. I sewed a load of buttons to safety pins and asked everyone to wear a white button in solidarity with the women of the Laundry. And then I went back to my normal life. I didn’t know what else to do. I want to believe we are a different more inclusive Ireland, I want to believe it. But I started to read about Direct Provisioning and I started to hear people complain about the media’s attention on the woman of the Laundry when they should have been paying attention to the pope. I started to hear people complain about hearing too much about the babies buried in a tank under an abandoned Mother and Baby home in Tuam.

(The exhibition)

So on Wednesday I left the kitchen floor and went to see an exhibition where the artist, Alison Lowery didn’t let anything stop her until she finished her artist response to what happened in Ireland in the recent past. There’s a video by the artist explaining the exhibition, it takes 10 minutes, it’s worth it, listen. When I was leaving the museum I recognised the woman walking in. Without thinking I said are you the artist? She said she was. I mumbled the incoherent enthusiasm of a super fan, hugged her and went home. I will send her a link to this post as this is what I wanted to say: Thank you for having the courage and generosity to tell this story with your art. I’m a big fan of your work. More hugs.

Do you remember when I told you stories about visiting the war museums in France and Belgium? Do you remember how it was very emotional and I wondered if I should be visiting them?

(A corner of the courtyard at Collins Barracks)

Well there’s a war museum in Collins Barracks. I don’t mean the war of independence, the war against British rule. I mean the war against our own. Against each other. Against women. This one will be emotional and there will be no one else to blame, there are no baddie armies. It’s just us. Against us. Please go, I think you can handle it.

(A)dressing our Hidden Truths. An artistic response to the legacy of Mother and Baby homes and Magdalen Laundries – Alison Lowery. Collins Barracks Museum Dublin. It runs for the year.

Until tomorrow, Mairead.

PS. Didn’t fit the extra crafts or tidy the garden but the kitchen floor is washed!

Pps: This year I’m going to use one of Denis’ apps (REGOapp.com) to help me show you exactly where we are. On the map above the yellow dots show Greystones, Rosslare Harbour, Cherbourg and Mont St. Michel.

Broken Shells Calling

| Mairead

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(Friday evening in Furadouro)

I mentioned yesterday that I loved the town of Furadouro and one of the reasons was the beach. Not the sand but the shells. Not the perfectly pretty and complete shells. The broken ones. I had started noticing broken shells on the beach at Vila Chã, I thought they were interesting but not as interesting as the terracotta coloured stones. Then at Lavos Praia there were no terracotta stones but loads and loads of little broken shells.

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(A mix of broken shells and pebbles)

They weren’t everywhere, they seemed to be washed up in a line parallel to the tide line… a broken shell line, but there were so many I couldn’t but notice them. I started picking them up and once I started it was hard to stop, it was like they were calling me. Why would they be calling me?

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(Some of the bigger shells I saved!)

The ones in Furadouro were bigger, the chipping away had only begun, but in time (unless I saved them?) they would be tiny little broken bits. I wonder if shells start off perfectly pretty and complete somewhere up north and they get little pieces chipped off as they travel south, until they are so small they look like sand. I saved a bag full from Furadouro. I think I know why they were calling me…

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(and more…)

When I picked up the first broken shell I was surprised it was so smooth at the broken edge. It was like it had been sanded with sandpaper. Of course it had been sanded with the original sandpaper… sand. That’s why I kept picking them up. They were lovely to hold and to run my finger along the smooth edge. And they reminded me of buttons. I love buttons. But it wasn’t just their button-like feel, I also recognised a human-like feel.

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(…more.)

We start off perfectly pretty and complete and then bits get chipped off and we’re broken. We feel broken. We chip off others. We break others. Everyone we know is broken in some way. But these shells were asking me… Can’t you see how different we are? How very interesting we are? How we are so, so beautiful in our brokenness? I’m bringing a bag of broken beautiful shells home, please let me know if you’d like one to remind you that you are beautiful.

Step 12. Believe it, you are so, so beautiful, Mairead.

The Rock of Gibraltar

| Mairead

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(At the back… Ruby and The Rock)

We’ve moved. We’ve left our campsite near Lagos and we’ve left lovely Portugal. We’re in search of a little more warmth and off to somewhere sunny in Spain.  But on the way we visited Gibraltar. Gibraltar is a very small peninsula jutting out into the Mediterranean Sea, at the south of Spain. It is also a British overseas territory. They have a Union Jack flag and they speak English. And Spanish. It is interesting to hear people weaving their speech between Spanish and English depending on who they are talking to. We were sitting outside having coffee and there was a local couple sitting at the next table. One moment the lady was speaking with a very pronounced English accent in English to a friend passing by and next thing she was speaking what sounded like fluent, flowing Spanish, in a Spanish accent to a different person.

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(At the front… Ruby and the marina)

The currency is pound sterling although they also recognise the € (kinda). We arrived in the town of La Lina on the Spanish side of the Gibraltar/Spain border on Saturday evening and stayed in a motorhome car park at the marina for the night. Next day, Sunday, we set off to have a look at this little bit of Britain in the Mediterranean Sea. It was a beautiful sunny day on the Spanish side of the border as we entered passport control. A machine read our passports and then a human read our passports and then we were in Gibraltar. It was sunny there too! Almost immediately we passed their airport and then we got to cross the real, live, working runway! There were no planes at the time… so we stopped, briefly, to take a few pictures.

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(On your marks, get set, go!)

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(Quick stop for a photo in the middle… Of. A. Runway!)

All the street signs and shop signs and advertising billboards are in English. We were hoping to go to the top of the rock and see the apes, but the cable car was closed (and so was the Marks and Spencer shop – closed on Sundays). No problem we decided we could probably do with a bit of strenuous exercise and began the long, long, sunny day, steep, climb by foot… Problem. Until we saw a bus… It was at that point that we realised the recognising of the € might be a bit tricky.

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(Moorish Castle and flag)

The bus driver was very friendly and unfazed by our slowness –  we didn’t know the fare and we held up the whole bus searching for change but we scraped together exactly the right amount – €4. The bus was going to Europa Point where there were beautiful view of Africa (no monkeys/apes though). We took loads of pictures and decided to go back down on the next bus. This time we’d be prepared so we went to the little shop to get change for a €20 note as we had nothing smaller and no coins left. Unfortunately, in spite of us being more than willing to buy some chocolate (more than willing) the shop did not have change of our €20. We were in a bit of a bind… I suppose a little more walking might have been possible… We went to wait at the bus stop. A very friendly lady with her husband and two children told us the drivers are used to giving change. No problem so.

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(The lighthouse at Europa Point)

Problem. The driver (not the previous friendly one…) didn’t have change. A nice older man offered to give us the change but he thought we had pounds, sadly when he realised it was euro, he rescinded his offer. Do we have to get off? The driver said I’ll wait while you go to the shop. We tried that, they don’t have change. He said, go on so, sit down. We were very flushed taking our seats. The nice lady’s husband, joked, I bet you’re feeling embarrassed now! and all of us in the English-speaking section of the bus laughed. Gibraltar is a very friendly place. No problem so.

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(That’s Africa over there!)

Problem. The bus driver didn’t laugh. He changed his mind, give me the note and I’ll go to the shop. Everyone stopped laughing… Denis went up with our €20. The driver hopped out of the bus, over a wall, around the playground and up the path to the shop. The whole bus waited. Someone joked, Tourists!  I think he was joking. I was trying to communicate an I’m sorry to the non-English-speaking people but it mustn’t have translated well, because they were looking at us, but not in a loving way.

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(We didn’t feed any Macaques… we did see one from the bus but we were a  bit busy at the time…)

Next thing the driver is on his way back with change! It must have been some kind of miracle thing where they discovered change in the till… Whatever it was, the bus started and there was just a bit of mumbling… not sure what it was about, probably not about us… probably, I was feeling very flushed again.

For the rest of our day in Gibraltar we used the credit card, Mairead.

P.S. I’m way over my embarrassment budget so I’ll be giving up embarrassing things for a week or two.

Wounded and Sickly Ego in the Safe Cave

| Mairead

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(All the pictures are from Mount Usher Gardens in Ashford, Co. Wicklow)

I took a week off blogging and I have great excuses, but It’s the excuse that stops me going back to blogging that I want (well, really don’t want) to write about now. So… in general I share on this blog the stuff that’s difficult for me. Normally, the sharing makes me uncomfortable up to a value of 7-ish (that’s out of 10, 10 being death by shame – of my ego.) But this post pushes the discomfort way up to a 9 or 9.5, so I’m feeling (or my ego is feeling) very sick. Like, vomit-inducing sick, so maybe you need to stand back….

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(Path with gate… open the gate)

I had a heart-to-heart conversation last week with someone who shall remain nameless and reads every post I publish. She told me I wrote some nice things but I wasn’t practicing what I preached. First blow to my ego armour. Although wounded (ego, not really) I did realise she meant this as a compliment. Unfortunately, I was too caught up in the shame I didn’t ask which particular nice thing was I not practicing. Instead, I buckled under said shame. The shame of being thought of as someone who preaches, someone who thinks they’re better than others and someone who is being dishonest. Second, third and fourth blow. At that stage I though I might be mortally wounded, so a good time to protect my shame.

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(Path with steps… get ready)

Right so, I figured the best way to protect my shame was to hide. Yep, that feels good. And I have a brilliant hiding idea – I’ll stop the writing. Grand, I can do that. Well, I’d have to because it was beginning to dawn on me that there was probably more than one nice thing I was preaching about and not practicing. Since (I think) I am writing about all the things I find difficult, it’s probably accurate to say that I’m not too good at practicing them. Ok, I’ll stop the writing.

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(Grassy path… soft landing)

So to summarise, I’m talking then, I’m wounded, then mortally wounded, then I go off to hide, I sit in my little cave, safe and sound and everyone lives happily ever after. Not really. There’s a leeetle problem….. sitting in my safe cave I come to realise that the writing (this now potentially dangerous – to ego – activity) is one of my precious things… the things that are really precious to me, the things I really need to share. Oops.

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(Winding path with no end in sight… trust)

I can’t stop the writing… and really, I don’t want to. Instead, I’ll have to come out of my safe cave. I’ll have to find a way to realise that the wounds aren’t real and they aren’t serving me. I’ll have to go out on the ledge, again… on my own.

Just to be clear:

I am telling you how things are for me.

I am not saying I can do this.

I am not saying you should do this.

I am not promising I won’t go back to hiding.

I am saying that practicing this might be too hard for me.

I am saying I’m going to take the first step and only then consider taking another step.

And lastly, I like heart-to-heart talks (even if my ego doesn’t) so the me (when she’s not protecting her ego) thanks the someone who shall remain nameless for giving me this insight. Really, thank you.

I’m not saying I’ll like the next heart to heart though, Mairead.

Fearlessness in Baby Steps

| Mairead

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(French window)

Ok….. so, I’m supposed to be practicing (from the dictionary: the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method as opposed to theories about such application or use) my fearlessness this week. I was figuring that might include some standing up on a soapbox or knocking on people’s doors or listening to a lot of criticism. It turned out to be a lot simpler than that. (Thankfully.)

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(French gate)

But before fearlessness there came little drops of sunshine. I have no idea who reads my words, unless they tell me. So I don’t know if the person who sent me this beautiful Ted talk about creativity read my last post. Or the person who met me for coffee…. Or the two people who gave me massages… Or the person who listened without asking me anything… Or the person who sent me a text to tell me she was doing lots more creative things since talking to me… Or the person who told me she was thinking of me… Or the person who sent me a link to hens (yes hens)… Maybe their kindness was a coincidence, but this week I got a heap of kindness. And the best bit? No one encouraged me. No one told me it was easy. No one told me to just do it. No one told me not to do it. No one pointed out that I didn’t know how to follow my dream… The silence was beautiful, thank you 🙂

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(French garage doors)

And in the silence there was the first fearlessness – listening to myself. You might be surprised to learn that the one who thinks I should be doing things better… is me. Funny that. (Well, no not that funny, really.) Yep, there’s no group of protestors with banners outside my door calling TRY HARDER IN THERE! The protest is inside. This might be a good time to silence the protest inside my head.

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(French church door)

And in that (at least partial) silence there was the second fearlessness. Anytime I’ve encouraged others to practice fearlessness (or any other new behaviour) I’ve known it needs to be done in baby steps. And it needs to include gentleness as you would towards a baby taking their first steps. Loudly shouting at the baby to GET UP OFF THAT FLOOR AND WALK, NOW! rarely brings success. This was a good time to practice the baby-step theory.

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(French hiding door)

So, my itsy, bitsy, baby step happened quietly, gently at a small table in a pretty little coffee shop. I sat with an old friend (she’s not old, she’s… ah, you know what I mean) who definitely didn’t read my post and I haltingly (at first) began to tell her about my hopes and dreams for getting other people to connect to their creativity and to their peace… and no one died… and she understood… and then we talked about something else.

Brene Browne

(And my favourite sister sent me this photo-quote… It’s Brené Brown who is also running a creativity course… with Oprah! Creativity is very in…..)

I’m grand, how are you? Mairead.

The Botanic Gardens in the rain.

| Mairead

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(The Botanic Gardens in Dublin)

I went to visit the Botanic Gardens in Dublin last Monday. Although it’s less than an hour away I’d never been before. Not for the first time I’ve contemplated going on holidays to my own house and discovering what the area holds…. but that’s for another time. Monday’s visit was in connection with a course I’m attending.

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(Beautiful shapes in the glasshouses)

It was a cold, wet day but because of the huge glasshouses there’s plenty of inside space. Also, I had my umbrella for the sprints between glasshouses. Unlike my usual tours this one wasn’t about the place. I don’t know who created this beautiful place. I don’t know how old it is. I don’t know how many acres it spans. This tour was about noticing what’s here…. now.

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(More beautiful shapes)

There was an art exhibition in a big room over the restaurant (there was lovely sweet potato soup in the restaurant). There were huge plants in the Palm house. There were fly-catching plants in another glasshouse… and there was lots of soft rain.

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(Unusual plant attached to tree bark hanging from a post)

My assignment for my coursework was to take pictures of, and to sketch…. the things that attracted me. Taking pictures was easy, sketching not so… but half the work is taking out the pen and paper and starting…. and quarter of the work is getting over the shame when your sketch looks nothing like the object you’re sketching……

Start… now, Mairead.

Don’t be scribbling over your signature with a bob.

| Mairead

(Wakey, wakey it’s 5am)

We’re on a ship again. This morning (Thursday) I’m sitting in the lounge of the ferry going from Rosslare Harbour (Ireland) to Fishguard (Wales). We’re off to see the daughter again. We’re also going back to beautiful Bath and to revisit Bletchley Park – the location of the code breakers from World War II and the birthplace of computing. This time we’re taking the car so it’s a bit different.

(Sunshine at 10am)

In preparation for the trip I went to the hairdressers yesterday afternoon. My hair is quite well-behaved when a professional pulls it into submission and can remain in place for a few days so I had booked a wash and blow-dry. When I arrived there was a woman sitting at the desk, I told her my name and the time of my appointment and she sent me over to the sofa. Although I had been in this salon previously I didn’t have a regular stylist and was willing to accept whoever was available. Within moments the same woman from the desk guided me to the sinks and proceeded to wash my hair.

(Oooo, there’s a craft shop here!)

I had assumed she was the receptionist… could she be my stylist? No clue. As I don’t enjoy the small talk I usually like to close my eyes and drift off while I’m getting my hair coiffed so I proceeded to settle into a little snooze. But, it was not to be. My hair was hardly wet when she said, “your hair is quite fine but very thick”. At a bit of a disadvantage in my laid back position and not knowing exactly what that meant or if it was good or bad, I said, “yes…” This was the first clue that she might be my stylist or someone very interested in my hair….. Well, although I do like the snoozing bit I prefer the bit where they talk to me about my hair (yes, I am that vain.) Not necessarily the… your hair is great  talking but the… did you know there’s a kink in your hair? and have you ever tried it this way? talking. Well, I had a treat in store.

(Checking out the survival options)

Her name was Esther and she was very interested in my hair! “Have you always had it in a bob?“,”Oh yes, for at least ten years, maybe more (lots more) it suits my face.” and she says “No it doesn’t!” Picture the scene me dripping wet hair sitting in front of a mirror looking up at Esther, who’s standing over me with a scissors in her hand. I let out one of those loud guffaws and laughed for a good thirty seconds. Esther joined in for a bit and then told me exactly what the bob was doing for me….. well it wasn’t doing anything for me in her opinion, except covering my face. She wondered if I was still wearing clothes from ten years ago, I said no (although I do have a very comfortable red cardigan…) She wondered if the bob was easy to manage, I said no, in fact it that’s why I came today. She said she couldn’t do it. “I’ve been watching your hair since you came in and I could hardly hold myself back.”  That sounds bad. “Is it that bad?“, “Yes.” Oh.

(Lunch)

I laughed. I had been at a workshop that morning pondering the concept of shame and had learned that connection with others at the precise moment you want to sink into shame,  kills the shame. So I looked at Esther and decided she was more friend than foe and Esther, knowing I wasn’t going anywhere proceeded to tell me what she wanted to do. She spoke about the natural flow of my hair, how it was neither straight nor curly but had a kink. “Yes Esther, I know that kink – it’s the bane of my life, that’s the thing that makes it impossible to get the bob right.” But Esther said no, the kink was my hair’s signature and I had been scribbling over it with a bob for long enough. I want to let your hair flow. (Well she didn’t say those exact words but that’s what she meant.) “So, are you up for it?”

Let your life flow, Mairead.

My garden is in the work phase.

| Mairead

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(Not my garden… another view of the Birds and Bees garden at Bloom)

The sun is shining and it was very easy to get out of bed, not least because I’m off on an adventure with Ashleigh and Megan today. I’m not too sure where we’re going (the location has changed three times since Monday:)) but I will bring my camera and if there’s any good shots you’ll see them tomorrow. This reminds me of how excited I was to get out of bed when I was pulling weeds in the garden. Since we got back from holidays I kinda forgot about the gardening. I did have a quick dig on bank holiday Monday but for some reason the excitement has gone out of it and all that remains is the work….

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(Not my garden yet… also from Bloom)

I do know that I enjoy digging and pulling and planting and watering. I know that I like the colour that appears within days or weeks of  sowing and watering a plant. I know there’s huge satisfaction when an area that was overgrown is cleared. It’s just that in this middle phase there’s no excitement and my garden is in the middle phase. The excitement was in the beginning when the possibilities were huge and the work was small. The excitement was in the impact I was making very quickly and….. could more be possible? The excitement was in the energy I had and the energy I was willing to expand.

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(Not my garden either… also from Bloom)

Willing to expand energy is a different thing than expanding energy. One is a promise and the other is work. In the work phase the promise comes to haunt me. A promise I made to myself and to others. A promise I see in the before pictures. A promise that I really want to keep, really. In the work phase it’s only this promise that keeps me going. Not going in a light and happy way but in a heavy guilt and shame-filled way.

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(Probably never my garden… that’s a rabbit hutch on the left under the raised bed and it leads to a rabbit hole in the middle of the lawn… very cute… from Bloom)

And then I look at my garden and I see no monster forcing me to keep my promise. I see no signs that I will be punished. The garden will carry on as before whether I do the work or not. The plants already sown will flower. The older ones will even search for water on their own. The weeds will thrive again and all will be well in the garden. It is not the garden that pushes me to fulfil my promise, it is myself. My dream, my hope, my intention to have something I want. Somehow I need to let this sustain me in the work phase, guilt and shame-free.

Working it, Mairead.