Author: Hugo MacOscar

I fondly recall an occasion once, where just aimlessly browsing I came across a picture of a this little white dog, a Westie, that in a rare opportune moment had found it’s freedom. It was running down the road like its life depended on it. It had obviously never enjoyed the freedom that many other dogs enjoyed. That little housedog seemed to have had enough of the house, the familiar little garden or pen he had been imprisoned in. Perhaps a new postman, or the negligent or hasty delivery man had presented him with this rare moment where he could stretch his legs, and not knowing or caring where is adventure would head, decided to for it.

Just before leaving the comfortable apartment on the cobbled street that lead us out of Portomarin, we all agreed to go easy.

With various supportive straps, appendages and a rainbow of kinesiology tape applied, we agreed one simple and common aim, to go nice and slowly and make it in one piece to Palais De Rei, our next stop over.

I cannot really explain what drew me to break rank the way I then did.

I may have felt somewhat restricted by the idea of a notable slower pace, or maybe it was the checks and rechecks to ensure we had all we needed for the day ahead?

Perhaps I was spooked by the sizeable gathering of adrenalin charged peregrinos, busying about, cameras at the ready, recording one group selfie after another?

But if this was so, why had I volunteered my services as Mr friendly and helpful to the various individuals and groups posed around me?

l may never know why, but with a firm grip on my new walking poles (purchased the evening before) I headed off just like that little dog in the picture. With the poles providing extra balance and stability my pace quickened. The rhythm they clicked out called me onwards then, onwards again. I checked back once or twice only to see no reciprocation from the rest of the party who had kept to our plan to take things easy.

I was shadowed by two young German women over the long bridge leading out of Portomarin. They more than matched my pace over the narrow bridge and had me doubting my ability to sustain this explosive start to the day. My fears relieved when soon after the crossing and arriving at the foot of the days first climb, one of them stopped to take walking poles from her bag and the other went down on one knee to re-tie her boot laces. This enabled me to adjust to a more appropriate pace. This was a good more considering the steep elevation that lay ahead and the fact that we still awaited daylight.
I generally do not mind the hills, and I welcomed this opportunity to challenge myself. My knee had been getting painful towards the end of the previous day and I was glad of the opportunity to test it’s capabilities.

I attacked that first hill of the day with fervour and enjoyed marching triumphantly past those I could. I noted the rise in my inner anger monitor, as others from time, to time kept me in my place by effortlessly gliding past me.

One of those was a large framed young man, with bushy dark hair. I had heard the thud of his tall stout wooden stick before and was irked by his lound whistling as he moved along in a world of his own.
I recognised him from the previous afternoon the loud, chatty fellow at the centre of a group of young people who effortlessly walked past us as we approached the high steps into Portomarin. I envied their strength and energy and was served a timely reminder that I was in my sixtieth year.

As he disappeared into the early morning mist, the climb eventually ended, albeit temporarily, and I could now only relax in my beautiful surroundings. The familiar, hypnotic crunch of the gravel beneath my boots soothed my pace and I developed an awareness, that I was now journeying inward as well, totally oblivious to those around and with me.

The haptic vibration on my Garmin indicated that I was now three miles from Portomarin, three miles into my own personal way for the day.
My body by now was now seeking sustinence, so I promised it some food and a “Sit down break” around the five mile point as close to the village of Gonzar as I could find. We were entering “Closed season” and I worried that there might be nowhere to stop before the significant hilly terrain leading to Hospital De La Cruz.
I countered this with thoughts of sipping the days fist Cafe Con leche and biting into my customary warm sweet Pair au chocolat.
l was at peace with myself again could have walked on all day, happy in my own company enveloped in such beautiful surroundings.
But if the Camino is ultimately reflective of life’s journey, as many have come to believe it is, then we know all moments (good and bad ) are transcient and changes come, welcome or not.

And so my glorious solo-run soon came to an end, and with it exposure to those little daily challenges life presents us with.

As I drooled over all that would be good about the forthcoming breakfast I was jolted from my dream by that now familiar, but unwelcome sound. Once more I recognised the tinny thud of a thick stout walking stick from behind me. I don’t know how I managed it, but somehow, I had managed to get in front of the large mega-haired youth who had passed me an hour or so earlier. I didn’t have to turn around to check I knew it was him. He was making a habit of it. Unable to outrun him, I moved to the side to allow him right of way and to get this this humiliation over with as quickly as I could. However this much used plan of mine did not work this time, as the youth had actually slowed his pace to fall into line with mine.
As I looked to my right hand I could see him looking straight at me. He greeted me so warmly and with such a positive energy that I automatically but unconsciously returned his greeting

What happened next, I can only describe as a little bit of that old Camino magic. Two previously unknown individuals fell into into deep conversation like they had known each other their whole lives.

It took a while for this fast-moving giant and myself to adjust to a comfortable and common pace where we could easily chat as we walked. He introduced himself as Lorenzo from Como in Italy. This his first Camino had been inspired by his two older brothers, with a little financial help from his dad. A family tradition had developed whereby when they reached eighteen years, dad gave them a certain sum of money and invited them to do the Camino, to go on pilgrimage to Santiago.
Lorenzo had started walking in St. Jean Pied de Port, and now some four and a half weeks later was in his last few days of walking. He teased me that I had cheated by starting in Sarria, but afterwards ensured me that he was only joking, especially when I revealed that this was my fourth Camino. He enthused about his trip and how much he was enjoying it. His highlight was not limited to one place or single experience but he had appreciated all the people he had met and the stories he had heard. I could sense a great wisdom in him, and despite his ability to talk of himself, he also had that rare ability to listen. He talked of the great freedom he was experiencing and how he had enjoyed the physical challenge so much, despite never being into sports. He confessed to frittering away much of time as a gamer and that he had never imagined he would find so much peace, love and joy on this “super long walk”. We walked together for about an hour or so and in truth we had said all we needed to say to each other when we came to a busy, well organised Cafe which we both agreed would be our breakfast stop.

As I look back on the reasons I chose to do this Camino, one that surfaces time and again is the fact that in a few weeks I will turn sixty years of age. The digits six and zero seem to loom over me in some kind of Dickensian fashion, like some Ghost of Christmas to come. I at times project much too far into the future and often fear becoming a helpless immobile old man and losing my independence. Perhaps the ghosts of the past tease and torment me and gnaw at my confidence levels as I drift back to a time when I was (albeit temporarily) immobile, unable to get around or to feed and dress myself. This followcel a serious cycling accident and as I recovered, I found myself running from the wreckage and fallout from that time. I hiked, ran, cycled and swam as far as I could, trying to recover lost time, lost years and experiences that had eluded me. 0nce again that morning, I found myself running, running like someone had left the gate open.
My brother-in-law, along with his wife, had joined my wife and I on this trip. He had been my cycling partner that morning of that accident and had in fact been injured more severely than I had been. During our years of recovery we never spoken much of that horrific experience of eighteen years previously. Was this the reason for my uneasiness in Portomarin that morning? Was there some need to try and outrun my past again? Or did I need to show how well I had recovered, and flaunt my independence?

I wasn’t sure how to take Lorenzo’s last words to me as at that cafe he was reunited with a small group of walkers he had met back in O’ Cebrero.
As we parted, he told me he had noticed me along the trail the day before and had drawn inspiration from me. He confessed a great wish of his was that he too could still walk the Camino when he was my age.

Soon after I was reunited with my own little group and enjoyed a long slow breakfast.

Following breakfort, a much more peaceful and contented version of myself took to the trail again and I pondered Lorenzo’s final words deep within as we travelled on together to Palais De Rei.

Despite my lack of physical preparation for the Camino this time around, I still spent a good deal of time snooping around various social media sites and forums dedicated to the Camino.

One thing that came up repeatedly was the great amount of walkers beginning their Camino in Sarria . I had seen a number of photos of walkers moving along the path almost shoulder to shoulder, with little or no room to manouvre or find space to walk, never mind the opportunity to reflect.

This was my main fear as we settled into our basic yet comfortable appartment in Sarria the night before commencing. Not only was I missing out on the longer type of Camino I had been used to up until this point, but this over-crowded “rat run” into Santiago from Sarria would frustrate and “Madden” me even more. Hence the title of this post “Far from The Maddening Crowd”.

This title I have of course adapted from Thomas Hardy’s,  “Far From The Madding Crowd “. I have of late become an avid fan of Hardy’s work. I have been intrigued by his tales of love, loss and “what might have beens”,  as well as his  “And it   it all worked out fine in the end anyway” scenarios.  I suppose in many ways, I’m catching up on much of the work I neglected as a youth when preparing for my school exams with Mr Hardy was on the sylabus.

So with nothing more in the legs, bar a few walks in and around the aisles of Tescos this past fortnight I was approaching this Camino filled with all sorts of doubts and reservations. These not only stemmed from my lack of appropriate physial preparation but also my ability to deal with all that might be going on around me.

0n previous Caminos I defended my personal space vehemently and had been determined no one would get close enough to gate crash my desire for solitude and peace.

Thinking I had found these rare treasures on my initial hike across the North of Spain,  I returned seeking more of the same, an experiential “Top- up”  consisting of that blend of physical, mental and spiritual challenge that only the Camino can bring.

Like an addict I longed for the next hit, only I yearned time and space alone. Often I found myself asking “What are they running away from? ” when I saw of others of a similar ilk. I coined my own special term “Clegg “,  for those who managed to violate my boundaries or perhaps linger too long for their own good in my company.

This time however there world be no splendid isolation. My wife and two of her friends would he joining us. There would now present me with a considerable challenge  in balancing my traditional Camino approach  with the fact that this time there was a ready-made group to which I belonged.

They say that the greatest of journeys begin with a single step. This one would be no different despite my having little or no expectations of it. I was happy to assume the more humble position of follower as we set of for Portomarin. Within a minute or so of leaving our accomodation we encountered a long and steep set of steps that towards the top, left my legs screaming and lungs gasping for air. This dealt me something of a rebuke as I began to regret not spending more time preparing in the forest trails close to my home. My first Camino began with an ascent into the Pyrenees and here I was struggling to climb a set of steps. I questioned my recent lack of commitment, the ever increasing amount of calories that I had consumed over the past year or so and then most painfully the fact that I was now five years older from when I marched the Pyrenees.

I lost myself in these thought’s as we swapped the lights of Sarria for the dark winding lanes that would eventually lead to our destination. I allowed myself to be polite and courteous as around me people of all ages, shapes, sizes and skin tones filed past me. He I was surrounded by the “Maddening Crowd ” I had feared so much. 

At times the path narrowed, widened, turned and rose before us, but I felt strangely as ease. The threat I had felt from others on past trips had reliquished somewhat and I felt much more able to allow myself to flow freely along in this great stream of people.

I recalled studying Rivers as a boy at school and how from their youthful stage high in the mountains, where they gushed and rushed they eventually settled and calmed as they made their way to the sea, in what I recalled as the mature stage.

The words of Garth Brooks “The River”, were never far form my mind as I sailed my vessel on towards another high set of steps leading the town of Portomanin and the end of Day one.

Why not take 3 minutes and treat yourself a quiet moment as you listen to the river…

Approaching a new camino.

Tomorrow morning I set off on my fourth experience of the camino De Santiago pilgrimage in Spain. On this occasion I will do a much shorter route then in any of the Caminos I have made in the past. .I will walk the last 120km or so from Sarria to Santiago.
As I take some time out this tonight to contemplate the journey ahead, I find myself struggling with a resistance. A resistance that I find hard to define as any one particular thing. Perhaps it might be best described as a conglomeration of lots of minor thoughts and issues.

Tonight I have arrived in Sarria . I have left my home and family behind, and will travel yet again this well-known pilgrimage route.

I suspect that much of the resistance I feel could be down to the feeling that I am in some way cheating or fooling myself.
With two full distance Camino Frances behind me, as well as a single Camino Primativo I have perhaps judged my effort this time as somewhat futile or somewhat inferior when compared with this shortened or mini-version?

Be that the case or not, I do seem seem to lack the motivation,the drive and excitement that I have had in the past on commencing a Camino.
This has even spilled over into my preparation for this week long sojourn into the wilderness and I have found myself dithering around and being avoidant of the work must be done to prepare oneself both mentally and physically.
As the plane touched down today in Santiago, from where I would bus it back to Sarria, my state of unpreparedness or unreadiness has been running amok in my mind. Over the last few weeks the schools had reopened and I had returned to my work as a therapist with young people.
A number of times I’ve spoken to them about facing their fears and pushing back the beliefs in life that bind and limit them.
Now tomorrow morning, l an presented with an opportunity to practice what I have been preaching and do the same myself.
Buen Camino.

Watching this video clip remind me of days gone by at the local Primary school, where every year we would eagerly await Christmas. There would be the customary banter, predicting and boasting about the toys and gifts, that “Santy” (as he was, referred to locally), would bring each year. You “Wish-lists” might back then, might have included anything from a football, transistor radio, Subuteo table top football or Mecano sets to the more grandiose gifts such as horses, swimming pools or your own personalised tractor with which to help daddy on the farm. This happy time gave the blaggard or dreamer within all of us “Licence to thrill” and we used it liberally. Often what was predicted never materialised and nobody seemed to really mind and sure wasn’t our dreaming all part off the fun.

Another part of our school Christmas preparation was the annual Christmas Show. Sometimes if you were lucky, this would be done over in the hall up on on the big stage and at other times it was a quiet little show in the school itself. There was always great excitement in the lead up to the show and I from an early age had my perfect role eyed out for whenever I would be one of the bigger boys in the masters side. My dream role was that of St. Joseph. In subsequent years I would learn much more about this great Saint, and “Role Model” for all fathers, but what attracted me to the role back then was the fact that you would be on stage the whole duration of the show. You also had nothing to do except lead the donkey carrying Mary, knock on a few Inn-doors whenever you got to Bethlehem and put the new born baby Jesus in the manger. There were no lines to be learned and the only thing that could essentially go wrong would be if the wheels on the donkey were splayed or not in perfect alignment. I remember one such donkey whose wheels were such that when pulled along he immediately headed for the edge of the stage and a possible drop into the unsuspecting audience. This wasn’t good for Joseph’s nerves but made for a really exciting show.

 Joseph needed then to be a strong watchful character, and needed to know his donkey’s tendencies. The prospect of this happening were thankfully greatly diminished the year  before my class would have their chance on stage. One of the many generous parents had been clearing out their children’s old toys and had donated a well aligned and fully functional donkey. Things were on the up and I was rather hopeful that I would secure the role of Joseph. In my head had in my head I was already predicting a wonderful life i would have with the perfect Mary that I had eyed out. In my childish innocence I dreamed that the  “playing out” of these roles on stage would surely lead to a similar roles in life.

However we have oft been warned not to count our chickens, so you can imagine the horror I felt when that Christmas the teachers announced, that for the first time the school production would be a puppet show. I was horrified. The weeks before the show that year, were spent making puppets of  Mary, Joseph, Shepherds, Kings (Due to a “wise man” shortage that year) and of course a host of angels, animals and of course the baby Jesus.

I remember well using wallpaper paste to monotonously stick layer upon layer of old newspaper onto half an old tennis ball In order to make the heads. After working on them we would place them on the window above the radiator to excelerate the dying out process. After a week of so, I remember finishing them off with layers of white or light coloured tissue paper readying them for painting then varnishing. I fell in love with my creation (one of the three shepherds) as it slowly began to come together. I could not wait to add a bit more to it and longed for the days we would work on our little people that slowly came to life in our hands. I  changed from disdainfully glaring at it on the window sill to glancing over at it every chance I could get, to see how it looked. I would compare it to the others and generally became very proud and protective of it. Looking back now I realise that I really enjoyed performing this “therapeutic” creative role. Just like God himself.

We busied ourselves learning the carols and songs that we would sing on the night of the puppet show. My disgust and anger at not being an “in the flesh” Joseph on stage was somewhat compensated for through the additional role as assistant narrator,  whenever I wasn’t standing with my hand up my shepherd puppet’s tiny outfit.

I still remember the buzz I got from that experience, our first and only ever Christmas Puppet show. Like every team success we have in life, this was the ultimate team performance, and perhaps  for me,  this  whole was the first time outside the family home, where my ego suffered the indignity of having its wings clipped. I laugh now to myself, as I recall the experience. It was unique to me and I know that not all my classmates at that time will remember it. This is so with so many things in life. We all treasure different things and the same things In different ways. No one, but myself alone knew the dreams and aspirations I carried in my heart as we approached that final year at primary school.

In the tradition of Ignatian Spirituality we are encouraged to look for “God in all things”, to look for times of growth and learning throughout our “Graced Histories”. As I look back on this experience I recall the love and tenderness I felt as I layered, moulded and painted and as I carefully, like the potter formed my new creation. How marvellous it is to create something so unique, so individual and special as a human being. In his book “Weeds Amongst The Wheat” the author, persuades that we are creatures of choice, and we do not have our lives dictated to us by God. He uses the image of the puppet. Many feel helpless and constantly at the mercy of life and what it brings, with God determining the path for us as opposed to realising that we are not puppets. We are free and have access to a full relationship with our creator. This advent let us remember that the greatest gift God gives us is the gift of choice. May we use it wisely.

Today after several weeks of procrastination, I finally got around the lifting the leaves from around my home. This has never been my favourite job and this year I found mysef putting it off, day after day, week after week. This need to avoid was much stronger than in previous years. I found it hard to find the motivation to get stuck in as 1 usually would. I’m not sure why this has been so, particularly when I think back to the enthusiasm with which I tackled life in the outdoors earlier this year.

The garden became my refuge after the onset of Covid 19 pandemic. I erected a new, second greenhouse, and prepared more planting space than I normally might use. The nation was in lockdown, all the talk was of the unavailability of basic medicines, cleaning products and foodstuffs, so the idea of, indeed the need to grow more, especially our own vegetables and food made so much sense. The time would also be available.

My wife has always been a keen gardener, but she concentrates more on flowers for the beautiful window boxes and hanging baskets she creates each year. These I have to admit, are always extremely colorful and eye-catching. A real labour of love for her. For days on end, after lockdown was called we were able to work alongside each other in the garden, each doing our own thing whilst producing what we knew best. We would take turns at making tea or coffee and surprising each other with the various types of sweet treats we would manage to get our hands on. Life was good and the long hot spell of good weather at the start of “Lockdown”, made this a very pleasant time indeed. Often we would sit out long into the long warm nights of early summer, chatting about life, jointly appreciating times past and relaying our fears and hopes for the times ahead.

Time stood still back then, and we embraced this new opportunity for time together and the space to value each other and our family. From all around the world, on our TV screens and social media platforms , despite all the darkness and fear, came news of joy and contentment. There were reports of people finding themselves again, connecting with life and the things they were truly grateful for. People talked of fulfilment of the peace found in a simple lifestyle and appreciating all that they had.

I, as well as losing myself in the garden used this time to reconnect with my love of cycling and also built in a couch to 10k for good measure.

After a couple of months of this though things began to change, as more and more people returned to work. Daily life in my wonderful little cocoon, a world that included only myself and my family each day soon began to disappear more and move. Firstly my wife, and then the two children at home with us returned to work. My other daughter who had married the year before remained close to her work, which was deemed “essential” in Belfast.

Schools were soon to close for the Sumner so my role as a school counsellor was shelved indefinitely. The community organisation that I work for stopped seeing clients face to face so here I was without any work or daily commitments bar the wonderful outdoor life of the garden.

Gradually the garden began to lose it’s appeal and at times became a place of solitude, and indeed a lonely place to be. Missing the fun and the loving supportive companionship I had become accustomed to, lead to long periods of over-thinking which in truth, was more negative in nature than I needed to be indulging in.

Much of the fun I had discovered and learned to value in the garden was no longer there. News of the threat and danger of Covid seemed to be closing people down again. Our language now was of a “New Normal” and the joyful times spent together in the sun and fresh air, tuned into truncated conversations as we hushed each other to hear report after news report on daily briefings on facts and figures, “Cases and deaths”.

Soon after this time, l found myself needing to escape the news and all things and people “negative “. All the soothsayers of doom and gloom were beginning to get to me. I became somewhat disillusioned in my mew lifestyle and began to see no point in maintaining that recently renewed relationship with life in the garden.

In truth i had lost my motivation and as the summer began to draw to a close news came that the schools would re-open in September. Almost immediately, just like that almost, I seemed to lose complete interest in the garden and even in harvesting the crops that I had derived so much satisfaction from planting.

Then the rain come, the weather broke and the gate remained unopened… unopened that was …until yesterday..

For the past few weeks I was beginning to feel rather guilty about the state of the outside of my home. My father was very “house proud”and liked to keep our family home looking clean and tidy, (on the outside anyway) . This is something I have inherited and carried into married life with me. Despite regarding this as something I needed to do too, I never really enjoyed this “self-adopted” role.

In order to make the “leaf gathering task” that little bit easier, I used a tip I once heard my father share with a neighbour some years ago.

One chilly autumn morning, through my open bedroom window, I heard my father jokingly poke fun at a new neighbor for being constantly busy, always being outside sweeping or blowing up the leaves around his home. “Why don’t you do as I do?” my father chided. “I let nature take it’s course, and I know that if I wait long enough, the wind and mother nature will do it all for me”. Instead of going out each weekend to clear up that week’s leaf deposits, my father would wait the few weeks it took for all the leaves to come of the trees and then clean the yard.

Often after a particularly windy night he would go out in the morning and find that the “Leaf fairy” had blown the leaves into neat, ready-made little piles here and there around the family home. All he had to do then, was lift the little piles of leaves from the front door, the back porch and all the other little nooks and recesses around the house. This would take him about half an hour or so, all thanks to patience and the kind intervention of mother nature….

Yesterday I had reached the point where could no longer Look the mini piles of leaves that had formed here and there about my home and garden. My “self-imposed exile” from the garden and working in nature would have to end. So I searched out my old gardening clothes, opened the gate to the garden and form the shed took my rake, gloves, garden sacks and wheelbarrow. After an hour or so i was joined by my married daughter who had returned home for the weekend. As we lifted pile after pile of leaves into the giant sack, I smiled inside and joked once again with her. This was like the old days, here she was to help me, and my aging joints and limbs very much appreciated her help. In August 2019, I had walked her up the aisle of our local church to give her away in marriage. I felt that day my life would never be the same again, yet here we were over a year later. A different sort of relationship perhaps but a stronger and better one than ever before. It served to remind me that times our thinking does jump to conclusions and at times, if we let it loose, to run wild like a wild horse on the open prairies it will drag us to places we do not need to go.

Nature has a wonderful way of taking over if we don’t take action. The longer l would put this task off, the greater would be the possibility of the leaves decaying into mulch and muck all around me. The choice was mine and only I could make it.

Just like the leaves I had allowed the wild horse of my negative thoughts, my fears and frustrations to pile up around me and burst through the stable door. My thoughts like the leaves too, had begun to decay and rot away my ability to rationalise and propensity for joy and happiness.

The time had come to act and act I did. I set about my task with gusto,. Strangely at the end of the day I felt I was blessed once more with a clear yard and a clear mind. Thank you mother nature.

I sat down with a coffee at 5.00am this morning fearing that I would struggle to select a topic to write about on my blog today. Maybe deciding to join the 30 day “Blog like Crazy” gang wasn’t such a good idea after all. So I began to think that it might be helpful to look to some of the other sites I follow, for some seeds of inspiration.

As I scanned down this list of sites, a picture of Irish singer “Enya” caught my attention. After examining this more closely, I clicked on the link to the song “Orinoco Flow”, quite possibly the only Enya song I had ever really been familiar with. Listening to it once again, stirred a mixture of emotions within. I recalled the times, many years ago now, when as a young man l would sit and try and decipher the words from the lively and cheery melody. The only words that I could ever manage to gleen were the two words repeated almost continuously in the song “Sail Away, sail away, sail away.”

Just to get my facts right, I googled the song and discovered that the song was released on “15 October 1988 on WEA Records in Europe and 10 January 1989 by Geffen Records in the United States.” This confirmed that I was correct in associating the song with the end of my student days and my entry into adulthood. Listening to this haunting song, one is almost hypnotised by the constant repetitive mantra of “Sail away, sail away, sail away.” Whatever it was about the song, it certainly stuck in my mind as I approached the end of my days at college. Many’s a pint of Guinness l sat over, contemplating the meaning of life, my world and my future.

From this time I can also recall the strong desire within me to “Sail Away” from my own life. The need to discover new places, new people and friends and perhaps a new and more acceptable version of myself. My crazy days of confusion at university were now over and it was time for me to “Sail Away” and leave all that behind me. If Enya had decided to call the song “Run Away”, it would have been every bit as applicable to me, if not even more so.

I’m very privileged to work nowadays as a counsellor in a school over-looking the sea near Belfast. Sometmes between clients, I stand at the top of the stairs outside my room, and look out of the large window down onto the port of Belfast below me. I watch the many different types of boats and ships making their way into and out of the port. I wonder about those on board. Where are they’ going ? Why they are going? Is their journey for pleasure or out of necessity? Are they leaving loved ones behind? Or might they, full of excitement and dreams, be off on their adventures to discover the world?

Recalling this episode from my own life, invites me to refocus, and quite possibly engenders a deeper level of empathy and appreciation within me. Today as I stand and look over the sea before me, I will no doubt, rewind and replay that haunting mantra, that had managed to covertly lock itself away in my mind and my soul.

“Sail away, sail away, sail away.”

From my perch, high up on the top floor of the school, I will take a moment, as I often do, to watch the pupils “Toing and froing” below me. I will step back in contemplative mood, speaking less and wondering more.

As l sit with those I work with, I will be more aware that I hold the hopes, the dreams, aspirations and all too often, the worries of these young people. I will be that bit more mindful of their needs and difficulties. The need for them to escape from their dark places and “Run away” or perhaps their desire for challenge, excitement and new adventures as they get ready to “Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail away”… Bon Voyage…

I’m probably way too late with this post for many, but it still might be useful for some. By now the impact of “Winter time-saving”and the annual “Putting back ” of our clocks and time pieces will have become very real and possibly challenging for some of us. SAD or Seasonal Affective Disorder, is a major issue for some folks at this time of year. For a long time people were dubious and questioned its very existence. For those whose attitude to mental health is as dated as Still “believing the world to flat”, it has become an opportunity to label SAD sufferers as “Malingerers” or “Softees.”

Add in the complication and complexities of the Covid Pandemic and its no surprise that many are already beginning to feel the stress and hardship of living with this condition. 

In the latter yeas of her life, l recall my mother looking out the window of her home and lamenting the forthcoming “long dark days of winter”. Perhaps she knew that the colder damper weather world reduce the number of callers or visitors to her door. She had attached her own ominous beliefs to the phrase “Winter as coming”, long before the epic TV show “Game of Thrones ” immortalised it.

It might have been a case of classical conditioning or perhaps the DNA I inherited, but over the last few years I too have found my own mood changing as the winter approaches. It generally would begin for me in mid-summer, perhaps even as I sat out on a sun-drenched patio. (Wishful thinking I know in Ireland) Usually there was some sort of realisation that it was the 21st July (The shortest day of the year) or that, that date was close at hand. And that was enough to do it for me.

The negative thinking wouild take over. All of a sudden the glass would become half empty and I found myself fighting despair,grief or feelings of another year gone, or worse still, another year lost. My Addictive mindset (that I like to generally offer as an excuse for my faults and failings) would trigger wave after wave of “Black and White” thinking and I find myself abandoning all of the wonderful projects and plans I had made for that summer …. So who says SAD is a winter thing?

I would then regale myself with further shameful thughts. Working as a Counsellor, I shouldn’t have such thoughts and my life should be trouble free. After all what was I trained for? “Physician heal thyself” springs to mind surely? Fear not, I’m not going to go on a guilt trip here, but I do feel the need to share the fact that in my mind the greatest asset any of the human speccies possesses is the gift of self-awareness. If this means having to admit to a frailty or weakness or two then so be it. We are all after all “Perfect in our imperfections.”

In years gone by, I employed various, wide-ranging approaches to counteract the “SAD Virus” that could reap havoc in my world if I allowed it. My “Vaccine” involved trying out various methods of distracting myself from thev torment of SAD.

It might take some time to explore these methods so I would like to discuss them in more detail in my next blog offering. You might actually find some of the ideas useful if you too, need to distract or occupy yourself and your mind, until the days begin to lengthen once more.

So hence this Blog. …

The idea of blogging has always appealed to me so with very little else on offer this winter due to restricted socialisation, I thought I would sign up for the 30 day “#Blog like Crazy” challenge. All I know about this at this stage is that I am required to make a post (Minimum 300 words) to my pre-existing blog “Life Well NI”, for the month of November. Considering this is now the 11th November, I guess I’m doing the “Blog like Crazy – Lite Version”. But as they say, better late than never. There are many free Blog Apps and Sites out there which make this such an incredibly easy thing to do.

Blogging is something I’ve dabbled with in the past, but I have to admit that I’m not in any way experienced or especially talented in this field. However, its new, its creative, its fun and gets you thinking, meeting new challenges and new people.

So as “Winter is Coming”, once again, why not dip a toe into the world of the Blog yourself if you like the idea? To counteract the current restrictions in our lives I am nominating this as my very own “Personal Coping- Method” of choice for this winter.

Please, feel free to comment, share, re-post, join in or interact in whatever you are comfortable with. I’ll be happy to share the journey.

I often compare mental health, and anxiety in particular, to walking along a beach. At times we are soothed and comforted by the sight and sound of the waves as they gently wash onto the shore. All is good and we could stay there indulging ourselves forever… At other times perhaps, we are caught off guard, freak waves wash in, and the waters rise above our ankles and knees to a level we are uncomfortable with. We can become overwhelmed and struggle to reach safety, longing to escape to the freedom of the dry, solid ground we are accustomed to.. In our panic and anxiety we tell ourselves we are trapped, this is unbearable and it is never going to end… The truth is, just as in all aspects of our lives, each wave that reaches the shore eventually loses energy, loses its power to frighten us and finally recedes….. “This too shall pass” …. A simple concept, that through time has been central to many cultures and traditions, crossing over the boundaries all many faiths and beliefs. Remembering this as we face each day, could make life much different for many of us…

Has the Lockdown helped us find our our Truth?….

This video clip reminds me of this day, last year, 6th June 2019, a day that saw me make it as far as the City of Burgos, (The resting place of El Cid), early in my Camino Pilgrimage to Santiago De Compostela. I had been walking just over a week. Being lost in the silence, the isolation and the wide expansive, yet beautiful countryside was something I yearned for on this break, as I sought to find my truth. The steady rhythmic crunch of the gravel beneath my feet at times seemed almost hypnotic. Carrying all I had on my back, stripped me of all pretence and exposed me as I am. I was always drawn to the words from John’s Gospel stating “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free”. Presenting genuinely as I am, has become of great importance to me in life, but is something we all find difficult at times. I do think however, there comes a time in all our lives when we are called to stop “pretending”, mainly to ourselves, and start living. This call comes in many different forms.

Following a road traffic accident back in 2006, I decided to leave my original vocation in life as a teacher and move into the world of Counselling. My shift in path, reminded me often of the legendary Irish Sports Commentator Michael O’Heir’s humorous reference to Dublin’s Dr Pat O’Neill, an energetic and tough wing back, as he commentated on a rip-roaring all-Ireland final between Dublin and Kerry. As an enthusiastic O’Neill broke up a Kerry attack and cleared the ball with his usual “no nonsense” style, O’Heir could be heard to say, “Dr Pat O’Neill, breaks them up on Sunday and makes them up on Monday”. The classic poacher turned game-keeper scenario.

Teaching was something I had greatly enjoyed, but exposure to trauma and loss, some “20 plus” years into my career had a much greater impact on me than I could ever have predicted or understood. A part of me was glad to go, taking many happy memories with me. But I do reflect, and wish, sometimes regretfully, that as a teacher back then, I might have had the experience, skills and knowledge that is available to me now. Some lives might have been different.

During my recovery, I worked briefly as an “Entertainment’s Officer” in a nearby nursing home. It was whilst working there I had a chance meeting with a retiring priest, experienced in psychotherapy, counselling and in leading Spiritual Retreats. He explained to me the value of the truth and how I could find and become more comfortable with my own truth.

As I was embarking on a “difficult and lonely journey” he advised I develop the practice of “Sitting with myself”, a skill I would need before I could ever sit with others and their pain. I could he said begin to develop this practice, by sitting alone in a room (for ideally one hour), without any distractions, no music, TV, books or reading material, nothing only me, myself and my thoughts. Of course I would have to start off slowly, begin with 10,15 or 20 minute sessions, until I became accustomed to the silence, the emotions and sensations that might emerge, perhaps even prompting me to run away from any discomfort I might experience. I have by now, many times offered this same advice myself to clients in the course of my work in Counselling and Spiritual Direction. It has assisted me and a lot of them greatly learn, process and accept the truth about ourselves.

In recent weeks during the “Covid Lockdown”, I have once again been seeing this as one of the greatest gifts we as human beings can give ourselves. Many of us have found the world’s “New rules”, the call for greater self- discipline, isolation and loneliness and having to live a life, of loss and uncertainty as too much, too challenging. Some have struggled with this new “truth” and pine for a return to what they had known as normal. Others however have rejoiced the fact that the world and others whose “Perfect Lives” have been put on hold, now have to live as they have had to live their lives, year upon year, struggling, curtailed by limiting self-beliefs and unable to live with their truth.

Our adaption to this new normal, whatever this may be is going to be interesting to say the least…

This short You tube Clip below, is one of my favourites.It explains the concept of depression really well. Have a watch. It’s remarkably honest and revealing

The Black Dog of Depression