I have this photo on my computer desktop. It is my favourite one of ‘The ‘Still’. To the far right mid-cente lies the land of my forebears. It is ‘a little piece of Heaven‘ as Joan Doyle-Ryan used to say as she ventured out into the orchard to get some special Beauty of Bath apples (phonetically termed in Enniscorty lingo bew-hee bats) and cooking apples.
The land in this area is very fertile. Although it wouldn’t have as much natural lime as Co. Meath – which is essential for sugar-beet. Sugar-beet, strawberries – which Enniscorthy is famous – oaten and wheaten barley, potatoes, rape-seed – which are not good for land – as well as turnips and carrots – which also drain the soil of goodness. Farmers are reluctant to take land for the year if the two latter crops have been in it the year before. They will desperately seek out land for a barley crop, though, if sugar-beet was planted in it the year before. The barley goes up to Guinness’ brewery.
When the world lets me down – as it oftentimes has the propensity to do because of my damaged mind, I always look to this place. I don’t worry then so much that the world can treat me like a stranger, when I can survey the beauty of the place I should have been born to have grown up.
When I feel utterly bereft of human understanding and support, as I do now so much, and just as I did when my mother died, I can look to the deeper sense of my being and know that I belong somewhere.
My roots are in the very ‘Still’ soil.
I survived the excruciating pain of bereavement once before and I know that I will come out of it again.
It is at times like these that one really finds out what one is really made of inside.
I grew up being a very lonely child and pined away or so the nuns told me for a mother. Now…at the other end of the spectrum of life I find myself pining for an uncle who was the closest human being to my mother.
It may appear to those who might read this journal that I’m very introspective. That would be a correct summation. I’m not exactly fond of using the letter ‘I’ all the time. In fact it’s a very narcissistic trait and to be avoided when one is in normal shape. Allowances made now. But am deliberately using it here because that is how I’m momentarily feeling about grief, or whatever one would like to call it.
Grief-stricken is a state that I’ve found myself in throughout the best part of my life.
It has to do with the shackled brain syndrome. The emotional thief?
Survivors of industrial ‘schools’ will be able to identify with what I’m talking about, as they’ve also known the gnawing constant pain.
Wounded hearts can be lucky or not lucky to heal from festering sores that build up around them. They can break out periodically.
Those who have close-family ties fare better. That is why those who grew up in normal environments cannot take too much looking at the pus that pours out of our hearts. That is to be expected. They were not deserted by grown-ups as children, so why should we expect them to know from whence we derive.
Even in our lighter moments we are kept at a distance by people, as we appear to carry big warning signs on our foreheads. Beware! We are in constant battle with the world because we are angry because we are seen as the kind of people that one should not expect to be seen with in polite company.
So when the world lets me down there is always one place I can dream of and that is the home-soil of my ancestors at the ‘Still’ in Enniscorthy. Safety equates – not with humans – but with Mother earth!
Update? May 2012
Re: Marconi, inventor of the wireless.