What would Saint Patrick make of the world today? I often picture his sad shake of the head when he sees rivers turned green, Guinness spilling onto the street, leprechauns running towards pots of gold.
We get things wrong time and again. But Patrick knew a thing or two about the human condition; from shepherd to slave to saint. Somehow his capacity for hope was never dimmed as he held onto faith with both hands, even in the darkest times. And out in nature is when I hear him most clearly, his monastic spirit is everywhere outside: in the call of gulls, in the gust of wind, in the crash of waves. Ireland seems to breathe him in and out.
When I create a daily rhythm that starts the day with prayerful focus I can find inner strength that is otherwise hidden and a reminder that I am a beloved child. “I bind unto myself today” is surely the most important phrase ever written – a ‘bind’ that holds us tight and then sets us free.
Three Things Saint Patrick taught me
1. Nature is healing
2. Hope and faith go hand in hand
3. “I bind unto myself today…”
I’m forever grateful to him.
A reading of a portion of Saint Patrick’s Breastplate
What can I say? You’ve been by my side for as long as I can remember: from childhood fairytales to midlife learning; from university libraries to cosy Tuesday afternoons with a cup of tea and a cat on my lap. The world opened up thanks to you.
When life hurt you offered shelter under Ladybird wings, gifted Shakespeare to my confused teenage mind. I got out of hospital and you knew I needed cartoon comfort, leaving Calvin and Hobbes on my bed. Health fears and lockdowns had you rummaging around for something new to surprise me with – the poems of John O’Donohue.
When life was light you offered Thomas Hardy to share my university journey, dropping copies of anything by Neil Gaiman when I was ready to escape into other worlds. When laughter was required you reached out a hand to tickle my sides with Bill Bryson. Lately you seem to know that my mind needs to be expanded and I found a 500-page tome by Yuval Noah Harari on my desk.
Most of all, you’ve pushed The Great Gatsby into my hands at regular intervals to bring me home. Words heal, you taught me that. And I’ll always be grateful.
Happy World Book Day.
Love,
Susan
“She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.” Annie Dillard
Watch a little video of the love letter – including pretty pictures
"Always too eager for the
future, we pick up bad
habits of expectancy.
Something is always
approaching; every day
Till then, we say,"
Philip Larkin, Next Please
Sometimes I feel as if I’m always in a hurry, rushing from one task to the next with barely a breath between. What’s the rush? It’s as if I think something more important, or something better, is just around the corner – once the dishes are done, that is.
Like most children of the seventies I had a beloved collection of Ladybird books (they’re still on my shelves today, still beloved) and Aesop’s fables were a particular favourite. For here be villagers crying wolf, foxes without tails, geese atop golden eggs. And a tortoise who won the race. Needless to say most of Aesop’s clever morals passed me by for some time, I even identified more closely with the hare (I was a sprinter, so obviously it is the fastest who wins) and simply resolved never to fall asleep during a race and thus allow a slower contestant to overtake.
With apologies to bookworms – I wrote on the cover with felt tip pen. Oh the ignorance of youth.
But soon enough I worked it out: kindness often gets things done more quickly than force; it is wiser to be content with what you have. And the race is not always to the swift.
Slow and steady is the key. Like the pre-schoolers of Mischel’s Marshmallow Test in the early seventies at Stanford, we try to learn patience, delaying gratification so that appreciation follows. Rather than rushing through life trying to get to something else I can treasure small moments, listen to birdsong, maybe even enjoy washing the dishes. In short, I can be here. Now.
R.S. Thomas was right – life is not hurrying on to a receding future, nor hankering after an imagined past. It is life and it is now. Likewise with lockdown easing, vaccine rollout, getting back to ‘normal’ – slow and steady wins the race. We’ll get there.
And waiting at the finish line will be a happy tortoise who reaches out his wrinkly hand to congratulate us on our slow journey and shared wisdom.
Watch a video reading of ‘The Bright Field’ by R.S. Thomas, from The Emergency Poet edited by Deborah Alma, Michael O’Mara Books, 2015, p.163
What is it about poetry? I’ve found myself holding onto it for dear life lately, picking up volume after volume in order to escape the fearful – and unordinary – days all around us.
Alongside a daily visit to The Emergency Poet, edited by Deborah Alma, I’m spending most mornings with Brian Bilston who has become Twitter’s unofficial poet laureate. Amanda Gorman’s spellbinding recital of ‘The Hill We Climb’ at Biden’s inauguration continues to speak of both admonishment and hope, while Margaret Atwood has a new volume out (‘Dearly: Poems’ – on my wish list). Breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper – words are food.
And so to the Twittersphere’s laureate, Brian Bilston and his Serenity Prayer. Read or listen and if a smile doesn’t creep across your face I’ll eat my hat.
