The bells...the bells..

DAY 2 at the Monkery

Ah the bells, the bells… They rang at 3.45am for the first prayers at 4am. Not that I had slept much. Someone, somewhere, was snoring their horrible head off. Despite earmuffs and exhaustion, the noise of the bells woke me good and proper. In fact, I thought there was a good chance that the residents of the local cemetery had been woken up as well…

Did I want to get up and flit through the Guesthouse, through the secret door, across the silent chapel, along the cloister and into the big chapel for the 4 am prayers? No I did not. I wanted the bells to stop, I wanted the snoring to stop and I wanted to sleep.

Eventually I dozed off, to be woken by the next Carillion heralding the 8am prayer and chanting. I gave in and got up. Sat in the church with my head on my arms, trying not to fall asleep - and out of the hard wooden pew. All I wanted to do was go back to bed.  As soon as the religious observances and breakfast were over, that’s exactly what I was going to do. The reflection, meditation and whatever you’re having yourself would have to wait till I was less tired and less damn cranky.

Breakfast was a buffet affair. Jugs of orange juice and packets of cereal from which you helped yourself, were then followed by heaps of bread, butter and jam and gallons of tea. Like the Dormouse in Alice in Wonderland, I was in danger of falling asleep with my head stuck in a teapot. Breakfast conversation proved to be as interesting as the previous night’s supper conversation; this time it was the likelihood of aliens as well as foreign governments watching us, and whether tinfoil was sufficient to keep their alpha waves out of our brains so we didn’t inadvertently get brainwashed… A very nice man took an  interest in me; he offered to sit with me in church and explain all about the psalms, chanting, and so on. He also said he was going to give levitation lessons in the pretty Summer House on the lawn. “Isn’t there a health and safety issue there?” I said. “Shouldn’t crash helmets be obligatory in case people hit their heads off the ceiling?”

So…dishes handed back in through the serving hatch and table wiped, I headed for the bed.  I stayed there till lunchtime alternately dozing and reading “When things fall apart” – the accompanying book recommended to me by the person who had recommended I come to the monastery.

I got up in time for dinner served at lunchtime; hearty vegetable soup, heaped plates of potatoes fresh out of the ground with bits of clay still sticking to them here and there, bowls of steaming cabbage freshly picked and boiled, and dinner plates holding 2 thick slices of bacon followed each other out of the hatch. Delicious. Followed by home made apple pie and lumpy custard, just like you’d make at home. Well, I would. Some people’s custard isn’t lumpy. Their lives probably aren’t lumpy either.

Afterwards I sat in the garden. Too antsy to stay there long, I hopped in the car and went for a drive. So much for sitting in the tranquil grounds and meditating. I went to the seaside instead. Then I did a tour of a castle. Then I went to an Art Exhibition. Then I stopped in a village and bought sweets. Then I went back to the monastery, arriving just in time for the 4 pm session.

The sun streamed through stained glass windows. The monks chanted, their voices rising and falling. My new friend sat close beside me, sharing his Psalter and explaining what each section of plain chant signified. I left the church feeling very peaceful.

All the guests walked back to the Guesthouse Kitchen for a cup of afternoon tea. Somehow things ended up in a heated discussion. Somehow I ended up in the middle of it. I couldn’t sit there and hear people deny that child abuse had gone on in church-run schools. I couldn’t listen to them state that victims were only people looking for a way to get money. I had to speak up.

I found myself in a minority of one. Luckily the conversation changed to people who can talk in tongues. (As opposed to with tongues in the normal way of things?) Some of the guests had witnessed such happenings. More stuff about spirits and demons! I was getting very spooked. My newfound but short-lived serenity shredded along with my nerves.  What did my new and learned friend and the young priest with the penchant for ballet pumps think?  They were of the opinion that you had to invite such bad things in. So I was safe, apart from the fact that I was beginning to think I was surrounded by lunatics. And I’d been worried about coping with 4 days of silence and retreat from the world…Things were getting more bizarre by the minute.

My new friend asked for my room number. He wished to escort me to the 4am session next morning…apparently it was something special to be part of… As a child I’d gone to the 6am Christmas Mass with my father. I wasn’t mad about that either. But yes, it certainly would be special for me to be getting up at 3.45 am.  I’d only ever gone to bed at that hour and then only after a night out on the tiles.

So…No thank you, I said, the bells will wake me (nothing surer) and I’ll fly along the corridors and make my way to the chapel myself. (Thinking; if I can manage to rouse myself). 

I went to bed, having double checked the door and windows locks. If I‘d had salt I might well have sprinkled it on the doorstep...

The Monkery and Me...

I drove away from Dublin listening to a CD of Gregorian chant in order to get myself in the mood for where I was going. Problem is, that kind of stuff is very hard to sing along to and it doesn’t shorten the journey the way a CD of The Eagles or U2 will. After taking 3 wrong turns (it’s difficult to drive and read a page of directions lying on the passenger seat at the same time) I arrived in time to hear the bells for 4 pm prayer. So I rocked up for my first experience of chanting and prayers. Very peaceful. I could feel the calmness already.

Next - tea in the Guest Refectory. The evening meal was “Tea”. Apparently “Dinner” was served at 1 pm. Heaps of scrambled eggs and doorstep slices of bread and butter to be washed down with pots of tea were handed out through a serving hatch. You were expected to help tidy up but not wash up. As someone who would normally have dinner in the evening and who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I was very hungry. I’d brought fruit and water but nothing else. I ate the scrambled egg while covertly observing the other guests; a motley crew of lay and religious, men and women, 30+ age group? Having tidied up and handed all the plates and cutlery back through the hatch to the religious washer-uppers, I made my way to the Guest House.

 I had been given a key by the male Receptionist and pointed in the direction of a high wall behind the church. There was a door in the wall. I turned the key and entered - a secret garden! A white robed, elderly, clerical Brother came down the path. He greeted me very warmly and escorted me into the Guest House. Here was the communal kitchen. Here was the internal door to the church, to be used for the night time and 4 am ceremonies. Upstairs we went – here was my room. Back down. Rules; the Guesthouse door was locked each night at 9pm. Here was the Common Room where one could sit and read etc.

 My room was lovely and more importantly, ensuite. So far so good. Ok! Here I am- ready for 4 days of silence, prayer and reflection. As long as I didn’t meet with any misogyny – I’d be out the door if there was any of that in this house of men. The Catholic Church is not known for its pro-women stance- the Hierarchy is a Men’s Club. But I was here to spend time in silence and reflection on my life and where I was going, not where anyone else or any institution was headed.

Down in the Common Room, men and women guests chatted. Where was I from? Was I a regular visitor? I explained that no, I’d never been here before. Never stayed in any place like this. A lady asked if I’d like to join her in climbing the hill, going for a walk, visiting The Cross. I’d love to, I said. Another guest joined us and up we 3 went, past the gardens, past the  fields, past streams and paths, up and up through woodland. After 25 gasping minutes I reached the top of a hill where I flopped down at the base of a concrete Jesus. The view was beautiful…a pastoral scene reminiscent of those 19^th paintings of farmland and gently undulating hills bathed in golden evening sunlight.

The older woman chatted away. She had children and grandchildren. Was I married? Had I children? No, I said. But I had nieces and nephews. In fact, yesterday I’d gone to see the new Harry Potter film with my youngest niece. And with that, I unleashed a torrent. The Harry Potter films were satanic. The Harry Potter books were satanic. No, no, I argued gently; like Lord of the Rings, they show the triumph of good over evil, after much suffering and conflict. That’s a good moral tale for children. Apparently not so. Lord of the Rings was satanic as well. While babysitting her grandson, she was afraid demons would come out of the Harry Potter books and the Lord of the Rings DVDs in the child’s bedroom. So she’d taken the whole lot of books and DVDs into the garden, poured nail polish over them and set fire to them. Her son wasn’t pleased with her. He wouldn’t let her babysit any more. But she’d do it again. You couldn’t be too careful. There were bad spirits everywhere. Sprinkling salt on the doorstep would keep them out of your house. That’s what she did to keep the demon alcohol out of her house. 

The other lady nodded agreement with a lot of that, although she drew the line at burning children’s books. She was of the opinion that it wasn’t just spirits you had to look out for.  There was technology that meant our conversation could be heard through our mobile ‘phones, even if they were switched off.   Spy agencies had it. The good thing was, they could be outwitted with tinfoil…but the aliens couldn’t…

I sat on the concrete plinth of the statue wondering if I should make a dash for my car before the Guesthouse door was locked and the monastery gates closed. I’d have to get my stuff and the car keys from my room first. How long would it take…?

Just then, the church bells rang the call to the last prayers of the day. It was my excuse to leg it. I flew down the paths faster than an alien could fly- or so I hoped.

In the church I said all sorts of prayers I’d never said before – including prayers for safety from demons and spy agencies… But...after prayers, back in the Common Room, people made tea. Life shrunk back to normality. Tea. Biscuits. Chit chat. Ordinary talk. I relaxed a bit.

 I was standing at the kitchen sink washing my teacup when a smiling monk came into the room. (The ordained monks don’t usually enter the Guesthouse, according to what I was told). This one made a beeline straight for me. “Are you the Rose of Tralee?” he asked. “What?” I said, bewildered. “Are you the Rose of Tralee? We heard there was a lady who was a Rose of Tralee staying, and we thought it must be you”. “No, I’m not the Rose of Tralee, Father” I said, even more bewildered. “Oh, well, goodnight” he said, turned on his heel and left.  Hello? What was going on? The enclosed monks must have seen the guests arriving and had decided “The Rose” had to be me. Which was very flattering in a way. But…gossip in the cloister?  Funny to think of them behind closed doors wondering who the most likely candidate for Rose of Tralee was…Events were getting more bizarre by the minute.

A young secular  priest guest sat at the table beside me. I really like your shoes, he said. What type of shoes are they? They’re called ballet pumps, Father, I said. Oh, do you do ballet?  No, I replied. It’s just what they’re called…

I said goodnight, went up to my bedroom, checked the door was securely locked (twice) and closed and locked the windows for good measure. I hadn’t been in the place six hours…and I’d booked myself in for 4 days of this…stone cold sober…

The days of wine and cocoa...

Weeks 14 to 16

The days of wine and cocoa…

Weeks have passed in a haze of work, tears and drink.   Severe and frequent attacks of the Poor-me’s, If-only’s and Why-couldn’t-he’s were driving me mad. Keeping mindful and repeating affirmations, going to the gym and doing the “right things” weren’t cutting it. I added lunchtime meditations to the list of practices. So now I was starting the morning with hot water and lemon, whilst hot-penning 3 pages of whatever gobbledegook came out of my head. Trying to get the required 3 pages done I found myself  repeating things over and over again while trying to keep thoughts of breakfast and the journey to work and this and that and the other at bay.   Then positive vocalisations in the car on the way to work. (You get some strange looks at traffic lights.)  Meditation at lunchtime. (My colleagues took to eating lunch elsewhere). Then the gym on the way home. Dinner, talk to the fish, do the chores, go for a walk, have a chat. All the time wondering how things will work out. Then distraction with yoga, evening class, film on television, cheese and onion crisps, supper and wine, camomile tea and cocoa.

The bad feelings just wouldn’t dissolve in alcohol. No matter how hard I tried, and I tried hard. Climbing inside a bottle and hoping the world outside will look warm and fuzzy doesn’t work for long. Maybe if you could climb back into the womb you could make the world go away but otherwise you can’t.  You just end up in the morning dissolving painkillers in water, in order to make the hangover go away.

Solicitor Me wrote to say Document XYZ hadn’t been received back. Solicitor Him would be written to, as The Respondent was obviously dragging his heels in signing it and returning it to Solicitor Him so that Solicitor Him could then forward it to Solicitor Me.  This round the houses stuff drives me round the bend. So I asked The Respondent out straight, since he was sitting across the room from me; he had signed the document and returned it to Solicitor Him weeks previously. Back on the telephone to Solicitor Me to follow up… It seems he HAD done it weeks ago, and Solicitor Him’s  secretary had placed it straight into a file…So more legal telephone calls, emails etc. racking up the charges even though it was the fault of neither of us…

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A group of us were sitting chatting at a wedding. “I need a break, a quiet place where I can just rest and think” I said. “But where can I go to get away from radio, TV, internet, noise, ‘phones, traffic, everything?  Apart from the moon?”

“I know the ideal place”, a friend of a friend said. He recommended a monastery in the country. “I go every year” he said. “Plus, I’ve brought each of my kids there for a few days before they sat their exams.”

I knew of the place. I knew they took women guests as well as men and that it was a safe place I could go to on my own. That night I googled it and emailed the Guestmaster asking if I could stay 4 nights, any time after 19^th July. He replied that certainly I could stay 4 nights, why didn’t I come and stay from the 14^th to the 18^th July?  Eventually we settled on an arrival date of 21^st.

I could now look forward to a quiet time of rest and reflection in a place with no distractions of any kind. Or so I thought.

Pensions and Pole-Dancing

Week 13

Pensions and Pole dancing…

More legalese bureaucracy, despite the fact that neither of us wishes to have any claim upon the other’s (miniscule) pension funds; “Both parties are required to furnish up to date statements of pension entitlements…” So I rang and requested an up to date Statement of Benefits.

Back came a letter from the Management Co. of the Fund- I- Was -Hoping- Would- Keep- Me- in- Chocolate- and- Wine -in- My- Old- Age.

Dear Ghráinneog,

“As you know the worldwide recession has affected all investments…blah blah blah…The current DEFICIT on the pension plan of which you are a member stands at €29 million. There is a plan in train to sell various properties belonging to the Trust, but in the current property market sale profit (if any) is expected to be small.  Despite our best efforts, we cannot foresee any way in which the deficit can be substantially reduced or eliminated in the foreseeable future.. “

In other words; we’re already in the red to the tune of €29 mil, so by the time you retire, kiddo, well it’s not looking good…

The final sentence; “We would remind you that pension payments are discretionary…”

Well now.  No point in getting upset or railing against morally bankrupt bankers and politicians when the bloody pension fund is going fiscally bankrupt. Been there, worn the t-shirt, marched. No. Time to work out a Plan B. My joking about supplementing the (discretionary) payment (whatever that is) by taking up pole-dancing if my back holds up, is less of a joke now. Alternatively, if I ever manage to stop crying and feel like a human being again, I might take up Stand up Comedy. For the craic. Craic has been sadly missing of late. Or I could just concentrate on trying to win the Lotto. In the meanwhile, the image of a pensioner pole-dancing round a Zimmer frame cheers me up immensely.

Today’s affirmation; “My world is filled with abundance”. Today’s task; to write a list of 50 things to be grateful for.  Out with the jewelled notebook…

1. I have family who love me.
2. I have friends who care about me…..

By the time Number 35 was reached, (Lemon Meringue Pie) I was ready to fall asleep, counting my blessings instead of sheep. (Of which I have none).

Speaking of sheep…

A relative of my ex had died in the West of Ireland, where she had lived all her life. The farthest she had been was Dublin, and then only as a young girl before she married, had 12 children and struggled to bring them up on the takings of a smallholding of poor land. This at a time when the eldest of a family was often gone to America before the youngest was born.

Nonetheless, she had lived a happy life and came into riches when she achieved her old age pension. God love her, she marvelled at this money that came to the Post Office every week. Not that she was a big spender. She lived to be 96, and attributed her longevity to hard work, saying the Rosary nightly, and a naggin of brandy a day.

But I digress.  Extended family came from the USA, England, and Australia and assembled the night before the funeral. She was well waked, and they were well watered. At 6 am it was decided to go into the fields and pick mushrooms for breakfast. Children and grown up grandchildren scattered across the farm. The freshest mushrooms you ever tasted were added to plates of bacon rashers, sausages, black pudding, and orange-yolked eggs snatched from under the squawking hens in the barn.

At lunchtime,  solemn rituals over, the funeral banquet took place in a local hotel. At 9 pm they were still in the bar singing. All went well until Farmer X, a successful breeder of fancy sheep and winner of many “Best Sheep in show” rosettes, got into an argument with another sheep farmer, who had pipped his ewe at the post at the local show. “My sheep are far betther lookin’ nor yours”, he roared at his arch rival in the Sheep Beauty stakes. Overcome with the loss of the dead relation, the loss of his “Miss Woolly World” title, and drink, he took a swing at him. The hotelier called the Guards, and he was carted off to sleep it off in a cell.

 Another scion of the family, who was something big in the UK although no one knew quite what, decided to take a spin in the top of the range Bentley car he’d brought across on the ferry. The local Garda, then keeping an eye on things in the village Main Street, thought differently. Unfortunately he was unable to persuade the driver of the Bentley of the wisdom of this. With the result that on the day of the funeral in a small town in the west of Ireland, the Bentley Driver took a swing at the Guardian of the Peace and was subsequently arrested and thrown in jail. To be charged the following day with assaulting a Garda, breach of the peace and drunk driving.  I’d have been mortified if it were my family, no matter how distantly related. My ex’s reaction was very different. He came back to Dublin full of tales of mushrooms, Miss Sheep World rivalries, and members of his extended family being given Bed and Breakfast in a Garda Station.  “Now that’s what you call a proper funeral”, he said. I said nothing. They do things differently down the country.

Headline: Domestic Goddess topples off her plinth...

I achieved the impossible yesterday. I burnt  spaghetti, even though the spaghetti strands were put into a pot containing  boiling water with a little extra virgin olive oil added for slipperiness and left to bubble away on the stove. When I drained the pasta, a lot of the strings were brown as well as rubbery. My dinner looked like a pile of old twine. :( 

I had smelt burning, but assumed the neighbours were burning toast or something. How can anything burn when it's in a pot of boiling water? Is this new physics?

While I was trying to pick the least worst out of the heap, the man who was laying carpet on the stairs knocked and came in. "You burnt spaghetti? How did you manage to burn spaghetti?", he asked without a bye-your-leave and insultingly incredulously if you ask me. "You must have gone to the same cookery school as my wife. She can burn a salad".

I then cememted ny reputation as a Domestic Goddess gone bad; I picked up the wrong packet and put  fish food into the washing machine inlet. Thank God I didn't make it as far as the pond with the washing powder.

I came back into the kitchen to find the Prince of Darkness had loaded the machine with his clothes and turned it on. I said nothing.  The machine was already filling with water - too late to do anyhting- and besides, I was afraid he'd accuse me of doing it deliberately to ruin his clothes.

Later on, I watched through the window as he hung his clothes on the washing line. He was sniffing them suspiciously. I waited for the comments when he came in from the garden. "That washing machine needs cleaning" he said.  "Yes" I agreed. "I'll run an empty cycle with  the Calgon and bleach tomorrow." Wonder what the smell will be like when he applies a hot iron to his shirts...oh my :)

Welcome back, Interweb, I've missed you

I have been without technology at home for a fortnight, due either to the incompetence of a telecommunications company or my own lack of knowhow. Neither a technophile or a technophobe, maybe a Technosaur. Just can't get with the (new) program.

It's strange. I feel disconnected in more than an electronic sense. The only reason I can post now is because I'm in an evening class and supposed to be doing something else. Reminds me of being in school and having a novel inside the  textbook.

It seemed new connectors were required. Having booked time off work and waited in 5 hours yesterday for a Technician to call with the new connections needed, I lost my temper, dashed off a letter cancelling the contract and mailed it by registered post. (Well since the 'phone and email aren't working, it had to be done via snail mail.) Is it too much to expect  a company to show up at SOME stage over the 5 hour time slot given, or even call you on your mobile 'phone? Unprofessional!  Discourteous! My opinion of the company was already low. Yesterday was the straw that broke the camel's back. I've signed up with another service provider but it will still be 5 days approx. before I am in e-communication with the outside world. I really miss being able to chat with my emigrant siblings residing on the other side of the Alantic Ocean. Ok rant over. Apologies from the disconnected. :)

What goes around comes around...and around...and around...and around...

Week 11

What goes around comes around …and around…and around…and around…

I received a communication from the Solicitor stating that the first document had been received back from the other solicitor and that all appeared to be in order. Whoopee. Next up; I will receive a typed copy of the Affidavit of Means I had so laboriously filled up by hand, including apportionments of utility bills etc. etc., what film I last went to see and what I order from the Chinese Takeaway every Friday. (Special Malaysian Dry Curry; I know Malaysia isn’t in China but that’s what it’s called). I am to review this, sign it and return it to Solicitor for the Applicant to be checked. It will then be forwarded to Solicitor for the Respondent who will review it then forward it to the Respondent who will review and…and I need to lie down in a darkened room.

At the original consultation I had been told we should be before the Court in six months approx. – at this rate it’ll be six years. But due process must be observed so this has to be the way of it. Nothing to be done except keep on keeping on. So I’m doing my best to do just that, in between monsoons.

Oh yeah, also included in the envelope; an estimate of the cost to me, which is two and a half times the verbal figure (“plus any extra costs incurred”) given at the first consultation – and it includes “a discount”. ???

The Estimate lists such activities as photocopying, emailing, land searches- why? I had given the title deeds of the house to my solicitor as requested. No need for any searches. I feel very uncomfortable about some one else, any else, having the deeds to the house. The solicitor had said they would be kept in trust for both parties. But we were happy to keep them safely ourselves. I hate this feeling that I am giving control of my life to a solicitor. He wasn’t happy either to leave the deeds in a lawyer’s office. With all the stuff about corrupt solicitors etc. embezzling client funds and re-mortgaging client’s houses, he has very negative views on trust. I don’t see the need for it either. I really hate this feeling that a lawyer now has control of my house deeds as well as knowing what I had for breakfast. My privacy is gone.

I showed him the estimate and asked how much his guy was charging. He didn’t know. Hadn’t thought to ask and hadn’t been told. It should be less than my invoice; his guy has less work to do. But will it actually turn out that way? For God’s sake, will you find out, I said. So he did.

New calculation; at the rate the Legal Two charge for every telephone call, email, letter, etc. it would be cheaper for me to study for a law degree and do it myself. I’d probably accomplish it within the same timescale as well, at the rate we’re going. We’d save the conveyancing costs on the house sale too. But what can we do? We’ve committed ourselves. Have to just keep going.

Ok. Think positive. What is today’s affirmation? Oh yes. “Everything is happening perfectly for my highest good”. And the good of the solicitors’ bank accounts…