When the world is too much, where would you turn to for comfort? When you see a problem, who would you trust to help? If you need advice who would you ask? Would you turn to politics? I read recently that the Pokemon generation look for all their answers on google. When asked if they . . .
I became a mother in my twenties, when everything was new and I had all the right answers. I would feed my kids only organic food, let them express their emotions and their creativity, keep them away from all harm and negativity. I certainly did my best, but being the perfect mother turns . . .
We organised the first International Women's Day Celebration, in 1986. My baby, just a few weeks old, came with me that night. His Dad looked after him in a room downstairs while I facilitated the meeting of about 150 women. If needed he could be brought up to me for a feed.......such are . . .
This is a guest post I wrote for Vision and verb shortly after the very sad murder of Jill Meagher in Melbourne. This month Tom Meagher, Jill's widower has become an advocate for the Irish White Ribbon Campaign. Tom has been . . .
The city of Rome is a masculine environment. The might of the Basillicas of both Ancient Rome and Vatican Rome, the heroic figures in the sculptures of the Piazza Navonna and the Trevi Fountain. The strong backs of suited men drinking . . .
There's a bit of a warrior queen in me that wants to protect my creative space. If I could make a moat of distance between me and the world I would do it. Barricading myself into a turret room and staying there for as long as it took or until I was thoroughly weary of it. I also know that no . . .
Her labour Salty finger tips cling to aching wrist. Pumping elbows, hang from cliff hanger shoulders. Taut chords strangle the hardened neck. Delivering a weighty head through brain blowing tedium. Leaves tangle and soak her skin. Cool on . . .
Liking and friending. Linking and posting. Scraping the barrel. Tidying and preening, until every box is ticked. The laptop to the flickering screen. The keyboard to the twitter machine. Perfectly formed in 140 characters or less. With pink highlights and lipstick to match. Colour synched, . . .
I am on the move and missing those walks on the lane. From life on the road, the midlands of Ireland open like a golden tablecloth waiting to be laid for Spring. Crumpled, layered, deep. The dark trees are silhouettes now, solid and strong. They open conversations with the . . .
I lost my mother to cancer at the young age of 33. In 2013 it will be 50 years ago. The memories I have of her are scarce. I just know that she gave us her best years, a parting gift of unshakable love and a caring respect for those who struggle through life with a broken . . .