On the last day of summer we were down at the lake. Although everything changes and nature is under extreme pressure, this patch is still a haven. Butterflies were gathering on the wild water mint and the wind was gently swaying the long grasses, full of purple loosestrife and . . .
I just realised that I can't wait to get back on the road. It's not that I don't love my home place, I really do. Since coming home, the weather in Ireland has been beautiful and the nature surrounding us has felt very precious. But today I was looking back over our couple of months . . .
Post-heroic stories aren’t focused on individual glory; they’re focused on community. On diversity. It’s not about slaying the dragon, but about harnessing his special skills – making him part of the team. It’s about understanding, and valuing, the black, feathery, croaking . . .
I don't necessarily think of myself as an older person. But there you are, I am an older person. So when I was asked by Garter Lane Arts Centre to facilitate a photography workshop for older people as part of the Bealtaine Festival, I was curious. (The Bealtaine Festival is . . .
I was talking with an old friend, some one who has been around the block with me over the years. As with most women of a certain age, we got to the heart of the matter pretty quickly. I realised that for more than 20 years I have been inside the kind of job . . .
Six weeks have passed and I am still fairly house bound. At this stage I am crawling the four walls, that common form of cabin fever, but I think I am finally on the mend. Over the last few months I have had a stash of ripening seeds . . .
In our house, it was common enough to find girls lying down in dark rooms listening to poetry sung by an older, Canadian man. My own battered copy of Songs of Leonard Cohen, with the sad face on the front, would throb away, the soundtrack to my homework, so annoying to my father. Leonard . . .