The God of small things.

Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash

Long ago, when my uncle was alive and chaining smoking Sweet Afton in the back kitchen of the home-house, we used to judge how well his general mental well-being was by the number of cups of tea he’d drink in an hour. The tea per hour, generally, was a good indicator of how much pacing per hour was on his agenda for the late evening and night. If he was tipping over the four or five cups we’d observe aloud variations of the following:

“ Ah the nerves are at him again “

Back to the present, and a similiar pattern seems to emerge in myself ó am go hAm. If four or five days pass without laying pen to paper the nerves do be at me too. With caffeine substituted for tea in my own case. Indeed, I found myself pacing in the kitchen the other night worrying over some detail about the upcoming féile and caught myself in Uncle John mode. I thought of him for a brief moment and the wispy strands of different ghosts that are an intrinsic part of me and all of us I guess. Often, if he caught you watching him he’d stop his pacing and smile his angelic smile at you before slapping himself a couple of times on the forehead. This action acting as a starting gun to resume normal striding service once more.

Usually, I have lots to write about and my four or five day itch rarely needs scratching. However, the last two weeks have been busy in the day-to-day, real life and as a result I quite literally don’t have a clue about what is going on in the country or the world at large. I have in a sense been embarking on adventures here, there and everywhere almost everyday in preparation for festivities at the month’s end. I won’t lie there’s been a grand pleasure in the break. Both in the chasing after an idea and the exit from season three of the Game of Thrones drama at play in the wider political arena. The wave function collapse as Thomas Sheridan’s describes it in his own inimitable way.

It was my mother’s birthday yesterday. She’s arrived at a number where she’s proud of her age. For the past fifteen years she’s had a pod of three neighbors that kept her filled with life and small town news. Unfortunately, in the past nine months two of them have died. I need to remind myself more to talk to her as much as I think about her. Maybe remind isn’t a strong enough verb. I made the mistake of telling her about my plans for Cork a couple of weeks ago after three of her calls went unanswered one evening and I answered on the fourth.

“ I could‘ve been dying you know “

So, I let her into my little secret then at that stage to help wave off the grim reaper for awhile longer. She then proceeded to latch on to the word “Cork” and repeat it over a few times. Each utterance of it punctuated with a dramatic pause, rolling the word around with her tongue, getting used of it, as if I’d landed into the house and announced I was eloping to London with a Protestant. As an aside, every county in Ireland has a generic behavioral pattern and Cork people are fierce fond of themselves in her world view. On the other hand, she advised my sister once not to trust men from counties that don’t have a coastline ( something about the lack of sea-air) and yet the same sister has been happily ensconced above in Offaly for the past twenty years and counting. I suppose much of this opinionating stems from her love of her own county. Any time we’d make a long journey away from home as kids, no matter how enjoyable the experience, or beautiful the surroundings, once we passed thru Tuam headed for Milltown she’d look out the window and turn to everyone.

“ Don’t we live in a great part of the country all the same “

I don’t really share her strong Catholic faith but the older I get the more I admire her resolve and belief. Since she found Church TV on the internet she goes on tours of live masses around the country on her iPad and I’ll often find her in the same position bent over the kitchen table with her prayer book and rosary beads out. Commenting on the strengths and weaknesses of various priests around the country.

Occasionally, she’ll ask why I do the things I do. Worrying about them and me. I never have a satisfactory answer for her or perhaps even for myself. Maybe, I’m on the hunt for the God of small things. The eternal to be found in the swish of a brush, the beauty of a broken note in a voice consumed by emotion, or the magic unlocked by words thrown together. These seem to be the places I come closest to finding him in.

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