gentle mist

For a few seconds this morning I lay awake, but kept my eyes tightly closed. It gave me a chance to listen, hear without seeing, watch without eavesdropping. I pictured a scene that visits me frequently, the soft wet rain of that which falls by the shore, its gentleness like a comfort blanket that wraps and enshrouds. If rain could smile this is how it would do it. My head still on my pillow I smiled broadly in return, imagining the mist hanging low in the sky, blurring the edges between the world I envisage and I world I seek to escape.

In the scene the smile is silent, the falling rain entering from the sky without drama. Such deep passion doesn’t require a drum roll. That arrives in its partner, a grey sea, cleverly trying to mimic the misty aura of the sky, teasing us. It kisses the shore, gentle one minute, rolling in with pizzazz and splendour the next, the roar lifting from the shingle to the hills above, tossing and turning playfully before disappearing into the distance.

As I lie awake, in that other place between here and now, I keep my eyes shut for another moment and join in, my throat tickling and then exploding in a mimicked roar of laughter. I open my eyes because I know that today, and for the next thirteen days the scene is real.

I am here, I am one, I am at one.

I’m on Rathlin Island, the home of my father and his father and his father before him...the home of my heart.

Life is different here.

My beautiful daughter is with me, her limbs as entwined in Rathlin’s soil as mine, the chambers of her heart rooted in the place we share with a knowing smile. My wonderful son, father to the incredibly strong and resilient Harris, Mamo Margot’s grandson, is arriving on Friday. It will be Harris’s first visit to the island. The excitement is already trickling down my spine, knowing that he will step off the boat, warm and safe in the shelter of his mother’s womb, to embrace his Mamo’s spiritual home for the first time.

He’s still very sick, that’s not going to change. His heart is structurally unsound, and as a consequence will struggle to function when he enters the world in just a few weeks time. But we still hope, and pray, that someone is watching over him, willing strength and durability. Be that God, or be that his family, or the strong arms of Rathlin Island, we will not give up on him.

We are all one.

hope; it's not just a word, it's an almighty thing.

It feels so terribly wrong to even think of the word recital given the circumstances but Mamo Margot's little baby is taking centre stage. 26 weeks new, just 14 weeks from the customary scheduled birth, and our little Harris performed well in his latest scan.

Depsite his continual attempts to disrupt the proceedings with his tongue sticking out escapades, the paediatric cardiologist was able to ascertain that this week he is stable (and cheeky!). By all accounts his situation is still critical but there has been no further deterioration on last week and that's the best news we could have hoped for.

The journey for his parents has been constantly chaotic. Violently thrust against a seemingly impenetrable wall, the breath punched from them by a dark physical force and yet, just as suddenly there follows a gentler presence, a sympathetic dusting down accompanied by a warm encouraging hug, the embrace of hope.

And each and every day we pray that it fails to reappear. That place bereft of hope, its stolen foundations congealed by the fragments of our tears, tiny droplets of despair that freeze and solidify ever so tightly, squeezing one upon one and stretching high into a grey-black sky that disappears into the deep nothingness of a place we know we don't want to go to.

We can only continue to admire his parents' courage, our passionate and supportive community that treads water gently alongside them. Love, and above all else our unswerving belief in the vast parameters of hope, is keeping us all afloat.

We are where we are. They are where they are. And we, and hope, are all with Harris. Now and always.

harris

I kicked off this blog with a post about my excitement.... my announcement that I'm to be a grandmother; a mamo. This would be Mamo Margot's blog. That has not changed. I am a grandmother and my little grandson, who we now know of as Harris, is probably the most loved child on this planet (well we think he is anyway!). All this love and we haven't met him yet.

Harris is over 30 cms long, (a foot, a whole foot in length!!) and for the last 25 weeks he has sheltered in his mother's womb, bonding in her rich love as he waits patiently to meet the rest of his family. Every day we love him more, making sure he is part of us, filling our moments with thoughts on how he's doing, sharing with him tales of what awaits him.

At 25 weeks he is a tiny mirror of his father, my 25 year old son. A dad. How wonderful. And he will be a wonderful father as he is kind and patient.

Harris, though, has a heart condition, the situation is gravely serious and whilst some days my son and his fiancée are given hope, on other darker days, like today, the news isn't so bright. As a parent, not being able to make something right for your child is the single hardest thing in life. It's an inconsolably difficult position to be in.

But Harris is strong, and like his parents he is beautiful and incredibly worthy. An absolute star. Keep shining brightly little Harris. We can't wait to meet you.

lovely, lovely advice, come and share!

This quote was posted on the TheWritingRoom Facebook page (stop by, it's a wonderful, growing community of writers) and I am unashamedly placing it here because I believe it should be shared and cherished by everyone who writes. It made me cry when I read it. In a fabulous way, in that intoxicating way where a surge of emotion rushes from the pit of your stomach to your neck bringing with it a deep red flush that makes you smile rather than cringe with shame.

It was written by the legendary Ray Bradbury, author of one of the most inspiring books I've ever read, Fahrenheit 451. Read this quote and then go and read Ray. You deserve a treat, all writers do from time to time!

"If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.” Ray Bradbury

across the landscapes

I've been completely remiss in not posting this earlier as it's an imaginative project and one that should be shared as its very premise is in sharing, both in terms of creativity and experience. The story began when I quite by chance saw a tweet from Claire King asking for writers to take part in a Short Story Collaboration for International Women’s Month back in March. Good timing on my part demonstrating that the loveliest of things can happen just by chance. An opportune meeting, a road to somewhere completely different.



Claire got involved in the project via its creator, New Zealand based writer Michelle Elvy who had the wonderful idea to cross international boundaries with each woman writing 100 words before passing the story on to another life in another part of the world. Women writers uniting across landscapes and creating a powerful story that had at its root its vastness and yet its close collaboration.


You can read the four stories by following the links. It was a charming thing to do and I thank all the lovely writers for allowing me to share. Enjoy!



#1 ”Collaborative”

Michelle Elvy – Martha Williams – Claire King – Sarah Hilary



#2 “Waiting”

Michelle Elvy – Martha Williams – Claire King – Margot McCuaig (that's me!)



#3 “Time Flies”

Michelle Elvy – Martha Williams – Claire King – Jane Prinsep



#4 Journey

Michelle Elvy – Martha Williams – Claire King – Kate Brown – Peggy Riley – Judith Teitelman – Beth Gignac

winded

When tragedy strikes its impact is violent. Like being winded, a truck driving through your chest at speed, sucking life as you know it from your lungs before chucking you out, through the cracked window of what was once upon a time reality, onto the side of the road.

In the ditch you grapple around in the dirt, desperately trying to breathe. But you can't breathe because you're not in control of who you are. You're not you, you're a shell, and in the space where love and happiness once bounded around with a playful hope and enthusiasm there's just pain. You're not functioning in the way you instinctively know how to, something else, stronger, sadistic even, is in charge. There's no hemlock, no drowsy numbness, just fear.

You can't move forwards or backwards, all you can do is spin out of control on an ‘oh so inappropriately’ titled merry-go-round. You can't get off and even though your eyes are full of grit the world flirts mischievously with everyone else, laughing and loving and spreading it's almighty colourful wings as if there is going to be a today, a tomorrow and a forever.

I've been winded with the news that mamo margot's little baby is far from well. At a time when my son and his beautiful fiancée’s lives should be filled with so much promise they are at the side of the road, reaching out and trying to grasp hold of a tiny fragment of hope that will allow us to crawl back through the window.

It's proving to be elusive but somehow we need to try and keep breathing, no matter the weight crushing our lungs, their lovely, lovely lungs. We need to rise from our perpetual present and find a way towards today and tomorrow.

Isn't that how it's meant to be?

unreliable and strong

Like 2.5 million others in the UK I spent the last 12 weeks watching the American import Homeland on Channel 4. It was incredibly gripping, even when the narrative was implausible.

But hey, it's telly, it's made up. The writer has the freedom to tell the story how they see it and that's what makes it so darn strong.

What really stands out in this powerful drama is the use of two unreliable and uniquely challenging narrators. Carrie and Brody within their own spectrum have deep issues and we are always on the edge of curiosity,  never fully trusting the point of view of either to be exactly as it might seem. Bold and exciting it works really well on television and it's given me some comfort in two characters of my own.

I've just begun writing a new novel, although the thinking process has been going on for some months with my two protagonists, a brother and sister, driving the shape of the story with strong, often loud and frequently opinionated voices. Each though also possesses a soft and vulnerable side, a kind voice that emancipates them from the darker, troubled elements of who they are.

In different ways they are threatening to take me in directions I hadn't originally planned for them. It's incredibly exciting, I love them both for suggesting the way ahead and rejoice that they are strong enough already to think that it is they that can dictate the proceedings.

At the moment we're stepping off a jagged cliff face and hoping that the wind will carry us. Today I believe that we can fly.