Lough Derg Revisited

Ok, now that some of the holy madness has worn off, I must confess (ahem) that I had a few "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here" moments on (in?) St Patrick's Purgatory, the other name for Lough Derg or Station Island. The most hilarious had to be that Friday night, trying to catch up on the mega 'stations' because we arrived on the late boat. My pal and I were out in the rain and the dark and the swarms of carnivorous midges, circling the stony beds in our bare feet. At one point I was down on the lakeshore, kneeling on a block of stone, hunched over a drenched pamphlet trying to read the Creed in the dim light because I didn't know it by heart (yet), rain lashing down, midges eating the face off me and one part of my brain saying "what the @#& am I doing here?" and another part saying "I'm going to finish this if it @#&'n kills me." And even though she was suffering equally behind me, my pal Berry got a fit of giggles at the state of me. I was like one of the tormented souls in purgatory. "I wished I'd had a camera," she told me later. Oh yeah and can you believe purgatory is still part of the Catholic canon? I was sure it had gone the way of limbo, but apparently not. And no one can get out of the place unless someone else intervenes and prays for them. Imagine believing the universe is that badly organised? Children of a lesser god, for sure. Though I happily practise many a religion (love the communal and ritual aspects), I am a firm believer in the Vedic philosophy of the Cosmic Game in which we are all aspects of the Divine engaged in Play, experiencing all the beauty and horror of life ... because we choose to. That said, I'm still planning to revisit Lough Derg next year.

Laudete Sanctam Insulam!

I have done a lot of weird and wonderful things in my day, but St Patrick's Purgatory on the island of Lough Derg definitely ranks up there with the best of them. It was an utterly amazing experience. The fasting, the sleep deprivation, the bare feet and sore knees on ancient stones of penitential beds, the midges, the suffering, the rattle of Rosary beads, the constant circling and praying out loud (I can whizz through the Our Father, Hail Mary & Creed at a mighty rate now), that first cup of tea after a day fasting, that first bite of dried toast, that first spraying of the head with insecticide by a kind fellow pilgrim who knew the ropes, the Taizé chants by candlelight in the Basilica, the golden ciborium of Benediction, the first soft sleep after 38 hours awake - ahhhhhh. And did I mention the Harry Clarke windows? I had only just started to read a book about him last week and there they were before me, a gift from the gods! (See Book Blog.) I nearly fainted with ecstasy, worshipping at the jewelled feet of his exquisite figures. (I have many gods and one of them is Art.) Below, you can see the boat that took us to the island, the penitential beds (remains of mediaeval monastic beehive huts which we circled and knelt in, praying continuously) and the stone blocks down by the lakeshore where we prayed some more, while being eaten alive by midges. (Those lads have been feasting on pilgrims for over a thousand years!) We said decades of the Rosary all through the night, circling the Basilica inside and out. (All that circling is definitely pre-Christian.) And throughout the time there, we went barefoot over grass and pavement and stone. I am still feeling the good effects physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. I'm definitely going back next year!

Lough Derg & Rosary Beads

I've spoken about my upcoming pilgrimage to Lough Derg in my Book Blog, as this is research for my new book as well as something that's been on my Bucket List for years. I'll be heading up to Sligo first, to stop at Finn's Dad's place (http://www.gyreum.com/) where he's going to interview me before I head off on Friday morning. He's doing a documentary on Lough Derg and he wants to interview someone before and after they go. (I'm always game to be filmed.) I've almost finished packing and now I must go collect all my Rosary Beads. I've got gorgeous blue ones that Finn brought me from Spain, glow-in-the-dark green ones for night prayers which I found in the pocket of a Donegal Tweed coat I bought in Oxfam, and another antique pair with aquamarine stones that I think belonged to an old lady friend of my mother's. I'm in favour of a return to the fashion of wearing Rosary Beads as jewellery. Most Roman Catholics would feel insulted if they saw anyone wearing them, but the truth is they were originally worn, particularly in the Middle Ages, around the neck and around the waist. Other religions wear their prayer beads, why can't Catholics?

Thin Lizzy - Dancing in the Moonlight

Ahhhhh, memories of my plukey youth. This man is a beauty (those legs go on forever) and one of the people I had in mind when I described Finvarra. So sad that heroin, a big thing in Dublin, got the better of him.

Saga Dawa

Also known as Wesak or the Buddha's Birthday or Buddha Day. I will be heading off to Jampa Ling to celebrate same this Sunday. Alas after gorgeous sunny days that turned this country into a Happy Place despite the recession, the weather forecast is for rain. This may prevent an outdoor fire puja, but hopefully not. As usual at Jampa Ling - a fine big country house in Co. Cavan - we have puja and prayers presided over by our dear Venerable Panchen Otrul Rinpoche whose own birthday we celebrated two weeks ago in a big marquee (here's a pic from that day.) After puja we have a communal feast to which everyone brings food and then we have an Irish hooley where people sing, dance, tell stories or recite poems. At the Rinpoche's birthday party there were trad musicians including the great Tommy Hayes, bodhran player with Stockton's Wing. In a dream come true for me, I danced a reel to his drumming as well as the fine music of a fiddle player. Heaven. Or should I say, Nirvana. For more info on Jampa Ling see www.jampaling.org.

Disband the 'Christian' Brothers

Ireland is still reeling from last week's publication of the Ryan Commission which details the horrific and endemic physical and sexual abuse of children in religious- and state-run schools right up to the 70s. The truth is everyone here knew what was going on - at least about the physical abuse - but because these children came from the lower classes and also because the Catholic Church ruled mind and body, no objections were made. Truth, also, is that both church and state were making money out of the slave labour of the children so it was a profitable form of abuse. (The perfidy of humanity shatters the soul.) Of all the guilty religious orders, the most perfidious is the so-called Christian Brothers. Canadians will remember that the first class actions brought against them by their victims took place in Newfoundland. I remember the Christian Brothers in charge of the boys at our school in Toronto. We knew to avoid them. We knew they were violent men. One broke a lad's arm and when that lad's father came in and beat up the brother, we were all delighted. In the military, when a unit is so thoroughly corrupted and dishonoured, it is disbanded. There is no question but that this should be the fate of the 'Christian' Brothers and let their lands and resources be distributed amongst their victims.

Enjoying Sundays

The blog I entered yesterday kept half-deleting itself, I think because of the youtube posting below it, so I'll rewrite it here:
One of the problems with being self-employed, along with the constant financial insecurity, is that there are no boundaries between boss and worker, and the former is usually a slave driver. Sure I can go off on adventures whenever I feel like it and my time's my own, but it has taken me years to wrest basic rights from myself like a one-hour lunch break and a 6-day work week. (What? There are 5-day work weeks?!) Sunday is my day off, yet there I was thinking of writing - I'm in love with my new book - but I caught myself in time. Instead I went for dinner with a friend and then we headed off to see STAR TREK. It was FABULOUS. I laughed out loud at so many parts. The young Spock, the young Uhuru and the young Scotty were my favourites.