Issuu

Barry Smith, Bernadette Carroll, Claire Berrigan, Karen Power, Mahasty, Paula/Bella, Sean Ross, Vere

The stories that want to be told A creative partnership between

Dubl i n North, North East Recovery Col l ege, Si l ver Thread and Loui se Whi te

Vere, Karen, Barry, Claire, Bernadette, Sean, Mahasty, Paula

The stories that want to be told A creative partnership

Dubl i n North, North East Recovery Col l ege, Si l ver Thread and Loui se Whi te

CONTENTS

1 the master (Bernadette Carroll) 4 dancing on stilts... in the usual manner (Vere) 8 this day (Karen Power)

10 the genie's lamp (Barry Smith) 12 my soul (Claire Berrigan) and god's understanding (Claire Berrigan) 15 ardonia (Sean) 17 mam i need to talk to you (Paula/Bella) 19 dandelion/Ey Ghasedak (Mahasty Eslahy)

STAGING STORIES

HOW WE CAME TO WRITE AND STAGE STORIES Louise's story: I first became aware of the great work at the Recovery College when I attended ‘Journeys - What I Know Now’; a morning of transcultural events, understanding, and integration of wellbeing. As part of the programme there were readings from a publication of selected stories and poems written by students of college and facilitated by Silver Thread. I was immediately drawn to the richness and authenticity in these stories. I was very interested to see if there was an opportunity to incorporate drama and performance into a project like this. I approached Cathy and John, both were very open to seeing what we could achieve. It has been a fantastic experience to be immersed in the creativity of so many generous and skilled artists over our eight sessions. I am very proud of what they have all achieved.

STAGING STORIES

Cathy's story: Silver Thread's partnership with the Recovery College in 2019 saw the publication of "What I Know Now". We were delighted to work again with some of the authors, and to meet new students in this creative adventure with Louise and the Recovery College. In challenging circumstances, we met for 8 sessions on Zoom to see new stories come to life, on paper and through voice. Voice was our starting point and our goal; we were mindful of voice in the written text, of the spoken voice in performance, and most of all of giving voice to stories that are sometimes not heard. This is also where the title of this collection comes from: the song that wants to be sung, the stories that need to be told. We are privileged to hear them today, thanks to the talented writers from the Recovery College. John's story: Over the past five years, since our Recovery College began running courses creativity has provided a rich catalyst for transformative expression and meaningful connections where imaginations flourish and friendships blossom. In creative mode, healing happens and identities shift as we take to the opportunity to attend to old wounds, give testimony or free ourselves up to simply play. I am so delighted for the recovery college students involved here to have here taken this opportunity to craft and stage their wonderful stories during a year that to put it mildly has tested the creative resolve, you are all an inspiration. Huge thanks to our fantastic collaborative partners and facilitators Cathy and Moira from Sliver Thread and Louise White, gratitude here for your vision that made this process a reality and for carrying the stories contained here in this book, through to fruition. Wherever will our creative endeavours go next?

THE AUTHORS

BARRY SMITH

Baz 21 and forever young, I love art, books, affirmations, music, sport, animals, cars, movies, all things holistic health, the Secret. If you can dream it you can do it.

BERNADETTE CARROLL

I am a retired nurse from Co Louth. I am married with 3 sons and a daughter and I have 5 granddaughters. I have just discovered the joy of writing for pleasure.

CLAIRE BERRIGAN

An autist with a love for fashion and a good story. There's nothing like a good book.

KAREN POWER

Karen lives in Portmarnock with her husband Paul their two sons Matthew and Luke and much loved dog Rosie. She has worked with the elderly for many years and most recently as an Activity Coordinator in a Nursing Home. This is her first piece of writing.

MAHASTY ESLAHY

Mahasty loves to express herself with a very flexible tool which is called art. Poetry has been the very first entity for her, voicing herself. So via poetry she got the access to other artistic worlds, like painting, theatre, and short stories. Simply poetry is her presence. She thinks without poetry her life would not have meaning and her mental health well being can be improved by each single line of her expression ending to a ‘poem’.

PAULA/BELLA

My name is Bella, I am one of many personalities that share the body of our host, Paula. We are part of her and together have survived mental health and trauma. I bring art and creativity to our unity and recently I have found writing as a healthy expression on our journey to recovery. A recovery where our voices become one.

SEAN ROSS

Secondary Teacher-now retired.I live in the Drumlin region of North Meath. Married to Yvonne with four children. I have a great interest in literature, Gaelic football and Hurling.

VERE

Until he was thirteen, Vere lived in Ceylon (now called Sri Lanka) where his father was a tea planter. For the past 50 years, he has lived at Anaverna, his family home in Ravensdale, County Louth.

THE MASTER BERNADETTE CARROLL

I was the sixth of seven children. We lived over three miles from the school, but there were no school buses in the early 60s. I thought I would never get to school, but every time I asked my mother, the answer was always the same: “What hurry is on you, child? Sure you’d get your death of cold! You will be time enough after Easter when the weather is warmer.” or “Doesn’t your uncle La come and teach your letters and numbers and can’t you write your name? Sure you would not learn any more than that at school.” I had to content myself playing with my baby brother during the day. I looked forward to my older brothers and sisters coming home and watching them doing their homework. Finally, when I was five and a half, I was allowed to go to school.

It was a long walk, so if it was a cold morning the teacher would let us stand near the range; she was very kind and always let us tell her our news. On that first day, my sister sat beside me for a little while and then she went to sit in her own class. I wasn’t afraid. I had been waiting and wishing for this day for a long time. The teacher had four classes to teach: Babies, Seniors, First, and Second. Their was not much pressure on the infants and we were often told to put our heads down and "Teigh a choladh." We had a bosca with marla, seashells, lollipop sticks, and empty spools from thread; these kept us busy constructing models. We had blackboards and chalk - white chalk - coloured chalk was a luxury reserved for the teacher. At lunchtime we ate our lunch outside. Homemade brown bread and jam was the standard lunch and woe betide anyone who put their lunch in the bin. The teacher would retrieve it and hold it up: "Ce leis e sin lovely mammys brown bread and jam." The culprit would have to own up. After we had our lunch, we played games, the boys on one side of the school and the girls on the other side . The big girls organised the games and we had great fun. After lunch, we were given our blackboards and told to draw a picture. I decided to draw a map of Ireland, thinking that was what would be expected from a big girl who was at school. I’m not too sure how good it was, but the teacher was impressed. Now it happens that the Master came into the classroom just then, the teacher showed him my map and he thought it was wonderful. He took me up to show the fifth and sixth classes. And so I became a favourite with the Master. I didn’t realise at the time how lucky I was. The master was a very cruel man who picked on some children and loved to humiliate them in front of the class. 2

“An bhfuil cead agam dul amach?” “Brid ni Mhaitiu, take your sister to the bathroom!”

“Why is that boy standing in the hall? Hello!” “SHHH!! You will get him in trouble!” hissed Brid. Too late! the master appeared. “Cuineas!”, he roared, “who are you talking to? Carroll! I didn’t send you out here to socialise! Turn round and face the wall!” And so I learned that you never speak to someone who’s standing in the hall. Of course you could always smile or wink - the master couldn’t see that.

DANCING ON STILTS... IN THE USUAL MANNER! VERE

As a child I lived in Ceylon, now called Sri Lanka, where my father was a tea planter. Adam’s Peak, Ceylon’s most dramatic mountain was perfectly aligned to the front of our bungalow. Behind there was a high ridge, the upper slopes of which were almost sheer and covered with impenetrable jungle. In front the ground sloped steeply away so that it was not possible to see the tea factory or below that the river and the great waterfall. On the other side of the valley we could see another spectacular waterfall, several tea factories, a mountain named after the Duke of Wellington’s nose and then Adam’s Peak. To the left the valley stretched up to a high plateau beyond which was World’s End. Perhaps the world didn’t end there but the Up Country did with a 3000 foot sheer drop to the Low Country.

To the right the view down the valley was blocked by the Rock, a huge mass whose mixture of bare stone and jungle made to look like a crouching dog. Metal spikes set in the rock made it possible to climb and on top there was a mud built temple where a hermit lived. And everywhere, on hills and valleys, mountains and slopes and steep slopes and very steep slopes was tea. Only the tops of the mountains and the most inaccessible places were unplanted. In those days the bushes were pruned so that there was no visible gap between them and the Tamil women who plucked the tea every eight days had to force themselves through the waist high branches. There were neatly cut paths, zig zagging up the steeper slopes. And down the centre of each path was a shiny track polished smooth by the bare feet of innumerable coolies. On the nursery side of the bungalow there was a lawn of blue grass and hibiscus bushes whose flowers provided food for a mouse deer, a small animal that hid in a rabbit hutch and wouldn’t come out in the light. Under the windows there were sisal bushes whose fleshy spiky leaves made brilliant swords - if you didn’t mind being drenched with masses of sticky sap. And beside them, incongruously, geraniums, an example of County Kilkenny in the Orient that my mother subconsciously strove to create. There were guavas, loquats, tangerines, grapefruit, pomelos, mulberries and a banana tree. Strangely I never saw an apple growing in Ceylon, the Garden of Eden – which casts some doubt on the veracity of the Bible and the Doctrine of Original Sin.

I kept a diary when I was eight - not for long - but it has given me the title of this memoir. Snake charmers had come to the bungalow. I had drawn the snakes in their baskets, swaying in time to the music and occasionally striking at their captors. The musical instruments were made out of gourds and bamboo, their joints sealed with black beeswax. In my diary I had done my best but I must have seen it all before as my entry continues – and then they danced on stilts…. in the usual manner.

I have a forked tongue to this day. I ran from my mother’s side, tripped and fell on the mahogany deck. There was lots of blood but the ship’s doctor must have seen much worse and didn’t bother with a stitch. I can then remember making a fuss when given scrambled eggs for supper. My tongue didn’t hurt, but the fourteen people with whom we shared a cabin intended for two were not showing the appropriate amount of interest. We were in the Empress of Scotland, a huge liner full of wounded and exhausted soldiers some months before the end of the war. I must have recovered quickly as my sister would say to the troops who offered her lemonade, “I don’t drink, but my brother does”. I was not yet three.

Thai Pongol, the Hindu harvest thanksgiving took place over four days of incessant beating of tom-toms. Pitchi, one of the house boys, took me to the blessing of the cows. I was surprised and offended when he took my hand. I didn’t need looking after even if it was dark. I was about to withdraw my hand when I membered that I wanted to take part in the ceremony so now wasn’t the time to stand on my dignity. Once in the cowshed normality was restored. I was a god. The cow was also a god. We both had bright red eyes painted on our foreheads with kumkum powder. The rice boiled over. Everyone shouted Pongol and offered ceremonial food to the gods. Both refused. I had already had supper and the cow couldn’t deal with the burning joss sticks sticking out of a banana. We were given huge garlands made from pink crepe paper. The paper made a noise which set my teeth on edge so my garland was replaced with one made of temple flowers. When I got back to the bungalow my sister said: "You’ve missed a whole chapter of Swallows and Amazons."

THIS DAY KAREN POWER

You mean so much to me, you know… It’s difficult without you though. I prop myself up, put on a brave face, brush the hair, throw on the lipstick, have a cup of tea, alone, wondering will you ever ....ever come home. I miss our cups of tea, you know, our chats about everything and anything. You love that garden, your little pots of herbs and flowers. “Look at the sky, Karen, look! It’s so so blue! I love the blue , and i really don't know why.” It’s beautiful out there now, warm and bright, and people are not as afraid of me when I pass by. Earlier in the year there was such… such great fear. It’s been a long time without seeing you …damn this pandemic...so very long, achingly long. Where have you gone? Your strong wide neck, your shoulders able to carry almost anything, emotionally and physically. I miss you and I love you.

I'm looking for a quiet place, a place of refuge and calm, far away, far away. When i look back, I look back and remember different times, how things used to be. We didn’t have any fear then, just to hold each other’s hand. I would reach out my open hand across the table and you would always take it. How great a thing that was. In some ways it was passing the heaviness i was holding in my mind and on my shoulders over to you and both of us were carrying it then. The reds are blooming, Paul, followed by the oranges, then blues, and lots and lots of lovely shades of green appearing. We waited expectantly for spring to arrive each year...the happiness it brought us...sounds of birds’ breaths, beating little hearts. What greatness in all of that. I wonder where these little ones are flying to...maybe to the seafront to look for food. I’'ll go too, my strong self says, and Rosie will come along. We will see many kind things there, happier hopeful faces...thank god for that! I'm wondering how am i able to understand the depth and breath of it all now that I may lose you, Paul...two happy hearts attached here...doesn't matter if I never ever see you again, two precious hearts attached and not even death can take this away. The exquisite beauty meets me by the sea; the blue expanse, big and bright and bold and shouts out loud...its gonna be better. I am happy to be here for such a time as this... this moment in time. All that’s great.. all that's grand and all that's good is in the sacredness of this day.

THE GENIE'S LAMP BARRY SMITH

Abundance prosperity luck

health happiness

friendships

love enchanting delightful

exciting

joyful 10

fun

ecstatic

empowerment

momentum a feel-good factor sweets

coca cola

sunshine

beaches dolphins

sailboats

picnics

rainbows

ice-creams

sunflowers

butterflies

holidays

Aeroplanes

BBQs cruises

concerts

festivals

weddings

discos hugs

love

kindness

caring

sharing

smiles

laughter

hope. 11

MY SOUL CLAIRE BERRIGAN

Do you love me? My soul is thirsty I can't help the way I am Dolled up for the jam I need your holy touch Holy spirit you're my crutch Men and women merge I'm feeling like I'm on the verge Of a sexuality breakthrough But does that mean I'm leaving you? I need a sign A few feathers Water into wine

I'm on the edge of a bi-line Roses and petals Moist This is no lifestyle My attraction is not a choice Please, where do you stand? Where is your voice? I need you now

GOD'S UNDERSTANDING CLAIRE BERRIGAN

I'm here I hear you You are not alone You are loved Deserving of love I have never not been here for you My spirit understands It wants you to be happy Fulfilled and uplifted Go your own way I created you in my image Therefore I love who you are You believe in me That is what matters after all

ARDONIA SEAN ROSS

Way back in the early 60s in the wonderful town of Ardonia, we loved our evening soccer match after tea, and before homework was done. One match stays in my imagination because of its humour and perhaps an opening out into the wider world. On the evening of June 3rd, 1963, we started the match around 6 o’clock; it was refereed by John O’Brien, a former Dundalk FC player. All of our matches were wonderful, and each of us had a nickname. Mine was Scaldee after a young bird. At half time, I ran into my house for the toilet. My mother, who was very religious, told me that Pope John XXIII had died. I ran back to tell John, the referee and he called all the boys together in the centre of the pitch. I asked that we stop the match out of respect for John XXIII. However John told us all that Pope John XXIII loved soccer, so we should play the second half to honour him. I still laugh to myself at the way the referee handled the whole incident.

These matches gave us all a chance to come together each evening, that was good for the unity of the clan. Summer time was fantastic, life was on the crest of a wave. We had carnivals each year with Country music from the best artists from all parts of Ireland. This in a sense was like a Spanish fiesta. In a working class housing estate, there is companionship, humour and solidarity. Everyone is the same, and there appears to be little class differences. In mine, families spoke to one another, the Mass and the Sacraments had a binding effect on all the people, and holidays were few and far between, but laughter and song were part of life, men whistled through their work, and the youth got ready for the local dance. The pitch we played on was similar to an altar. The poet Seamus Heaney speaks in the poem "The Forge" about an anvil which he describes as an altar, and Patrick Kavanagh once said “to your high altar I came once proudly even brazenly and said – open you tabernacles, I too am flame, ablaze on the hills of Being.” When we played football, we were “ablaze on the Hills of Being.” Maybe it is nostalgia, but my feeling now is that life was unified and happy. When we walked to Ardonia town, we were proud of our estate – Sliabh Breagh. There was privacy for people, employment was close by, and six o’clock each evening meant the end of the working day. I think that these are sacred places, places where memories were made. For the rest of your life, you hold on to these places, and the stories come into your soul. Thank God for all life and for the fact that we got a chance to live our lives. Dia go deo libh go lèir.

MAM I NEED TO TALK TO YOU BELLA/PAULA

Hello, hello, Hi mam its me, is this a good time to call ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yes mam, its Paula ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I was just wondering if ... ... ... ... ... if I could talk to you, I was hoping ... ... ... ... ... ... ... well hoping I could get some advice. I've not been feeling so good lately and ive been ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... oh Mary from number 36? ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... . i'm sorry to hear that, sure we are all getting old ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yes, no, oh dear ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I'm sorry your corns are playing up ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... no I'm not being sarcastic mam, I know its uncomfortable, mam can I ask you ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yes that lady was rude ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yeah ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Yeah sure put me on hold if you need ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... . 17

.. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Ah you're back ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yeah I heard that, look mam, I was really hoping I could talk to you about something I'm really ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Yeah I know, typical Mrs O' Brian. But mam, do you remember that time I came home with those bruises and I said ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I'm sorry I was always so moody, it was hard, I didn’t know how to talk to you about it ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... no, no I know I was moody but... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Yes I know you did your best ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I know you had so many others and the church, of course the church the bloody church ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I'm sorry I shouldn’t have said that ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Look mam I just wanted to tell you about that day ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... mam I need help I just need to talk ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... I'm sorry the dinner needs to be put on, sure Joe needs his dinner, sure sure ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... no time I'm sorry mam ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yeah, I guess he has problems too ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ok mam, yeah you need to go... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... you will pray for me... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yeah thanks... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .great talking to you too... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

DANDELION/ EY GHASEDAK MAHASTY EHLASY Mahasty moved to Ireland seventeen years ago and her native language is Farsi. At some stage she was all lost seeing herself in a dead end road, as migration is a challenging world, specially learning and understanding the new language. To her poem is the way you see the world through your language. In fact language is your thought, your feeling, your emotions, your belief, and your goals. She had lost everything, which means she had lost herself. But eventually with all her efforts she saw another Mahasty, another poet. Now these two poets are so interconnected, so interrelated, so interwoven that they cannot being separated which is a reconciliation to one another.These two Mahasty without each other will be mislaid. She is willing to write about mental illness and poetry. She sees poetry land as reflection and meditation. She believes poetry land can be speculated and contemplated to mental health well being.

No I am not allowing you to let you down no I am not enabling you to make you sad no I am not empowering you to feel bad no I am not giving consent to you to think that you are not good enough, or you are not competent and don't know ins and outs!

One two three touching this beautiful dandelion ‘yek do seh lams kardane in ghasedake ziba’ I call her a she, as she is just blooming I know she is so delicate and fragile but she really tries hard to not break and getting hurt she seeks for a terra firma to grow and grow she is so strong sticking to her root to rise and rise ‘oon kheili ghaviye O be risheash chasbide O dare mire balatar O balatar’ dandelion knows if only she listens to her inner voice understanding herself is happening softly and gently then there wont be confusion and anger then there wont be frustration and disappointment she screamed once; ah that’s the hardest thing ever looking after yourself on your own and all alone! Hey beautiful dandelion I want to practice a spirited scenario with you and myself all about you and I ‘ey ghasedake ziba mikham ye matne sarzende O zibaro ba ham tamrin konim hame chiz darbare man O to’ seeing you budding, seeing I flourishing hearing you echoing, hearing I vocalizing smelling your unique scent, sensing my genuine I cuddling myself with all your authentic love dandelion! Ey Ghasedak Ey Yar!

The texts were written and performed by Barry Smith, Bernadette Carroll, Claire Berrigan, Karen Power, Mahasty Eslahy, Paula/Bella, Sean and Vere for a creative project in 2021, a partnership between Dublin North, North East Recovery College, Silver Thread, and Louise White performance. Airgeadas ó an Chomhairle Ealaíon