Reasons To Be Cheerful

Snowdrops and daffodils. Glastonbury. Laughter. Peace. Confetti roasting in the summer sun. Happiness, that will soon be overcome. A steaming hot cup of coffee first thing in the morning wakes the senses for what lies ahead. The hum of a jet engine overhead brings up memories of good times. The beginning of the weekend. Reminders of you. A full house in Croker on a sunny, Sunday afternoon, or even a wet one for that matter. Hill 16, full of blue. The ground beneath her feet. The Burren. Friendship. A kind thought. A smile. Eyes meeting across a crowded room. The first kiss. The North Bank explodes, into joy. Thierry Henry. Ian Wright. The last kiss. The ecstasy that erupts inside me when Arsenal scores a goal. Letting go. Punching the air. Slipping into bliss. Sweet dreams are made of this. A day off. Some valuable space to step back, and breathe. Dalymount on a Friday night. Bohemians giving the fuckin’ Rovers one hell of a fright. Routine showed the door, even for a little while. A sunflower bursting into bloom. A quiet walk in Phoenix Park on a November afternoon. The welcoming tiredness that comes with a job well done. The exact moment when work ends. A good song playing on the radio. A warm hug from someone you love. The times we get to play. The moment of doubt before the game begins. Standing still to Arann na Bhfiann before the battle kicks in. Falling into love. Falling out, only to fall back in again. The lessons learned, only to be forgotten so soon. The moment when the tears end, and life opens itself back up to the sun.

The absolute clarity that only exists in the midst of chaos. A candle flickering on a mantlepiece. A roaring fire on a cold winter’s night. A great film. Memories that make the bad times disappear. The places and people where and when you can be yourself. Feet up. Tools down. Brandon Flowers. Joe Brolly. The rebel within. I’ve learned to follow my heart. I wish I’d known sooner, the things I know now, but that’s growing up for you. It takes time. The moments of doubt, thoughts peddling as if their lives depended on it. They often deny what’s obvious. No time to give up, to give in, before it starts again. These questions I could do without. I look for solace within. The little pointers I picked up along the way from people I decided were worth listening to. My father. My mother. Doctor Brady, my university professor. They spoke a lot of sense. Suzanne whose creative writing class I was in. With wisdom untamed. Pure of spirit. Kind. Honest. The message was delivered in a considerate and clever way, one of my father’s great skills. The joy is always there, even when it’s submerged by the monotony of the everyday. I’ve learned to stay in the moment more, not to think too far ahead, and if I do to focus on the things I’m looking forward to. Take next weekend for instance. Spending precious time with Samuel. Galway versus Bohemians. Ireland against Scotland. Arsenal taking on Manchester City. Sport is one of my main escape mechanisms. When I’m watching it I go to a different place, a place filled with a different fear, one that’s even more real. For a couple of hours, I can forget the outside world and let it out. I am silent here, watching something I have no control over, apart from the little superstitions I hold so dear. Touching wood when Arsenal concede a corner. Surprisingly, it often works more than it fails.

Reasons to be cheerful include sport, music, people, a trip into Dublin town, hanging around the bookshops, and watching the fashionistas walking up and down. People doing their thing, being who they were always meant to be, stepping outside the iron-clad boundaries set by society. Hippie. Individual. Gay. Straight. Mod. Rocker. Goth. Metal Head. A man wearing a suit. The Skin Head blues talking to a different set of rules. The memories with a twisted sense of self, vying with the present for the upper hand. I stand and wait for it all to go down. The revolution that is coming. I sit in Simon’s coffee shop staring at an empty plate, another one of the best chicken sandwiches in Dublin town gone the way of so many others. I know now that happiness lies in the simple everyday things. The moments that can change a day from bad to good in an instant. The moments when an awkward chill is replaced by a warm feeling in the gut. Those easy moments when I slip into mystery. So ordinary I just know it has to be good. No hesitation, I don’t even question it. I just let it submerge me. A simple wisdom, free of judgment and education. Pure in its conception and intention. It asks for nothing except to be heard.

I lie back and let the world in when I begin to write. A walk by the sea. Watching Great Songwriters on TV. Paul Heaton. Noel Gallagher. Mike Scott. Johnny Marr explaining the creative process, without giving it all away. The mystery, not knowing where it comes from is where the good times lie. They describe it as flow. That’s why I write. Because it brings me to a place I’ve never seen. A place where I can see things in a new light. I’ve always admired Bono because he comes at things from a different direction. Upside down or inside out. That kind of quality allows illumination, imagination, and experimentation. It casts off the cobwebs of judgment. It allows us to be free, and when we are free anything can happen. Often it is money that holds us in its icy grip. Paying the mortgage, and paying the bills forces us down roads we’d race on by if we had the choice. I tried to get out once, but I wasn’t ready and wasn’t able to break the mould. It holds me still, but I am better at managing it now. There are times when I separate from my creative self, adrift of what’s essential. It’s what I wish for, the time to be with my spirit. The part I have protected from the education system, I kept it hidden away until it was ready to show itself. That’s when I’m at my most cheerful, and that’s a reason to be cheerful in itself. The assurance that possibility always exists. It’s a constant in the background. Poking at me. An uneasy presence challenging me to give it the time it deserves. I’d be lost without it. There would be nothing to hold onto, but the eternal coldness of life itself.

As I pick up the pen the flicker becomes a vibrant flame. Wild and untamed I walk through The Burren of my mind, I spot the exotic flowers hidden in the dark and shaded grikes, the magnificence that thrives in such an inhospitable place. All kinds of everything, they remind me of me.