Of Honeysuckle and Holeystone

Writing Down the Weeds flash fiction

September, in Ireland. Mid-Autumn. Sunday brought the equinox, Cónacht Fómhar. The tipping point, and now the nights are longer than the days. The second harvest, gluts of blackberries, apples, and elderberries in the hedgerows, the haws are ripening. Squirrels are busy raiding my hazel tree and the farmers were still at grass, taking the opportunity of a few late, warm, dry days last week. We used those days for beach dinners and playing in the park before bedtime. Wanders along the tow path amongst the native trees. That harvest moon rose huge and golden over the bay and our oak is turning russet. Today was bright and crisp, the fallen leaves crunched underfoot. Tonight, is dark, like a blanket swept in, rain on the windows and the lighthouse standing watch in the distance.  

Here we take a breath, a pause, before the final descent into the darkness of winter. Here we take stock and allow things to end. A conscious act of letting go, of surrender. Do you have what you need to make it through the long dark to come? What is too heavy, too redundant to carry there? Set it down, gather only what you need. For me, I am attempting to gather community in our new home and create rituals, routines that will pull us through the dark. Good, warming foods, having the fireplaces made functional, gathering candles, and finding a bedtime that will make getting up in the dark mornings somewhat bearable. No easy feat as we are night owls, if left to my own rhythm I find starry skies and midnights spent at my desk much preferable to early nights and pink dawns.

Community though, seems easier in this place, on Sunday afternoon friends, acquaintances and complete strangers who happen to be neighbours came together to help my son and I when my car broke down. None of them hesitated, they were just instantly there to help, calm and kind, telling me that that’s how it works in this place. And today, when my son fell sick at school, they sent us home with all we need and is so lacking in this temporary accommodation. This is not what I’m used to, having been so rural and accustomed to a hostile town. Confirmation, again, that we have landed in the right place for us. My boy is on the mend and the car can be fixed, but we are warm and dry, in a walkable community, and I learnt that, at least in this place, I can rely on the kindness of strangers.  

I promised you this piece with the moon last week, but the days got away from me, too much to do in so little time, and my mind is filled with never ending to do lists and horrors beyond comprehension. On this tiny screen, too often in my hand, I chat to an author about her early books set here in Ireland and then almost immediately witness men thrown off a rooftop; I had to stifle my scream. I walk my son to school after seeing dead and bloody children. He runs there, laughing, his life so full of safety and ease. And I dreamt of this for him, when he was in my belly, I dreamt of walking to school and playing on the beach until dusk, I dreamt of a house filled with light and the sound of the sea in every room. But every mother dreams for their child, and for almost a year we have watched those dreams brutally taken. I listen to the waves and watch the Amazon on fire. I play with my son, building his animal worlds and wonder how many will be extinct in his lifetime. I stifle my scream to let my child sleep, but I should not stifle my words here, nor anywhere. We must keep screaming, if only to keep the humanity in us.

There are much better voices on this than mine, here I will offer you balm and beauty but please know that my rage is fuel to the fire of the truth of my sight. We must envision something better; we must dream. But it must be collective and radical, rooted in love and in hope. And we must set to work on it now.

Below you’ll find the honeysuckle fiction, too long overdue, you can find the folklore in my last post, edited now with a little more lore, as I do not have access to all my books for adequate research, too long have they been in boxes, now a month longer than planned (and the house is three months behind the original “non-negotiable” schedule). Give me a few more weeks and I should be in the midst of them again. In the meantime, I will attempt to bring you the next instalment of Ná Scéalta before the month is out and get us back on our moonly schedule in October (with supplementary posts for paid subscribers to make up for the shortfall during this intense upheaval). I make no promises, I have learnt the hard way that I cannot trust my plans right now, but I will make an attempt for you at least.

Today’s flash fiction, free written with the lore in mind, mixes the warding nature of honeysuckle with its romantic associations. It is of witchstones and wild woodbine; holeystone and honeysuckle.