New wooden decorations from a company recommended to my by a zero waste fan. I want almost everything on MindfulandMaking.
Finishing library books and remembering how much I loved my twice weekly visits to the same library when I was a child.
An advent calendar stashed away for opening on 1 December.
Plans for every weekend from next week until Christmas. Plans in general make me feel better, as I realised in yesterday’s post.
Finding that tomorrow really is another day, and being very thankful that things have picked up somewhat since Thursday.
When I was younger, I don’t think I ever had a real plan. I had vague ambitions about getting into a certain university to do a certain course of study. Beyond that, I didn’t have a plan. I never planned my career and I ambled and drifter after graduation. Fear meant I stayed in jobs and work situations that weren’t ideal or that deep down I knew weren’t really what I wanted to do.
But I didn’t know what I wanted to do!
I thought my current job was my plan, but it isn’t. It happens to suit me for various reasons and in terms of efficiency its a pretty good way to use my main skill set to earn money in a secure sector. I realised this week I don’t love it. Sometimes, I don’t even like it.
I don’t want to quit on a bad day and, quite frankly, I don’t have the courage to quit without having some sort of plan. So I need a plan! For once in my life I want to have a plan that I know is the route for me and that isn’t mainly centred on the fact that I am afraid of what will happen if I don’t take this safe path.
I’m going to use my time to figure out what I should do. I’m going to try to use my time more efficiently (like not obsessively checking twitter to see what fresh hell Trump is creating) and try to get familiar with myself again.
There’s a lot not to like about Scarlett O’Hara but this phrase isn’t one of those things.
I’ve been having a week full to the brim of irritatingness, small and large.
I’m not in work tomorrow, for which I am truly thankful.
I have nowhere I have to be over the weekend and last weekend I did a tremendous cleaning job on my kitchen in preparation for Christmas baking.
Tomorrow is another day, and the one after that, and the one after that.
A week off work without anything urgent to do or places to go.
Sunshine in autumn and all the colours I love.
Opinion polls showing people are compassionate when they have the facts.
Halloween being over. It isn’t my favourite time of year, but I make the effort.
Following the above, cracking open my well loved Christmas CDs in the car.
It is five years since the death of Savita.
It is five years since I woke up to the reality of what the eighth amendment has done.
It is five years since me and my husband went on our very first march together.
Thousands of people have travelled since then for medical care abroad.
I look back at ‘the before’ and I wonder why I was asleep for so long. I was not a socially conscious college student. I had never protested anything in an active way. I was privileged, and while I knew I was privileged I didn’t appreciate or understand that privilege.
I’ve never had a slowly growing fear inside me because my period was late. I’ve never had to get information on medical services from the back of a toilet door. I’ve never had to send a message to a person I don’t know and hope against hope that he or she would turn up with pills that could land me in prison for 14 years.
I could have done more. A lot more. But I didn’t, and I am deeply ashamed of that. I am deeply ashamed of the antichoice views I held, and the fact I held them without really analysing why. I could have marched, and donated time and money, and been more invested in a movement I feel I’ve piggybacked onto.
I repeat ‘Better Late Than Never’ and I try to do more and to do better. I mourn Savita, a woman who died because of our laws. I mourn for the thousands we’ve forced abroad. I mourn for the people who are right now hoping against hope that the pills will turn up because otherwise they are out of options.
My mourning broke five years ago, when it slowly dawned on me what we had done, and putting the pieces back together has done me a world of good. Never again will I be so blind.
Finishing the work week without quitting my job in frustration. It was THAT sort of a week,
Finding new uses for old things.
Planning my Christmas baking.
Kettlebells and a tough spin class, and reminding myself how far I’ve come.
Designated Survivor on Netflix. Ludicrous plotlines, hammy scripts and a nice distraction from the current occupant of the White House.
This week the Oireachtas committee examining the eighth amendment, which all but bans abortion in Ireland and affects the medical care of every single pregnant person heard from Dr. Peter Boylan. I strongly suspect that if we hadn’t heard of one women who many people wish we hadn’t heard of this committee and debate wouldn’t be taking place.
Savita Halappanava died because of our law, and this inconvenient truth was laid bare this week not once but twice. It was baldly stated by Dr. Boylan and Prof Sir Sabaratnam Arulkumara that the eighth amendment was the reason she died. Dr. Boylan went on to restate, in plain terms, that the eighth amendment killed her in a radio interview the day after what it suits some people to paint as a fractious meeting.
We know the eighth amendment killed her. Medical professionals told us this, yet three of our parliamentary members chose to vote to keep a law which kills in place. They would rather keep this law, knowing I, or you, or anyone else could be the next one it kills. Apparently, they also describe themselves as prolife.
I am prolife. I am prochoice. I am all the shades of grey in between. I don’t want you to die because you’re pregnant. I don’t want you forced to have an abortion because of pressure from a partner or anyone else. I don’t want you to feel you’ve no options but abortion.
I remember the day we first heard the name which, five years on, still brings tears to my eyes. I wish I didn’t know her name. I wish she was enjoying her time with her child and her husband and was as anonymous as she wanted to be.
I can’t help but feeling that knowing her name made her much more difficult to ignore. She wasn’t an X, Y, A, B, C or D. She was Savita, and I think of her almost every day, and I wish I didn’t know her name.