Madge Mahoney's Morning Musings

Although it was Sunday, Madge still got up at 6am. She didn’t need to, had no particular reason to get up but there was something about routine and ritual that, after many years of resistance, Madge was now very settled with. It was helpful for a body to know what was coming. As much as a body ever could of course. There was a hopeful possibility of sun because the sky wasn’t fully cloaked in clouds and the early chirping suggested that the birds too were hopeful. It might actually be sunny today. A lone pigeon sitting in the tree looked less hopeful but perhaps that was just the way of pigeons. They don’t exude hope thought Madge. What does hope look like in a bird though? Another random thought. That was the spaciousness of Sundays. Time to think about birds and whether they had hopes. Madge supposed that at the very least, all birds hoped to survive. Was that hope though or just instinct? Too early. Way too early to think about bird aspirations.

She turned instead to a reflection of the week that had just passed. Somehow, very gently and unexpectedly, she had spent time with people who brought great joy to her life but who she didn’t see often enough. It had been deeply nourishing to be around the babies, to hear tales of transformation and triumph and last night, to see a friend, even briefly, who had become so much a part of her life. Her friend’s mother had recently died and Madge had seen the struggles of the past years. She had witnessed her friend navigate the waters of a new and unexpected landscape and arrive at a shore of independence. She now stood in her own immense magnificence and Madge hoped that in time, the awareness of how much she was loved and respected would permeate. Not everyone knows how much they are loved thought Madge. This was something she felt very strongly that people needed to know. That they are loved.

It had long been Madge’s way of life to promote that sense of being loved and being lovable. There had been too many ways, in her opinion, in which peopled had been made to feel unlovable, unwanted, un-included. Was that a word? Should it be excluded? No, that felt too deliberate. Un-included was worse in some ways. It suggested not even being thought of and this too could leave people feel less than their worth. Why did it matter?

It mattered, thought Madge, because if we don’t feel included and involved, then we cannot so easily commit to our communities. Whatever those communities are. Her mind wandered back to the previous day when she and her beloved had made the most of the Saturday space and gone for a lovely brunch up the road. They had passed a group of young women, perhaps in their late teens, all dressed as if they were on their way for a night out. Or perhaps coming back from a night out.

Either way, what struck Madge was how unhappy they all looked. They looked cold – unsurprising given the skimpiness of the semi-frocks and mini shorts but that was quite usual for young people when observed through older eyes. Everyone looked cold to Madge if they weren’t wearing a proper coat and she’d accepted this was her projection. These young ones just looked so unhappy. As if they had been made to wear the requisite wardrobe and walk the walk in the ill fitting shoes but without any joy. Along the way, they had taken the obligatory selfie with pouted lips and two-finger peace sign but no-where was there a real smile. Just a social media moment for the ‘gram and on they went, shivering and barely speaking. Very, very sad. Sad to not realise how gorgeous youth makes us without the need for all the conformity and control. She sighed and hoped they’d grow out of it. She was certainly glad that she had grown and that she could see the beauty of ageing. It was actually about grace and the young gaggle had a way to go yet.

There was also some way to go until the football came home and along with much of the country she supposed, she had woken with some sense of anticipation. She didn’t want to get over excited and overwhelmed because it really was just football but there was no denying the mood of a nation that had been battered for a while and yet was still hopeful that 90 minutes could transform everything. She hoped so too.

Madge had realised over the months of writing every morning that there was liberation in creating first and consuming second. An empty head for as long as possible was a mighty help to Madge. Now though, the 25 minutes was nearly up, the decaf and broth were both lined up and it wasn’t yet 6.45. The sun too was looking a little stronger and that was good enough for Madge. Gratefully, she sent out huge cosmic hugs, wished the world a hahalala day and congratulated herself once again on her extraordinary good taste. Her friends were all truly fabulous. Oh, and some had also started writing and thinking about putting together their own books. It doesn’t get better than that eh? Big love. xx