There are certain periods of the year when it feels as if there is a bit more space in our lives and in our brains. You can have a bit of a think: consider where you are in life and what, if any, changes you might want to make, minor or drastic. You may conclude that things are pretty much where you want them to be, and because you have this extra head space, you have the time to appreciate it. It’s like a seasonal form of mindfulness, but without having to do a course or buy a self-help book.
But it’s not this season. Thinking is more a summer pastime. Now it’s just one continuous, mindless “Go”.
Some people contend that autumn is more like the new year. A new start. Back to work and school and college. But it can also be a shocking reminder of how much activity you were stuffing into each minute before the holidays started.
For instance: Daughter Number Four has a few extracurriculars. She has swimming, which is supposed to be on a Friday, but because her usual swimming pool is broken, we have to schlep out to the National Aquatic Centre on Saturdays and Sundays. After the Saturday session, she has to get dried, changed and eat lunch in the car to arrive just in time for the two-hour Jazz Hands classes. (We’re not forcing her to do any of this. She loves it.)
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You’re right: I’ve little to be complaining about. It’s relatively easy to get back into the old/new routine. But because it is this time of the year, there’s also an inordinate amount of planning. Halloween is just over a fortnight away, and for some weeks now there’s been negotiations over, and preparations for, what we are doing for Christmas.
Similar talks about talks are going on in relation to next year’s summer holidays, and after that there will be a big family wedding. This is on top of all the usual work and life stuff, so this time of the year can feel like a blur: what’s next, what’s next. (And yes: most of the mental burden for these kinds of things tends to fall on women.)
It’s still the case that people will ask, as a conversation opener: “Are you busy?” The expectation is that the other person will confirm this is the case, and then list all the things they are up to as if busyness is an intrinsically good thing. The same applies to: “Any plans for the weekend?” You have to be organising a parachute jump or applying the finishing touches to the opera you’re composing. To answer truthfully, to admit that you’ll do the big shop, ferry the kids around to all their activities, tackle a mountain of laundry and then watch some crap on Netflix seems to be regarded as an unacceptable reply; even a form of rudeness.
Ireland – on paper, anyway – has never been so prosperous. Yet so few of us seem to experience that prosperity. Some 12.6 per cent of our population live with the constant risk of poverty – many of them the working poor. But outside of that is a huge swathe in the middle – that archetypal Garda married to a teacher – who notice when the cost of groceries tick upwards; who are perhaps one or two wage slips away from disaster.
And with that comes time poverty. Working to survive leaves little or no room to do anything else, to think about anything else. It’s not totally grim, of course. There’s the odd night out or meet-up with friends – events that can be posted on Instagram. But Instagram accounts rarely depict the long periods of trudge in between: the sitting in traffic jams while minutes of our existence tick away; the unsettling suspicion that our lives are not entirely our own.
