The hidden power of the storm
Fr Jason's Murphy's latest column Let the Busy World Be Hushed looks at a positive aspect of the recent storms.
The light of the candle drew us together around the table, gazing into its dancing flame as the winds of Storm Isha howled through the trees and the houses in neighbouring townlands, dotted on hillsides, lay, too, in darkness. The house breathed a sigh as the incessant white noise of televisions and devices was hushed and the voice of its groanings could be heard above in the eaves, taking its chance to speak in volumes, of its aches and pains, the story of a life sheltering families as the storms of generation upon generation passed by.
The presence of those gone before who stood in the shadows could be felt at our shoulders as our parents told stories of people long past, memories of oil lamps and tilly lamps, as they counted on one hand in the eye of their minds, how many lights there were the length of Belturbet in the days of their youth and recalled how the street lights of Cavan were turned off each night on the strike of twelve, leaving the revellers to oft times get caught making their way home after a dance in the Sports Centre.
On this night in January no sound, no noise, no voice is heard, only that of the kettle whistling on the range as the busy world is hushed albeit for these brief few hours; while in the darkness we speak in whispered tones, the power being outed as the winds of Storm Isha blow on. These are precious hours as a deck of cards is retrieved from the drawer of plenty and a game of Twenty Five is played and teenagers talk and leave aside their phones for fear that the charge would soon run out and they would be left marooned in the day that followed in the sea of chatter on social media.
And I thought of how it once must have been beneath this roof of a January night when people ceilied and gathered in around the light of a tilly lamp or a flickering fame - be it by the fire or next to a candle burning, how as the shadows lengthened each night of winter, the busy world was hushed and the fever of life was silenced.
How it must have been to rest awhile when darkness fell, no burden to leave the fire to train under lights in the freezing cold, to run and race to classes, to go to the gym, always on the go, rushing here, there and everywhere. We wonder why it is our lives fly by - karate, yoga, gymnastics, basketball - never a chance to be by the firelight, to talk or play cards but for the storm that Isha blew by.
How it is that we must wait for a storm to blow and the lights to be quenched so as to quell the noise, the incessant noise that constantly draws us away. ‘Oh that today you would listen to my voice.’
And yet we remember these moments of togetherness more than all the trips we make, all the Pilates classes we attend, we remember most these moments of hush when we sit and laugh and from one topic to the next, we talk.
Only in the nights before had I sat in the midst of a family and savoured their company, as they took leave of a mother and a grandmother in her 94th year. They sat in their number twixt the light of the candles, which adorned her beside, her life ebbing slowly to its close. there around her bed as she lay sleeping, they talked and told stories of times gone by, each in their turn, remembering as her youngest grandson took from its stand his guitar in the shadows of the room and sang songs that reminded her of a time long past. There, as they sang together for hours upon end, I knew that these were precious moments, moments when time stood still, moments that would not be repeated but would be remembered by those present for all their lives more, for they were together as one, nothing to distract, present to each other as the one whom they loved lay dying. There in the shadows one could feel that past generations stood at their shoulders, revisiting a time that was of how people once gathered to soothe the heart and the mind.
And I thought of how it might be if the lights were quenched and the noise was dimmed and the light of a flame, it lit the room, and the only sound we heard was that of a kettle whistling, a clock ticking, and the voice of someone telling the story of their lives twixt the shadows of the night as we listened to how they spoke, with ease, in pain, with rejoicing and laughter. For in the shadows people talk, laugh and sing freely, hidden from the glare, as only the flickering of a flame illumines their hearts.
And something within me yearned for it to last, that night we sat and talked and sang songs to ease the passing of a loved one from this world to the next and how I savoured in the days that followed the outage of power, in the presence of my parents, my nieces and nephews, talking and laughing in the shadows of the night. For to take leave of that day, to climb the stairs and retire to bed in the midst of the howling winds was to take leave of these precious moments spent together, without phone or screen in the darkness of the a night, forever remembered, wrought by Storm Isha.
READ MORE