Dublin — Clare Mulvany writing

Dublin got me in a frazzle this week. I tend to pack in a lot when I am here. This week I’ve been teaching in Trinity College, running a facilitation workshop, having some private client calls, preparing for a facilitation gig, seeing friends, visiting family, working on some writing projects and not tending to the thing that helps to keep it all together: the blank page.

By yesterday afternoon, I was tired and feeling out of sorts but couldn’t quite place why. Then I realised, just how many days had passed. It was nearly a week since I journaled properly. Time to active the ritual!

I took myself to one of my old haunts, Fallon & Byrne, a fancy food hall with a wonderful window bench, where the buzz of the city can whirl around, and where you read for long spells, sipping on tea. The bench was full when I got there, so instead, I reluctantly positioned myself in the centre communal bench, feeling a little more exposed, and took put my journal. My writing was a ball of scribbles, erratic waffle, notes to self, and general spillage of brain buzz onto the page. I hadn’t really paid much attention to the couple opposite me, until packing to leave.

‘You’re writing’, the man said, rather obviously, but with a kind curiosity in his voice.

‘Oh, just a bit of waffle’, I replied.

‘You don’t see many people writing by hand these days’

‘It helps me think’.

‘Good for the brain’, he said, ‘connects things’.

I could sense he was speaking from experience. ‘So, you write too’, I stated, knowing the answer already.

That little sentence unlocked a brief but beautiful conversation. We spoke about the power of poetry, what one gains from it, and our favourite poets. We talked about the rich Irish literary tradition and how lucky we are to be proximate to it. We spoke about ‘flow state’, and how writing can bring us to a place in ourselves which otherwise remains unseen, un-nurtured.

As we spoke, it was like we had shared access to an ancient secret, right at our fingertips, amplified through poems and the magic of laying sentences. I took my final sip of tea, shared a knowing smile, then left, two strangers off to meet the blank page in their own intimate directions

Leaving the cafe, notes scribbled, a tender buzz had replaced the frazzle. Instead was the page, and a shared connection to what can happen there. I raced back to where I am currently staying, and spent the night deep in a writing project until it was way past midnight and the page had swallowed all the hours like a spell.

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