John Moriarty: Not The Whole Story E-Book

Mary McGillicuddy

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 667

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

John Moriarty was a man who was gloriously indefinable – a writer, philosopher, teacher, gardener, poet, mystic, ordinary man – and ultimately, and surprisingly, a missionary in the tradition of the early Irish monks. He was a missionary for a newly-imagined Christianity, one that might go back to its roots to include Taoists, Hindus, Jews, Muslims, atheists, scientists, plants and animals, the Earth, the stars and the galaxies. This Christianity could heal what he called 'the bog sadness' of the world; it could enable us to 'walk beautifully on the earth' and to be content with the Paradise that can be known in the here-and-now. This Christianity would help to grow and nourish a sense of soul. 'What is wrong,' he asked, 'about emerging into a sense of wonder?' Moriarty's work can be daunting; McGillicuddy's book is an attempt to provide a key – to open the door into his genius, ensuring that his legacy will not be lost

Leseprobe

John Moriarty

Not the Whole Story

JOHN MORIARTY

NOT THE WHOLE STORY

Mary McGillicuddy

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

John Moriarty: Not the Whole Story

First published in 2018 by Mary McGillicuddy in association with The Lilliput Press

Copyright © Mary McGillicuddy and The Lilliput Press

ISBN 978-1-843-51748-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

Typeset by Dominic Carroll, Ardfield, Co. Cork

Printed and bound in Spain by GraphyCems, Villatuerta, Navarra

‘What we are between birth and death is not the whole story; what we are in the universe is not the whole story; the universe itself is not the whole story.’

John Moriarty

For Owen,

in the hope that you are forever walking on.

And for John,

whose legacy has the capacity to mind us all.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1 ‘A world below history’

2 ‘Horizons of longing’

3 ‘Christ, what’s happening to me?’

4 ‘A killed dragon isn’t a dead dragon’

5 ‘Something right royal in us all’

6 ‘Foxwoman was my Statue of Liberty’

7 ‘Be not afraid of the universe’

8 ‘The truth about things is miraculous’

9 ‘Who will take upon himself the burden of lighting the world?’

10 ‘I must plant myself in wild soil’

11 ‘To ship oars and give the world a chance’

12 ‘What else can one be but an intellectual outlaw’

13 ‘What chance have we, when that’s where we think we live?’

14 ‘A new Christianity?’

15 ‘There is surely a piece of divinity in us, something that was before the Elements and owes no homage unto the Sun’

16 ‘A sympathetic nervous system’

17 ‘Not one of us but is still walking in Paradise at the core of our being’

18 ‘Even where it is frightful … Nature is also immaculate’

19 ‘At this hour of my life I’m a singing Christian’

Endnotes

Select Bibliography

Glossary

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It occurred to me only recently how very fitting it is that this book should be published in the year of the fiftieth anniversary of the Viscount aircraft crash off Tuskar Rock in 1968. I was 12 and the grief of our parish provoked a peculiar question for me – not, as might be expected, how could God let this happen, but why all the grief if this was God’s will? My uncle, Jerry Collins, provided an answer that I didn’t understand at the time. He said that I was really asking about “free will, and that this is something that is very controversial.” That concept of free will puzzled and intrigued me then and in a strange and roundabout way led to this book. Thank you, Jerry.

Equally my mother and father, Mick and Jose O’ Sullivan, and my grandfather, Tom Collins, who encouraged education, reading and open-mindedness while rooting their family in a world of rich and ordinary life. Thank you, Mam, Dad and Grandad.

Years down the line, Jerry’s answer having led me to a place of radical disbelief in any god or any religious system, I eventually encountered the teaching of John Moriarty and for this I must thank a fellow teacher and great friend, Pat O’ Loughlin, who simply insisted that I listen. Thank you, Pat.

Listening eventually led to reading John’s books and to an appreciation of the importance of what he has to offer modern culture; also to a fear that his work might be neglected. With this in mind and with the encouragement of the extended Moriarty family, in particular his nieces Nita Barrett and Amanda Carmody, the book began to germinate. Thank you, Moriartys, and in particular, thank you, Amanda.

Chapter by slow chapter, as the writing progressed, I conscripted a group of readers, a target audience so to speak, who were tasked with providing feedback – was it true to John, could you hear his voice, was it clear, readable, a good story? These readers were the people who kept me going: Amanda Carmody, Sarah McGillicuddy, Pat O’ Loughlin, Nóirín Tanner, Fr. Pat Moore, Sister Noreen Foley, Seán McGillicuddy, Sister Frances Day, Brother John Aherne, and also the Ballyheigue Reading Group that includes Kathy Cunningham, Maria Hayes, Mick Joyce, Josephine Fitzgibbon, Mary Lyne, Ger McMahon and Amanda Carmody. We got there! Thank you all.

There is one other who, although not directly involved, was nonetheless pivotal. The sudden death of my aunt Eileen Cripps in April 2017 was both a shock and a catalyst; her death cataclysmed me into action – she is responsible for nailing me to the desk until the job was done. She would enjoy that! Thank you, Eileen.

Many others provided help and support, John’s great friend Lynne Hill from his Connemara days; Brendan Touhy who gave me access to wonderful interviews; Dee Bradshaw who provided film footage of John in action at a number of his talks; and Brendan O’ Donoghue who gave me an ‘imprimatur’ when it was badly needed. I particularly want to thank Dolores O’ Connor for sharing and allowing me to use her moving account of John’s death.

Writing a book is one thing, getting it published is quite another. For this I must thank Antony Farrell of Lilliput Press for his advice and assistance and for allowing me to publish in association with Lilliput – this means a lot. Hugh Stancliffe, publisher, printer and friend, has guided me through the entire process and has been invaluable. Dominic Carroll, book designer, typesetter and man of extreme patience, has done a wonderful job in polishing what was an untidy manuscript. A sincere thanks to both Hugh and Dominic. Needless to say, any remaining untidiness is mine alone.

My immediate family, Jackie, Sarah and Seán, have put up with my distractedness, melt-downs, highs and lows over this book for quite a while now – they have been great – but I suppose they understood at all times that it has been a book for our Owen, my son who died in an accident on June 1st 2008 while I was in attendance at John Moriarty’s first anniversary Mass. John had died on June 1st 2007. To have this book published and launched on June 1st 2018 feels like a small miracle; it is also my tribute to both of them and my way of keeping us all together ar shlí na fírinne.

INTRODUCTION

To be in the presence of John Moriarty, either casually or in attendance at one of his ‘talks’, was an unforgettable experience. A tall man, unconventionally dressed, with, in the words of Paul Durcan ‘his mane of curling hair and the pain of humanity in his face’, he would approach the microphone and start to speak. No notes, no power point. The man was the message. He told stories, stories about ordinary happenings, ordinary but rich in wisdom and wonder and humour, and out of those stories he conjured a vision of a different way of being in the world. He spoke of ‘the great and sacred earth’, of coming home to that earth, of living on it with passion and compassion towards every living thing. He spoke of the tremendous beauty of a cowslip coming up out of the black earth, of the tremendous beauty of the Gleannta Du Cheoig in Connemara, of what he called ‘silver branch perception’. He said that we live in a world of miracles if only we had eyes to see. He told us that we live in Divine Ground. He told us that science was only half the story, that philosophy was only half the story, that religion itself was only half the story, but that it was all a tremendous story. He told us that, living in the modern world, we had lost our sense of soul and that this was the greatest possible loss. In his speaking and in his passion, he reawakened that sense of soul in us. Listening to him could reawaken hope. Listening to him one got a glimpse of a world ‘always and in everything eruptively divine’. His was a powerful and profound message.

One left the talk, determined to learn a bit more, to read his books, to follow this story. And that’s where the problem might arise. Tommy Tiernan, in an interview with John, admitted “I bought one of your books … I found it impenetrable” and that has been a common experience. In fairness, and with great humour, John was more than ready to acknowledge this. During a talk, giving the background to the writing of his book Nostos, which he described as ‘a kind of autobiography’, he explained:

“I’d been about thirteen years in Connemara, living alone quietly, suddenly Andy O’Mahony, from RTÉ, came in through the door one day and asked me to do an interview, and I was on radio a couple of weeks later. The next day in Moyvane, where I come from, Gabriel Fitzmaurice was walking down one side of the street and my sister Brenda was walking up the other … Gabriel asked her if she had heard the programme and what she thought of it. ‘Well’ she said ‘I heard Andy O’Mahony saying at the beginning of the programme that this is John Moriarty from Moyvane in North Kerry, and that was the last thing that I understood.’ When my book Dreamtime came out a couple of years later, well, she took a look at it anyway, and then her comment was ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, John, I’m going to have to stick with books about British royalty and the Pope.’”

Given this type of reaction, and it was widespread if not quite so direct and colourful, his friend, the writer and cartographer Tim Robinson, eventually persuaded him to write an autobiography. John’s initial reaction was reluctance, even revulsion, at the thought of putting himself on display but Tim persisted. Tim’s advice was ‘to put the ideas in the context in which they emerged in your life and people will be getting the ideas one by one and then they’ll have some chance of understanding them’. For some reason, hearing it put like that, he didn’t feel the same resistance, and ‘the next morning, it was the longest day of the year, I came down, made the sign of the cross on myself and I started writing … and this is what emerged … seven hundred pages, and as I was writing it I was saying, no-one, no-one, no-one is ever going to stay with this … they’ll get so sick of me after a hundred pages that they’ll pitch it at the wall, they won’t even want it in the house …’ That is not the reaction that Nostos provoked, but there is no doubt that it is still not an easy read, not always penetrable without a considerable effort, and so not the book to recommend to someone coming to John Moriarty for the first time, without the benefit of his talks, without the benefit of his inspiring and elucidating presence.

My journey into the writings of John Moriarty began nearly twenty years ago and it started with Nostos. I had heard him interviewed, had attended some few talks and found him fascinating, but had never been able to make any hand of the books. They were just too intimidating. Then a friend of mine, Mary B, handed me Nostos and said that there was a passage in it about her sister Bridie and that it had them all confused “cos Bridie says she was never under a bush with John Moriarty”. Bridie was Sister Bridie, then a Presentation nun, and I was intrigued. What had John and Bridie been up to? And whatever it was, what was it doing in the book? So I started to read, slowly and with careful attention, stopping to look up the obscure references and gradually becoming hooked. ‘Hooked’ is the only way I can describe it. There is an excitement to be found in the kind of reading that John’s work demands. The initial bewilderment or frustration, the grappling to find the meaning, and then the ‘eureka’ moment, when you get what he means and there is a sense of illumination, and sometimes, depending on the passage, an uplift of spirit that goes beyond one’s normal everyday experience of reading and comprehending.

And that was something I wanted to share. I would ring people and make them listen to the more comprehensible passages; on one occasion I subjected my mother to a lengthy telephone reading and was very disappointed that she didn’t quite get it. But when I told her the stories she was interested. This became the pattern, people were still hitting a wall when it came to the books. Nostos had not fully done what Tim Robinson had hoped, at least not for general readers, but people still wanted to know more. One day, shortly after John died, in conversation with his niece Nita Barrett, she planted the idea that I might write about him, might tell his story “so that we’ll all be able to read about him ’cos we have nothing, now that he’s gone. I mean it’s great to have the books like, but it would be great to have something that we could understand”. My reaction was swift. “Jesus, Nita, it’s undoable”, but the thought was planted and, like John’s image of the bush that continues to grow on barren rock in spite of the prevailing wind and rain, the idea simply would not let me go. And so began the process that has eventually become this book, an effort to tell John’s story, to interpret his ideas and share his message, closely following his two volumes of autobiography, Nostos and What the Curlew Said. It somehow feels as if John Moriarty has been knocking at the door of my life for a good many years. What follows is my answer, one that I hope will do him some justice, even though it is in no way, and does not strive to be, the whole story.

1

‘A WORLD BELOW HISTORY’

Parents; neighbours; lamplight; Christmas in the cowstall; Jameen Kissane; contradictions; piseógs; a hint of Paradise.

John Moriarty was born on the 2nd February 1938 in the parish of Moyvane in North Kerry, a place once described by another Moyvane native, the poet Gabriel Fitzmaurice, as ‘a small, sleepy straggle of a village about 7 miles from Listowel in North Kerry, and off the main road.’1 Off the main road is a phrase that could describe John’s entire life but his own schoolboy address, as he wrote it in one of his national school copybooks was – J. S. Moriarty, Leitrim Middle, the Bally Road, Moyvane, North Kerry, Munster, Ireland, Europe, the Earth, the Milky Way, and finally, in the event of extra-gallactic post, the Universe.

In spite of the grandeur of such an address small holdings were the order of the day and the Moriarty farm, about a half mile outside the village, was a meagre 27 acres, a mixture of bog and pasture which usually supported no more than eleven cows, a few hens, a pig or two and an ass and cart. It was a world of hard work, of turf-cutting, of sowing and reaping, of milking and calving, of cow-stalls and hen houses and piggeries, of fairs and the creamery and the pub, of bread-baking and washing clothes by hand and outside toilets; a world of emigration, of poverty and of inequality. It was also a world of great riches, a world in which every field had a name; a world of lamplight and firelight; a world of neighbourliness, of story- telling and big talk, of small talk and gossip; a world of Mass and the sacraments, a world of superstition, púcas and piseógs. A world, in short, that was both hard and soft, simple and complex, sheltering and unsheltering, open and closed.

It was, as John described it in later years, a world below history.

Cutting turf every year in the bog, we worked our way down into a world no human being had ever set foot on. … The preserved tree trunks and stumps we’d uncover we called bogdeal. Sometimes the bark of a trunk we’d uncover would be as distinct as it was on the day it fell, frightening birds or deer into flight. Of one thing we could be sure, and that was that it fell long before even the most mythic of our ancestors walked here. I didn’t know in any very conscious way then but I know now that this sacrament2 of going down below history had, by the time I was ten years old, given a direction, never afterwards much altered, to my life. (Nostos, p. 7)

This sense of the sacramental nature of exploring the depths, the depths of our- selves, of our past and of our origins, is at the core of John’s vision and is echoed again and again in his writings. To understand and to heal, both ourselves and the world in which we live, we must unearth, examine and re-imagine the ‘bogdeal’ of our past. This is the core of his journey.

John was the fourth child of Jimmy Moriarty from Baile an Lochaigh near Dingle and Mary O’Brien from Barragougeen, a townland near Moyvane on the Kerry/ Limerick border between the villages of Glin and Tarbert. John’s arrival into this world of soft light, deep shadow and old rituals was not without drama. His oldest sister Madeleine tells the family story attached to his birth. She remembers her mother telling of her intention to call the new baby Stephen, but of having a dream in which she was told to call him John; also, and always remembered and retold, was the fact that at the time of his birth, the window of the room in which he was born shattered by itself. These were Mary’s own stories, never referred to by John, but of interest perhaps because they testify to a world in which there was always potential for otherness, for odd unexplained incidents that were accepted as part of the mystery and way of the world. Mary always said that if ever she dreamt of her own Uncle Stephen she would know ‘there was trouble coming’. She often told of one such dream she had during her time in America; she had received a letter from home to tell of her brother Sonny’s plans to join her there, she was to meet him from the boat. On the appointed day she did not go; she knew instinctively that he had not travelled. Weeks later she received a letter telling her of his death. Again, a story John would have been familiar with but never mentioned in any of his writings or lectures. Interestingly though, it is perhaps somewhere in the background of an idea John put forward many years later in his book Dreamtime where he imagines the next step in evolution as the possible emergence of ‘world- soul telepathy, of world clairaudience and clairvoyance’.3

John’s father, Jimmy Moriarty, Jimmy Phead, was born on 29 July 1903 in a village called Baile an Lochaigh close to Mount Brandon on the Dingle peninsula and was the youngest of nine children. He grew up speaking Irish and by the time he was seven years of age both of his parents had died. One of his earliest memories, later recounted to his own family, was an image of himself as a small boy, waiting for his mother to come home from Dingle. She was an invalid and had to make frequent trips to the doctor. He remembered the anxiety of waiting for her, and of climbing the hill at the front of the house, of watching for her and finally of seeing her coming home the road from Dingle in the ass and cart. Not too long after that she was dead and the image, the lonesomeness of the image of waiting for her to come home, stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Jimmy’s childhood effectively ended with the death of his parents. As was customary, the home-place went to one of his older brothers and the other members of the family either emigrated or went into service. In Jimmy’s case this meant the life of a farm boy, working for local farmers for little more than bed and board. The GAA broadcaster and writer Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh remembers Jimmy’s family, in particular one of his nephews Tony, who “spent a while working with the Kellihers in our village where he was extremely popular as a fine storyteller and a good singer as well” ,4 gifts that were also inherited by John.

Jimmy’s own memories of this time were mixed.

Learning hardly anything at all in school by day, he went ag bothántaíocht5 by night and it was there in this or that neighbouring bothán, sitting on the floor before the fire and listening to the old stories, that he learned almost all of what he knew about himself and his world. Nightly he dropped down out of Irish history into Ireland’s Dreamtime. (What the Curlew Said, p. 150)

In spite of the richness of this world of song and story, one of his stints at farm work brought hardship and hunger and years later, to his own family, he told of stealing eggs and drinking them because it was “a ‘mane’ house”. Ultimately he worked for a farmer where he was treated fairly and paid two shillings a week, which was saved for him by the woman of the house; once he was fed and had a place to stay he had no need of money. Eventually, it was this money that bought him his passage to America. It also bought him his first pair of new shoes and a suit for the journey. When he left Dingle in 1921, aged 17, he spoke mostly Irish, had little formal education and did not know how to sign his name in English.

Then one morning, boarding it in Dingle, he took a train out of his language, out of his dreamtime, and after working briefly for a French farmer in Ontario he ended up working industrially making tyres in a factory called the Fisk Rubber, in Springfield in Massachussets. In his own words, he couldn’t at that time read H on the side of a bag and the first time he was asked to sign his name to a document and he couldn’t, the cold sweat of shame and embarrassment, he would say, came out through him. And so it was that Jimmy Phead, loved by all the old women in Ballinloughig, chiefly because his father and mother had died when he was still so young, now he, the lad who had grown up in a largely oral culture, had become a bureaucratic X. (What the Curlew Said, p. 151)

Springfield, Massachusetts, was for years a favoured destination of Kerry emigrants; two of his sisters had already made the journey and although he did not have any specific address for them, it was there, in his new suit and his new shoes, that Jimmy headed. On arrival in Springfield, his own story has it that he stood for two entire days at a busy intersection until he met someone he knew from home who could direct him to his sisters. In later years he would recite the progress of his journey. Belfast, Quebec, Montreal, Toronto, Hamilton, Buffalo, Syracuse, Albany and Springfield; a long and lonely way from Baile an Lochaigh.

Jimmy eventually found work and for the next few years repeated the pattern of hard work, of frugal living and of saving his money that had already been established in Dingle. According to his son Chris at one time he held down three jobs, and eventually invested some of his savings in oil company shares, a small investment that came to have a big influence on John’s life in later years. Meanwhile, Mary O’Brien from Barragougeen was planning her own journey. She also came from a large family. Born on 16 January 1904, she was one of ten children reared in a two room cottage. There was however a great love of learning and a background of education in that house. Mary’s mother came from a family of Kennellys, long associated with a local hedge-school6 and Mary did receive more formal education than Jimmy in that she completed National School. In the early decades of the twentieth century the national school curriculum was far wider than it is now and it was quite common for children to remain in attendance until age 15. Tarbert poet Thomas MacGreevey did not leave National School until he was 16 and later recalled “Before I gave up I was doing the later books of Euclid and Logarithms, trigonometry, and permutations and combinations.”7

So Mary O’Brien, having attended Ballygoughlin National School, would have been well educated by the standard of the time. John recounts, “She was hugely and fantastically intelligent and none of us could ever match her. She was the one who would pick up the paper and read it in front of the double-wick paraffin lamp and the mirror behind it to throw the light forward. She would read for the neighbours all about the murder trials and with barrister’s language and all thrown in she would be as good as Ann Doyle herself on the television. But isn’t it strange, if you met her on a fair day in the Square in Listowel, she would not be half the woman. But at home and in company she could not be matched. There was once when she brought a laudatory discussion on the new priest to an abrupt end by claiming that she could have washed up after a meitheal8 in less time than it was taking him to wipe one chalice.”9 In his autobiography Nostos John had this to say: “Ours was a house of talk. Big talk. Talk that never sickened into politeness, not even in the presence of holy things.”10

That was all in the future but even in her teens Mary displayed a spirited independence. This is clear from a family story about sending for the priest to minister to her ill father. The parish rule was that sick calls had to be requested before eleven o clock in the morning. The call had not been made on time and when the priest arrived he was “like a divil”, giving out about the inconvenience and the failure to comply with the rules. Mary, utterly refusing due deference, “quenched the candles and threw him out by the scruff of the neck.”11 A few years later, after she had emigrated to America, the same priest would enquire from her father on the progress of “your virago of a daughter”. That independence of mind and challenging spirit stayed with her throughout her life and was inherited by John and indeed by all of her children.

Mary went from National School to a job ‘in service’, working in one of the local houses as a servant, but soon became dissatisfied. She decided to try her luck in America and set her course for Springfield Massachusetts, again because of local and family connections already there. That was in 1923 and within six years she had met and married Jimmy Moriarty. She herself told John the story of how she saw him on the street with a group she knew to be from home.

I was milking the cows with her one morning while he was in hospital and she said, ‘’Tis forty seven years ago today that I met Jimmy. It was St. Patrick’s Day and Mrs. Basset had given me the day off and I was walking down the street with Mary Bolger and the handsomest man I had seen that day passed us on the sidewalk and I asked Mary did she know who he was and she said, ‘He’s Mororty from out West in the Dingle Peninsula and he has the first shilling he earned here in Springfield’, and didn’t I see him again that night at a dance and over he came and asked me out.’ (What the Curlew Said, p. 153)

In more fractious moments that story would change and she would claim that she was warned to have nothing to do with him ‘because he’s the meanest thing. He has the first penny he ever made.’ In later years Jimmy used to say, “she followed me because she knew I had money” and at least one part of that was true, he did have money, he had saved most of his pay and also had invested in company shares. The illiterate, penniless farm boy had been making good.

Whatever the initial basis for the relationship between them, Jimmy and Mary’s marriage lasted for the next 51 years, often stormy and tempestuous, but always passionate and alive. Behind it all they were, to quote their daughter Brenda, “always mad about one another”, an opinion slightly qualified by her sister Phyllis “even if they had a quare way of showing it”. They married in Springfield in 1929 and their first child, Madeleine, was born in 1930. Mary had never settled in America and in 1932 she and her little girl sailed for home, equipped with Jimmy’s savings and Mary’s dream of buying their own place. While Jimmy remained, working ‘round the clock’ in Springfield, Mary bought the house and 27 acres for eleven hundred pounds. This became the family home. In February 1933 Jimmy came home to Moyvane, one of his proudest stories in later years being the fact that his original journey from Dingle to Belfast had taken him through Listowel, the train passing the very fields that he and Mary now owned.

Life then settled into the rhythm of a small farm. Chris, Babs, John, Brenda and Phyllis were born between 1933 and 1945, making it a lively and busy house, with the daily routines of child-minding, cooking, washing, bread-baking, milking and managing, all being done without the aid of electricity. In Nostos John describes one of Mary’s daily rituals:

Every evening, at nightfall, my mother would take the lamp down from its nail on the wall, she would fill it, she would trim its wicks and clean its glass globe and then, with a taper she would bring the light of the fire to it. Winding down the wicks to their best height, she would fit the globe back on and, it being a sacrament of light she was now holding, she would hang it on the wall, there where its nail was, half way between the Sacred Heart picture and the small yard window. (Nostos, p. 47)

In another story he describes his father enacting a similar ritual:

When I was young, a little child imagining the big world, the world was full of fairies, full of púcas, and full of strangers and full of all kinds of presences and radiances which you mightn’t know the names of, or know how to handle. I would see my father on a dark winter’s night, he would take down his lantern and he would light it, if it was a wild night he would unscrew, he would wind it back until there was just a little spark of light, and sometimes I would just see half his face in the light of the kitchen and the other half would be in the darkness and I often wondered about him walking out into that dark and that he wasn’t afraid. And he would cross the wild yard and he would go over and hang the lantern up on a nail in a rafter and then he would wind it up and he’d have good light now again and he would feed the cows hay and having fed the cows, these were short-horn cows, not the fresians that we have now, these were wonderful shorthorn cows, with their lovely fur, their lovely coats … when my father would go over and feed them hay in the night, he would sit on his three-legged stool, behind them, and he would smoke his last cigarette of the day there.12

This world where light and darkness were ‘partners in a dance’ was to have a deep influence on John’s mature vision.

In our house it didn’t make sense to talk about an enmity between light and dark … What we saw, particularly when the fire blazed, is that they were partners in a dance, Gypsy partners in a Gypsy dance. (Nostos, p. 47)

Neither did it make sense to imagine a world in which animals were seen only for their economic value. Jimmy Moriarty’s attachment to his cows was both profound and problematic. Jimmy was no farmer; ‘a fierce worker’, in the words of one of the neighbours, ‘but no method’, with an endearing if impractical tendency to treat all of his animals as pets. The cows all had names … Polly, Hanrahans, the Big Red … and John remembers the gentleness with which they were treated. ‘Coming up the road with the cows my father always walked at their rhythm. ..he fell into their rhythm and some kind of wonderful wisdom came to my father walking up and down behind those cows, the wisdom of the cow, the wisdom of animal nature came to him.’13

Jimmy couldn’t sell a calf or kill a hen, all that work fell to Mary; Phyllis gives an insight into the depth of his attachment to the animals

I remember a cow, I’ll never forget this. One day they were in the bog cutting turf and there was a cow ready to calf. We used to let the cows down to the river to drink water and leave them there for a few hours. ’Twas frosty and he told myself and my mother not to let the cow out. However, we did let the cow out and the cow died of a heart attack below by the river. My father was in bed for a week. He never got up. He was in bed for a full week. We never again heard the end of that. ’Twas pathetic. But my mother was practical. She had to make the money out of it.

That primal connection to the world of animals constantly recurs in John’s writings. One of his earliest memories, a story he told again and again, concerns a Christmas Eve when he was six or seven.

… this was Christmas Eve and Madeleine, my oldest sister was singing ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’, and Chris had brought in two bags of turf from the shed, and Babs had brought two buckets of water from the well, and already, its flame perfectly calm, the lamp was giving more light than the fire, with its raptures big and small. But lamplight and firelight, that was every night.

Tonight was different.

Looking at the crib in the deep sill of our front window, I could see that the light of heaven was in our house.

It was a night of wonders.

Tonight, all night, the gates of heaven would be open above us.

Riding animals higher than our horse, and wearing glittering vestments, the three Wise Men might pass through our yard tonight and if they did our father would show us tracks in the morning. Plain as could be, we saw them last Christmas morning.

And Santa Claus would come and he would bring us what we asked for. To Babs he would bring a blouse. To me he would bring a game of Snakes and Ladders. And to Brenda and Phyllis he would bring dolls.

And soon we would have supper with currant cake.

There was no denying it, it was wonderful, and in a glow of fellow feeling with all our animals I went out and crossed our yard to the cowstall.

Pushing open the door, I looked in and at first I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing … What I saw was what I would see on any other night, eleven shorthorn cows, some of them standing, some of them lying down, some of them eating hay, some of them chewing the cud, and two of them turning to look at me.

Devastated, I had to admit that it was an ordinary night in the stall.

Coming back across the yard I looked at the fowl house and the piggery and the darkness, and the silence that had settled on them couldn’t say it more clearly. Christmas didn’t happen in the outhouses. Christmas didn’t happen to the animals. The animals were left out. And since the animals were left out, so, inside me somewhere, was I. (Nostos, pp. 5–6)

Odd as it may seem, Jimmy’s cows provoked John’s first philosophical question. In bed later that night he wondered how Christmas could exist if the cows didn’t know about it, if there was no Christmas Eve in the cow stall? While it may seem like a childish question, not worth a second thought to those who accept the world at face value, it became a fundamental preoccupation in all of John’s later thinking. For him it led to all of the bigger questions, how we as human beings make sense of the world, how we shape it to suit our needs, the stories we tell about our origins, it led him to questions about the Christmas story itself; in short it began a journey far longer than Jimmy’s journey from Dingle to Springfield and back home to Moyvane, it began a journey that John came to believe we must all ultimately make if we, and the world we live in, are to flourish; a journey home to the animals and to the earth, to the sacramental unity of all beings and of all things.

During John’s childhood Moriarty’s was what was known as a ‘calling house’, a house of great talk, an open house where neighbours gathered to chat, to argue, to tell stories, to share their lives.

‘A lot of people used come into our house. It was mostly because of my mother that people used to come into our house. My mother, a big woman, not physically that big, she was tall, but there was something about her, you had this sense that she was enormous, because she was so psychologically big and psychologically real, we always had the sense that she was huge, but ’twas psychologically that she was big. I don’t know how any of us ever survived my mother like, to grow up with such an enormous reality around you all the time, how did we ever survive the presence of my mother in that house, how did my father survive the presence of this huge wonderful woman? People used come in the night, the night walkers used come, and she’d read the paper for all these men, she was a great presence in the world.

There’d be donkeys and carts and horses and carts going up and down the road, going up and down to the creamery, going up and down to the village. And many of these horses, without any direction at all from their drivers, would naturally come into our yard because they were so used to it. I remember summer days when Moss Hartnett would be coming down with his horse and his milk churn, and he would want to go home because he would have hay to cut or turf to cut or something like that, and he would desperately have to wrestle with the horse to stop the horse from going in, but almost always he lost that battle. And he would have to come in then and sit down and they would discuss the world and the politics and everything with my mother. So it was that kind of house.’14

Among those callers was Jameen Kissane, whose nightly visits were part of the fabric of their lives. His influence, the stories he told, made a lasting impression.

Every evening as darkness was falling Jameen Kissane would come to our house. To us, Jameen was as old as the fog, and as wise as the bushes. Given how he lived, and the few clothes he lived in, the long months of winter were hard on him. It was a comfort to him to come in and sit in the corner under our chimney breast. There he was out of the way of the draught, and there also he got the full benefit of the fire. But it wasn’t only the fire that revived him. On the hearth, in front of him, at this time of the evening, there would be a three-legged cast-iron oven with coals beneath it and coals on its lid. The last loaf of the day was being baked. And at that time too, just before supper, the kettle, also of cast-iron, would be spitting from within the flames that engulfed it on every side.

A tall thin man with a small appetite, Jameen would eat by the fire.

A sense I had of him was that if bogdeal could talk, it would talk as Jameen talked.

Certainly it was out of a past as old as bogdeal that he talked, and that suited the kind of fireplace we all sat at. (Nostos, p. 8)

And that was where stories were told, stories as old as time, stories from a world ‘below history’, stories from and about an ‘Otherworld’, being kept alive in a kitchen that, with its lamplight and firelight, its acceptance of the soft interplay of light and dark, was in ways ‘in séance’ with a past that predated the Iron Age. There was of course iron in the house and in the yard and in the world outside, ‘but we didn’t have a mind to go with it’.

One night Jameen picked up a boot of mine and saw that it needed a new half-sole. He asked me to bring him the hammer, the last, the tack and a strip of leather from the right drawer of the dresser. Instantly and emphatically my mother said no, pointing to a hen hatching eggs in a wooden butter box under the table. No, she said, that will have to wait for another night. Didn’t we know, she asked, that the sound of hammering might kill the chicks in the eggs. Again, three or four days later, hearing Chris hammering outside in the hayshed, she went to the door and called out to him to stop, at once.

In our house we lived from the belief that the sound of iron on iron was lethal.

In our house the metallurgical ages gave way to a hatching hen. (Nostos, p. 8)

This was a world in which animals belonged, Jimmy’s cows and Mary’s hens were in one sense ‘accomodated’ but it was also a world of enormous contradictions, a world in which

‘Regularly, my mother would sharpen an already sharp knife on the concrete floor, knocking sparks out of it as she did so. She would go out to the fowl-house and come back with an outraged, red, squawking cock. Wedging him between her thighs, she would pluck the throat feathers and then, cutting off his gloriously combed and wattled head, she would let the sometimes spasming, spattering rope of blood flow down into a bowl where it would settle into an accusation all the more dreadful because it was so serene. (Nostos, p. 15)

Killing the pig was frightfulness. Jack Scanlan, the gentlest man on the Bally Road, he was the pigkiller. He’d come into the house with a big knife and a big hook. Himself and a couple of other men would go out to the piggery. Catching a pig by the ears Jack’s assistants would pin it to the wall while Jack hooked it, underneath, between its jawbones. Ropes were tied to its legs front and back. And then pulling relentlessly on the hook and ropes the men gave it no choice but to walk their way. Not far from the front door of the dwelling house it was tumbled over onto its side. The underside of its neck near its collarbones was scalded with boiling water, the hair thereabouts was shaved by Jack with his big knife and then … the neck was opened and the knife pushed in till it opened the heart. That night the pig would be hanging from a big cross beam in our big farmhouse kitchen. (Turtle was Gone a Long Time, vol. 1, p. 19)

And so for John, arising from this casual acceptance of the horror of killing, there were further enormities to be addressed. How do we survive in a universe that has such a capacity for cruelty and for killing, not only of animals, but of one another? In the young boy’s mind, as yet at an unconscious level, the killing of the pig and the killing of the cock were powerful rituals enacted at home. But, there was also another powerful ritual at work in his life, the ritual of the Mass, with at its core, the shocking image of the tortured and crucified Jesus. This ritual, in spite of its central horror, carried a profound promise of healing and salvation. It provided, for those who chose to think about it, a way of managing the suffering encountered in the world. It also, in its biblical foundation, gave justification for the way in which human beings treat the rest of creation. John was later to write of ‘the sheltering hypnosis of habit and familiarity’, of the need for ‘a religion to cover our tracks to Ned Stack’s butcher’s stall’. It was not only exposure to the killing at the heart of human survival that was a disturbing feature of this world.

One day, opening a wyand of hay in the West Field, my father found four bad eggs at the heart of it. This, as it would to any neighbour for miles around, brought the cold sweat out through him. But he had to stand his ground. He had to deal with this evil, because this was ‘piseógs’15 a kind of witchcraft, certainly something more wicked than mere superstition.

Settling a bed of hay on the four prongs of his fork, he took the eggs, praying as he did so, and laid them on it. Then, careful that no egg would fall off, he walked towards the river. And the river, he was so glad to tell us when he came home, had taken the awful thing out of our land …

Dimly we were aware that this form of witchcraft was based on the belief that like creates like. The bad eggs or the bad butter or the bad meat that someone placed in a field would turn the cattle that grazed that field into its image and likeness. Before long those cattle would themselves be bad meat. In other words, this didn’t work by the physical transmission of physical bacteria. It worked by the ritual power of sympathetic magic …

This kind of witchcraft was as common to our locality as its bushes were. No year went by but some awful new story did the rounds. One story had it that a woman opened her door one morning and a skinned calf fell inward across her threshold. Another story had it that a priest who openly confronted the evil had, within a week, to confront it, in truly sensational form, within his own church … on Saturday night, when he went into his confession box to hear and forgive the sins of the people, he sat down on thirteen rotten eggs. (Nostos, pp. 8, 9, 14)

John remembers being afraid after that to go to the West Field. It was Jameen Kissane who eventually brought some comfort. He arrived at Moriarty’s at his usual time one evening and told that he had found bad butter in the field behind his house. Curious with fear and wonder the children wanted to know what he did with it. ‘What did I do with it?’ echoed Jameen, ‘sure what would I do with it, I brought it in and I ate it’.

For weeks afterwards, coming as he did every night to our house, we were afraid of him. He had eaten evil. He had eaten the witchcraft of the ages. He must be contagious. He must be avoided … but to our astonishment no harm settled on him. (Nostos, p. 10)

Not only did he not die, Jameen helped them to have some understanding of this sinister superstition. He explained that some people believed that there is ‘a certain amount of bad luck in the world, and it must fall on people. Not all people, but on many people. In the way that bread and wine are the elements of the Eucharist, the bad meat and bad eggs are like the elements of a dark sacrament, a sacrament in which some people attempt to divert the bad luck that might fall on themselves onto others’.16 So there was an explanation. The piseógs need not be feared and the world could be a little bit more manageable. John tells the story of an old tradition, practised in Wales when someone died. A meal would be prepared and then offered to some tramp who might be walking the roads. In the ritual of eating the meal, it was believed that the tramp was eating, and therefore purging, the sins of the dead person. This tramp was called the Sin Eater. Jameen had become their Sin Eater. He was helping to make sense of their world. The wider world was also posing very large questions.

I would remember a morning at home in North Kerry. The war over, my father had come home from London. As was their wont, some neighbours came in on their way home from the creamery and, more than anything else, they wanted to know what the blitz was like. Having talked to them about it, he went on to talk about a film called Belsen that he had recently seen. Seven years of age at the time, what I couldn’t take in was an image of human dripping flowing along stone channels. I knew what dripping was. In our house it was the lard of a pig melted on a frying pan, a liquid to cook rashers and eggs in. But human dripping? Human beings melted down? Their lard flowing in channels? The idea sat like a stone that I couldn’t digest in the middle of my mind. (What the Curlew Said, p. 118)

‘A stone that I couldn’t digest in the middle of my mind.’ Where was he to find a Sin Eater who could handle that? It was an image and a question that remained with him for the rest of his life.

John once made the point that he had had ‘a wild childhood’ but it was wild only in the sense that it was free; once school was ended and the various chores were attended to, the children would be off, over the fields, down the river, exploring, finding things to occupy themselves, looking for and making fun, and quite often making mischief.

Often, we would hear people saying that the countryside we lived in wasn’t fit for man or beast. Mary Ann Danny O’ was famous because, talking one day to a woman who had called to see her, she said, ‘Isn’t it a lonely place I am living in, and isn’t it lonely I am myself looking out this door and seeing nothing coming towards me always but the blowin’ wind and the wet rain?’

Maag Mahony, who lived in Poll, a place almost as desolate, agreed. ‘Yes’, Maag said, ‘there are days when I look through my door and the only thing I can say about the wind is that it is blowin’ and the only thing I can say about the rain is that it is wet’.

We knew Mary Ann Danny O’. And yet, however much we tried, we couldn’t imagine her. We couldn’t imagine how she lived where she did. If only someone could, it would have been a mercy to have turned her into a bush. But then there are limits too to what a bush will put up with.

We didn’t send a horse and cart for Mary Ann Danny O’.

We didn’t take her in, this woman who lived where a snipe wouldn’t live. We knew the way to her house and we blackguarded her, a rabble of us, pounding her front door and then her back door with our fists, a yellow tangle of us making faces at her and screeching at her through her small lace-curtained, cobwebbed windows.

One day as we ran off in delighted triumph, I looked back and saw the white head of her, just the white head, craning forward in her doorway.

To this day I’ve seen nothing that so questions the right of the universe to exist, as it exists. (Nostos, pp. 10–11)

Here, again, out of a boyhood escapade came one of the big universal questions; seeing the old, frightened, white head of Mary Ann Danny O’, and remembering it long afterwards, John was faced with the existence of misery and loneliness in the world, and the capacity for uncaring thoughtless cruelty in the face of that loneliness. Could anything be more bleak? Who or what could alleviate or explain or justify such situations and such impulses? And yet:

How strange it was that we who so happily tormented Mary Ann were so tender towards nesting birds … By the middle of May … Tom Welsh and myself had discovered forty-six nests, and these were the nests that were difficult to find, the nests of blackbirds, thrushes, wagtails, wrens, robins, larks, wild duck, snipe and, most difficult of all, the nests of goldfinches – three of them in Paddy Aherne’s orchard. … Never once, by too sudden an approach, did we frighten a bird off her eggs. Never once, by lingering too long, did we make a hatching bird uneasy. Never once, by over-forcing our way to a nest, did we leave evidence of intrusion behind us. Rather than cause the slightest upset, we were happy to walk away not knowing what we would otherwise have liked to have known. And this paid off, because, to a quite remarkable degree it fostered an intuitive sense of our surroundings in us. It was as if our oldest ancestors had whispered to us. In the stealth of our walking and, above all, in a kind of complicity with things, we were on the way to becoming good hunters. (Nostos, pp. 10–11)

Tenderness to the nesting birds and cruelty to Mary Ann Danny O’; piseógs and neighbourliness; good sacraments and bad sacraments; accommodating the hatching hen, killing the pig; human dripping, human tenderness; Christmas in the kitchen, an ordinary night in the cowstall … this was a world of elemental contradictions and mysteries. A local story of a neighbour known as the Hard Man seemed to indicate a way forward:

Out in the bogs one evening, the Hard Man loosed his hound after a big, heavylooking hare. Coming to the place of carnage, he saw that the hare had been ripped open and her four babies had fallen out. On the football field and at fairs and dances, the Hard Man was able, and made sure he was known to be able, to look after himself. He had never come second best out of a fight. But now, seeing the hare’s four babies, he was troubled and instead of leaving them to the hound, he picked them up and brought them home, and by a miracle of patient kindness he found a way of feeding them and caring for them and they lived. And the Hard Man himself – well it wasn’t only that he didn’t loose his hound at hares any more. (Nostos, p. 12)

And Jameen Kissane had pointed them in the same direction:

Is there wickedness as well as bad luck in the world? we asked him.

The only good answer to that will come to ye in prayer, he said. But in the meantime, he continued, make sure ye don’t persecute anyone, or anything. (Nostos, p. 13)

So Mary Ann Danny O’ would be left alone and the eels that they used to hunt with table forks in the river ‘got a better time of it’ and, in the meantime, other growing and awareness was happening.

One Sunday evening everyone but me went to Holy Hour in the church. I stayed behind to have a good fire on for Jameen when he came in.

I made tea for him and cut and buttered two slices of bread for him. Then I sat in the corner opposite him.

I was proud that he was talking to me. About how many of our cows had calved. About how much turf we had left. About what I would do when I was finished in primary school.

He asked me if I felt a new power in my body.

In alarm, which I tried to hide, I said that I did.

Don’t be afraid of that, he said. That is natural. Grow with that and it will make a man of you.

After that I was easier in myself than I had been for the past six months or so. (Nostos, p. 13)

Other mysteries were presenting themselves as well, perhaps the bleakness of the blowin’ wind and the wet rain had another dimension, one that could be experienced in the Hill Meadow …

More often than not now, I’d go off through the fields on my own. There were fields that I loved. Fields with a sward of natural, wild herbs. In the Hill Meadow I saw hints of Paradise. It was the only name I had for the flowers that grew there, primroses and cowslips in the dry parts of it and in the more marshy parts, buttercups and orchids.

And I wondered.

How could something so yellow as a buttercup come up out of brown soil? How could something so purple as an orchid come up out of it? How could something so perfect as a cowslip come up out of it?

Where did the colour and the perfection come from?

And what else was down there?

What else was I walking on?

To me to inhale the fragrance of a primrose was a Eucharist.

A Eucharist17 without suggestion of bloodshed or blood.

Sometimes I’d inhale the fragrance down to the very soles of my feet. Then I could walk the earth without hurting it. Then I could walk in Paradise. Right here, in our Hill Meadow, I could walk in Paradise. (Nostos, pp. 13–14)

2

‘HORIZONS OF LONGING’

Learning and growing; St. Michael’s College; myths; puberty; bog-sadness; the shelter of religion; encountering Darwin; Training College.