Author Fiacre Ryan Finds The True Meaning Of Christmas - The Gloss Magazine

Author Fiacre Ryan Finds The True Meaning Of Christmas

To celebrate the publication of his first book, Speechless, Reflections From My Voiceless World, we asked Fiacre Ryan to write a piece for THE GLOSS. He chose to write about his favourite time of the year …

Featured Image; Juleaften, studie, by Viggio Johansen 1891.

Until the age of 13, Fiacre Ryan had no means of communication with his family or the outside world – his nonverbal autism preventing him from engaging and learning. But with the use of a rapid prompting letterboard tool, Fiacre’s world has been totally transformed: he sat his Leaving Certificate in 2018 and now, at 21, has become the first author with non-verbal autism to be published in Ireland. Before he was able to communicate, he writes, “It was cloudy, terrible and dark inside my thoughts … In writing and poetry, I harness my thoughts and ideas … with a meeting of words, my spelling and typing has enabled my intelligence.” He has now published his first book Speechless: Reflections From My Voiceless World, published by Merrion Press. www.irishacademicpress.ie

RE-WILDING CHRISTMAS

The popular definition of “re-wilding” is “a form of ecological restoration with an emphasis on recreating an area’s natural uncultivated state”. After the excesses of recent years, and the sparseness of the Covid years, I am looking forward to reclaiming our traditional natural family Christmas.

Christmas has always been my absolute favourite time of the year; indeed I have been known to start playing Christmas songs as soon as the autumn leaves start to fall, much to the annoyance of my family. Growing up with non-verbal autism meant that for me every night was a Silent Night, but no amount of pain or turmoil in my life could ever diminish the glow of Christmas.

I love the preparations beforehand, those weeks of furtive present buying, decorations spilling from the attic, long walks to collect nature’s festive harvest of twigs, berries, moss, ivy and holly for wreaths and woody garlands, a feast for the senses. We haul our treasures home and toast our endeavours with hot chocolate and marshmallows, warming our fingers and toes by the fire, to the tune of seasonal songs on the radio.

My role as the ultimate keeper of secrets was cemented when Mam brought me on the present shopping trips to push the trolley around, safe in the knowledge that I would not tell what delights were in store for us. Deciding on presents is very difficult for one who cannot speak, yet my sisters circumvented my silence by collecting toy and gift catalogues for me, where I could point to the pictures of the gifts that I would like to receive on Christmas morning. I do suspect though that they added a few extra presents for themselves on my list, under the guise of “presents for the family”! Now that I can communicate what I want, life has become easier for me, as I am tumbling letters into words, and transfixing them on a screen. Meaning comes to life in typed text. I marvel yet again as a voice speaks each sentence that I craft.

Preparations begin in earnest with the arrival of the tree, a gangly prickly evergreen that inevitably is too tall and has to be cut to size to fit in the hallway. Hours later it would fight for survival from the rigours of gravity, dog tails wagging, and curious cats climbing over our handmade decorations and family heirlooms. Visits to family and friends exchanging gifts, collecting my Nana, all the traditions of the season that I love align together in this magical time. Christmas morning dawns, as presents are opened and shared in anticipation and excitement, the floor a sea of sparkly paper and ribbon. Mass follows with Mam’s Gospel Choir, the turkey in the oven – timed between the joyful hymns. A candle lit for those no longer with us, a memory shared. We return home, our family, to the promise of a feast. The mouthwatering aromas of a delicious dinner, with a starter and soup! For the day that’s in it.

Dinner is served, with the turkey in the starring role, accompanied by a shining sticky glazed ham. Dad carves the bird and piles up the plates, white meat, brown meat, and “who will have the leg?” Topped with my favourite mound of stuffing, gravy and vegetables. I will however, like my Grandad, forego the Brussels sprouts which he nicknamed “the yockys”, as they are indeed a stringy and a tasteless mess. The golden roast potatoes that my Mam forgets every year will once again sit forlornly in the bottom oven, to be discovered on St Stephen’s Day. And for afters, delicious plum pudding, lit with a flickering blue-flamed brandy clotted in creamy custard.

FAMILY

Family all together at last.

Evening light descends on the dinner table,

Bathed in candle glow.

Voices raised in laughter and story, a cauldron of fun.

Honeymooners hand-fastened in love.

Delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, the promise of a feast.

Wine-clinking, a toast to our health and happiness. Chatter hums to a steady hum of appreciation, dinner is served. Sated after, I sit on a comfy couch.

I listen to tales of foreign lands, drinking from the enthusiasm of youth. Here I am safe; believed, accepted and understood.

In my troubled and turmoiled world, amidst my search for understanding and acceptance, there was always the certainty of Christmas. Never changing, perched between the winter solstice and the dawn of a new year, the excitement of Christmas growing, daring to dream of the promise of snow, the 25th of December was a constant predictable warm blanket of reassurance and tradition.

Until the years that Christmas became a different event, a Covid-19 Christmas. A ghostlike Ebenezer Scrooge of a Christmas, shivering pale and frail, candle wax dripping droplets of fear and despair. A lockdown as loud and firm as the door banged shut on Scrooge’s shop that cold winter’s night. A Christmas with no visitors, no family, no hugs or embraces, a Facetime event. Furtive visits to the family grave. Families swapping presents at the side of the road, together but apart. Hurried shopping trips to avoid dreaded queues, holy water replaced by hand sanitiser. Presents had to become practical and imaginative, such as hampers and vouchers with the promise of better days to come, a pared-back version of a previous existence. Books enticed us into a former world where people travelled, went on dates, ate in restaurants and danced till dawn.

The countryside around us became our world, our safe place, our life. I found solace and sanctuary where I have always found calm and comfort, in nature. Her healing spirit sustained and restored me through those dark days. I am at peace with nature. Tears never darken my door when I am outside. Destined to never speak, I am calm when nature envelops me in her soothing world, and gives my senses peace. These things are special to me.

And now today we have the “Christmas In Between”, somewhere between the madness of earlier days to the Christmas of lockdowns to the Christmas where we can celebrate once more. Taking the lessons learned for a calmer, greener more thoughtful Christmas.

Re-wilding also means “letting nature take care of itself”. When we re-wild Christmas we let it take its natural course and rediscover its true meaning. This year let us reclaim our Christmas, a kinder festival where everyone is included. Bringing it back to its natural state, a celebration of family and love for others as on that very first Christmas. A stable and some straw, a baby boy, a family, and a message of hope love and peace for all mankind transcending all ability or disability, and all race, gender, colour or creed.

Speechless: Reflections from My Voiceless World, by Fiacre Ryan, published by Merrion Press, €16.95, out now.

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