NeuroDivine

Choosing life while letting go

The rook lifts up its ancient cry
where morning stirs the land;
it echoes Patrick’s travelling prayers
still guarding field and strand.

The wren sings from the moss‑soft hedge,
a spark of Brigid’s flame;
its blessing like the Living Bread
that knows me by my name.

The blackcap from the ash and thorn
pours song like holy wine;
a draught akin to Canice’ well
where waters bless and shine.

The robin on the low stone wall
keeps quiet watch and grace;
its breast a sign of Paschal fire
that warms the pilgrim’s pace.

The chaffinch rings its bright amen
as beads along the way;
and so I walk through Ireland’s saints
toward healing’s gift today.

Reflection

There are days when chronic illness forces a brutal choice.

Today is a bank holiday, and at 11:00 a.m., my father’s remains were making their final journey to the crematorium. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be. Instead, at that exact same time, I was walking the path to the dialysis clinic for a 2:00 p.m. appointment, arriving hours early because of disrupted train schedules.

To choose your own life-sustaining treatment while a parent is being laid to rest is a profound, agonizing threshold to cross. But through a neurodivergent lens—where we process deep trauma by grounding ourselves in the hyper-specific details of the world around us—the walk didn’t feel like an abandonment. It became a parallel procession.

The Hedge as a Cathedral

When you cannot physically stand at the altar for a funeral, the roadside path becomes your sacred space. The birds I heard along the way weren’t just background noise; they became a guard of honour, keeping watch over both of us on our separate journeys:

• The Rook lifted its ancient cry into the morning air, echoing traveling prayers for a soul moving onward, and a body walking toward survival.
• The Robin sat on the low stone wall—a quiet sentinel witness to a grief too heavy for words, its red breast a sign of the Paschal fire, the symbol of transformation and passing through the flame.
• The Chaffinch rang out a bright amen, clicking like beads along the hedge, keeping time for my feet when my world felt entirely fractured.

Holding the Quiet Hours

Now, I am sitting in the empty clinic waiting room, hours ahead of my treatment, suspended in the silence. The service has concluded, the dialysis has yet to begin, and the quiet is immense.

But focusing on these birds, on the text of the poem, and on the ancient healing roots of St Canice isn’t just a distraction—it is a neurodivergent survival mechanism. It is a way to self-regulate when the emotional weight is overwhelming. It bridges the gap between the crematorium and the clinic, weaving my dad’s memory into the very air I breathed on the way here.

Tomorrow, I will take these feet to Kilkenny to seek the healing waters of St Canice. But right now, in this quiet waiting room, I am letting the birds and the saints hold the space for a goodbye I had to say from the road.

Copyright 2026 Michael McFarland Campbell