Chapter 223: Harping on about Circus and Happy St Patrick's Day!

Circus is a jealous bitch.

Early in my circus obsession, Irish harpist Ursula Burns — in Tumble Circus' show "Damn the Circus!"  — offered this blunt truth on the seduction and curse of circus. It struck a chord and landed with the subtlety of a slapstick pie in the face. Thinking back to it now, I have also come across empresario Henry Ringling’s observation that this bitch is "a wench, a ravening hag who sucks your vitality as a vampire drinks blood... wrecking homes, ruining bodies, and destroying the happiness of loved ones. And yet, I love her as I love nothing else on earth." A bit extreme? Maybe. But also accurate.

To understand why this resonated, I have to rewind to a brief encounter back in 2012 that inadvertently hurtled me into the arms of the circus. It was a couple of months after having my third child. Stretched beyond words, I agreed to hire a French au pair to help over the long summer holidays. I thought I was hiring a gallic Marie Poppins; instead, I ended up with a cross between Carla Bruni and Single White Female—but that’s another story. Finally, my husband got the picture and whisked me away for a date night. Going off to see The Hunger Games may not strike you as an obvious choice of romantic movies, but after a summer of pure survival mode, I needed to watch someone strong, someone fierce, winning at life — already, perhaps, a part of me was searching for that inner circus strongwoman.

As we approached Leicester Square, a huge crowd had gathered for some premiere at another cinema, and somehow, I found myself swept into the throng and next to Colin Farrell—making small talk, taking a blurred selfie of the pair of us, laughing, my turn of phrase relaxed into his Dublin brogue. "Will you look at that, Colin? It’s all blurred! I guess I’m just nervous. You see, I don’t get out much…" Dressed up to the nines in a favorite Victoria’s Secret dress paired with killer Louboutins, I get that he found that a little hard to believe. Then three little words from my husband brought me back. "Lucy. Come. Now." But that longing for more stomach flips continued as I spent the evening watching Jennifer Lawrence take tumbles and risk all as Katniss Everdeen. And then, like a lightning bolt, it struck me: I would learn to fly on a trapeze.

I spent the next five years charting where that quest led, swept up in the thrill of it all—until the circus, with its endless flips and flights, began seeping into every corner of our lives. The writing as much as the practice became an all-consuming passion, and marriage started to feel like a juggling act with too many balls in the air.

And so it was, before we lost our footing completely, my husband and I with our three children, cast off, setting sail for a life untethered—"throwing off the bowlines, leaving safe harbor behind," and chasing our wildest dream. For two years, we circus-navigated the globe on La Cigale, clocking up over 25,000 nautical miles in the process. And that, again, is another story. Like one possessed, I have legion…

Now, three weeks away from a simple yet life-changing back operation, after two years of managing chronic pain, I am asking myself the question again: What dare I dream? Clearing out my filing cabinet to carve out space and order my thoughts this morning, I came across my Irish passport and an Éire-ribbon with a golden harp on it. I pinned it on, while wrapping round my neck an emerald green scarf, a Bratog Bríde (blessed by St Brigid) for good measure. I went downstairs, and for the first time in six months, picked up my harp again. My fingers clunked up and down the scales, but gradually it feels like I am getting back in tune with life.

“Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another, with a community, a work; a future.” —David Whyte

Recently, I spent three hours attending an online seminar by the Irish poet David Whyte (See davidwhyte.com). His words on experiences of the "unordinary", the way he engaged with the sense of awe of the everyday in Jules Breton's painting of "The Song of the Lark", the gift of his own daughter's voice and his recitation of poems and observations impressed, stirring something familiar — the same call I felt when I first stepped into the circus, the same pull of community, of art, of shared experience. Circus isn’t just about performing; it’s about being fully present, about pushing through fear, about belonging to something bigger than yourself. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe the touch of the Blarney Stone my Dublin-born Dad once kissed gets passed down from father to daughter. Or maybe those story-telling Southern Irish nuns who educated me for thirteen years have something to answer for. Either way, I long to fly again, and this time, I’ll do it through my words.

St. Patrick’s Day is the day to wonder that, one to celebrate the bold and the brave, the dreamers and the doers. What better time to raise a glass to those who fly high, who tumble and fall and get back up again? To the aerialists whose hands are calloused from rope burns, to the acrobats whose bodies bear the bruises of dedication, and the clowns who place their vulnerability centre stage. 

For the Irish in the circus, past and present, and for all who love the jealous bitch anyway—Sláinte!

Chapter 222: The Juggling Saint

 

Normally, the only thing I celebrate on 31st January each year is my sister’s birthday. But this year is a little different. A few weeks ago, I found myself in a school hall, listening to a headteacher introduce some professional training to staff. He began by showing us a picture of a juggler, a tightrope walker, and a magician’s hat and asked what they had in common.

Me! I thought. Obviously!  But nobody there knew me as "Lucy Loves Circus". Circus in general? Too obvious… what’s the trap?!  While I paused to consider, a hand shot up.

"Don Bosco!" came the confident (and correct) answer.

Wait — what?! I was both surprised and curious.

I had heard of Don Bosco before—an Italian priest famous for his work with disadvantaged and at-risk young people. "It is not enough for a child to be loved; they must know they are loved," is one of his key quotes. I was fortunate to experience that knowledge first-hand, both at home and at the two convent schools that educated me.

The first convent, though located in Sussex, was home to 26 Southern Irish Sisters of Mercy, and if you’ve ever watched Derry Girls—though set north of the border—you’ll get the gist in terms of sharp humour, no-nonsense wisdom, and plenty of stories about the lives of saints and miraculous happenings. They certainly had my measure. I can still hear our very own Sister Michael, declaring, "Lucy Young, get up off that wet grass this minute, or it'll be another little holiday you'll be wanting...!"

The second convent, run by IBVM sisters (now the Congregation of Jesus, CJ), had a different character—more progressive in style and approach. In place of the traditional habit and wimple, the sisters wore home clothes, with a simple cross quietly marking their vocation. Being introduced there to the writings of Anthony De Mello bringing together Eastern and Western Christian spirituality—prayer through yoga, breathwork, and meditation—made a lasting impression, as did the strong emphasis on thoughtful reflection and questioning. One of the sisters even taught me to gate vault on long country walks in the hills—my first experience of legs flying over a bar, long before trapeze.

Both schools had one thing in common—aside from the fact they were also staffed by lay people of both sexes—the nuns set the ethos. They were fiercely strong, opinionated women who had no qualms about speaking their minds, were fabulous raconteurs (raconteuses?!), and were devoted to the principle that faith seeks reason, to quote St. Anselm.

But back to today’s saint: Turin-born St. John Bosco (“Don” being the title for Italian priests), known as the juggling saint. A century before my own education, he pioneered teaching methods that were innovative for his time—combining reason, religion, and kindness, prioritizing prevention over punishment. As a boy, he had been fascinated by local carnivals and fairs, teaching himself to juggle, perform magic tricks, and cross a tightwire—skills he later used in the classroom to inspire his students and ignite their imaginations.

He founded the Salesians of Don Bosco, a religious order dedicated to education and vocational training for young people, particularly the poor, inspired in turn by St. Francis de Sales—the 16th-century saint renowned for his gentleness. And, fittingly, the patron saint of writers, journalists… and, I imagine, bloggers.

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Playing around with ChatGPT the other evening, I tried generating an image to share with the Salesian school community I had met, celebrating their patron saint’s circus spirit on this his feast day. But the AI kept inserting macabre details—memento mori imagery, particularly skulls—despite my prompts to remove them.

ChatGPT’s algorithms had a point. A saint’s feast day commemorates the day they died rather than the day they were born. As I’ve just discovered—rather belatedly—their death is seen as their dies natalis ("birthday into heaven"), marking their entry into eternal life with God.

For me, the AI’s eerie insistence on memento mori wasn’t entirely out of place. Classical philosophers embraced it as a reminder that we all die—not to instill despair, but to sharpen our focus on what truly matters. Seneca used it to avoid procrastination. For Marcus Aurelius, it gave life purpose. Epictetus taught that by keeping death in mind, we free ourselves from unnecessary distractions.

However, wary of how this might land with pupils, I kept trying to edit out the skulls —getting increasingly frustrated with each prompt revision, culminating (sixth or seventh attempt) with an exasperated: “NO, NO, I SAID REMOVE THE BLOODY SKULLS!!! …please!” It still didn’t register. Maybe I was too polite. Or overdid the exclamations!

In the end, I took matters into my own hands—quite literally—transferring the image to PowerPoint and using some copy and paste to cover the unwanted details with flowers. While Don Bosco might have approved of my sleight of hand, it was probably not very Stoic.

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My stubborn battle against macabre imagery reminded me of another meditation on impermanence. Recently, I listened to The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh, the Bhuddist monk who was a Nobel Prize nominee (nominated by Martin Luther King) and Global Peace Prize Winner. He describes a practice among young monks in training: meditating on their own mortality—visualizing their bodies decomposing, flesh returning to the earth, until nothing remains but dust. Morbid as it sounds, such reflections lead not to fear, but to a deeper embrace of life. Carpe diem.

On that note, Don Bosco also urged: “Do good while you still have time.” That phrase has been on my mind lately, as I approach a milestone birthday and feel an increasing urgency to get my words out—especially as my back struggles to keep up with my energy levels, and I find myself on standby for surgery, a stark reminder of time’s passage.

So, in writing this, what began with a professional development anecdote has taken me on a diversion— one with all the fun of the fair! Teaching, in many ways, is its own kind of circus act. We juggle responsibilities—lesson planning, pastoral care, endless administrative tasks. We walk a tightrope—balancing discipline with encouragement, structure with spontaneity.

Doing a litte more exploring this week, I discovered the Circo Social Saltimbanqui in Córdoba, Argentina—a Salesian social circus that embodies Don Bosco's legacy by using circus arts to engage and uplift young people. This initiative not only preserves the spirit of Don Bosco's innovative educational methods but also resonates deeply with my own personal Trinity: All things Spanish-speaking, the circus arts and my own speculative pilgrimage of faith.

Reflecting on all this, I realize that the best educators are those who not only see the wonder in the world but also find creative ways to communicate and share it. Don Bosco's transformation of a childhood fascination into a life-changing philosophy serves as a powerful reminder of the impact that passion, when combined with purpose, can have on the lives of young people worldwide. 

Click here: Circo Social Saltambanqui