Glimmers
From my second week in London
14 April 2026
Dear Smythe,
I am starting to feel better.
The first week was a shock—everything new and foreign and the body can go into a sort of distress with a trauma like that. Because it is a trauma. But I am starting to adjust. I am able to be here, if you know what I mean. And in fact, there are moments when I am even enjoying it. When the Master’s at DCU finished, a bunch of us gathered in the Cat and Cage as we always did, and someone suggested that we each share our “glimmer”—our highlight of the year. The word has stuck with me. In the spirit of focusing on the good, while still allowing the bad the dignity of recognition (even if, for the moment, only in my mind), I thought I’d tell you some of my glimmers from the last few days.
On Friday, I went to Two Temple Place, a little museum that would have never crossed my radar had someone not suggested I go and see it. I went and explored The Weight of Being: Vulnerability, Resilience and Mental Health in Art. The exhibition featured the artwork of John Wilson McCracken, a lesser-known artist whose creations explore the impact of mental health on the self and on society. It was a truly impressive showing. I felt reassured to know there are so many out there who are not afraid of exploring their ugly truths, not frightened of expressing them to the world. This sort of honesty is what we need more of. And certainly it is what I try to do, too.
The exhibition itself was wonderful, but the afternoon was made better when I crossed over tucked-away streets and entered the Inner Temple Garden. This piece of nature was so lovely it was shocking, and standing in the midst of it, surrounded by tulips, I’d never have known I was in the middle of the world’s greatest capital city, were it not for the tops of some skyscrapers peeking out from across the Thames. I crossed another little street and sat at the Garden Café and read a book (Edith’s Diary, by Patricia Highsmith, which I didn’t end up finishing). The sun soaked away the chill of the day and a black whippet wandered around the tables, begging the humans borrowing the vicinity for a snack.
In moment of great foresight, I realized back in March that while new to a huge city I would need some sort of anchor, and what better anchor than a creative one? So I signed up for Sarah Byrne’s Morning Edges, which run every weekday in April from 9 am to 10 am. And now, five days a week, I have one sacred hour shared with other writers. It’s us, Zoom, pen and paper and the guidance of our brilliant tutor. It has made such a difference. You can sign up here.
Towards the end of the Great Drowning (which is what I’ve named my first week in London, the era of shock and sadness and a hearty dose of self-pity), Yael called me. And I’m not sure if I told you this before, but our phone calls are of epic proportions. The time we spend on them and the depths to which we plunge in our discussions would put Odysseus to shame. Hours later, I emerged—refreshed and renewed, rejoicing in the healing that only the best of friends can bring.
I made a new friend in London! Or at least, I hope that she will be. I shan’t say too much, because you never want to jinx these things. But it is a lovely feeling to spend time in the company of a likeminded, kind, and intelligent woman.
Sunday, Prid and I went to the Southbank Centre Food Market and gorged ourselves on delicious food. I will say this now and I won’t admit to it again, but the international culinary scene in Dublin is absolutely disastrous unless you can afford Michelin star restaurants. Though there are a few strong exceptions, for the most part, the best non-Irish food I ate back in Ireland was what I cooked at home. It is such a treat to be in a place where I can trust others to do the hard work for me. We’ve had a lot of good food since we arrived, but it was a delight to be outside, roam the stalls, and nibble on various delights for the tongue and tummy.
A strange one, perhaps. But last night I watched the film version of The End of the Affair, which is one of my favorite books. I’ve read it only once, in October 2022, just after moving to Ireland. Apparently, I forgot some details. Upon watching the film, I discovered that the priest to whom the primary female character confesses her many woes is named Father Smythe. Clearly this had lingered in my subconscious for when I began these letters in June of 2023, I named my recipient the very same without realizing it!
Saturday afternoon, I joined two of my classmates from Arvon for a talk at the Lewisham Arthouse on the dream of social housing. One of them was on the panel, and the other right next to me in the audience. I was honestly inspired to hear thoughtful and motivated people speak about their activism towards revitalizing the social housing here in London. Sitting there, a Baldwin quote sprang to mind. “The world is held together, really it is held together, by the love and the passion of a very few people.” For it’s true, isn’t it, that the movement towards progress and positive change has always started from the work and sacrifice of the very few who dare to make the leap and hang on? The three of us sat and chatted together afterwards, and in warmth of their company, I felt very much at home. And a little humbled. They are both such fascinating and accomplished individuals who make real contributions to the world. I felt a bit of a nobody next to them, for at almost-thirty-two, I don’t add much to this planet other than my presence, and I can’t say I have an area of expertise in much other than survival. I don’t mean this in a self-pitying way, Smythe, far from it. What I mean is that the pair of them inspire me. I, too, want to facilitate change—to make this place a little bit better for the rest.
And what a place to live if I want to do that. Infinite possibilities pave the broad path ahead. It’s a little frightening, how much is unknown. And I worry how much my health will impact what I am capable of. It’s quite annoying, all the people who have informed me that to feel at home, I should go out and explore London, make it my own. The reality of living with illness is that I am perpetually exhausted, if not in pain, and have spent the majority of my first two weeks here resting at in the flat, feeling quite alone. How do I find my place here, much less carve a little path to make this world a better place, when I am fighting a battle with myself every day? I don’t have all the answers, but I do have one.
Seek the glimmers. The more you look, the more you will find. And do you know what? I am starting to think that I might end up liking it here.
Warmly,
Marguerite
Your voice from London is a Glimmer for me this morning, Marguerite and so nice to hear. Happy for you and may your wonder persist .
good to hear that you’re settling in. london can be fascinating if you let it. (and you too 🥰)