Forwarding address

Have made the move. Find me at
http://holdmefast.wordpress.com/

If you suits you, of course.

new space

The time has come.   Must move on to a new blog as this one is completely out of upload space.   I leave you with this last photo taken on Kenmare Bay in County Kerry that reminds me of infinite space.  And hopefully, a new blog address to follow.  Come join us – or stay with us, as we make a little move to a place with more space.

early

On our last day in Kenmare, County Kerry, where we recently got away from all things except our family and what we wanted to do and be, I got up early.   By myself.

To be clear, early rising is not my thing, especially as it doesn’t tandem well with insomnia.  But after an unusually great week of rest, I was game for an early walk down a scenic 1.5 lane road.  So I rose, dressed, grabbed my itouch and my mobile (what if I’m attacked by a squirrel?)  and headed out the door, leaving the sleeping Slates in their beds.

It was cold, colder than it had been.  I could see my breath in the air.  But the sun was shining, unhindered, so I set out to go down one of the roads around the place.   It isn’t exactly a heavily populated area, so I was thinking “solitude.”  Stopping at the old bridge under which the Sheen River rolls to tumble gracefully over the rocks for the Sheen Falls Lodgers, and then past the lodge, it empties into another body of water, flatter, more still.  Standing and looking out over the rock wall of the bridge, the air was clean and fresh, more breathable.  And with a deep inhalation, it was confirmed, someone was burning wood.  Wood smoke is always a serious bonus.   Probably still up there at number one on list of favorite smells.

After sincerely enjoying breathing the air, for the above-mentioned reasons, I took off down an unknown road.   The orange flowers that flanked many of  the roadways still leaned in at waist height while the stick-straight standing up flowers that were purple and fuzzy stood tall in groups of 10 or more.  Glorious in itself, without any further bonuses, right?  But there’s more.

My itunes were playing something soothing and reflective, my choice for the morning.   I’d just landed on a song that deserved replays (Let Go by Lindsay McCaul, the acoustic version), which I noticed something I’d never seen.  Never.

Dew was on the tip of every green and leafy thing.  Just on the tip, about to drop off, but holding on.  In the cool morning sunlight, the dew wasn’t just dripping, it was positively glistening.  I walked past thousands of dew-made diamonds, sparkling for me.  And the aroma issuing from the woodland was intoxicating – every sweet flowering plant, tree or shrub, was releasing all they had into the extra-clean air, mingling with the woodsmoke.   And between the sight of all the green of the woodland glistening with diamond drops and the combination of aromas from what blooms, I was darn impressed.  I think God was showing off for me.  This  is amazing, I said in my heart.  And God said, “You wanna see something else?”

At first I was startled by the sound of rushing waters on both sides of the road.  But then it became one-sided and I stopped to read a sign about Salmon Fishing (which amounts to benignly catching salmon and releasing them back into the rushing water.   This amounted to giving the salmon a hand-hug, which I found amusing.  Yet another part of the pleasure that was indeed all for me.

I won’t soon forget it, my own personal early show.

expanding roots

We were at Sherkin Island when one of our friends’ children came running up while we were preparing for lunch and wanted someone to come see what she had found.  Being partially wrapped around her little finger and not nearly as enmeshed in preparing the sausages, I followed her to the spot pictured above.  Someone had planted a flower garden in the sand, spacing each bright bloom far enough away from the others as one would when expecting roots to grow.  Or maybe it was only for symmetry.  But the sweet girl was delighted that I photographed her find.   There is a story in the background of this photo, but not on the island.   The story is in my recent days, weeks, months, possibly years.

One might think that when you move from a familiar culture to an unfamiliar one, the initial adjustment to all the differences would be the big deal.  Not to discount initial differences as they were quite significant, but I’m finding that something more subtle is even more significant.

If you really mean to join in the culture on as deep a level as possible, you make a kind of commitment in your own mind.   A commitment to stay, to join, to belong, to immerse.   And while a cross-cultural traveler does not ever lose the essence of who they are, I would say that it is edited, quite a bit.  I remember reading a book that promoted the idea that you become a 150% person – 100% of who you were and then 50% of a new you that is influenced by culture.  I’m no sociological genius, or even very well informed, but I think I disagree with that number, or maybe with it’s distribution.   To me, it feels like 50% of me is just the same and another 20% of me is reformed by the new culture.   That’s leaving me at 70%, I realize.

The other 30% is in a limbo state.   It’s neither here nor there.   Hundreds of little blossoms that are pieces of me, of who I am and what I think, have been blown about and the seeds of those blossoms are carried in the air.   There are a few thousand little things floating loose inside that person that I regard to be me.   It’s pollen-season in my head.

This was not sought.  The wind came in the night (night being a long while of living outside familiarity) and boom!  . . . personality chaos ensued.  What am I like?  Where will I land and what will I be like?

The boundary fences  - or tent pegs – have been moved.   The stretching of me is a constant companion and I wonder if everybody can see that 30% of me is not in place.  Years ago, a friend living overseas said she felt she was being stretched – and when I asked how, she didn’t or couldn’t really say.   Now I know.

I would like to see it and examine it, to write about it in a notebook and to quantify and qualify it.  I would like to know where and when these things will be planted.  But in the meantime, I will just sit deeply and equidistantly and hope for real rootedness.  Yep, that’s me.

Baltimore and Poland, a study in contrasts

Months ago, our friends invited us to come spend a few summer break days with their family down in Baltimore, County Cork.   We’d talked about it a good bit in advance, but didn’t know what to expect.   It was relaxedly fabulous.  It was harbour views, lighthouses at night, boating to islands during the day kind of fun.  It was bbq on the beach, walks to coffee and ice cream, time spent lingering with the adults after dinner when the kids were in bed.  It was vintage chairs and art, crab-fishing and wetsuits, genuine family fun and watching all our kids having the time of their lives.  And it was so much more.   Mostly, it was life-giving.  As in, I felt refreshed, renewed, alive and glad to be so.  Emotionally, mentally, spiritually, physically.

After a few days of laundry, we were off to an annual conference that we are required to go to in Poland.   Maybe feeling like we have no options but to go is a downer of sorts.  It’s expensive, considering it’s not optional.  It tends to provoke some anxious feelings in me.  But I do go prayerfully, hoping for the best.  But it wasn’t the best – and I’d not really fault Poland – and we knew a whole lot more about what to expect.  It is difficult to get on in a country where you don’t speak the language at all and you have an allergic child in tow.   It can be humorous when only two out of five get what they order at a restaurant.  But it’s not humorous when you take on more information than you can possibly cope with, in a scenario that is all people, all the time.  It’s not reassuring to be presented with a new strategy when you only had a new strategy the previous year.  It’s unsettling when you realize that you can’t find the familiar faces you want to see, because they are absent for one reason or another. And it’s utterly devastating to share your heart in what is assumed to be a safe environment, only to meet outright opposition.   It was no Baltimore.

Thank God our friends had returned from their holidays to help balance it all out.   On our return, they had us for dinner and we slipped easily and lightly back into dinner in a kitchen we know and love where allergies are catered for, into conversation that doesn’t bring anxiety, into the activity of children laughing and entertaining.  I even enjoyed removing gum from a child’s hair.  Because they know me and love me and hear me.  That’s more than human, it’s divine.

 

the weather – brought to you by a sunny day

So it was one of those extended sunny weather weekends in the Dublin area, one with temperatures in the mid 70s, and people generally “roasting” in the sun and turning pink, in spite of all the sun cream used.  Yes, my fellow-Alabamians, it is not sun screen here, just sun cream.  In real moments of confusion, I have called it sun scream, which are words that describe what happens to your skin when you don’t wear the stuff.

On days like today, and even on really rainy days, people will ask me about the weather in Alabama, if I’m not either a) used to all the sun and missing it or b) totally annoyed with all the rain, not being used to so much rain.   And then, the truth comes out . . . . I like the weather here, in general.  The temperature suits me, how I love it.

But out of curiosity, and to better answer these questions that I’m asked about what I’m used to, I did a little reading and comparing the weather in Alabama  and in the Dublin, Ireland area.    One no-brainer is that in Alabama, there are fairly distinct seasons with fairly predictable temperatures.  In Ireland, there are some general expectations about seasons, but any given day could either deliver or completely surprise you.   In Alabama, there are no winter-like days in the middle of summer.  Ever.   But in Ireland, it’s totally possible.   Expect everything.   In the summer, leave the house in layers, take a rain jacket AND sun cream.

Here’s what blew my mind.   For all the wet days in Ireland, about 150 a year on average for the southeast, the average annual rainfall is only around 30 to 35 inches.  I found a statistic that indicated the north Alabama area has about 210 sunny-partly sunny days annually, which would mean 155 not sunny days (though not necessarily rainy).  However, average annual rainfall for that same area would be 55-60 inches.     Alabama is wetter than Ireland.   But only because when it comes down, it comes down in big fat drops, in fact, in sheets of rain.   None of this fine blowing mist stuff.   Water stands on the ground, in little pools, everywhere.   And then, the sunny days come and it’s dry, dry, dry.

To clarify (and who among you really wanted clarification?), what I read was not an apples-to-apples type of comparison, so it’s hard to say with clarity just how different it is for us here, weather-wise.  These things I can compare, however:

In Alabama, it rains so hard that at times, you must pull your car to the side of the road because visibility is zero.   In Ireland, I’ve yet to see anything approaching that kind of rainfall, even the days that are described as “lashing.”   Lashing days are just average rain for Alabama.

In Ireland, you can walk in the rain without being totally soaked.  In Alabama, that might be a rare occasion, but generally, you should “get in out of the rain.”

In Alabama, there are many many many warm and hot and scorching hot days in which it is possible to sit outside.  But most hot days involve sweating profusely and a large array of biting/stinging insects.  Therefore, Alabamians love air conditioning and sincerely appreciate a breeze.  Breezes just aren’t that common.

In Ireland, there are sunny days, but most of them are sunny and yet too cool to sit still outdoors in, say, shorts and a sleeveless top.   You can get away with that in a conservatory, which is why so many houses have them.  Sun plus warmth.   But this weekend was sun plus warmth out in the open.   That’s not that common.  Not for me, anyway, thus, the strange “tan lines” from my regular outfit kind of attire.

My personal truths?   I love the weather here, though I do miss my sun, but just the mild sun, not the scorching sun that turns grapes into raisins.  I do not miss the great sheets of rain, though occasionally, it’s fun to hear thunder (rarer in Ireland, much more so).  I do not miss the tornadoes or the really scary and frequent thunderstorms of spring, summer and autumn. I love the breezes off the Irish sea, I love air blowing through the open windows. I do not miss frequent flooding, flash-flooding.   I love being comfortable on most days of the year.   Do I mind the weather in Ireland?  Not at all.

since it’s been a month

You do remember I’m running out of photo upload space, right?   I find it difficult to post with out sharing a little photo or two, so I tend not to post.  And then, sometimes, I haven’t taken any pictures.  Sometimes I have lots of new shots, but can’t post as I feel it violates privacy, either ours or someone else’s.  Cyberspace has gotten scary, ya’ll.   That face recognition stuff?  Don’t like it a bit.

But, looking through pictures I’ve shot over the last month, I can recap some of the Slate Five news!

Around the end of May, we went to an outdoor traditional session.  There were 6 or 7 harpists gathered there, an unusual number at a time for anywhere in Ireland.  But beyond the harps, loads of  instruments were played, dances danced, and children stuffed themselves with picnics and fun.  I stuffed myself with fun.  Pretty sure we will go to another one of those when the opportunity arises.

I think E has been in 3 shows, one prizewinners’ concert, one from the local children’s performance group, and one put on by the school choir.  And we went to the show of our friends, three siblings all in one production.  That felt like a very family thing to do so I loved it.

We’ve been involved in either two or three football tournaments, which has provided us with a little sun-sponsored vitamin D.   And Scott has slightly sprained his ankle again, football-related injury.  Hopefully my ankle isn’t in for a repeat performance.

The boys made swords and were “knighted” within a community group that we belong to — Moms and girls were not allowed, but the Dad says it was very manly and brilliant.

Scott went away for the weekend of my birthday to an air show, a trip and a bit of fun he was LONG overdue to have.  And it was totally fine that it was my birthday, especially as I was well loved by my friends here.   I’m actually still kind of stunned about the gifts and meals and effort that went into celebrating my birthday, but beyond my stunned response is a really deep gratitude for the lovely, lovely people in my life.   I think that may go down as one of my favorite birthdays, to be honest.

We’ve celebrated father’s day.  We’ve sat in the sun, played basketball (oh, another tournament there), sat indoors and disbelieved the rain and the “unseasonable” cold on some days. But it’s Ireland, we have all seasons in a day often, at least two or three for good measure.

I read the Stieg Larsson crime series, which I bought super-cheap a year ago and was waiting for the time when I could read all three at a go, because I heard they were three at a go kind of books.   And they were.

Just briefly, we’ve had to become even more home security conscious, which has been unsettling and has occupied a good bit of my head space.   Not just mine, we are all affected.  But life does go on.

And on.   Will try to update more regularly.  No promises, just a little intent.  And one of these days, I’m going to figure out what to do about my limited WordPress space.  Watch this space.  (Because sometimes, that’s all this blog is)

Will it be beautiful?

A long, long time ago, about 1996,  Scott gave me a piano for Christmas.  A full, entire piano.  Not a baby grand, mind you, but not a keyboard either.  To date, that is the most overwhelmed that I’ve ever been by a gift, and not only because it was sitting in my house for a couple of days before I unwrapped it (i.c. opened the door to the room where it was “hiding”).  And . . . I cried.  Happy tears, loved tears.   But then, I’ve think I might be a cry-er, my friends tell me so.   Regardless, it was really a beautiful moment.  Christmas, two little stray puppies running around, piano surprise . . . . beautiful.

Our daughter takes piano lessons and she’s moving right along in her progress because she loves it.  Her brother has no desire for lessons, but seems to sit down with regularity to play — and it’s not bad.  It’s inspired me to start playing again.  Trying, anyway.   I never had much skill, but like my daughter, I loved it.

In times of stress or overload, I have always enjoyed being alone with my piano, just playing whatever I could, occasionally working toward some random piece I’d decided to master or re-master.  The sound of the keys, the chords, the melody that I could manage to keep going – always calms and soothes me.  There is something soul-quieting about the richness of the sound of the piano.  It’s beautiful.   To me, there is something spiritual about it. Aside from a recent interest in acoustic guitar, I have always preferred, if I had to chose a single instrument, the piano.

There are about 5 pieces that I’m working on right now.  Some are instrumental, some are pop, some are musical theatre. . . there is a queue of songs I’m eager to play.  One in particular I’ve practiced over and over is called Bella’s Lullaby and it’s got a good bit of that melancholy sound that I so love. I think that I might be able to get it to my version of  ”perfect” one of these days.

Now, when I listen to any music, I’m suddenly hearing the piano in it.  One of the songs on my ipod, called “Beautiful Ending” is one of those.   The piano is a bit driving in it, though, so likely won’t be doing that one (give me easy peasy please).  Still, I am totally captivated by this song and have only just heard the words to it.   They make me think about what is beautiful and spiritual . . . and how I keep myself from what is beautiful for seasons, just as I left my lovely gift-to-me piano silent for so long.

Oh, why do I let myself let go

Of hands that painted the stars and holds tears that fall

And the pride of my heart makes me forget

It’s not me but you who makes the heart beat

I’m lost without you, your dying for me

So tell me what is our ending?

Will it be beautiful, so beautiful?

Will my life find me by your side?

Your love is beautiful, so beautiful.

wait just a cotton pickin’ minute

I do not get this, no I do not.

For three years, I’ve gotten the impression that Americans who claim Irish ancestry or who call themselves “Irish American” are  . . . annoying . . . to at least some of the Irish.  Like sigh, okay, eye roll – so you think you MIGHT have Irish ancestry.  To be honest, it could be a younger generation thing.   My impression is that the only Irish are the ones living on the island or rather recent expats and no other are worthy of claiming association.  Keep in mind, this is only my perception.

So there’s perception and somewhere amongst ideas and opinions and history, there is truth.  And the truth is . . . well, some of that truth is something I’ve hidden under a bitten lip for a long while.

The truth is . . . when one lives in a country that is a literal melting pot of people, it is natural and normal to want to know your origins, I believe, much the same as adopted children are often compelled to meet their biological parents.   It is built in the human genetic code to be from somewhere, to be OF a people.   For Americans, with so many people to be of and so many places to be from  - and with people traveling and moving and intermarrying with all manner of other people – it gets messy.  I can’t simply say, “I’m a King (surname), I come from Tuscaloosa.”  Because “my people” have been a mass pollenation of plantings from all over the giant land that is the United States.   We come from a LOT of different places and oh.my.stars. what a lot of names we have had down the years as the ancestors have moved and married and moved some more.   It is no cakewalk to find one’s origins.

But one distinct pattern of migration in the world has been out of Ireland and to the U.S., among other places.  Entering at Ellis Island and moving down the Appalachian trial over the years, the Irish have been identifiable in the names that have persisted, in the sayings that people teach their children, in some cultural ways that have lasted and lasted.   To be honest, I hadn’t realized what familiar names, sayings, words, etc were of Irish origin until I actually LIVED in Ireland.   I’m always a little surprised and pleased when I realize that bits of my former life went out from this country where we now live.   I did always know my name was Irish, but my sister has one of those names as well, and as parents do, I think they just liked the sound of the names – it wasn’t a particular effort to join in. My ancestry is pretty complex, not a clear trail and I may or may not have Irish roots.   For sure, I have some German roots – or is it from further east in Europe?  See, not clear.

But for all those who are Sullivans or Morans or Kellys who live in the U.S. and have been able to trace the family line all the way back to Ireland – do they only get disdain- unless they are an American president who has lost his apostrophe somewhere along the way?   Really?   I thought we were all just people.

I say receive ‘em all, presidentially endowed or not.

dominoes

You know the domino effect?  One event presses down and begets another event?

Me and the hubs could not sleep.   An antique, full sized bed and a mattress that was overly memory foam – let’s say through-and-through – caused literal pain.   Middle of the night waking up and can barely move to turn over kind of pain.  Waking in the morning and being ever so careful not to dislodge some bone from my personal frame, literally sliding off the high bed onto the floor and standing in a wince until neurons could fire and muscles could comply.   I have had significant hip pain ever since I began sleeping on this mattress three years ago.   On a little time away, sleeping in another bed, a firm one, I felt fabulous.  Unsore.  Eureka, a new bed is in order!   But hubs wanted to be sure, really sure, so we did mattress sleeping experiments.

After lying with great awkwardness on multiple showroom mattresses (come on Mr. Salesman, I can be horizontal quite without your help – will call with coil questions if necessary), we finally found the ONE.  It’s not like a bed on a frame, it’s on a divan, altogether new for me and still evicting my under bed items. And so toppled the first domino, the displacement of my under-bed stuff, stuff I access every day.

And oh my, did I forget that the mattress, which is King size (European) but American Queen, would need new sheets?  Yes I did.  Did I realize my mattress was really, really tall or deep or whatever means fitted sheets must be special to fit?  No, I did not dream of it, but the first fitted sheet confirmed we have a special bed.   So the sheet hunt.  And the linen closet clean out since there are no more full size beds in the house.   And no need to hang on to lots o’ stuff , so domino two – linen cleanout.  Which was then toppled with another domino called “I need to clean out as much as I can that is in the way.”  Toys bagged up.  Clothing outgrown categorized and bagged.  Craft supply invaded.

Simulataneously, my long-range plan to make my living spaces more hospitality friendly resulted in a total bargain steal of some used conservatory furniture, which has put G’s football table in the kitchen and has moved the bench holding loads o’ stuff into the conservatory for sitting, as benches are generally used.   Next domino – serious kitchen chaos, fueled by the clean out of the entry closet and the decision that weird items were living both there and in the utility room.  Which means the closet looks great, but the kitchen looks like a shoe polish, candle and bread products convention.  Meanwhile, the only room I can truly think in is the conservatory and it is lovely for me and lovely for friends.  Much enjoyment coming up, if we can find a second-hand sideboard and an appropriate sized table for the kitchen.  We’ve been sitting 5 around a 4 place table, Scott perched on a step stool for meals.  For about 9 years.  So, yeah, it’s time for a change.  Time for order.  Time to be able to have families and friends over without the insanity of where to seat large groups of people.   Time to put like with like.

Time for the last domino to fall.  Oh please be the last one.   Mama Bear needs order.  Quiet and order.

And of course, now that the conservatory is no longer functioning as a toy depository, guess whose little people are hanging out there often?  Make it nice and they will come . . . .  I did put the kid’s dominoes in a little storage cube, a last motion to complete the room.  Let us hope.