When I was twelve, I read Irish Thoroughbred by Nora Roberts. It began a lifelong love affair, not only with romance and Nora, but with Ireland. My mom is fully Irish, my dad 50%. The heritage is there, the knowledge that somewhere in history, my family inhabited this magical land that Nora continued to write about, and so began my dream of Ireland.
But, as some of you may know, when you're an adult, dreams sometimes stay just that: dreams. Not because life isn't magical, but because it's busy... and expensive. Let's just be honest.
In my twenties, I was a first year teacher and a graduate student (multiple times). When I grocery shopped, it was for white rice and soy sauce, and eggs that were most definitely not free range. My biggest splurge was coffee, and that was only when my second monthly paycheck came through and I was dead certain a latte wasn't going to be the difference between dinner and starvation. Buying tickets to travel to faraway lands never really presented as a possibility.
And yet, Ireland stayed there, sometimes at the back, sometimes off to the side, but as I got older the dream only got bigger, the place only more important in my mind, maybe because it seemed so far away, so unlikely, or...because something about the idea of home, a land that I might have been meant for, called to me.
Last summer, Old Man River and I realized we were coming up on decade birthdays--and since our 30/40 was spent moving from Seattle to Albany, it seemed like we were ready for another adventure for 40/50. Opposite of me, Old Man River traveled in his twenties. (I mean, he got a Masters and a job, too, but he also had adventures that strayed beyond the classroom.) Long before we met, he did the European and Central and South American tours, he adventured and lived in places I can only spell, and he saw some of the world. But he never saw Ireland, and in my spiritual world of moon-signs and stars, that was a sign that we were supposed to see it together for the first time. And it just so happens that I have a sister-in-law who is a travel guru and agent--and who can take a dream and make it a reality.
(ACHILLE ISLAND)
We spent just under three weeks in Ireland from the end of June to mid July this past summer, celebrating a new decade and embarking on a new adventure. I hate the term bucket list--I am not about to kick the bucket if I have anything to say. Rather, in this family, it's a dreaming list. We dream lots; some of those dreams are every day, normal dreams like retirement planning (heyo); some are dreams for Liv, hoping she knows her own strength and intelligence and isn't afraid to go have fun even with her responsible personality (or just that she'll point her skis downhill and let herself go for a second, ahem); and some of those dreams are adventures, things we'd love to do, but don't necessarily have a timeframe for (jobs and responsible spending and all that jazz). And so, when one of those adventure-dreams becomes a reality, I'm always a little nervous, wondering if the reality could ever live up to the hype.
(WESTPORT HOUSE, CLEW BAY, KYLEMORE ABBEY, GALWAY COLLEGE, ATHLONE )
While I am a dedicated enough worrier to worry even on vacation, I found it difficult most days in Ireland to do anything but laugh, and look, and laugh some more. While every place we went was beautiful and full of wonderful people, perhaps the most important experiences were those we took with a guide, not just because of their wisdom (and the fact that they did the driving so we did not have to), but because of their kindness and humor and their ability to just be.
We come from achieving families, Old Man River and I--although, we are admittedly the most under-achieving of these families;)--and sometimes, it seems like we should always be doing or earning or searching. And that's good; it keeps us from being sedentary. But for those almost three weeks, I also learned that walking in The Burren and seeing rocks from millions of years ago, or watching a man in Connemara work his sheep dogs who were a lot like my ninth grade students, or sitting in a castle in Dromoland and drinking coffee before embarking on a fairy-forest walk are also important experiences.
Experiences which were really about being there, in the moment, and existing in a land that marks time all the way back to the 5th century and before. A land and its people who are known for enduring great strain, great hardship, and who welcomed us like long-lost family.
Dear Ireland, you were everything I've ever dreamed, and maybe just a bit more. You were funny and wild, so fucking cold even with the warmest welcome, and greener every place we went. Thank you, for silver service coffee, beautiful stories, and even more beautiful people. You were a dream for so long, one that now only burns brighter, greener, truer. (Even with the way the wind did my hair dirty every day.)
Until next time.
xoxo
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