tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11645498343556654362024-03-14T02:20:51.549-07:00Dearest IrelandLetters from a long-lost American daughterKCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-44216784311741157402016-09-12T11:19:00.000-07:002016-09-12T11:19:27.453-07:00The Final Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's to you, Erin Gra Mo Chroi</td></tr>
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Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
When I first made plans to meet you last year, I perused a variety of travel brochures, each promising a spectacular vacation discovering the "hidden" Ireland, your "secret" self. That seems to be what people are searching for.....a connection that is thicker than the walls of castles and cathedrals and stronger than a tall pint of Guinness. Even as they board the commercial tour buses, they're hoping for more than a spectator's comfortable seat. They want to be called into the game. <br />
<br />
I've spoken to a few people who have taken whirlwind bus tours and, while they have only positive things to say about Ireland, they came back to America tired and disappointed. Like a quick and cagey leprechaun, the hidden magic they were hoping to find remained just beyond their grasp, inviting but elusive. Maybe that's why it's called "hidden" after all. <br />
<br />
You don't have to be a wizard to figure this out. The real heart of any culture is in the people themselves, not their artifacts and relics, no matter how attractive and amazing those artifacts and relics might be. Your stone speaks to me but it's always a one-way conversation. It never listens when I tell it my troubles. And your music comforts and inspires me, but it doesn't need me like I need it. It gives, but has no capacity to take what I might offer.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dSMxCCR9jK4/V9P05ARp7uI/AAAAAAAAAxs/H4EIUuS4I1MwrVAAT2-hCuOrq_OnVkcrQCLcB/s1600/cliff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dSMxCCR9jK4/V9P05ARp7uI/AAAAAAAAAxs/H4EIUuS4I1MwrVAAT2-hCuOrq_OnVkcrQCLcB/s320/cliff.jpg" width="320" /></a>You can't buy a ticket into someone's heart, no matter how extravagant your travel budget. The price of a relationship is time.... time to develop empathy and understanding that goes both ways...... not me trying to dissect you, but you deciding to be vulnerable..... not you just smiling and trying to sell me souvenirs, but you genuinely reaching out to me with warmth and kindness and accepting the same in return. That connection is what I found in Ireland this year..... and it was definitely magic to me. <br />
<br />
Like so many other Irish descendants born and raised in the USA, I have felt an affinity with Ireland from a young age and yearned to discover what it was all about. For some reason, dear Ireland, you chose me to glimpse inside your treasure chest. And when the sparkling jewels took my breath away, you wrapped them round my neck, pressed them on my fingers and toes and led me to a mirror. I saw myself as Irish and it made me feel very proud and humble at the same time. Even though I'm home now, I will always know I'm Irish<br />
<br />
<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-41685690576628699582016-08-30T11:52:00.000-07:002017-02-13T12:13:09.625-08:00The Twelfth Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Cliffs of Moher on the Wild Atlantic Way</td></tr>
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Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
Do you remember Star Trek from the '60's? You're thousands of years old so the 1960's must seem like yesterday. There was one episode featuring a scruffy looking guy named Lazarus. He lived in two parallel universes as his good self and evil self. It sounds goofy, but his good self was always fighting with his evil parallel self in a "dimensional corridor", trying to keep him from crossing over. If the two Lazaruses came together in either universe, both universes would be annihilated. I don't know why, but that was the story. As a twelve year old thinker I, like Mr. Spock, found this "fascinating."<br />
<br />
I still do. I thought about the implications just last week. When my daughter and her husband came to spend a week with Doc and me, my American self was confronted with my Irish self. I wondered if both of my universes would survive and, if not, which one would implode? I know what you're thinking.....this is heavy stuff!<br />
<br />
I've been back and forth four times in the last year. When I'm home in Florida, I feel.....well....at home. Everything seems natural and normal.......buttermilk biscuits, driving on the "right" side, ugly billboards and heat waves. When I'm in Ireland, I've grown to also feel comfortable and at home.... mountains and green rolling pastures, three raincoats (light, medium, and downpour), creamy 99's, and holding up queues everywhere, counting out my euro coins.<br />
<br />
It was so fun introducing Ted and Leah to Ireland. We packed a lot in one short week. You heard about Skellig Michael in my last letter, but that was only half of one day. We left Shannon airport Saturday morning and went directly to the Cliffs of Moher. Doc and I weren't concerned that this was at 5 AM Ted and Leah time. We poured coffee down their throats and made them smile for pictures. We made sure they didn't get too near the edge of the cliffs and drift over when the caffeine wore off. They loved it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The iconic Father Ted house</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3bxKgMsk4bk/V8GxctVMSxI/AAAAAAAAAwI/Uq9HeDYpI7sUsCHsn5hRZzHNgq9dglD3gCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3bxKgMsk4bk/V8GxctVMSxI/AAAAAAAAAwI/Uq9HeDYpI7sUsCHsn5hRZzHNgq9dglD3gCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%25283%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ballinahow Castle</td></tr>
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<br />
From the cliffs, we went to the Burren since it was right next door. I remembered walking this vast gray moonscape last year, admiring the tiny wildflowers that frolic like fairies among the boulders. We drove past the Father Ted house and I was glad I had already corrupted Ted and Leah's minds with a few episodes before they left Florida. They were able to appreciate seeing it in person.<br />
<br />
From there we drove south and, after crossing the Shannon estuary on the Killimor-Tarbert ferry, found our B&B in Castlegregory, on a hillside overlooking eight miles of sandy beach. We were on the go almost every day, sight-seeing and exploring old ruins. The fifth member of our party was always Ted's binoculars. Being the obsessive bird watcher that he is, he was thrilled to identify dozens of new species to add to his "life list". I think he saw 18 on the very first day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7tsShoR-NTc/V8GxX3gmyFI/AAAAAAAAAwE/aaa9okKd210jIw5OZqKBT9O6ZuXANSifgCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7tsShoR-NTc/V8GxX3gmyFI/AAAAAAAAAwE/aaa9okKd210jIw5OZqKBT9O6ZuXANSifgCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I know that's a 4000 year old wedge tomb behind me, but I think I see a Willy Wagtail."</td></tr>
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My birthday was Thursday. In the Monk's pub I turned a year older with the three F's,......Friends, Family and Fiddle. Couldn't have asked for more. While I joined in a few tunes with the musicians, Ted and Leah sat with Doc, his parents and the gang and got a taste of Irish pub life (and the best Guinness around). They didn't even seem sleepy though it was way past their bedtimes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3cRiAEC2rc0/V8Gxh6aAOtI/AAAAAAAAAwY/nZsSmcyMPr020dcS5yvcq768YayDtx-dACLcB/s1600/IMG_9201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3cRiAEC2rc0/V8Gxh6aAOtI/AAAAAAAAAwY/nZsSmcyMPr020dcS5yvcq768YayDtx-dACLcB/s320/IMG_9201.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ted and Leah with Mom and Pop at the Monk's</td></tr>
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<br />
Ireland has a way of unwinding time, liberating it from the tyranny of gears and pendulums........letting it glide gently alongside us instead of dragging us from somewhere up ahead. Star Trek would say it creates "temporal anomalies" in the space/time continuum. But really.....it just creates good craic.<br />
<br />
Thursday night found us in Dublin having dinner at the exquisite Fire Restaurant in the Mansion House, where the Lord Mayor resides. I hoped he'd come out and wish me a happy birthday but I guess he got preoccupied with something less important. The meal was spectacular......as was the musical, "Once" that we saw afterwards.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Oh Glen...Can we take you home???"</td></tr>
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<br />
While wandering around waiting for the doors to open, Doc pointed and waved for our attention. He had spotted Glen Hansard, who won an Oscar for the movie, on a secluded side street near Dublin Castle. We most humbly and reverentially approached him and he was as nice as can be. He said he was going to the musical also. I hoped he'd make a stage appearance but he didn't. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin</td></tr>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aHG_x019drg/V8GxfPkyfnI/AAAAAAAAAwU/ny-yXLc7CQgg27atDojPXfBRSsDVq-rfQCLcB/s1600/cathedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>We slept in Friday and spent the afternoon in St. Patrick's Cathedral and the National Museum. So much more of you to see, dear Ireland, but no more time. We drove back to Thurles in the evening, then Saturday morning said our goodbyes at Shannon. A "temporal anomaly" for sure......it seemed like they had just arrived. But both universes seem to be still intact, so apparently my good and evil selves can safely exist in both. KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-4998206406571569112016-08-23T11:59:00.000-07:002016-08-24T08:20:06.581-07:00The Eleventh Letter<br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8uLlSIdQzLU/V7tMOaKzvPI/AAAAAAAAAuU/4xnH9VzjymY3i752PVxWvM6lbrvkCoKnQCLcB/s1600/skellig2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8uLlSIdQzLU/V7tMOaKzvPI/AAAAAAAAAuU/4xnH9VzjymY3i752PVxWvM6lbrvkCoKnQCLcB/s320/skellig2.jpg" width="240" /></a>Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
Several months ago I remember sitting in Ted and Leah's living room in Port Orange, FL and talking about my summer plans to be in Ireland. I mentioned that I was trying to get in shape so I could climb the 612 steep, winding steps of Skellig Michael, a rocky outcrop off the Kerry coast with 1500 year old monastic ruins at the top. Ted, knowing his mother-in-law is no exercise fanatic, rolled his eyes cynically and asked if I realized how many stories high 612 steps would be. I think I snarled at him.<br />
<br />
So knowing that Ted and Leah would be visiting Ireland in August, Doc and I decided to include them in our adventure. We reserved four spots on the tour boat that takes brave, acrophobia-defying souls across the seven miles of Atlantic Ocean to "Scary Michael". It was good we booked in advance because the excursion has become very popular this summer due to the latest Star Wars filming there. Each boat is limited to twelve passengers and we had to call several captains before we found four seats with Captain Dan.<br />
<br />
He told us the Celtic Victor would only set out weather permitting. I wondered what kind of weather would be considered "permitting". It rains and blows almost every day along the southwest coast. Dan sounded skeptical on the phone so I thought we shouldn't get our hopes up.<br />
<br />
But of course we all did. We were giddy with anticipation the night before the trip. We stayed right in Portmagee near the docks so we could get a reasonably good night's sleep and be on time for our 9:00 launch. Leah had not been feeling well (maybe a little food poisoning, she thought) but was not deterred at all. I prayed hard for all of us to be well and for a warm, sunshiny morning.<br />
<br />
And my prayer could not have been more beautifully answered. When we woke, the air was sparkling and we passed around the sunscreen as we excitedly piled in the car.<br />
<br />
When we reached the pier, Doc walked straight up to the first man he saw and engaged in conversation. I wondered if it was someone he had recognized from Thurles. When I joined him, I discovered it was Captain Dan he was talking to. I still don't know how Doc knew who he was right away. An Irish man thing, I guess.<br />
<br />
Captain Dan had a grave, foreboding look on his face. He said the weather out at sea was very bad. Really? How could that be when it was perfect at the dock? Obviously, I am not a sea person.<br />
<br />
The plan was to give it a try, but we were told over and over that if we could not disembark safely at the island, we would turn back. Safety was the top priority. I was good with that......sort of. I might have been willing to risk a small fracture or two, but definitely not drowning. So when all twelve of us were aboard, precariously seated six on a side like eggs, Captain Dan revved the engine.<br />
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As soon as we cleared the harbor, we understood with the clarity of Yoda. The waves were not choppy.....they were huge, rolling fields of spray that took us by surprise. We were already getting soaked when the first mate started passing out rain suits and tying up barriers behind our backs. We were on a seafaring ferris wheel, rising and falling and churning miserably and yet, laughing and joking like carnival clowns.<br />
<br />
It's been a long time since I had motion sickness. Still I took precautions and tried to stare at the horizon, which was difficult because it kept disappearing under the boat. Smiling, innocent faces among the passengers turned 40 shades of green to match the Irish pastures we were leaving behind. Eyes closed two by two, as we tried to anchor ourselves with our feet so as not to go bounding across the deck. It was an hour long episode of Deadliest Catch and as Skellig Michael grew closer, I was praying we could get off the boat there, even if we had to be air lifted.<br />
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When the motor finally stopped, we had to wait for another boat to clear the landing ramp (it's probably not called landing ramp) in the little cove for our turn to step off. We held on tight to whatever was available and, each time the boat rose on a crest, the first mate hoisted one of us off as if we were sacks of flour at a loading zone (well, we were still partially standing, I think). By this time I had almost forgotten about the challenge of climbing to the monastery. I felt victorious having survived the Celtic Victor.<br />
<br />
It took very little time to lose our sea legs and feel steady again. We gathered with the passengers from a couple of other boats to hear a guide give us warnings of all the dangers about. I wondered if he knew what we had just come from. He encouraged us to "turn back" if we felt exhausted as we climbed to the summit. But he also said anyone who was "moderately fit" shouldn't have a problem. And, by the way, the boat leaves to go back in less than two hours.<br />
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This made me nervous. What if I were the only one who couldn't make it? I looked around....lots of young, backpack toting millennials with ponytails and water bottles. I remembered how long it took me to reach the top of the Devil's Bit last summer, though everyone said it was more of a walk than a hike. I'd had to take a long rest halfway up.<br />
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There was nothing for it now but to start stepping. The steps, made by the monks so long ago, were irregular and uneven...some made of one large stone and some made of smaller flat stones jammed together. The landscape was stunning and we four walked together slowly, stopping often, not from fatigue, but to take it all in.<br />
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We were disappointed that the seasonal puffins had already flown away, but everything else was dazzling. There was an other-worldly feel about the place that was both eerie and calming.... gray and haunting. I imagined the strong wind at my back was the ghosts of those early monks nudging me along, and I was shocked when we reached the top so quickly. I must actually be "moderately fit" after all.<br />
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Another guide was waiting for us to explain about the monastery: the beehive huts where the monks slept, the church, stone crosses and modest graveyard. We wandered around taking pictures, peeping into nooks, ducking into the beehives, admiring the architecture almost in disbelief. Then it was time to start our descent.<br />
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Now the wind was in our faces and we estimated it was truly hurricane strength (and we Floridians know what that feels like). We could hardly stand against it as we eased ourselves back down the slope. It wasn't hard to imagine how every year there are serious accidents here and sometimes even fatalities. I was relieved when we hit sea level once again.<br />
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Getting on the boat was easier than getting off but, as we cleared the cove, the waves seemed even bigger than before. There was a serious silence on the way back. I'd like to think we were all meditating on the splendor and majesty of Skellig Michael, but I know in my heart we were just mostly tired and/or sick. I felt both. I am not embarrassed to say that I was the only one courageous enough to swallow her pride and upchuck her breakfast over the side. I hoped the couple down wind from me didn't notice. I felt much better afterwards.<br />
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Thank you, dear Ireland, for another story, another treasured memory and interested readers to share it with.<br />
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<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-17630918740795872872016-08-17T13:49:00.000-07:002016-09-04T15:15:56.237-07:00The Tenth LetterDearest Ireland,<br />
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I'm spending my summer in Thurles which is pronounced "turless" because your people don't use the "th" sound in pronunciation. I understand that's because there is no "th" sound in the Irish language, and spoken English in Ireland still reflects that influence. It makes for some good-natured teasing, though, when someone is talking about a "third" of something. Use your imagination.....i.e. "I'm dividing this pizza into "tirds". <br />
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To quote a guide book, "the origins of Thurles go back to the latter part of the first millennium, when it was the Durlas or strong fort of the O'Fogartys, the dominant clan in the region at that period." It is surrounded by the Silvermine Mountains to the NW and the Slieveardagh Hills to the SE. The River Suir , pronounced "sure", runs through it. Don't those sound like names from Middle Earth? <br />
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Thurles is a town of about 5-7 thousand residents, depending on what you read. It has a main street and a town square, called Liberty Square, much like any small American town. Of course the traffic speeds around the square in a clockwise motion, which still confuses me. I don't know when I'll ever learn to drive here. <br />
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Thurles is in County Tipperary, right in your heart. One can see from the map, that it's a great location, being just a half day's drive or less from anywhere. I really didn't realize until I got here that you, dear Ireland, are only about the size of Indiana. If I climb a tall tree, I can see from coast to coast. <br />
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I'm devoting this post to photos I've taken around Thurles. It may seem boring to my Irish readers, but I think it will give my American friends a better feel for a typical Irish town. I am so "tankful" to be here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's Thurles</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liberty Square, the middle of town</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Which way to Florida?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">O'Gorman's Pub. aka The Monks...my spot is just inside the door to the right.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The medieval Bridge Castle...I wish St. Pete had a bridge castle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Liberty Square</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">De Burca's Pub, the coziest place in town.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ireland has the BEST ice cream!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Mary's Church of Ireland (Protestant)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Want to learn to sing or play?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Patrick's Teacher's College used to be a monastery</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jet58-V12WQ/V7M5J-ntH8I/AAAAAAAAAqQ/LoAOje9vqJgK8TxNilMeqJXjT1Xpe9FnACLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jet58-V12WQ/V7M5J-ntH8I/AAAAAAAAAqQ/LoAOje9vqJgK8TxNilMeqJXjT1Xpe9FnACLcB/s640/FullSizeRender%252814%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mall has a butcher shop. Buy a wool sweater and a lamb chop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral of the Assumption (Catholic)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let's go!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hurley maker mural</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Suir has great trout fishing</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends share a story on the street</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pheasant Island. They raise them here.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aPNoM5wYFts/V7M6Z5gwbLI/AAAAAAAAArc/l2L3r9TeVdM5HMPjhj6khcYPOF9U7MvkACLcB/s1600/IMG_8880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aPNoM5wYFts/V7M6Z5gwbLI/AAAAAAAAArc/l2L3r9TeVdM5HMPjhj6khcYPOF9U7MvkACLcB/s640/IMG_8880.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love the doors in Ireland</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Country Fun</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Busking on the foot path</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Queen's logo on this mail drop, remnant of the occupation.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cute Irish cottage on the edge of town</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hurling Match .....Up Tipp!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am so full of potatoes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skehan's Pub<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mP9AHHD79hU/V7M6j4GQ_JI/AAAAAAAAAro/alWU78tuTFEh4eE9cszRTCLTb5TAX3QBQCLcB/s1600/Ireland%2B394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mP9AHHD79hU/V7M6j4GQ_JI/AAAAAAAAAro/alWU78tuTFEh4eE9cszRTCLTb5TAX3QBQCLcB/s640/Ireland%2B394.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Train station....Call me when you get here.</td></tr>
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<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-72026153269361355222016-08-09T11:25:00.000-07:002016-08-10T06:29:23.278-07:00The Ninth Letter<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eTNa1U6FmM0/V6iS63H9vSI/AAAAAAAAAoo/OvLntc9hDFki_BVPSKoFBlmeOFf5E-z8QCLcB/s1600/fiddlin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eTNa1U6FmM0/V6iS63H9vSI/AAAAAAAAAoo/OvLntc9hDFki_BVPSKoFBlmeOFf5E-z8QCLcB/s320/fiddlin.jpg" width="240" /></a>Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
I awoke Thursday morning feeling a little downhearted. A few weeks earlier, Paul, the weekly trad session leader, had introduced me to a beautifully melodic hornpipe, which is a particular type of dance tune. He had played it slowly as I recorded him, then he gave me the sheet music and also a CD of the tune. It's been really challenging to learn and every week Paul asks how it's coming along.<br />
<br />
I practiced it hard and heavy, playing along with the CD, and finally, at the Wednesday session, I told Paul I had it down. His accordion sounded the first few notes, and then I joined in with the fiddle. I didn't realize until a few lines in, that apparently no one else knew the tune, and I found myself in the throes of an ill-fated duet. I hope it wasn't too obvious that I got hopelessly lost in the tempo and was scrambling, like a frenzied firewalker, for some stable, solid ground. I've never been so glad for a tune to end, and I'm so thankful Paul's accordion was LOUD.<br />
<br />
So with my pride still smouldering the next morning, I was happy that I had made plans for the day. I was going for lunch with Theresa and her mother, Marie. Theresa hosts the Fiddler's Retreat which I attended last summer (and which I highly recommend) and has become my friend and private teacher. After lunch we were going to poke around the ruins of 12th century Kilcooley Abbey and also investigate the 18th century Georgian mansion on the same 1200 acre tract. I had read that it was once called "as fine and elegant a private gentleman's seat as any in Europe." Theresa knew the "big house" to be vacant and up for sale, and we figured we could peep in the windows and dream.<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ncBcfmVNTxg/V6dci2iniZI/AAAAAAAAAn8/6u-8ESM6ur8p0LvvpEMIxwD61Ra-HFmRgCEw/s1600/pic3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ncBcfmVNTxg/V6dci2iniZI/AAAAAAAAAn8/6u-8ESM6ur8p0LvvpEMIxwD61Ra-HFmRgCEw/s320/pic3.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
We could see it from the abbey but getting there was another matter. There was neither road nor path from where we were. So we tromped through the high grasses and wildflowers (and thistles) of the intervening fields and slowly made our way to the rear of the manor.<br />
<br />
It had been badly neglected and was all but as ruined as the abbey itself. It's on the market for 8 million euros but will require millions more to restore to its former grandeur. We hope someone will come to its rescue before it's past the point of no return. In the meantime, we walked around the grounds and admired the stunning views from the front. We noticed a lake in the distance and, barely perceptible, a tiny stone chapel near the far bank.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G4mQ3rgkta4/V6dcmc-VNbI/AAAAAAAAAoY/8s3dKAATlqU6xLduFgCW_PnWmt_Bj9XsACEw/s1600/pic5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G4mQ3rgkta4/V6dcmc-VNbI/AAAAAAAAAoY/8s3dKAATlqU6xLduFgCW_PnWmt_Bj9XsACEw/s320/pic5.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
I think Theresa, Marie and I thought it at the same time. We wanted to see that church....up close. We could see the lake was practically surrounded by woodlands, but we could also see a road (and a stone bridge) heading in that direction. So, like three little hobbits marching toward Rivendell to see the elves, off we naively set.<br />
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Our first attempt was logically over the bridge and around the lake to the right. We had just reached the lake's edge when we noticed something white flickering just inside the brush. Before we could be startled, it gracefully emerged onto the lake as a beautiful white swan followed by six gray cygnets, another adult (the daddy?) and a final cygnet (the runt?) pulling up the rear. The family sailed boldly straight in front and then away from us in a perfect line, and we held our breath in awe. We don't see swans much in Florida and I got the impression from Theresa and Marie that, even if they're a common sight, they never lose their magic. We watched until they disappeared from view.<br />
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Our road quickly narrowed into a dubious trail that seemed to be taking us nowhere. It was raining off and on as we lost sight of the lake, and I could feel the dampness squishing my sneakers (why didn't I wear my boots?) and sogging up my socks. We were getting tired and should have been discouraged and frustrated, but all we could talk about was the freshness of the forest air and the peaceful sense of being in harmony with our surroundings.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlMH_dIoYjQ/V6dccq153gI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/cH_0xax9YKANPm-VoIgvB1WPz-A9haUsgCEw/s1600/pic%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlMH_dIoYjQ/V6dccq153gI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/cH_0xax9YKANPm-VoIgvB1WPz-A9haUsgCEw/s1600/pic%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><br />
Suddenly out of nowhere (except a Bronte novel perhaps) appeared a horse and rider, trotting toward us, hopping a hurdle and bounding away as quickly as they came. There was hardly a nod of<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlMH_dIoYjQ/V6dccq153gI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/cH_0xax9YKANPm-VoIgvB1WPz-A9haUsgCEw/s1600/pic%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlMH_dIoYjQ/V6dccq153gI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/cH_0xax9YKANPm-VoIgvB1WPz-A9haUsgCEw/s320/pic%2B1.jpg" width="238" /></a> acknowledgement before they were out of sight (but I did snap a quick photo) and no time to think to ask how to get to the church. So we continued on a little farther and then decided to turn around.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-882GIAATuPM/V6dc1uUfKHI/AAAAAAAAAoM/nRaXxCELouMyzRd7GX6yz31J_nVJFIHdACLcB/s1600/pic8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-882GIAATuPM/V6dc1uUfKHI/AAAAAAAAAoM/nRaXxCELouMyzRd7GX6yz31J_nVJFIHdACLcB/s1600/pic8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-882GIAATuPM/V6dc1uUfKHI/AAAAAAAAAoM/nRaXxCELouMyzRd7GX6yz31J_nVJFIHdACLcB/s1600/pic8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CMdeJwfBxyU/V6spGITDQHI/AAAAAAAAApQ/zFbfH79MCOEAYVXr_26tMb1RTRAgVn20ACLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CMdeJwfBxyU/V6spGITDQHI/AAAAAAAAApQ/zFbfH79MCOEAYVXr_26tMb1RTRAgVn20ACLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a>We traced our steps back to the lakeside but weren't ready to give up our quest. We decided to trudge around the front of the lake, admiring the flowers and the tease of intermittent sunshine, and see if we could locate our church from the left. This path became as hopeless and more treacherous than the last.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cw-13DwzmGk/V6ia-vpgkKI/AAAAAAAAAo4/MgHk0XsZjosFmzQ2ULwY43K6mHOZZXmUwCLcB/s1600/pic8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cw-13DwzmGk/V6ia-vpgkKI/AAAAAAAAAo4/MgHk0XsZjosFmzQ2ULwY43K6mHOZZXmUwCLcB/s320/pic8.jpg" width="240" /></a> We wandered again through dripping fronds and face-smacking branches, getting soaked and scratched forging a path, but still full of anticipation. We teetered across a little creek on a 2x6 Olympic balance beam that a kind predecessor had laid for us, hoping the "thrill of victory" would be just ahead. Sitting on a moss-velvet log to reconsider, we all admitted there would be no shame in giving up. Theresa said it would give us a reason to return another day. But still we persevered a little farther.<br />
<br />
<br />
And then we spied it in all its glory......framed in mist and afternoon shadows.....its stone arched doorway inviting exhausted, weary pilgrims to enter and rest.........a BOATHOUSE! Really? No columns... no vaulted ceilings... no ornately carved anythings... A NEO-GOTHIC BOATHOUSE!<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zaZxHv0vjKQ/V6dcef_N7_I/AAAAAAAAAoQ/QKXnGKXqVjQUu13sfpUsCxFArChhytsXACEw/s1600/pic4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zaZxHv0vjKQ/V6dcef_N7_I/AAAAAAAAAoQ/QKXnGKXqVjQUu13sfpUsCxFArChhytsXACEw/s320/pic4.jpg" width="320" /></a>But how could we be disappointed? Swimming nobly in and around the stone shelter was our proud family of swans, who seemed to have been waiting patiently for us to find our way. I was watching them with quiet reverence from my concrete pew inside, when Theresa leaned over my shoulder and whispered in my ear. I felt a delicious tingle go all the way to my toes. Until that moment I hadn't thought of it. The name of my hornpipe was, "The Swan on the Lake." I know God was winking.<br />
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(Doc says in the early 1800's a family of seven children and their two parents drowned in the lake when their little boat sank.........but I'm not buyin').KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-50512162269599656062016-08-02T11:59:00.000-07:002016-08-02T11:59:03.066-07:00The Eighth LetterDearest Ireland,<br /><br />I left home in early June and will be going back in early September. We'll be together three long, unpredictable months. For two weeks, it's pretty simple to live out of a suitcase. I can free fall into vacation mode and not worry about a thing. And as I learned when I went to Alaska, if I'm gone for a year, I can set up household with all my familiar and personal paraphernalia and feel semi-permanent. But three months is like an awkward adolescent. I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm having to grow with it and into it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PeLj0zmTolE/V6C8b5XKlpI/AAAAAAAAAmY/xcJVfsOsya8h_Bbv4VVy-mwEV01yx-ZHACLcB/s1600/fiddle%2Band%2Bcoffee.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PeLj0zmTolE/V6C8b5XKlpI/AAAAAAAAAmY/xcJVfsOsya8h_Bbv4VVy-mwEV01yx-ZHACLcB/s320/fiddle%2Band%2Bcoffee.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet comfort</td></tr>
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<br />Doc has gone to great lengths to make me feel comfortable and relaxed. Anticipating a bombardment of belongings, he purchased a gorgeous vintage wardrobe to house my clothes and whatever. It's just my style, which he knew from being in my home in January. And it's huge. I want to climb inside it and see if I land in Narnia, but I'm afraid I'd miss him too much.<br />
<br />I've always been a person who thrives on routine. At home, I always gently unfold each new day with fresh coffee and a quiet, almost catatonic few moments on the sofa as I wait for the caffeine to kick in. I've grown to love this time of solitude and prayer and try to end the day in the same way, including the caffeine which, surprisingly, never keeps me awake.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CSEd7q5FBuA/V6C8qiyVHjI/AAAAAAAAAmg/QcLComwcIOw_qWyXVC2KOuvLnFUuAawVACLcB/s1600/IMG_7291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CSEd7q5FBuA/V6C8qiyVHjI/AAAAAAAAAmg/QcLComwcIOw_qWyXVC2KOuvLnFUuAawVACLcB/s320/IMG_7291.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The magic wardrobe....It's even bigger than it looks.</td></tr>
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<br />I usually have a PFTD (Plan For The Day). When I was working full time and raising a family, I didn't have to put too much thought into this. Necessity dictated the schedule. But since retirement, I've learned that time goes by too quickly and whole days can be wasted just sipping espresso and trying to coax my eyes open.<br />
<br />So when I moved back to St. Pete from Dade City five years ago, I made a deliberate effort to find various ways to feel productive and fulfilled.....volunteering, calling on friends, traveling (short trips), practicing music, reading, visiting family....always on my own terms and schedule. Now I hate to admit it but I think I've become "set in my ways", like cement.<br />
<br />When I'm at home, I wake at the same time each day, eat the same multigrain cereal with milled flax seed sprinkles, have a smoothie with Publix "super greens", a banana, milk and two dollops of strawberry yogurt (never three dollops). Most evenings, I practice my fiddle sitting at the end of the sofa with the TV tuned to Jeopardy and later eat kettle corn while I read or watch a video on Amazon Prime. Throughout the day, now that I think about it, I go through many of the same motions, but with different people at different places. I never venture far from home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K4qXnxIpu6Q/V6DOCCEDDEI/AAAAAAAAAnU/Gpip4CF-DTEe7o6TzaEIiq1tcdUpbKdDgCLcB/s1600/spot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K4qXnxIpu6Q/V6DOCCEDDEI/AAAAAAAAAnU/Gpip4CF-DTEe7o6TzaEIiq1tcdUpbKdDgCLcB/s320/spot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My cozy spot at home</td></tr>
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<br />The comfort zone monster pursues me relentlessly because he knows my nature is NOT adventurous nor is it risk-taking. I'm such easy prey.<br />
<br />It's been challenging (in a good way) to break out of my mold (before it sets too hard) and become more flexible and spontaneous. I grab moments throughout the day to be alone, to open a book, to settle some ugly business with my fiddle technique, to "face time" with family and stay in touch with what's familiar and "American".<br />
<br />But there's satisfaction...even joy, in adjusting to life in another place with another person. I've come to believe that the freedom we use to develop rigid structures and routines for ourselves can, ironically, produce a type of bondage. It can become an emotional burden that sets us up for isolation and loneliness.... a deceptive happiness that is hollow and fleeting.<br />
<br />I seem to be learning another way here with you, dear Ireland. <br />
<br />
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<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-26255526681656323112016-07-26T10:08:00.000-07:002016-07-26T11:08:49.845-07:00The Seventh Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r-IztVu3djA/V5dqcMRswMI/AAAAAAAAAkw/CFncP5KZKgk2YCtUj_S29SmHrqtKyiREACLcB/s1600/lone%2Bcross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r-IztVu3djA/V5dqcMRswMI/AAAAAAAAAkw/CFncP5KZKgk2YCtUj_S29SmHrqtKyiREACLcB/s320/lone%2Bcross.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grave at Burrishoole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
In the seven weeks we've been together this summer, I can't seem to pass a ruined abbey or crumbling roadside church without feeling anxious to stop and have a look. Doc and I ramble through the debris (sometimes side-by-side and sometimes we lose each other) touching, climbing, trampling, always inhaling the historic scent of decay and wondering what happened here. We love doing this...especially in places that seem lost.... without visitor centers or marks on the tourist maps.<br />
<br />
For me it provides a type of spiritual nourishment that I'm not used to. For most of my Christian life, I've been fed a diet of gospel Cheerios (don't laugh). It's the kind of teaching that comes in a pretty package, is easily chewed and digested and is fortified with theology that has been supposedly tested and proven to promote moral strength and personal well-being. But middle age and widowhood (not to mention the morning news) have left me feeling depleted and light-headed, like I really need some red meat to assume the challenges of this second half of my life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJK9yethcLw/V5dw2l5iAZI/AAAAAAAAAlY/SXHtA8Fy73wj2bNwZKkQdVZUH_iXcnXMACLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJK9yethcLw/V5dw2l5iAZI/AAAAAAAAAlY/SXHtA8Fy73wj2bNwZKkQdVZUH_iXcnXMACLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grangefertagh Church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I read scripture, particularly the words of Jesus, I sense a disconnect between what he said and lived, and what I've always accepted as truth. Jesus said the world will hate us like it hated him, because of our unreasonable goodness that compels us to turn the other cheek when slapped and give freely to those who steal from us. He said we shouldn't judge each other but rather walk shoulder to shoulder with our arms interlocked for mutual support.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N2Dv8iwYG1I/V5d06Qm5tGI/AAAAAAAAAl4/ABcXhG3RC5MEUpIdIrmQvah56m5ErQkhwCEw/s1600/burrishoole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N2Dv8iwYG1I/V5d06Qm5tGI/AAAAAAAAAl4/ABcXhG3RC5MEUpIdIrmQvah56m5ErQkhwCEw/s320/burrishoole.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burrishoole Abbey 15th Century</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But what if the world hates us because it feels hated by us? What if we Christians make others feel small and insignificant and unlovable? What if we are kind to our friends, but plot ways to bring down our enemies? What if we dismiss the weak who struggle to find a voice and tear down everyone who doesn't agree with our smug conclusions?<br />
<br />
What if the real meaning of Jesus' message is so radical that it's been obscured over time or suppressed by our own self-righteousness and fears, so we think we're following in his steps, but we're really trailing along behind him obliterating the path? What if, as theologian Brian McLaren has proposed, we are reading the Bible like a constitution that tells us what to do and not to do, and missing the whole point of what God is revealing about himself?<br />
<br />
It's doing me good to be in a land with a different Christian tradition
than my own. Doc and I passed a monastery the other day (one that wasn't
in ruins, for a change) and decided to stop and check it out. We
inadvertently walked in on the last few minutes of the mass. There was
only a handful of old monks there, chanting the "Our Father", praying
and worshiping without much fanfare.....so quiet and reverent and so
very different from the mega church media productions that are common in
the states. I wondered if their hearts were full of praise to God, or
if they were just going through the motions like I have so many times.<br />
<br />
Regardless, I'm happy to be in this place where Christian history is so rich and accessible. This weekend Doc and I are going on a guided pilgrimage walk in the steps of St. Patrick and early Celtic believers. I think that can mean different things to different people. For me, dear Ireland, it will be another chance to learn from the past and ponder.<br />
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KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-82747550958871760022016-07-20T12:22:00.000-07:002016-07-20T12:22:53.297-07:00The Sixth Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a1iU6kyhWC4/V4-8nCeEwxI/AAAAAAAAAjc/1SA9hxgcLvsn571xJDsM9Pe4NQ7NUiVqQCLcB/s1600/cloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a1iU6kyhWC4/V4-8nCeEwxI/AAAAAAAAAjc/1SA9hxgcLvsn571xJDsM9Pe4NQ7NUiVqQCLcB/s320/cloud.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHAT RAIN CLOUD?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
They say that love is blind. When I awake each day, I snuggle into the tender embrace of your music, your history, your landscapes, etc., feeling your goodness and your devotion. But we both know that you have a dark side. My emerald-colored glasses can only illuminate you for so long and maybe now's the time for a reality check.<br />
<br />
<br />
Where the heck is the bacon? There's something on the shelf in the grocery store labeled "bacon", and I've ordered it off breakfast menus in several restaurants. But we both know THAT'S NOT BACON! IT'S HAM! HAM IS NOT BACON! How could you be so agricultural, claim to have 1.5 million pigs, and not know about bacon? You know...like Oscar Meyer bacon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--D0-2Q8ON5I/V4-8op25bPI/AAAAAAAAAjg/jiCr0krZAEAWa6KnCj2DvmCdxuteanz8gCEw/s1600/bacon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--D0-2Q8ON5I/V4-8op25bPI/AAAAAAAAAjg/jiCr0krZAEAWa6KnCj2DvmCdxuteanz8gCEw/s320/bacon.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHAT IS THIS STUFF?</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
I didn't eat bacon every day at home. I neglected it, sometimes ignored it, bought into the lie that it was bad for me and at times, renounced it. Now I feel nothing but remorse for my disrespect. I miss it terribly.<br />
<br />
<br />
I didn't realize how much until last Friday when I was in Kinsale with Doc's sister and her family. We were getting a bite to eat at a local cafe. Glaring at me from the menu was a word I haven't seen associated with bacon in all my days in Ireland......."CRISPY"! OMG...BLT! I told the waiter I wouldn't complain if it was served black.<br />
<br />
<br />
And it was glorious...and BIG. I took home half and had it for supper but saved a few crispy pieces for breakfast the next day. I swear I'll never take bacon for granted again. And I could also do with a few other culinary commodities. It seems grits are to Irish people what leprechauns are to Americans. You can think about that. Shame on you, Ireland, for causing me this anguish.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful, but no Vitamin D</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
And while we're getting real, let's talk weather. I know you won my heart under false pretenses. When I first came here last summer, you presented just a few puffy clouds and the air was warm. I frolicked around outdoors for two solid weeks and hardly needed a jacket. That was some kind of hoax but I'm not sure how you pulled it off. <br />
<br />
<br />
Now I see you have mostly dreary, overcast skies and it rains almost daily. The weather lady on TV is burning out on ways to convey the obvious and inevitable. She says things like, "Light sprinkles this morning, followed by rain and then some drizzle with scattered showers afterwards followed by light mist and heavy sprinkles, with a storm later and then rain on the way." You know I'm not exaggerating. Whenever I meet someone new and say I'm from Florida, they immediately ask, "Could you bring us some sunshine?" (followed by, "What's with Donald Trump?" but we'll have to discuss that later).<br />
<br />
<br />
And the gloomy weather seems magnified when I'm out on the road. I don't dare try to drive here. Besides having everything backwards, the streets are narrow and curvy with few shoulders, and the speeds are outrageous. I'm amazed there aren't more collisions. Sometimes I just have to close my eyes and pray that the car coming towards us has lost its wing mirror in an earlier crash so we'll have room to squeeze by. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">REALLY?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
And can you tell me why people park their cars on the sidewalk? That's just wrong.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zK39GncIQKQ/V4-8sRstZLI/AAAAAAAAAjk/Lqf1WWpnPMMNbk91MCuCzQ0kLxaAces2wCLcB/s1600/parking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zK39GncIQKQ/V4-8sRstZLI/AAAAAAAAAjk/Lqf1WWpnPMMNbk91MCuCzQ0kLxaAces2wCLcB/s320/parking.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How are you supposed to get around this?</td></tr>
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Speaking of speed.....what's with the talking? I'm from the South and we speak slowly even by American standards. Joining in an Irish conversation is like trying to get out on the road in downtown Dublin. As words are whizzing past, you wait for an opening then it's pedal to the metal to cruise into the flow. I'm getting the hang of it though and doing quite well, I think. <br />
<br />
<br />
At least I'm no longer standing on the precarious comment curb with my thumb out. You can't be known if you don't put in your two cents worth, right? And in the last five weeks I have had some wonderfully stimulating conversations about everything from politics and education to fashion and Downton Abbey. It must be where God placed you....right in the middle of the world. The Irish seem to know what's going on everywhere and have opinions about it all.<br />
<br />
<br />
And so, dear Ireland, we may not be a match made in heaven. But close. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-76651882603972721892016-07-14T12:08:00.001-07:002016-07-15T12:55:51.698-07:00The Fifth Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gMhgC7hfVAs/V4fXB1xmVjI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/ivdOPgbsgRIqgduTTaxPeELc_sfxq1fmQCLcB/s1600/ogham%2Bstone.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gMhgC7hfVAs/V4fXB1xmVjI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/ivdOPgbsgRIqgduTTaxPeELc_sfxq1fmQCLcB/s320/ogham%2Bstone.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gotta love an Ogham stone </td></tr>
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Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
When I was nine, my parents decided we had outgrown our little house on Canton Street, and the search began for a bigger, better place to grow older. Knowing my parents as I do, I'm guessing that period was stressful and highly unpleasant for them. But for care-free me, it was exciting. <br />
<br />
I remember going day after day with realtors looking at possibilities and watching my mom and dad sigh and shake their heads time after time. Personally, I loved every place the realtor took us: Ollie May's house on a bluff overlooking the river, then the dilapidated Victorian fixer-upper that made my mother's heart swoon and my dad's blood pressure rise (although later it appeared in a spread of Country Living magazine and I think they may have had some regrets). <br />
<br />
But my favorite, by far, was a storybook stone cottage nestled in some isolated woods with a fishing pond in the front yard. I had already picked out my bedroom on the second floor when some friends of ours offered to buy the house on Canton Street if we would swap houses with them. The ease of that transition was impossible for my parents to resist. End of journey....done deal.<br />
<br />
I never stopped thinking about that stone house. When I was a teenager I went home from a pool party with a new friend and guess where she lived. Yep! But I hardly recognized it. Land developers had bought the woods, razed most of the trees and created a monstrous modern housing community completely surrounding the little house. The pond had been drained and the little house was .....Okay, this is starting to sound like a sappy children's book so I'll stop.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NGl8zX85G7U/V4fYcsvYSbI/AAAAAAAAAio/44UzYoftvT0J0-qqIwhZD_FtWYJiiXTdgCLcB/s1600/jerpoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NGl8zX85G7U/V4fYcsvYSbI/AAAAAAAAAio/44UzYoftvT0J0-qqIwhZD_FtWYJiiXTdgCLcB/s320/jerpoint.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jerpoint Abbey</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zZM29ulRcxM/V4fYd2BQurI/AAAAAAAAAis/jwQgyD5VYd4f6Q9OgXVSk-35ScVu-RyGgCLcB/s1600/kilcooley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zZM29ulRcxM/V4fYd2BQurI/AAAAAAAAAis/jwQgyD5VYd4f6Q9OgXVSk-35ScVu-RyGgCLcB/s200/kilcooley.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilcooley Abbey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The point is......since that time, and maybe before, I have been intrigued by, truly fascinated with stone. I drool over stone buildings and tiles and statues and grave markers and anything made of solid rock (which is okay because the drool wipes right off). Since there are virtually no rocks in Florida larger than pebbles, for years I would gather chunks of granite (the biggest my husband could lift) by the road side when I visited my family in Georgia. On each trip, we would haul home at least one respectable boulder. So now I have a lovely rock garden in my Florida yard and passers-by smile but give me puzzled looks.<br />
<br />
You can imagine, dear Ireland, the effect your landscapes have on me. I find you absolutely stunning (not even considering the floral fields and rolling hills and all the shades of green). I'm hopelessly drawn to your medieval ruins.... the castles, abbeys, towers, etc. I love to wander around them and press my hands against the damp, lichen-splattered walls that are so incredibly thick. And I like climbing up the steep, uneven steps and just basking in my own imaginings. I close my eyes and envision robes dragging up the narrow stair wells and iron pots clanking against the raised hearths.... the hustle and bustle of daily life in a simpler, but perhaps more dangerous time. Maybe I've seen too many movies.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kNx7EOS0o4Y/V4fXmEp3_YI/AAAAAAAAAig/j2gN3OfTKVkV05-aCsQfuH7DoJY5LnRYwCLcB/s1600/IMG_5223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kNx7EOS0o4Y/V4fXmEp3_YI/AAAAAAAAAig/j2gN3OfTKVkV05-aCsQfuH7DoJY5LnRYwCLcB/s320/IMG_5223.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drombeg stone circle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Even more compelling are the ancient standing stones and stone circles that Doc and I have explored. I circle the circles until I'm dizzy with speculation, conjuring up an affinity with your earliest settlers. I can't help but admire their determination to find form and meaning in the chaos of life, although I'm sure some of their pagan practices would have put me off (human sacrifice, for instance, may have been slightly distasteful). But I like to think I would have been enthusiastically right there, helping to erect and arrange those stones (if they let the women do that sort of thing) and contemplating a future when things might be simpler, but perhaps more dangerous.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UfV31PacAGQ/V4fW44dPpXI/AAAAAAAAAiI/6CmB2z5LUmgdWdmcBLPX4GDwZEkDzOVMQCLcB/s1600/kerb%2Bstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UfV31PacAGQ/V4fW44dPpXI/AAAAAAAAAiI/6CmB2z5LUmgdWdmcBLPX4GDwZEkDzOVMQCLcB/s320/kerb%2Bstone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decorated kerb stone at Newgrange</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
On Monday, Doc and I went to see the famous passage tombs at Newgrange and Knowth (Perhaps thou Knowth nothing about them). They were built around 3000 BC of stones weighing an average of 10 tons each. And I think I remember our guide saying there were around 300 of them, carried from a place about 20 km away (before wheels!). Many retain the original designs of artisans who could never have dreamed their simple carvings would chisel awe into the hearts of descendents so far up the time line.<br />
<br />
We weren't allowed inside Knowth, but were led through the 19 meter passage of Newgrange into the cruciform inner chamber (no pix allowed). We, a group of bug-eyed tourists and curious locals, were huddled together in amazement under the corbelled ceiling of sandstone megaliths as we tried to absorb the drama of sunlight piercing the darkness on the winter solstice. Questions swirled in our heads like the spiral patterns far above, but most of us were silent. We knew this place was sacred, a cathedral so primitive and yet more elaborate than anything built since. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WlryvlxPcHo/V4fXClX4ywI/AAAAAAAAAiU/2J7fCHS84KooAUE5LPrO5le_snhWcCF_gCLcB/s1600/high%2Bcross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WlryvlxPcHo/V4fXClX4ywI/AAAAAAAAAiU/2J7fCHS84KooAUE5LPrO5le_snhWcCF_gCLcB/s320/high%2Bcross.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">High cross at Monasterboice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Some people say, dear Ireland, that God is not impressed with man's efforts......but I sure am! And I'm thankful He provided us such a grand and resilient medium to work with.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-90534715592800574442016-07-05T11:36:00.000-07:002016-07-08T06:34:35.960-07:00The Fourth Letter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4MLgvvYfG8Q/V3u4SpgHHPI/AAAAAAAAAhM/jsVezZJyKUYb_-F4JMy_VFbm2bgeKnhEACLcB/s1600/Clarkes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4MLgvvYfG8Q/V3u4SpgHHPI/AAAAAAAAAhM/jsVezZJyKUYb_-F4JMy_VFbm2bgeKnhEACLcB/s200/Clarkes.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You coming?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
Music has become such a big part of my life. It's what brought me to meet you in the first place (see last post). Something about your traditional music wrings gladness out of my dream-drenched sensibilities. It's hard to explain. First it was the sweetly poignant lyrics of your ballads, then the slow, provocative moods of your airs. Just in these last few years since retirement have I been finally seized by the captivating rhythms of your dance tunes and I have the time to study and learn them. <br />
<br />
I find them extremely challenging to play on the fiddle, especially up to speed. The Irish style of play is generally known for its ornamentation and brisk tempos. Last summer I met a busker in Ennis, County Clare who was playing some beautiful Bach pieces on a street corner. I asked him to play an Irish reel and he said that was too hard for him. I remember the feeling of my heart sinking a full octave as I realized if it was hard for this guy, it was going to be all but impossible for me.<br />
<br />
I am basically self-taught, which is something I confess with shame and deep regret. I have taken random lessons here and there, but I wish I had been able to find a gifted diagnostician I could stick with... someone who could pinpoint my weak spots and prescribe the right remedy to make me really sound the way I pretend I'm sounding when I'm playing my heart out at home alone. I've always been willing to put in the time, but progress is slow when you're trying to get a briar out of your own foot (especially if it's been embedded in there for years).<br />
<br />
But I have made some progress. In fact, I now find I can keep up with most jigs and a few reels at the local trad session here in Thurles. It helps that the musicians are welcoming and supportive. They are phenomenally accomplished but they play because they love the music, not because they want to show off to the crowd. There's an atmosphere of esteem for one another that creates a powerful synergy, elevating the music to its rightful place of honor. Listeners show up every Wednesday night to share a smile, a Guinness and an appreciation of the flutes, the whistles, pipes and accordions, guitars and banjos, bodhrans and, of course, the fiddles. It's the magic that Americans hear about, but few get to witness.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QGD0q0l2gvI/V3-paxkKMjI/AAAAAAAAAhs/15xOMZIjR5sorkkWTcuoyM9G6-ItJOtZACLcB/s1600/Monks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QGD0q0l2gvI/V3-paxkKMjI/AAAAAAAAAhs/15xOMZIjR5sorkkWTcuoyM9G6-ItJOtZACLcB/s320/Monks.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wednesday session at the Monk's, Thurles</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last weekend Doc and I drove to Galway where three of our musician friends were playing at a small, village pub at the request of a mutual friend who lived there. They invited me to jam along with them and I did, although I think I looked more confident than I sounded. I loved every minute of it though. And it's always a treat to sing a song or two later in the evening (earlier in the morning?) when things are mellow and the microphone gets passed around with the pints. It's in the spirit of generosity that ballads are offered and accepted... like warm slices of black pudding.... graciously passed around and savored.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharing a song in Doon in Oct.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the lads in Clarke's, Galway</td></tr>
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These sessions don't always take place in a pub. Private music parties are occasionally held in homes. We were invited to one Saturday night.... a congenial group of friends and relatives (about 20), seated randomly in a small kitchen like jigsaw pieces on a table, just waiting to be fitted together in song. There were a few snacks, some beer and wine, three guitars, a harmonica, my fiddle, a piano accordion and lots of eager voices. No microphones, no spectators, just spontaneous breaking into everything from The Galtee Mountain Boy to the Eagles, with a jig or two thrown in for good measure. We left at two and that seemed way too soon. <br />
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And so, dear Ireland, I'm trying to rosin up my bow every day. The session leader here in Thurles is a retired teacher and is personally helping me learn the tunes the locals play. It seems the deeper I sink into your soul, the softer the cushion. Now.... enough of this writing......back to my practice.<br />
<br />
(btw, dear readers, you may have noticed I changed the subtitle of my blog. I'm no longer feeling like a "groupie" here... more like family).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-63040834006571543532016-06-27T13:04:00.001-07:002016-06-27T13:04:41.085-07:00The Third Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off to the match with new friends</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tipp v Limerick (Tipp won)</td></tr>
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Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
As you will fondly recall, we first met in person last summer when I discovered a "Fiddler's Retreat" online. That sounded like the perfect way for us to get acquainted.... fiddle lessons by morning, sight seeing by afternoon, and playing along in a pub in the late evening (pub music generally starts in Ireland around 10).<br />
<br />
The retreat was located in county Tipperary. I pulled out a map. What's this??!! Totally land locked! No famous cliffs, few attractions in the travel guides, mostly rolling hills and pasture land. Weeelll....I did want to see the REAL you so maybe this would be okay. And honestly, I couldn't find any better options, considering I wasn't going to risk renting a car and driving on the wrong side. And I didn't want to have to share you with a tour bus load of blarney-eyed Americans.<br />
<br />
I had no idea how my life was about to change. Your's too. During that short week, I learned that Tipperary is not located in the heart of Ireland by chance. It IS your heart! Well that's my opinion anyway. Medieval wonders, breathtaking landscapes, music sessions that you, yourself, seem to be conducting and people who are charming, passionate and hospitable. In the heart of Tipperary is Thurles Town, where I'm spending my summer with Doc (You'll have to hear more about him later).<br />
<br />
Thurles is home to the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) that fuels your fiery spirit by sponsoring and nurturing your beloved progeny: Hurling! It's a 3000 year old Gaelic game (not what Americans usually associate with "hurling"), played on a field between two teams, something like soccer or football, but with sticks. It's your national sport and your people love it. Each county has a team... and heroes... and stories about conquests and defeats that may rival those of 9th century Viking warriors. Children learn it early and old men fly team flags from their windows and chat about it on the streets. Everyone seems to be at the games, flashing their county colors.<br />
<br />
So I shouldn't have been surprised last week in Killarney when Doc and I were in a pub, chatting with a cute 30-something couple from Illinois. Doc asks the guy if he liked sports and when the answer was an unconditional absolutely, Doc suggested they come to the game in Thurles on Sunday. We got them tickets, had them over for lunch and took them to the family gathering afterwards. Hot tea and freshly baked scones for all. They said it was the best day of their 10 day Ireland vacation. And their later facebook post confirmed it. <br />
<br />
Doc, and others, are teaching me by example what it means to reach out to people, to show kindness to strangers, and to share our time and hearts with others. Tomorrow we're expecting guests from Arizona whom Doc contacted a few years ago when he discovered they are descendants of his great, great aunt who emigrated during the famine years. He
arranged a big reunion here in 2004 of distant, long lost cousins that
inspired as much enthusiasm as a hurling match final. He is still in
touch with many of them and extending the invitation. <br />
<br />
I knew there were going to be things to learn this summer beyond the origins of the Cistercians and configurations of court tombs. I've become much more private over the last few years and in doing so, I know I've missed opportunities... to show gratitude for all I have, to share God's love with the people I meet and to enrich my own life by discovering and accepting what others have to offer. <br />
<br />
So I'm airing out my extrovert overcoat this summer, because it looks like I'm going to be needing it. <br />
<br />
<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-74031727191630203002016-06-19T04:28:00.000-07:002016-07-08T04:56:20.586-07:00The Second Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up to Devil's Bit</td></tr>
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Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
There are some things you don't know about me. You may think I'm a sleazy nationizer who has had love affairs with a variety of countries. That would not be true. I've actually been much of a home body most of my life. But when desperation tossed me out of my comfort zone, I leaned on trust in God and a willing spirit to steady myself. And I soon found I could stand up straight and even move forward.<br />
<br />
My first flight alone was to Alaska, and I couldn't have been more excited and terrified had I been planning to climb Denali (in one day....blindfolded....in a snow storm.....naked). It was my first real giant step out of my old normal and into the new. I prayed and prayed about that trip and the result was a year of new friends, unimaginable adventures and a long overdue healing within my deepest parts.<br />
<br />
Now here I am back on your sunny shores (haha, did that make you laugh?) for the fourth time in a year. My flight was a breeze. But preparing to be gone for three months did make me anxious. I had an enormous checklist of things to get done and the more I did, the longer it grew. I'm still trying to resolve some house repair issues back home by phone and email.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muckross Abbey in Killarney</td></tr>
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The day I landed I was practically obsessing over what I may have forgotten. There was really nothing that couldn't have been replaced here, but insecurity kept nagging at me anyway. Just when I started to relax and realize all was well, I got an automated phone call from my pharmacy stating my prescription was ready for pick up. What???? I don't take any prescriptions! Do I? Maybe I do and I forgot. I called to confirm and no, I don't take any prescriptions. I started thinking about that movie, Gaslight, with Ingrid Bergman. Circumstances made her doubt her own sanity.<br />
<br />
Okay, I'm not that far gone. In fact, after the jet lag wore off, I was happily unpacking and asking Doc where we should go first: Kilcooley Abbey (ornate stone carving in this isolated 12th century ruin), Killarney National Park (with beautiful vistas, Muckross Abbey and several nature trails) or maybe a hike up the Devil's Bit (where legend has it that Satan took a bite out of the mountain and what he spit out became the Rock of Cashel)? I've been here five days and we've done all of these.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomb in Kilcooley</td></tr>
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But as you may guess, dear Ireland, the joy of being your homeland guest is not in just checking sights off a tour map, but interacting, imagining, embracing and feeling embraced. Your soul isn't trapped beneath the earth nor wedged between the stones. Everywhere I go, it floats almost visibly in the air.<br />
<br />
<br />KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1164549834355665436.post-59976441386937947902016-06-12T11:05:00.000-07:002016-06-18T13:33:17.572-07:00The First Letter<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resting at the Rock of Cashel</td></tr>
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Dearest Ireland,<br />
<br />
Can you believe it? We met! It's been almost a year since I zipped up my confidence, buttoned down my brave and stepped on that plane that delivered me into your glorious arms. Thanks for waiting for me all those years. I know you sensed something was missing until I got there. <br />
<br />
I remember the many long ago Thursday evenings sitting at home by the stereo that had the built-in cassette player. I'd listen to "Music of the Isles" and record all your beautiful ballads and a few choice dance tunes. That was before I knew a jig from a reel from a hornpipe and had never raised a fiddle to my chin. But your poetic rhythms stole my heart and fostered a magical lucid dream that I'm still wandering through and can't seem to wake from.<br />
<br />
In grad school I studied your folklore and felt that mystical allure that makes Americans smile and nod with recognition. A refugee from a lost tale, I felt a twinge of homesickness, a longing for a kingdom I'd never seen that lay far beyond my reach but not forgotten. I wrote a paper on the variants of Lazy Jack (okay, not the most romantic Celtic tale) and made a slide show (high tech!) featuring a menagerie of denizens of fairy land. Enchantment galore, but it was mostly on me. <br />
<br />
Now, in discovering the real you, I've started to grasp the nuances of your culture and the sweetness of your spirit. No longer mythical, but fully come to life in ways both surprising and familiar. Elves and leprechauns don't interest me, but ancient passage tombs and desolate abbeys are as intoxicating as pints of Guinness and send me staggering from stone to stone to encounter my ancestors and find my link in the chain.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's the whole draw..... to find my place, discover more about me than what the present can offer. If I can be here and then there, geographically speaking, then I can sense the here and there of the ages..... of culture and religion and the arts and most everything. Like rambling through the ruins of a medieval castle, maybe I can identify some of the rubble and do some rebuilding. Don't we all have rubble that's lying underfoot just waiting to be restored or remade into something elegant for the future? Life is good, but it can always be better.<br />
<br />
And so, dearest Ireland, tomorrow I'll toss my fiddle case across my back, once again bid St. Pete a fond farewell and resume the journey that began a year ago. Do you care if I stay all summer, because that's the plan? Doc will be waiting for me at Shannon and be my tour guide (and more!) through this summer of learning, growing and searching for pieces of myself among your ancient debris and present-day bounty. Can't wait to see what I find!KCVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01583848963163963209noreply@blogger.com1