3 posts tagged “ireland”
This is Max's new friend Holly. We met her in Ireland. They took one look at each other and were immediate fast friends--as though their whole short lives were leading up to this one moment. She runs like the wind and throws balls really really high. Like Max she can scale walls, poles, trees with ease and grace. After he met her in County Clare, the first words out of his mouth each morning were :"Mommy--is she coming over today?" He didn't even have to say her name. We both knew that SHE was Holly.
Holly speaks with a crisp British accent. While I warned the hiking children by saying "Hey kids--look out for those prickly thingies" she passed the message down the line by saying "Mind the thistles now". The mischief in her huge twinkling blue eyes I had expected to see on fairies only. No wonder Max loves her so.
Together the two of them played hard for four days straight until her family had to return to their home in the south of England. But when she left it was hard for me to believe that I hadn't known her her entire life.
She and Max brought out the adventurer in each other. They scaled walls, invented games, made art and explored. Over castles and fields, restaurants and city streets they lived again and again fully and completely in each and every moment. They suggested outlandish games and hid from the two year old. They occasionally had to take to separate corners--but mostly they tumbled along in sheer wonder and bliss.
Watching the love affair between them unfold I was envious. Such instant friendships do indeed seem the stuff of childhood. We adults are more guarded. We chat about nothing for awhile, circulating around each other suspiciously, asking questions that will tell us whether we can take a step closer. We protect our wounded hearts carefully - don't reveal too much--we know how easily it is to be hurt when we lead with a wide open heart. We know how hard goodbyes can be and find ourselves censoring ourselves--not wanting to commit our real selves to things that won't last.
But as I joined their gleeful romps, I found myself questioning that supposedly smart adult behavior. I marveled at how two children who dared to live completely without fear of loss were able to experience such utter joy. I found myself wanting to be like them.
Its amazing to me how as an adult I tend to look at new people through the lens of time: How long have I known them--How long they will be around. I warm up slowly, revealing little bits of my soul. Carefully and slowly unfurling my dreams and thoughts when I know it is safe. Its not been a bad strategy--I have made many wonderful friends this way. But I wonder about the missed chances to connect--the people who were only around a few days or weeks--the people I never let down my guard for and who consequently I will never see again. I wonder about the joy I might have missed while I was worried about protecting my wounded heart.
Because my wise young son dared lead with a wide open heart we now have new friends. Holly and her family are coming to the US for a visit next year. She and Max have planned to take a ride in Uncle Sean's police car and go to Grandma's house on the beach. They will marvel at skyscrapers in NY and look for sea shells. Perhaps it will end there. Or maybe it will continue with subsequent visits to the UK. In some ways what the future holds is not important--we have already gained so much from knowing them.
And me, I have decided to emulate the girl with the fairy-like eyes and the boy with green socks. I have vowed to take chances with new folks. To let my kookiness shine with strangers. I still think I will protect pieces of myself from people who clearly don't get me but I will channel Max and Holly when I find myself censoring for all the wrong reasons. I will welcome each stranger with a wide open heart.
When I was a little girl my mom used to recite this little rhyme whenever we pulled into the driveway after a trip.
"Home again, home again, jiggity jigg...Home again home again to roast a fat pig". I have no idea where it came from but to me it is the language of return. I have been reciting it all morning.
Yesterday Max and I opened the door of our house and returned home after an amazing two week voyage across the Atlantic. I had fully intended to post pictures and write from rural Ireland but the closest thing I found to wifi was a pair of digital walkie talkies that my brother had packed. Amazingly the internet cafes in Ireland all close by 5 or 6pm and so I found myself frustratingly and blissfully unconnected...
The last two weeks were full of wonderful adventures and some fabulous experiences which I hope to write about now that I am home and settled.
For two weeks my entire family (Mom, Dad, brother Sean, sister-in-law Jen, nephew Jack, and of course Maxidoodle and I) ambled through Southern and Western Ireland in a celebration of my parents 40th anniversary. Over 40 years ago, they had come to Ireland on their honeymoon and wanted to celebrate the life they had built by taking their family back to the place where they had started it.
And so we went. All seven of us. In two big cars we drove all around--making our way from Dublin in the East to Cratloe--a tiny village in County Clare where we had rented a house for the second week: Max and I with mom and Dad. Sean and his family in another. Sean and I chattering away on the walkie talkies as though we 10--telling jokes or jointly navigating--pointing out scenes the other might have missed. When we all drove smushed in one car, Sean would roll down the window everytime we saw cows so that we could all moo as loud as we could and try to make the cows look at us. Such is a Casey family vacation.
Max and Jack loved each fiercely and annoyed each other greatly. It was a lovely reminder of my childhood. I am glad that Max is developing the kind of relationship with his cousin that most people only experience with siblings. The kind of relationship that Sean and I experienced. Of messy love and envy and joy. Of invading each others space and drawing new boundaries over and over again.Of loving each other despite everything. Of unending forgiveness.
And along with all the giggling, the laughing so hard I cried, and the teaching of children, there was long stretches of nothing but the wind and the Irish countryside. I found myself often speechless. No inner monologue, no outer dialogue--just breathing and observing and taking it all in. Such long stretches of mindfulness was a miracle that defies description.
We all came on this trip looking for different things. Escape, connection, adventure, renewal, healing, a glimpse of something we had always wanted to see. And like all journeys we came away with different and unexpected gifts: humility, silence, peace, friendship, renewed sense of silliness. Dad learned he can't control everything--as much as he tries. I learned that I can peacefully be with my family and that I won't get lost or consumed by their strong world views which differ from mine. Max learned that its not all about him.
But now, we are back. Happily back and settling into our routine. There are clothes to be cleaned, work to be done, friends to catch up with. So much happened in our little world while we were away. But even as we joyfully dive back in, I know I will return time and time again to the peaceful and silly voyage we just took. I know it will feed my soul. I know that I will do things a little bit different because of what I learned on the wild Irish coasts or the person I discovered inside of me when there was no one to talk to but the wind.
Yesterday I dragged the big green suitcase, the one that is as big as I am, down from my attic. It clattered down the ladder and startled the cat so much that I had to go and rescue her from an unfortunate hiding spot, deep in the insulation.
After rescuing the cat, I laid the open suitcase out in my room and lovingly began to pack piece after piece of clothing that we would take with us to Ireland, humming all the while.
Nevermind that I am not going to Ireland for another 10 days. Nevermind that I can't remember the last trip I took that didn't have me up to 3 in the morning the night before I left, furiously packing, dumping and repacking my bags. Nevermind that I don't BELIEVE in packing early--that is something that (note exaggerated eye-roll here) my MOTHER would do.
When I was a child, any trip we took was prefaced by what felt like weeks of my mother running around at a furious pace, making lists, doing laundry and packing bags. I remember thinking (in my snarky teenage way) that Mom would fall apart if the bags weren't properly prepared days before departure. Packing became an event--complete with the stress, drama and excitement of international travel itself. I promised myself (in the way all teenagers do) that I would NEVER let travel preparation take center stage. I would NEVER obsess for weeks about what to wear and pack and what I would need to bring. I would never stress about having the right shoes. I would be sane about it.
So as an adult I took it to the other extreme. I would consciously wait until the very last minute to even begin thinking about my trip. Sure I might buy myself something special, but it would stay in the bag it came in in my front hall until--oh about 5 am when I remembered I had it and had to shove it in the bag, first dumping out everything else to repack it more efficiently. Carryon bags were emptied and repacked when I panicked--do I have my book? A pen? Lifesavers? My tickets? It didn't matter what happened on my trip--nothing would be more stressful than the last 30 minutes before I would have to leave for the airport. And strangely enough it worked for me on travels past. Fun trip and only one crazy night to get ready.
Ireland has been calling me. I need this trip like I need water. Even though I have never been I have this haunting feeling I am going home. But I am scared. This is the first time I have spent any significant time with my nutty but loveable family of origin since Juan and I separated. In fact this is the first time I have traveled abroad (accept for work) without Juan in ten years. The last time we took a trip like this Juan was with me and Max wasn't even dreamt up. My brother Sean had yet to become a policeofficer, let alone an Iraqi war veteran, husband and father. So much has changed since then--I have changed, they have changed. Two new children have been added to our clan.
Yet, even as I fret, I know deep in my soul that I will find healing and rest in the green and mist. And that knowing is pushing me on. This journey is calling me home.
But this same knowing is telling me that this is an adventure I cannot simply tumble into. I cannot take this journey lightly. I must prepare--not only with the right clothes, but with the right open mind and easy going attitude. I believe my packing has become a little meditation to that end. As a gardener tills the soil, dreaming of tomatoes, I count pairs of jeans and dream of what I will see when I am wearing them next. As I pack rainjackets and sensible shoes, I prepare my heart for the messy, imperfect, but genuine love that only families of origin can dish out. As I make endless lists of the things I must take with me but cannot pack yet (camera, journal, book, knitting) I build a little fortress of things I love to protect and nourish me.
Today I ordered two new white long sleeve t-shirts. When they arrive I will close the suitcase and set it by the door. Tomorrow I will go to the library to pick out a second book to stash in case I finish my first one. On Wednesday I will buy batteries for the cameras. And so on. I wonder if Max will remember these errands that disrupt our routine as stressful preparation or rather a grown woman making ready for a voyage of the heart? In my ritual I suddenly recognize the sanity of my 40 something mother, making ready for the journeys she knew would take her home.
