Desk sorted, I tackled the last three discs from my trip. I had forgotten much of what was on them and as I sit here, having uploaded two only to have the third one fail completely I'm not sure if can not cry. The last disc was from swimming at Soldiers Rock, Vicki's Pond in its nearly completed stage, and many, many pictures from around the foundation.
And for the moment, unless I figure out how to fix a formatting error that I really don't know where to start with, they're all gone.
So I poked through what I did have. Italy and Greece -- Pompeii, Corfu, Naples -- right around the time the camera started to really tweak out.
And I found this.
Just a shadow. Just the wind.
And still, it feels good to see the writhing halo somewhere.
So. I asked for frames for Yule. I have somwhere in the neighborhood of three-bah-jilla-million pictures from my trip (so much for digital cutting down on my errant photography) that I haven't done anything with. I haven't uploaded half of them to the computer (more because of trouble with the camera than anything else really), let alone printed them out or really shown them to anyone.
But tonight, after we got my furniture back to their places in my very red, very yummy bedroom with my favorite windows, and had a lovely puppy pile on my very yummy memory foam mattress (with much love for my wife for that), I decided to go through the pics I do have on the camera and start to sort them out on Picasa so that I can send off some to get printed and get themselves into those frames that are so happily cluttering up my shelves.
But this one is too pretty to wait.
Much love.
The unexpected happens. The universe, or fate, or some version of random in my world where very little is "just 'cause", shows up in the fanstastic indian resteraunt in a world a couple hours away. From across the room I recognize Carol, the mother of Rachel, the owner of the white cat Alaska, whom I flat-sat for in December in Greenwich, England.
And I sat there, completely flumoxed. Had I run into Carol in Ithaca I could have run with it as normal, not fated, since she had a house there at one point. But not in Rochester. Not sitting with Donna, her friend who grew up three houses from where I currently live.
I managed to make my way to their table without tripping over my jaw hung askew, or running into the waitstaff or other patrons, and after Carol recognized me, there was much in the way of cooing and amusement and quick catching up. There wasn't much I could do without being rude and I *hate* pouncing on people during their dinners. Loathe it. But this was just one of those... you really have to.
And when I got back to my seat, I felt like something had dislodged. That Carol, being real now because I had seen her *here* meant that it had all really happened. And the words started to come out in a complete rush, probably not making any sense to my poor dinner companions. She was real, I really did live in Greenwich, I really did go to Spain, I really did eat the prawns, I really did live in Ireland and in a world that I'll never be able to recreate though I love it just as much as the reality I have in my hands now.
That I really did accomplish something that mattered to me.
I think this means I can finally get the pictures printed. That I might be able to say more than "It was great. And awful. And yeah."
I'd like that, muchly.
It's twilight on this gorgeous summer night. We gather, bit by bit, near the grill and exchange laughter in trade for stories, puns, drinks and frantic sprints to a quote board to put up the latest and greatest misconstrument of the english language. I check your eyes looking for familier smiles and glints, the hints of what's changed in the space between long goodbyes and recent hellos.
Sweet Gods, I have missed you.
The first fire is Hard and Heavy like each brick returned. I burn off the parchment bits that survived winter, but started to melt in the summer rains. Chris, Glenn's, a couple other bits and bobs that we couldn't make out but the remainder was enough to be lit regardless. Each brick returned is weighed in my hands and then gently, I pull the parchment out, or slice the twine holding it close to its weight. I do some marker magick after taking in what people have done with my burdens -- how my bricks were changed, how they changed in the process of carrying -- and each piece of parchment changes, even if only a little. There isn't enough ways or words to express the gratitude I have that not only was each one carried, but that everyone was so *willing* to take them from me, if only for this measure of time. And not only did you carry them, but you did it with such grace.
The presence of such Love is humbling in the best ways possible.
I move through the gates, shedding things as I go. An apron that carries bits that my pocketless self can't seem to be without, a necklace, a cord. Not discarded forever, just... removed for a time so I can be me, and me is a girl dancing in her red shoes. Your chanting calls, and pulls me forward, and yes I'm crying because maybe now I can feel like I've finally come home, and I'm crying because of all the things I've left behind and maybe more importantly, all the things I found and carried back.
Like my heart.
And as the shadows from the trees grow to take in everything not licked by the firelight, I begin to tell the story that has been whispering to me since November. How, on a night not at all like this one, on a night that was longer, and colder, a girl was warmed by the outpouring of love and joy began a journey, one foot in front of the other. How this girl, despite how she was covered in layers of friendship and smothered by lists of her positive traits that everyone else wrote for her, was lonely and felt as though she were missing something.
In London, she said good day to a crow who caw'd hello to her. And as they chatted, the girl asked the crow if maybe it knew what her name was. The crow laughed in the way that crows laugh which sounds more like what Time would sound like if you tried to crinkle it up and smooth it out again, and the crow said of course I know your name. You're the Girl Who Laughs. And when the girl asked the crow to explain, he said No matter what comes at you, or how much something hurts, you find something in the darkness to find brightness in, and then you release the brightness to find your way through to the other side. The girl thought about this and decided she liked how the crow had described this truth, and asked how the crow would say that. And the crow told her, but the girl couldn't make the same sound, or capture the way the wings moved in a trill. And while she tried to say what the crow said, she forgot to take in the park around her, or how the mist hung low on the field, or how the sounds of the city disappeared in the autumn tree line.
Frustrated, the girl walked on.
When the girl found herself at the Sea she had never seen before, she whispered hello to the waves as they rolled in. For a bit, she stood there, sinking into the cold, wet sand as a cold winter sky. The salt water caressed her bare feet and the girl asked if the waves knew her name. Sliding too and fro, the waves said of course we know your name, you're the Girl Who Dances. You find the rhythm in the rain fall hitting the glass ceiling in the conservatory, or the gentle rock of the chair by the fireplace and your spirit dances. And even when you stumble over a root, or your feet, you take the next down beat and fall in to the measure with a smile. The girl thought about this and decided she liked how the waves had described this truth, and asked how they would say that. And the waves told her, but the girl couldn't make the same sound that they made as they slid over the shells, or gurgled back out to the deep. And while she tried to say what the waves had said, she forgot to take in the small boat passing along the horizon, or the change in colors as her eyes moved from shore to sky.
Frustrated, the girl walked on.
The girl walked from the edge of sea inland, and kept walking, making her way from water through the hills to the mountains. She climbed up the rocky outcrops, past the tree line and sat herself down on one bare bit of earth. She watched the wind push through the snows and dug her hands into the frozen dirt to say hello to the mountain. The mountain said hello back, slowly, in a way that made the ground move slightly and the snows shift gently. The girl told the mountain she was tired, and she was lonely, and the mountain said nothing to make her feel better, but instead shifted enough that the girl could lay back into the snow and sink into the mountain in a dream. And as the girl's spirit walked from above to below, the mountain showed her the path that water takes to trickle into the deepest caverns in the darkest places, and that below thousands upon thousands of layers of rock and earth and time, there was a deep spring that gurgled softly on one side, and on the other was as still as glass. The girl asked if the mountain knew her name, and the mountain said nothing again, but beckoned her closer to the spring... and image upon image came back to the girl, how this was how the mountain saw her, Eternally Springing Hopeful no matter how deep, or how layered the situation was. The girl liked the images the mountain put forth as a truth, and when she tried to form the images into sound, she forgot to take in how the pool sparkled reflections of minerals back at her from some unknown light source, or how the grit of the earth felt in her fingers, or how fresh the cold felt nipping at her face.
Frustrated, the girl came back to her place on the mountain and saw the sun setting in a blaze of oranges, golds and reds. The purple of the night stalking the remnants of days strands moved in from the east, and the girl asked if the sun knew what her name was. The sun pulsed brighter, shooting out sprays of color to tint the clouds pink, and said you're the Passionate One. Everything you do, you fall into with all your heart, your soul, all your limbs and tangles. You believe thoroughly and want with a desperation that makes even the hardest heart sigh with some love for a cause. The girl liked the sunset's truth and asked it how to say that, and the sunset bounced the words off the ocean and the clouds, but the girl couldn't say those things. While she watched the colors slip further into the west, she forgot to notice the wind covering her trail, or how the clouds gave way to stars.
And as the day faded and night blanketed her view, she finally began to notice the twinkle in the heavens. One by one, the stars came out to form patterns in the inky canvas. One star in particular kept tugging at her, twinkle, dim, pulse, dim, twinkle. The girl began talking with the star, tell it about her journey, and admitting that she was lonely and homesick, that she missed her family, her friends. That she felt like she had lost everything that she loved and had nothing, not even a name, to show for the pain. The star twinkled in response, content to listen to the girl. And hesitantly, the girl asked if it possibly would know her name. And the star glimmered a laugh and said Of Course I know your name. We have a hundred names for you, Child, as you are ours as we are yours, and you have a hundred names for us. But you, you are Grace, the kind of grace that dances and falls, or the kind that sings her heart out and blends in with other voices lifted, or the kind of grace that finds peace in chaos. Its the grace to know that you are blessed by the gods, and the grace to know what the balance is to that blessing.
And. It's also a bit of a joke. You are a bit of a klutz.
And the girl thought on this and decided that she liked the truth the star spoke, but she didn't like the word they used. Like everything else, she knew she couldn't pronounce it, and that Grace still wasn't quite the shade of Who she was to really say this is my Name. So the girl walked on, and kept walking, and walked some more. She took in the colors of the ocean, and the movements of the clouds. She fell in love with the mist rolling in off the mountains and the sound of a waterfall crashing through the bog. She noticed how the earths contours told more stories than they hid, and eventually, she realized she had some peace even if she didn't know how to say her name.
And because she had given over, let go of the desire to know, the word came to her. Kecharitomene, a very old Greek word that means Full of Grace.
Smiling, the girl was ready to go home.
And Home was ready to have her return.
With much love, and much gratitude.
except the girl in the front room with the picture windows out on the world.
i'm grateful for the green and blues here. surrounded by a young forest with its own special brand of attitude, surrounded by arms to hold and hands to soothe, and smiles to embrace, how can i surrender to sadness?
i feel cut off.
i tell myself this is normal, that this happened when i was traveling, and that like it or not these few weeks are part of the journey. that sometimes the songs that were meant to make the connection will only connect me to a quiet place that i named, or that named me, but either way i find myself reaching for it in that moment between asleep and awake, the precipice where the edge is real and made of sea spray.
make new memories, reconnect one at a time with your love. heart healed, soul awake, walk forward. don't miss what's behind you, concentrate on each foot going forward. you have things to do, a long list of things to sort through and sort out and time ... while it may not be running out, it's definitely not something you have an endless supply of.
forward.
when i drive home -- because this *is* home -- i notice the change in temperature once i crest the hill and start down the other side. i'm aware of how the hills are thick with our woodlands of pine and maples, how i saw one squirrel in ireland and here they are constantly playing gymnastics with one another, or tearing down the bird feeders much to the chittering annoyance of the chickadees. i notice how grateful i am that there are other people that live here, and how i find quiet even in the whirring. and how much i missed her smile.
and i try not to think of the other place where i was constantly amazed by the mist rolling off the hills, or how the grass there wasn't soft in the least, or a child's face beaming from the backseat as she scolds us for the latest pop song getting stuck in her head. when i say i'm fine, i mean sincerely, i'm fine, i'm just... still returning. that i love you all, and i'm here, and i'm finding moments of sheer gratitude taking back bottles, or being able to hold a friend's hand as i sit in the waiting room with her because she's not feeling well. i'm grateful for being able to say lets watch a movie -- and absolutely hating it -- but having someone to curl up with regardless. i'm finding it hard to lean, but knowing that when i do, i'm caught and held and loved for the gentle pressure of my resting head without it needing to be anything more than exactly what it is.
it wasn't perfect there, it's not perfect here. perfect is in our hearts and it's something we're all looking for, but if we're lucky, we find we're happy with the marred finish just the same.
- Location:Twist Run
- Music:you had time - ani difranco
the trip back was mostly good. the people I sat with, a nice couple from Chicago who had been visiting cousins in Kerry, were really funny. Both the fella and I realized at the same time that it was going to be a nearly eight hour flight back (something that maybe should have occurred prior to two hours into the flight) and our groan was... enough to send his girlfriend into a fit of laughter.
We actually landed in philly a half hour early and we all had to disembark to get our luggage and clear customs... at which point I thought ahm. I have my stuff. Why on earth would I get back on the plane to go further east and end up starting out for home a couple hours later than I could right now?
Yeah. No.
The drive home was *fantastic*... thank you Avis lady for giving me the PT Cruiser with the awesome stereo and cd player. The clouds were amazing, the hills rolled up to meet me half way through PA, and it really felt good to drive back.
I wouldn't have traded that for anything.
And then the sunset.
You might have noticed, but I've got a thing about sunsets. I've been privy to some of the most beautiful arrays of heaven -- between my time up at fort drum and ireland, really, it's a blessing. but last night... gold gold gold. The whole sky was just awash in the brightest golds with hints of red peeking through the twist run forest where the sun was sinking.
And as it started to rain, I landed.
Home is good. My room looks fantastic, I slept well, and I think things are going to feel funny for a few days, but funny good.
Right. Tea.
- Location:Twist Run
What if this really is as good as it gets, the movie said, and I remember nodding with understanding.
But if this is it
This is beautiful.
We're all dressed smartly -- I still wear black, but not to disappear anymore. Red shoes peak out and Daniel said something about my sparkle -- not the makeup he chided when I shrugged off the compliment (somethings haven't changed perhaps) but the fact that I am a-glow.
I found a measure of peace on the edge of the water the other day, my rocky perch where I can watch the waves come in and play with the small rocks carried in from the deeper parts of the bay. I wish I could capture the sound of the stones being tumbled over one another, or the caress of the water slipping from the shoreline, over the seaweed and back out again. A small patch of grass over the crags and I find comfort. I've made choices, and I'm able to love myself with the understanding of the good, and the bad, weighed out.
I did it.
When we drive out towards Castletownberre, I take another look at the mountains that I've taken hundreds of pictures of... It is so barren through these crevices that it really is haunting. I can't imagine trying to live there a hundred years ago, or even fifty. But, perhaps because of its barreness, I find I am sighing with adoration for the way the greens take hold and decorate the sides, patterns to discern cosmic chaos by or lichen to simply like for its emeraldness.
So wild, so desolate. You don't live here to grow anything but memories I think.
And wow, I have a heart full of those too. If this is it, if my poor soul is done in and there really is no afterlife, or new life, or whatever, I hope that I can remember the peace I've found, the stillness I've loved, and the smiles we've shared until my spark goes out.
See you on the other side of the rainbow.
xx
- Location:Derry Dubf Farm
Say goodbye to the family who took you to Switzerland. Walk near the Wisteria and take in the scent of the fresh flowering. Reconnect, share fondue fondly, drink yourself silly on cider and wine. Go through your things, your work wear, sort and sift and leave behind a goodsized bag for goodwill. Try on the clothing you haven't seen in five months and note where its looser and where it still fits.
Fall asleep to the sound of children breathing.
Wake up and be startled at how not white your legs are. Wander around a land of Lego's, drive by the queen's castle and the posh prep school noting how beautiful Tudor can be with the right garden. Enjoy the rain. Get on the train and return to what could possibly be the best flat in the whole world, because it's there, because it's Heather's, because it is so calm and relaxing. Fuss with flowers as a thank you, Breathe as it opens up and pours whilst you wander around looking for the bus ticket counter so you can get a lift to the airport before the crack of dawn.
For years you've marked and remarked on this holiday... not out of patriotism, but awe for the spectacular send off we send heavenwards. All those falling sparks are like wishes, and you've had so many of them come true.
And finally, you've found that thing celebrated.
Happy 4th of July.
- Location:heather's
I came, I saw..
... I wept.
Rome is much, much better than it was when I was first in here. Granted, I'm not sitting in the Termini station for eight hours being harrassed by menfolk, so that is automatically going to improve my mood a thousandfold. Rome is also much better than Naples -- I was warned that it was dirtier which really freaked me out since there were literally piles taller than myself on many streetcorners in and around Naples. I wasn't kidding when I said that the next plague is probably going to originate from southern Italy.
So, got off the bus and started my habitual walk in one direction until you hit something. I was actually making a concerted effort to get to Palatine Hill (the birthplace of the Republic, big thing on my list of things) and the Colloseum -- handily right next door. Walk walk walk, and I run into the Italian Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I'm not sure what it is about these monuments, but I think just about every place I've been I've run into this and I'm always moved by them.
And then I kept going.
Just up the stairs, around the corner and through the arch I caught the eastern view of the Palantine... And I just started to cry. You know that little voice that laughs at us? It was chiding me for being such a ninny, but all i could think of was how amazing it was that I was *actually* there, looking over this place where so many amazing orators and statesmen walked and planned and hoped and died. The birthplace of the Republic and the subsequent funeral site of the same.
And yeah, having had a crush on Caesar probably made it a little bit more silly. Someday I should write that all out... it's not nearly as crazy as it sounds at the outset, I promise.
Well. something like that.
So yeah, glad I came back to Rome, glad I'm getting a good wander around. No, I'm not actually going into a lot of the sites, I'm down to my last few euro's and really (really really) I am simply pleased that I get to be *here* -- spending 11 euro for each site isn't necessary. It isn't something I'll regret either.
And my campsite is in a *beautiful* setup -- there's a huge mountain range in the distance, full moon last night and sweet gods, I feel good. And it's clean, and it's private, and it has a shower. The only downside was the cashpoint was down and no one took cards and I had spent the last of my physical money getting out to the damn place so there was no dinner for Eithne last night. Which I made up for with a lovely lunch and my first italian coffee (good god, I'm going to BOUNCE my way back out to the camp)... thankfully I'm not nearly as hungry when I travel alone.
They say that a lifetime isn't enough to see all of Rome, and I can see why. I'm going to hit the vatican tomorrow (along with a throng of thousands, seeing how it's sunday) before camping out in the airport to get the plane to London Monday morning. So, two days and I get to see the parts of Rome I know I wanted to see. And I'm happy.
Next post probably from London, so I'll say Ciao mi Amore... I hope I got that right!
Ciao ciao!
- Location:Roma, Italy
' Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.' - Neil Gaiman
I'm quoting it because it's appropriate. Today is the turning point, the part where I have pulled myself physically as far away from home as I possibly can and now I'm on the rapid return home. As
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ravynfyre said last night, it's now a matter of weeks. Well. Days really. Slingshot. Back to Italy today, though with a travel buddy because... well. I've had enough of being a single female traveling through that country for one lifetime, thankyouverymuch. Naples for a few days, camping, sending some stuff home via post because... it's heavy... fly to london, see Heather, The Betts family, The Plant's down in Somerset if I can swing it. Plane back to Cork... I don't want to think about that part yet.
Return the way you came.
Kinda.
Months ago I made a post where I said I felt like I was coming home, I was just taking the longer way back... That was so... right and wrong. I'm laughing at how much the epic-leave-taking-ritual mirrored this trip, how I thought I was done when I found Ravyn on the path and how much further I had to go... You've all been here, all your stations and questions and thoughts and well wishes... every turn of this trip I've seen you. And then at the end, River and I sat up at the top of the hill and he reminded me about *this* part of the trip... the part where I'm going home. Really home this time. And how we walked down to the circle, just a few of us, and then everyone came out -- a massive huge group of love -- to meet me again. For me to meet them.
It took time to get from the crest of the hill with River to when the mead was passed and our gods thanked, hand in hand.
Time...
A few of you... well, more than a few... have very kindly offered to meet me at the airport. I am very grateful for the offers of help; spirits know how much I've missed you guys and would love to see your bright smiling faces at the arrivals gate.
But.
Not this time. If I were flying into Binghamton I'd be completely game for it. Or even Syracuse. But a four hour or more trip to meet me when I don't know how delayed my plane will be (and it will... it always is) or how long it's going to take me to get through customs (of COURSE I don't have anything to declare except thank gods I'm back)... It's really just not a good idea.
And then there's the emotional bit.
I need to physically make this drive home. I don't think I've been remotely shy about how difficult I'm finding it to leave, or come home. Not because I don't want to see you, but simply because ... I see how easy it would be to just keep going. Even here, in Greece, I could very easily find life twisting itself around so that I could stay for a while. We create the opportunities, or we become aware of them, and then we have to make choices.
We make choices. I've made choices. I need the drive home to physically put it into my life that I made a choice. I need to be the one to put the key in the door, open it, and walk through.
I'm probably, no, definitely, going to need some down time. I'm really really happy we have a chance to gather at the end of the month and I'm going to take full advantage of it. And take this with the honest love as its meant, but please don't surprise me by randomly showing up... not yet. I'm going to need some time in the woods, by the pond, reconnecting with people bit by bit. I'm emotional, I'm confused, and I'm determined... kinda a crazy combination. But. Anything less wouldn't be me.
I still have my bell, my key, and my compass. I'm coming home.
I love you.
- Location:Pelekas, Greece
- Music:mambo number 5!
I'm propped quietly against the chair where Dan is resting for a bit, camera out and silently clicking away. I... I don't need the pictures. You're all imprinted so heavily now that I know the lines of your hands and the sound of your laughter while the wine is being poured, or the wood fed into the stove, or the rice served. I don't need them, but I'm taking them.
Sometimes I feel like a thief.
But then, I see a soft smile
and I feel like the richest girl in the world. I see Stillness in amidst Chaos and I feel Blessed.
I see a Mother beside Mirth
and I know Grace. I have no pictures of the little ones snuggled in what could only be the most adorable snuggle ever, or Barney saying they'd cement me in when I got back with my hands free to torment them with tickling (it seems that my torment has been far too accepted...) No pictures of the sweet men dancing with their friends and wives at the Ouvane, or Phillipe and Margot getting caught in an Irish two step that had me in a fit of giggles. No pictures of my gratitude for the rain this morning, or the trip into Cork that was distracting enough that I didn't cry.
It's not goodbye, it's 'I'll see you soon' he said to Vicki.
And so, staggering forward rejoicing, be it to Atlantis or Corfu, or the quiet beach on the west coast of the furthest from home you've ever been. And rest. And love.
And live.
- Location:Cork, Ireland
I'm going to start this post off with the fact that tonight, at some point before dinner, Eithne is taking herself out to the indian resteraunt and going for a long drive someplace other than here. Before my head explodes.
When I say things are full on here, I mean, Full Freaking On. Manic. Kinda like what it feels like for the Beltaine Planning Crew the week before Beltaine... except, more stress. I went to town today to pick up another volunteer and run errands, which included going to the farm supply store to get hinges and bolts for the orchard gate and ran into a man with the thickest west Cork accent ever... He actually had to point and gesture to show me what he was talking about. I managed to do all the errands, forget the bolts, pick up the the volunteer and make it back to the farm before 12:30 -- which is really saying something.
The farm is in absolute chaos mode trying to sort things out before this reporter gets here next wednesday. I'm really kicking myself for booking my tickets for tuesday, I really would have liked to have been here until Friday... and well. Vicki was ready to kick me as well. Bad Bad Timing Eithne Dear.
We had no water again yesterday and I'm still not entirely sure *why* that is... all I know is that there was a lot of scurrying up and down the mountain with me being on one end of the walkie talkie listening to Daniel, Kasper and Tony go back and forth about various shut down valves. And Uisce was in a *foul* mood this morning, which made life exceptionally difficult when it came to breakfast, getting lunches and dealing with the invariable mess the kitchen descends into regardless of how much Vicki and I stand at the sink.
But, the bright side -- because there has *got* to be a bright side to all of this -- is Helen showed me the text she sent the volunteer that I picked up today that described me. She said 'It's an american woman picking you up, she's all smiles with long brown hair -- unless she's five minutes late, then she'll be wearing a worried expression.'
For some reason, that made me laugh.
And the other thing is that I realized that for as much as I cry, I laugh twice as hard given the opportunity. Poppy made a comment about how absolutely loud I am when I laugh... and at first I was embarressed and then I realized yanno... maybe this is what Ravyn was talking about when she called me emotional. Maybe it's not such a bad thing.
Maybe.
*sigh* more dishes. In a week I should be in Greece. Huh. Fancy that.
But. The upside is I get a few more days in either Greece or Italy. Now, that's not so bad, is it?
I just booked everything from Cork, to London, from London to Rome and the returns. Three bags to get me back from London to Cork, one to get me everywhere else. I think even though I'm flying really really early and all that, the airfare still came out to $300... If I'm lucky. And that's not counting the bus from the airport to Rome itself (sigh), the train to Brindisi (sigh sigh) or the €70 to get me from Brindisi, Italy to Corfu, Greece.
But sweet gods, I can almost feel that lucious beach sand squiggling through my toes.
*phew* Now. Just to look at my bank account and faint. Again.
Does that look like Lead as in the metal, the thing alchemists are forever trying to turn to gold? Or does it look like Lead, as in to head up, have others follow?
The English language is dangerous in the wrong hands...
like mine.
I've joked around with a lot of the volunteers that show up and English isn't their first language... I tell them well, it's my first language, but I don't use it very well. Most of the time I need someone else to translate for me. I'm pleased when someone likes my writing, but I'm keenly aware of my grammatical inconsistancies. My punctuation is a disaster, and heaven help us all when I actually finish a story. I'm going to need an editor with enough patience and humor that might make them better peace keepers in the middle east than editors for any sort of a story I'd write.
Right. I'm rambling again.
Last night I took the recently adopted huskie Jimmy for a walk in one of my favorite parks. And Phillipe, the french volunteer. I needed to get out as Poppy had pretty much taken my last nerve, ripped it out, slathered it in vinegar and beaten it down to a fine mushy pulp and then handed it back to me with a pile of dirty dishes and venom. It's amazing that I'm just laughing at her now...
Right. Jimmy. So Jimmy, Phillipe and I go for this walk. I'm tying up my loose ends here, doing a little bit of training with Jimmy being part of that. He's a beautiful Malmut with these gorgeous brown eyes and markings that make it look like he's always laughing. And at five months, he's massive and only going to get bigger. His paws are nearly the size of my hands. They call a leash a lead here, as in to lead, not the weight of metal, but I think most of the time I was being pulled along by this puppy.
They're going to make him a sledge and he's going to be fabulous with it.
The park was beautiful, lots of people wandering around the paths lined with Rhodedendrons and laurel and myrtle. I'm pretty much always amazed to be on the edge of land and sea and not smell the brine. I love that the trees are in full blossom, and I love that I can have a conversation with Phillipe and know that we are both absolutely aware of our cultural differences and not take anything the wrong way.
Or ask for clarification when it's needed.
And a wrong turn leads to some beautiful scenary with that sunset... gods. Can I fall in love with a time of day? With the wind? With the colour and shades of shadows creeping through the evening? Or a dog's pretty face?
More loose ends. I'm doing grant research and setting the foundation up as an education center. This is going to be a ridiculous process that is taking up pretty much all my spare time now. It gets me out of the Honeycomb and puts my organizational talents to use... well. And tests them. I'm not good at making ponds or making peace with headstrong, violent fifteen year olds, but put me in front of a computer and hand me a challenge and let's see where this takes us.
Uisce and I are having long talks. She asked me why I didn't have my cell phone today when I took her to the bus stop... and I could only say it was to prevent me from doing something more stupid than I've already done. She laughed and said that I've had my idiot moment for the week, I could have another one next Sunday.
She's pretty bright at eleven. She's going to be hell when she's sixteen.
I can't wait to see that version of hell though. She'll have a great smile.
Other loose ends. No specific timeframes for island hopping. Vicki and Uisce are thinking about coming along and I'm thinking that would be really fantastic since Vicki spent time there when she was a traveller. I'm less likely to take my eight day hike now and more likely to go to the beaches and breathe... which is completely opposite of what I had ever thought I would be doing in Greece.
Another walk for Jimmy tonight, I'll finish up the curtains at Markus's this afternoon, and hopefully I'll have an outline for the set up of accrediation here tonight. I can't even tell you the amount of paperwork that I have to wade through just to get to page One of the process. But. Since I'm not so good at gardening, perhaps focusing at what I'm good at would be better.
It's not turning the lead to gold, but it's loving the lead for being exactly what it is.
And quotes, especially after that last entry:
A map can tell me how to find a place I have not seen but often imagined. When I get there, following a map faithfully, the place is not the place of my imagination. Maps, growing ever more real, are much less true. -- J Winterson
I have met a great many pilgrims on their way towards God and I wonder why they have chosen to look for Him rather than themselves. Perhaps I'm missing the point -- perhaps whilst looking for someone else you might come across yourself unexpectedly, in a garden somewhere or on a mountain watching the rain. But they don't seem to care who they are. Some of them have told me that the very point of searching for God is to forget about oneself, to lose oneself forever. But it is not difficult to lose oneself, or is it the ego they are talking about, the hollow screaming cadaver that has the spirit within it?
I think that the cadaver is only the ideal self run mad, and if the other life, the secret life can be found and brought home, then a person might live in peace and have no need for God. After all, He has no need for us, being complete. -- J Winterson
I wish I knew why these blustery days make me ache to be moving again. It's like the wind tangles in my hair and pulls at my feet to tell me it's time to go dear, move along move along.
When are you leaving again? I don't know, I said. End of June, maybe midmonth? And then these kick in and I think well, I have enough to go on now for the next couple months. But then the other part of me wants to stay, just a little bit longer. Full moon, midsummer, then go.
Wide awake at two am, an hour lost the price to pay for sleeping in until four the previous morning. I had curled up on the couch to watch the embers die from my fabulous little fire the evening previous where I could sit in good company and just talk. And listen. And laugh. His smile is more intoxicating than my favorite sweet wine. I could rest my head here between the blustery days and feel the cool stillness of a small tide pool.
I talk about home a lot. I am so excited to see your faces again, my old room with the big windows to face the maple that blazes gold in the autumn. I can almost smell the summer there, I said, after talking with Ravyn for a little bit. I can see the greens and golds and smell the honeysuckle around the pond and I feel that even if this is a dream, it's a good dream.
But the winds follow me there too and I know for as much as I love my view, my wife, my home, the same winds will tug at me there. Is this a fault of my stars aligned so? Is this just a continuation of my once scorned aversion to committment? In Greenwich I wrote:
Slide past the parts with broken, jagged bits
held together by glue
Find my edges and push them farther out
Not to own more space
Or fix my place in this universe and stagnate
But to name the black parts I already inhabited
So that when I say 'I love you'
I know exactly who is loving who.
Naming is really what it's all about, I think. In Switzerland I was amused to discover the stars have their own names for us... it seems so obvious now and really, how human-centric to think that we're the only cognitive creatures that name things and places.
I wonder what the wind feels like on the moon.
I do in fact have a plane ticket home that I've been kinda quiet about for no reason in particular. I'll be back in the states July 12th, though it's possible that I will not be home that night exactly since there seems to be an absolute need for my tookus to land in LaGuardia rather than just disembarking altogether in Phily and driving home from there.
And yes, I am coming back to the states. As much as I love it here, and there is a lot of love, it's not my life. When I was back in Greenwhich I had a conversation with Mr. Ulfr about the possibility of me just going and going; I've proven very capable of finding my way through some funny and not so funny situations with my mad combination of personality and cheer so it's really rather possible for me to just take a plane to Greece and keep going.
But, as I said to him then, this isn't a real life. This isn't my life. My life has deadlines and bills to be paid and dreams to see through. This is a vacation, a good vacation with some really awkward ugly spots and a whole lot of memories that are going to make me whistful and happy for years, maybe longer. So I was amused when Eugene said the reason he didn't stay with his job at sea was because it wasn't real... it's the same here. This is perfect, but perfection is an illusion and it wouldn't take long for a whole bunch of cracks to show through.
So, no worries Stoney, Scott and Adam -- the three of you shan't be needing to hunt me down and haul me home. Promise made, promise kept.
As of this moment -- and well, we've seen how all my plans have come and gone and changed a half dozen times -- I'm sticking around in West Cork until mid-to-end June, right around midsummer (so I can harvest the garlic I planted my first day here I say with some mirth) and then I'll head back to London for a week, and then I'm going to try like hell to get to southern Italy and ferry over to Greece as I had planned, back to London, and then back to Dublin to catch a flight home. (of course, Immigration is going to have an absolute *bird* when I come back through, but this time I have a ticket home so hopefully we can keep the bird smallish. Wren sized would be nice)
But I'm still here and life is for the living. I've been driving around a bit; today I'm in town to pick up the new WWOOF'er from Italy and I stopped in at the coffee house for some decaf (did I mention I actually can't drink caffine anymore? wtf batman? I blame this entirely on the instant crap I had to drink for months) I took the kids to school, I've been running errands, I made a kick ass dinner yesterday that would have made even me propose to myself. So even though life caught up with me here, I'm still running with it as best I can. Maybe better than I did before, I can't be sure and I suppose it doesn't much matter because this is all I've got, and it's a lot, so that's good.
And I'll be seeing most of you at Mabon, the time between touching down and then is a bit ... well. Typically Eithne, typically packed.
And yanno... that's a good thing too.
dreams first from the past couple days:
I have in my hands three orange threads -- yarns of different sizes and shades and one is tied around the others. There is a man there that I've never seen before, nor do I recognize his energy, but he is the focus of some vicious, unbridled anger from me. He was caught by someone else trying to steal the spirit of a group of people, a community, and now that I have him in front of me I'm just undone. These threads, I tell him, are the women; as a group they're strong and bright, but even if you pull them apart, they're still beautiful and functional. Don't fuck with my threads.
Shift.
A man is sitting cross legged in front of me. I recognize him from the back and know that I'm not supposed to approach him. I watch him for a bit while the voices behind me tell me his stories. "He went mad you see" they say, and I try to argue that he's not mad, he's touched and sensitive and that there's nothing wrong with that. I can feel them grinning though. He's the man who jumped off the bridge in another dream -- not just jumped, but looked right at me and smiled and lept -- and the same bodiless voices remind me of this. "Go on" they say, and I know I'm to climb the tree and hang upside down so I can see what they're seeing and talking about. And as I hang there, I see him putting together this puzzle that makes absolutely no sense to me on one level, but on another it makes a perfect shimmering picture that I cannot put into any comprehensible language. It just is. I'm in complete awe as his hands move piece by piece.
He went mad and I understand now that was the only way he could stay sane. There are no words for the picture, and there is no room for me except hanging there, out of his view and watching.
Shift.
I'm trying to climb up this very narrow corridor, almost completely vertical. Chris bikes on ahead of me in a tux, presumably to get married, and I'm trying to sink my hands into the twisted trunk in the center, or into the earth, just to pull myself up.
Onwards.
He said you have a purpose at home. How are you fufilling it here? And I think that purpose is a funny thing, giving some of us a reason, a deffinition to live up to and choking others just the same.
I seem to have developed a habit of naming my fears and setting about annhilating them. Last night I caught and released two spiders, screaming just once. Only once though because there was absolutely no one around to hear me, or help me. Fear, when you're alone, is a very stupid feeling.
I walked into the field today just to stand with the horses, rubbing them down and listening to them. I clamber up hills and mountains, breathless more from their beauty and the view than the fear of the edge between earth and sky. I don't wear gloves when I'm wrist deep in the earth for fear of touching worms, I sit in the full sun getting pink and tanned, and after sitting down for tea with my zombies in a hail storm, they haven't come calling in a couple months.
I've walked in the dark alone without a light, knowing that no one knew where I was. I've slept alone, had my nightmares that jolt me awake, and managed to stay calm.
But really, it's that being alone thing that keeps coming back.
I discovered that the fear I haven't been able to really work around is that I fear people, their influences on my supposed freedom. I love the excitement about thinking about relationships -- the crush stage -- but I'm absolutely terrified of what happens after. I am horribly klutzy this week, having broken several dishes and bottles of wine in a store and I'm just praying at this point for some amount of physical grace to keep me from breaking everything I touch, just until I can find some balance again. Six months of celibacy is apparently more than my poor body can handle... it's no wonder Vicki took away the special wine glasses. I'm just lucky she didn't hand me a sippy cup for my gin.
Eight of cups tonight and around this it all swirls. I won't know until Tuesday what my fate is for the next few months. Tuesday, half nine. At home, that's 4:30 in the morning. In the meantime, there's the issue of my plane ticket and somehow I have to keep my wits and my hope about me.
I ate some gorse petals yesterday... supposedly it's a cure for hopelessness. It's funny that right now, when I'm feeling pretty manic, the gorse is starting to shed all their flowers. I am ever the victim of cosmically funny bad timing.
Bad timing. I need to ramble some more.
We've gone in circles, verbally and physically. I realize that I'm asking the same questions and knowing full well the answers haven't changed. I just have absolutely nothing else to say. Well, no that's not true. I have a lot to say -- I wouldn't mind the silence so much if I didn't have so many bloody words all clamouring to get out at once.
Makes a girl kinda spazzy.
A few paces into the first knoll, not even to the first hill and some tall grasses pulled and sacrificed to my fidgeting, then back the other way to the end of the track, loop, and we find ourselves at your car. Thank god for chocolate, chewing means my mouth is full and I can't say anything more ridiculous than I already have.
So say goodbye and later, a rejected phone call was the final hint I needed to say ok. Done. Done done done. I may only have a few days left and I can't let this cloud it.
The problem with crushes is eventually, I get crushed. New record, it took a month this time and no rings.
Maybe I'm learning.
And yes, I loved the sensitive music. I wanted to know what you were humming by the pond and I wanted to tell you that it made me grin when you'd tell me your adventures and misadventures, or when you'd say my name, simply because you always sounded like you had laughter on your tongue. I'm sorry I ran out of words, I'm sorry I didn't know what else to say, and I'm sorry I'm so awkward.
But I'm grateful too, and hopefully that can keep my bouyent while I'm waiting for the gorse to flower again.
of the presidents house in Phoenix Park
a light for the main export of ireland -- her people --
a light to come home, or to know they're missed.
this is a land in motion. millions upon millions of years ago it broke from the main continent with a spectacular display of volcanic eruptions and earth heaving and breathing. a ship making ready for sail, or the words angry lovers say to one another before setting off on their own. lava mingled wit h salt, rocky bones bent and broke, and all that was green turned to dust as northward she moved.
time is a useless, linear and limited marking for this transition. instead, note that not once but twice she was submerged in murky depths and warm currents. note her resting place at the moment is still transitory. the water washed these bones clean and set them again.
they say that Noah's daughter came to Ireland after the flood. Gods great plan to wash away the sins of man, and a woman comes north to a land covered in forests so thick that they couldn't disembark from their ships but rather explored the coasts and rivers for months.
was she the first off the boat?
i watch the land in transit, knowing it's still moving as my memories and i are carried around. the greens are here, and there, and eventually they give way to the cliffs in the far west where the waves push and thrash the coastline, ripping away piece by piece the peace of green. and further, the desolate gray mountains, the burren, where gray replaces greens and golds. we've chopped down all the trees here, carried them away to other lands. we've built walls running on and on into meaningless cairns, the price of absentee landlords starving the ones trying to live on the land out. we carried away the trees, the stones, the food, and eventually the people had to leave in much the same way they came -- by boat, or by death, or sometimes by both.
no roots to hold the mountains from running into the streams and so weathered, they round themselves out. no roots. where are my ancestors bones? i know i have them, i just don't know who they are. i said a prayer for the forgotten, the ones who died trying to leave to find food, to find a chance, to find a home that would welcome them, to the ones whose names were never known. i left a stone there for them, and i carried their whispers away.
Lovely. Another night at the pub for me. (It should be mentioned now that the previous night I discovered that I really do like Murphey's beer, and this drink called diesel which is stella beer, cider, and blackcurrent liquor and tastes like a hardcandy with a kick, and how one of the girls bought me stella [which is a hideous beer] and a shot of tequila and i downed that like perhaps i hadn't learned a blessed thing when i turned 26 and ended up dancing and giggling until well after one in the morning. It should also be mentioned that quite a few of us were up and dancing, and that the guys were actually *dancing* and reeling, and that there was much laughter from everyone including the guys playing the guitars who in fact did a fantastically scottish cover of the proclaimers I would walk 500 miles etc, and other than the stop the world i want to get off feeling, it was a really fantastic night)
Dinner, a light and refreshing drink of gin and tonic, more chattering on with the fellow comrades as Neil (who really is crazy) and Adam (who is crazy in training, but a gemini, so he's more than half way there) show up and then the guy shows up to entertain the bar.
Wow.
I was leaving so I could go pack and he somehow managed to guilt me into coming back, but with a smile? And when Ashlee and I show back up, he is absolutely stunned. So he starts playing anything we request. Two others from our hostel/bus experience show up and we sit in the back calling out songs and he does all of them. I mean, fun accent, and a musical variety that includes simon and garfunkle, neil young, gloria gayner, britney spears (dude, he made it SEXY in a way she *never* could), billy joel, the kooks, U2, eric clapton, oh and TIFFANY for crying out loud. He had us all singing our poor little multicultural hearts out in the back and just laughing silly when we couldn't hit all the notes. And laughing even harder when Ashlee and I moved the tables in the back and started dancing. And when I go to leave yet again, he gets me to sit back down for "Just One More Song" (which happened three more times I think that night) and plays Free Bird which has got to be the longest song in bar history.
It's midnight and I'm still there. But I find myself leaning into Ash, and I find her catching the weight of my head easily.
It felt good.
A forty minute bus ride outside Edinburgh, a quiet four minute walk through this rambling countryside and there I was. My inner fourteen year old was just paused on the edge of glee and grace.
Now *that* is a good spot to pause in.
Cross the courtyard and I can already see how intricate the carvings are... I walk into the chapel itself and immediately sit at one of the benches. Facing East.
It. is. beautiful.
The intricasies of the carving, the stories, the beauty of the stained glass, it all just catches my breath. There are green men poking out from the sandstone, a balance of light and dark forces and leaves folding out of their mouths like tusks of a wild animal. I can almost hear them laugh.
The stairs are worn from so many going up and down, up and down. Hundreds of years and millions of feet here to pray, to look, to feel the grace of God captured by stonemason masters and apprentices.
I've been praying a lot lately... active meditation, seeking compassion for the frustrations around me, within me. I almost forget here that I could pray, but then I realize that the act of just looking at the stories carved into stone is a form of prayer -- the viewer is tangled into the story line, following a thread to the conclusion. When I started this whole journey, I knew I was looking for my truth, my strengths, who I really was under all the layers of promises and needles and obligations. And tangled into the stone, the latin reads: Wine is strong. The King is stronger. Women are stronger still: but Truth conquers all.
There is no mitre, no sword, no crown of glory when the truth is laid bare, but shambles of hope and threads of perceived deception. There is no room in the truth for I'm Sorry, and eventually, there is no anger.
But hopefully, there is enough room for grace.
I'll be happy to leave the city tomorrow, the cobbles are just no replacement for random stones and earth. But first, a dawn hike up to Arthur's Seat outside the city just to see the sun rise, alone.
And life is for living, so away I go.
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- eithnedamaurot
- Gods Grant Me Grace