…..and I always am. I have come to the conclusion Ireland is in need of me to return.
Ireland asks a lot of me.
But, I’ve only been there four times, so you can’t blame Ireland for feeling the way he does. Sorry, the rest of you may think of Ireland as she, I, however, know the truth.
I’m ready to give of myself and go back. To make Ireland feel complete.
How can I refuse?
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sit here (here being anywhere but Ireland) when people I
am very jealous of love are going there, dancing rings around the competition, and hearing that oh so beautiful lilt of the correctly spoke word.
I love that when I am there it only takes a matter of minutes before I have convinced myself I sound Irish. I know I look Irish. I know I feel Irish. But when I’m there, I sound Irish. And to look at me you wouldn’t know I was an American. Honest. You can ask anyone and no one will remember me sticking out as an American. I bet they didn’t take notice of me at all I blended in so well.
Here’s the problem. Every time I go to Ireland I return grateful and humbled that I have had the greatest gift of going. Being there. Breathing there. Biking there. Singing there. Eating there. Just there. I return full of appreciation for all of the great things in my life. Including the blessing of being there where everything really is Irish.
Somebody I know goes. Or is planning on going. Or is talking about planning on going. Or mentions Ireland. Or St. Patrick’s day pops up on the calendar again. Or someone wears green. Or I see a harp. Or, better yet, Grace O’Malley sees a harp and says “Mamo, what’s that?” And my little Irish Pirate Queen evokes a passionate answer of Irish patriotism. Irish love. And her little royal self is a bit overwhelmed. Though she does know she has a castle in Ireland and I have been there to keep an eye on it for her.
I don’t know where it goes for vacation but my gratitude soon heads out the door for a brief respit. It can only take so much before my lusting for Ireland needs to step in and give gratitude a break.
I can’t help myself. Yes, God yes, I remember the first day of our last trip there when I thought I was going to kill someone because I was hungry, had to go to the bathroom and needed sleep. But I also fondly remember finding a Tim Horton’s coffee machine, which did not keep me in a euphoric state for long when I couldn’t figure it out in my jet lagged state. But I fondly remember the Irish Motorcycle gang, despite them being treacherous and not very good at road sharing. And I totally treasure pulling up to the old farm house and having my aunt and uncle there waiting on us. We were home. I remember that. And I remember it being just the way it was suppose to be: me, in Ireland, to live. However briefly it was.
I’m all about taking responsibility for our own behaviors, actions, words, etc….
But I really have to blame Ireland, and everyone who talks and thinks and mimics and looks Irish in my presence. It surrounds me-this need to be there.
What can I do but consider it a responsibility to go there, be there. Let Ireland have what is only right.
Doesn’t Ireland need his Cailin?
Of course he does. My conclusion is correct.