Meán Fómhair

 Well it appears the layout of this contraption has changed since I last visited, and if I didn't feel foreign given how dreadfully bad my habit of self-reflection-through-writing has become over the last few years, I certainly do now.

It goes without saying that this year has been an interesting one. I have never ridden a rollercoaster, but that analogy seems to pop up every now and then in the collective cacophony and, if a rollercoaster is really anything remotely like this year has been, I will be glad if I never experience its likes. My family are alive and healthy and staying afloat and that's all I can ask for (touching about 40 pieces of wood as I type this). 

Despite the lack of writing in here (and elsewhere) it has been one of the more introspective years I've had in recent memory - which is a good thing. Somewhere between graduating college and being cast adrift into adulthood I lost some important values. Or rather, they were buried under piles of nonsense, and my attempts at finding them amidst the rubble over the last while have admittedly been half-hearted, or shortly abandoned in favor of slinking into the easier, newer, not-so-great nooks of comfort and habit. But I managed to dig out a few earlier in the year, and have been holding on to them very cautiously - a bit unsure as to whether, perhaps, I'd grabbed the tail of a ghost instead, but that familiar, soul-warming feeling of an old true friend is pretty unmistakeable.

I cannot say that much has been outwardly accomplished this year. Earlier on in March, all gallery shows I had slated for the year were quickly (and rightly) cancelled. Disposable income is harder to come by for many, and existence these days is laden with uncertainty, so it wasn't too long after the the galleries gave notice of the cancellations that commissions and contract work started to dry up as well. With work at a slow trickle (and personal-creativity having taken a major hit simply due to The Constant Tumult), a lack of places to go and people to see, and a desperate need to peel as far back from the news, social media, the cacophony, the endlessly depressing storm of society.... well...I had naught to do but to visit some old 'friends' (in which I rediscovered those buried values).

Namely, after years of the saying to myself "I wish I could...I should...." in respect to picking certain things back up, I have finally re-devoted myself to matters of importance; Irish, folklore and mythology, reading, making my own (non-commission, not-for-any-audience-in-particular work), unplugging almost entirely, and simply hanging out with our Creatures and the plants and bugs and birds in the garden (though our garden still looked pretty desperate this year, thanks to said devotion coming a little later than would've been optimal....nevertheless I enjoyed it more than I have since moving here), and being present with the people I love. 

This little raft has been sailing for a few months now and I think we're far enough away from the land that I can pat its rickety side and say "Ah sure we've done it at last - sure that wasn't so hard now was it? Now we just gotta keep going...." 

The next habit on the list to reclaim is introspective writing/journaling so here we are. This has been the hardest for me as I feel my language has significantly weakened over the last few years from a lack of reading and, well, existing / allowing myself to feel and think and be introspective. Coupled with hating "hearing" myself talk and self-consciousness about all of the "I, me, my" involved....but that's also the point so....sigh...here we are.

At any rate, among other good things currently, I'm in the midst of reading Ireland's Immortals by Mark Williams, which is a fairly academic but exciting read - every page is covered in little gems that are new to me, and getting breakdowns of some of the etymology or minute details of these stories is riveting - I think poor Jack has heard quite enough about the Dagda's comically disturbing misadventures over the weekend. These stories and their folkloric counterparts are perpetually on my mind in some shape or form but each year when September, October, November come around - Meán Fómhair, Deireadh Fómhair, and Samhain, respectively - all of it seems to reverberate at a different level. Memories wash up abundantly; walking in a dark country lane at night with chills up my spine from the shadows of the ancient mountains towering over me, the vibrant orange of the montbretia blooming against the eternal blue of the booming November tide, the intensity of the stars on Inis Oírr while the wind howled down through the maze of ever-enduring walls laid by so many hands, and the grey stones of monastic Glendalough sitting quietly against the blaring russet curtain of An Fómhair. Some folks say "the veil is thin" - maybe there is something to that, after all. Wasn't it Tolkien who believed Ireland was some manner of gateway to the otherworld? (this was meant in a less-than complimentary sense, as I recall anyway). Perhaps it is that;  'the veil' is always thin there - the history, the stories, evident like scars upon the landscape, swallowing you as you move through it; all-encompassing, utterly immutable. And so when the days grow darker here, when the cold touch of autumn tucks in the plants and sends the birds south, the skies turn grey and the ground is wet and the wind howls, and only then that "veil" thins here - it begins to feel a little familiar....


I'm sure I'm going to turn into a broken record on this subject if I do keep at this. Apologies in advance, but ye've been warned. 

Pamphlets

I'm currently being kept awake by a very annoying brand of nausea. It's been an internally difficult sort of day day, though the grey and damp exterior hasn't helped (it has been wet and grey for weeks on end, with neither sun nor snow in any amount - we have not had a winter at all, though that's a subject for another time). Today just seemed to bring wave after wave of ill tiding. None of these tidings were for me, exactly - rather, they were more like roadside attractions or random bulletins I passed by through the course of the day. They have a habit burrowing into my mind where they take up too much residence and demand a great deal more attention and emotional energy than I likely ought to give them. Each morning I tell myself "today I'll mind my own business and take no hand-outs" but it seldom works, and the next thing I know there are 20 pamphlets of pure shite floating around in my skull while my body is rigid with tension, I've a wild headache from clenching my jaw,  my chest is tight and aching, and I have no idea how long I've been in this state - An hour? All day?

Well, after maintaining this self-ruinous habit for a good few weeks, falling asleep was a task tonight. My body has decided it has had quite enough of being anxious and upset. Instead of tossing and turning restlessly for the next few hours, or laying uncomfortably while attempting to do crosswords on my phone, I decided to get up and make some mint tea (my Lord and Savior). But what to do from there? We get a whole 5 channels on our TV, most of which are, at this hour, airing hour-long informercials on beauty products and testosterone (I don't have money for either). A book? I can't start a new one without finishing the current one, which I'm in no mind to read tonight, good as it is. Sit on the internet and continue to absorb more doom-and-gloom? At this point, even the infomercials sound like a better idea. I spent a good 12 hours at my desk working today, so more drawing is off the menu as well (despite that I'm feeling the itch). It's 4:30 am, the animals and Jack are sleeping, and the rain is lashing...what to do, what to do.

*blows at the dust collected here*

It's very often that I wish we had a working fireplace; an open fire is such a wonderful thing. Tending to one, right now, sounds like it would be a very great pleasure.

No matter where I go, physically or mentally, there are some familiar places that feel forever safe and comforting. That feel in some way like returning home to myself. There's something in here - just in typing even this silly nonsense out and hitting that silly orange button - that makes it a little easier to breathe, or makes it feel a little bit more like perhaps I'm not as far from home as I thought.

I think I needed a little bit of feeling like I was home again tonight.

Thank you, blog - bed sounds nice again now.

Mid Spring's Cailín Aerach

We've just returned (well, Friday) from a two-week trip home for my sister-in-law's wedding.
Hurricane-force winds. Summerlike sun. Salt air. Moss. Bog. Burning turf. Mountain climbs. Hot whiskey and familiar language. More wrens making appearances than in any of my previous stays. My heart feels whole and full for the first time in a year or so. Jack and I may still be a bit home-drunk off the whole thing seeing as we're now trying to scheme a way to either buy a house or renovate one of the ruins on his dad's property so we can stay for longer periods; both desperate for the fresh air and ghosts and quiet, longing to be cradled by the craggy hills. Walking onto the porch yesterday morning to the sound of traffic, sirens, and motors rather than cattle, lamb, and lark was more jarring than I expected. Funny how deep roots can grow in two weeks.

I have a few new creative ideas floating around in the attic for the first time in a year - visiting home always has that effect. It stirs awake something that is all-too-readily buried under the normal monotonous, anxious, busy-body drone of existing far away from the soil that coughed me and those before me up. Fear has me worried that they'll slink away soon, like the remaining bits of coastal air still lingering in my lungs, or the smell of turf still clinging to my sweater. Coaxing them out requires great sensitivity and attention.

This tune was stuck in my head the length of the trip; RnaG had played it sometime during the delirious three hour drive from Dublin to Portnoo (after having spent 24 sleepless hours on planes and in terminals courtesy of spring's stormy mood swings) and it decided to stay put there, hiding in the shadows during the day and coming into my consciousness during the quiet moments. Nell Ní Chróinín is one of my favourites. I felt the need to toss it here:

Conversations (12/23)

Things I said to Tipper today:
"Did you REALLY pee on the dog's bed? Again? I was gone for two minutes!"
"If you would simply stop jumping over the gate to harass him, you wouldn't find yourself in these predicaments."
"Tipplet, get back over the gate."
"Ok then have it your way - I'm not saving you this time."
"Fine fine I'm coming - I gotcha - but fucks sake would you stop bopping the dog on his arse"
"No you cannot eat Malachy's puppy food. This is why you're getting fat."
"No you cannot eat Jack's tacos."
"Ara would you get out of the dog food bag now!"
"You're smothering my hands and I can't work but I forgive you because you're cute."

Things I said to Malachy today:
"You should go pee on the cat's sleeping spot."
"Ok, you can sit in the driver's seat, but I don't know how quickly we'll get to the store this way."
"No, the woman at the window does not have whipped cream for you. This is the bank, not the coffee shop."
"Leave it, leave the cat - no no, you're too big for her."
"Really you're going to smush her. I know she's asking for it but Jack will be very mad."
"OK, fine, she's a wee shit and you can smush her. G'wan then so."
"Oh shoot I lied - c'mon away - good boy - she's a bad cat, I know, I know."
"I promise the rubbish bin is still eight houses back and is not following us home."
"If I let you sit on the chair with me will you give me more than two minutes to eat dinner?"
"Aw pal I'm sorry I keep trying to pat your head. I don't know what makes you duck away sometimes but I'll keep trying to figure it out."

Things I said to Brógan today:
"A chara I still don't know what I'm doing wrong and could use a hint or two if you've got time between swimming and fetch one of these days."
"Why on earth did you leave us with this tyrantcat."

Candy Canes

I feel compelled to share my favorite Christmastime memory.

Brógan was always very instant on being in the bedroom with me at night. If he were sleeping and I didn't ask him to come along, or he didn't respond to my nudges and calls and simply went without him, there would always be frustrated sighs on the other side of my door 5 minutes later expecting entrance. I remember one particularly baltic February night when he was sound asleep on the big cozy dog bed in front of the fireplace and I hadn't the heart to wake him and herd him up to our subarctic sleeping quarters, so I'd gone to bed without him. 15 minutes later he'd broken the door's latch by shoving his big head into it to get in after I hadn't heard his quiet sighs through the five blankets my head was buried under. Aside from when I was traveling, there was never a night he didn't sleep by my side, even if I went to bed while there was still company downstairs, and he never left that room unless I did, for any reason.

For our first Christmas in our own house, Jack and I hung candy canes on our tree. Simple, traditional decorations. I knew to hang them quite high because Brógan was very fond of them, so our tree was mostly decorated on the top 3rd and looked funny but who cares? I always took a few off for him throughout the season, or shared any of the ones I ate with him of course. Most things are infinitely better when shared with your dog anyway.

At this point we slept with the door open because our bedroom in this house is also subarctic so keeping the door open helped get heat from the rest of it in (this is a running theme in my life - bedrooms so cold the insides of the windows frost over and you can often see your breath in the morning despite the rest of the house being very balmy). In our new living situation, Brógan headed to the bedroom as soon as he heard me brushing my teeth and, again, didn't get up until I did, even if Jack woke up and offered him walks, or the neighbor came to the door.

 However, one night during this first Christmas season, I had been lying in bed for about 30 minutes reading "The Chimes" when he'd suddenly gotten up and, very slowly and quietly, walked out. I put the book down, puzzled, and listened carefully as nervousness settled in - surely something was wrong. After waiting for a moment to hear retching or whines, I bounced out of bed and shuffled into the sitting room to find he had merely migrated to his sitting-room-bed. I checked his eyes and gums, his belly and everything else for any sign of dis-ease like any neurotic owner of a slightly-older dog who is known to eat things that can kill him does, but nothing was unusual.

I gave him a few nudges and clicked my tongue, "c'mon bogey, bedtime", but he just looked at me with his head laid between his forearms. Hm. Puzzling indeed.

So I shuffled back into bed, picked "The Chimes"  back up and waited for him to return, still nervously listening for any sounds. How unusual - in all his 8 years up to that point never once did he leave the bedroom without me.

About a solid 20 minutes or so later, I heard a very familiar sound - the unmistakable ring of a porcelain bell ornament that belonged to my grandmother, which was hanging lower on the tree as I knew it to be safe from his interests (not smelly, organic, or tasty enough). I'm sure I audibly gasped in amusement (and probably relief) as I realized what was happening. Ambling back out of bed and into the arctic air I found him, again, curled up on his bed just as he had been before, but now with a small shred of thin plastic in front of his nose and the scent of mint in the air, while the small bell still clinked on the tree. His tail began to wag wildly as he knew then that I knew what game he was playing.

That clever, clever creature.

I curled up on that stinky dog bed and hugged him tight and laughed and scratched his belly, telling him how goofy he was while his tail wagged and he smiled at me knowing be had done something he wasn't supposed to (and been caught).

He didn't get in trouble (of course he didn't, how could I be anything other than positively tickled by this well thought out attempt at sneaking a highly-prized treat?), but he never left the room for candy canes, or anything else, again. Something about that makes it all the more special, and amusing.


To say I miss him is an understatement. It's not as jarring or debilitating as it was; more of a quiet but constant presence. 

------------

3 months is the longest I've gone in my whole 30 years without sharing life and home with a dog. That stretch was between my childhood chesapeake Buster (who my dad insisted was our last dog because it was so heartbreaking for him to say goodbye) and the black lab pup my mam showed up with one day three months later named Jake (because she can't stand not having a dog). 

As it so happens, that record is still the longest, and I seem to have finally found a gene my mother and I share.

5-month-old Malachy isn't Brógan. He never will be (for crying out loud, the wee fella doesn't even like bananas - and it's hard to get him to eat enough - Brógan, what kind of weird creature is this?). We've had a bumpy start - he had kennel cough and was very standoffish - we speak different languages, we smell and sound funny to each other, and I'm learning that I have far more adjusting to do than he does (Brógan, why on earth does he not not turn into a wiggly mess like you did when I'd merely look at you a certain way, let alone pat your head, and why does that sting a little bit?)

Unexpected. Probably too soon. Probably not the best time. But here we are. Because he needed a home and I needed a reason.
He has helped me find a reason to get on that I've missed over the last few months. An excuse to actually get dressed and leave the studio, to get back into the woods again despite the cold and wet and muck and mud or how I feel or whether or not I want to. To put my own feelings and thoughts and excuses and life-garbage aside and simply be present and patient because he needs me to.

And there's such great joy in watching a puppy be a puppy. It's been a long time.

Casadh an tSugáin

The dearest friend I've ever had parted ways with the world on Friday.

It's impossible for me to describe the feelings left in his wake. I won't even attempt it. The ghosts that sit in all the corners and ambush me now, the strange volleying between bursting with gratitude and thankfulness and love, as light as a feather, and feeling completely empty and lost, heavier than lead. No language could ever describe how much he meant to me, nor how thankful I am for his existence - for being able to be a part of his life, for everything he gave. I was the absolute luckiest human.

At some point, maybe I will find words close enough to my feelings to put them down on here. But for the time being, I can't find them.

But I do feel the need to put this somewhere tonight:

There's this old song in Irish I've always loved - Casadh an tSugáin (Twisting the Hayrope). It's about a man courting a woman, and the woman's mother finds out about it. While he's in the house, she sets him to helping her twist a rope, and as the rope gets longer, he inevitably ends up outside, and the mother closes the door on him. So he's all kinds of upset that he can't have the lady of his heart's desire.

I used to sing this to Brógan. Nobody in the world knows this. I spoke to him in Irish all the time because he never cared, or said he didn't understand, or give me funny looks for it - every 'command' he knew was in Irish, which frustrated the daylights out of my mother because he wouldn't listen to her English pleas for him to "sit" and it was too difficult for her to say "suigh síos" (even after nearly 11 years of trying). This tune would often get stuck in my head. Only...I changed the lyrics to be about when I'd met him as a puppy and was going to bring him home. It was even sillier (though I was quite proud of the fact that I managed to keep it mostly rhyming in Irish, and with the right number of syllables), and half the time I couldn't get through it without laughing, but I'd sing it when we were alone (in other words, when nobody else was around to hear me sing it), or if I were feeling bad and he were comforting me, and quite often in the car as well - he hated car rides.

It's been stuck in my head perpetually since last week.

I'll leave my version here:

Do casadh maidrín deas orm in uaigneas an pháirc

Ar lúb na coille glaise uair bheag roimh dorcha
Sin an fhreagar’ ó a thug sé liom go chiúin agus go tláth
“Is orm eachtra mór a théann leat roimh an lá”

’S bheidh mé leat, beidh leat, a stóirín mo chroí

’S bheidh mé leat, beidh leat, os comhair a’ tí

’S bheidh mé leat, ’s gur leat gach órlach dem’ chroí

’Sé mo mhíle sásta go bheidh mé leat Dé Cheadaoin mar mnaoi!

-

(A nice little pup met me in the loneliness of the field,

At the bend of the green wood, an hour before dark

This was the answer he gave me quietly and gently;

'Let's take a great adventure together before the day'

I'll be with you, be with you, oh love of my heart

I'll be with you, be with you, in front of the house

I'll be with you, and every inch of my heart is yours

It's my great happiness that on Wednesday I'll be your girl")

Iarla Ó Líonáird is here singing it far better than I could ever hope to. He starts 50 seconds in and is so very very worth a listen to:

I'll probably be humming this around the house for weeks. Music and fiddle-practice have been life savers the past two days.

Airím uaim leat mo chara; feicfidh mé thú san tsaol is geise. Thank you thank you thank you thank you <3

Summer Chaff

Solidity. The earth beneath my feet, pushing up against them. Grounding. Firm.

It feels like a past life. 

Damp, cool soil, rich in worms and minerals, covered in moss, crawling with the smallest forms of life, tiny lungs breathing in and out for centuries, living and dying over and over again in perpetuity - I cupped it in my hands and saw my own reflection staring back through the dense black dirt. I saw myself in the roots, the stones, the lichens and ants. They saw themselves in me. 

Where did it go? Where did it wander to late at night, when it slipped out during my sleep? 

My ghost looks out at the parts of itself that were once unmovable, now scattered like chaff to the wind. I chase them, I grab greedily, hungrily - but they slip through my hands and laugh. 

I tell myself it wasn't a dream,  but I can't see the ground.

Four years ago something happened to me and caused a fissure. I haven't figured out what that something was, where the cracks started, or how they managed to expand so vastly while I wasn't looking. Each time I think I've stitched the seams back together they burst wide open again and all these parts of myself flee like moths into the night. It seems to take eons to gather them back up again.

Still, there are moments. There are times when I can feel the sun on my skin and and the grass under my feet and I know us each to be one and the same. There are moments when my pulse feels aflame with something that is much larger and deeper and older than me and any sense of understanding I have - this same thing that grounds me to the earth, unmovable, whole, and frees me into a limitless and timeless scape that I cannot fathom yet know to be true because I can feel it.

------

Being human is hard. Biologically, socially. 

I crave meaning while at the same time I know it to be a Sisyphean pursuit. I crave purpose and acceptance despite wanting freedom and solitude. This silly social part of our biology won't let go no matter how hard I try to push it away.

I remember my first trip to our home in Achill. I remember the tears falling down my face while I stood alone in our overgrown property, amidst the 300 year old stone ruins and fallen walls and lichen-covered boulders. I remember how I slowly lowered myself to my knees and sank my hands into the thick wet grass while I cried silently -  the realization that this was home, that this soil and I were one and the same thing, that this place had fed and watered and given birth to everything that was within me, was so powerful - I was overcome with complex emotions and a sense of connection to a patch of the earth that was so strong and so primal it could never exist in language alone.

I remember feeling a purpose in life in the years immediately after that. The path wasn't solid, and there were no financial or social gains to be found in the things I was doing, but the endeavours I was making were the most worthwhile things in the world. 

At some point I became disillusioned, perhaps after being told over and over that those things were insignificant, pointless, that I couldn't survive on them.. Words like "401K" "savings account" "insurance" "loans" "career" "salary" "job security" "retirement" "investments" "student loan repayment" "benefits" kept showing up on my plate, the lingua franca of the adult western world coupled with my worst nightmares. They'd say I needed to grow up and be responsible. My heart would race, acknowledging the severing blade to everything that meant anything to me. But I tried - I tried and I tried.

Then the earth beneath my feet disappeared.

I'm going to get it back.