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:
