Friday, December 9, 2011
Two pieces, two places
Some days I do honestly wonder, is it physically possible to live my entire life away from my parents, my siblings, their children, my childhood friends, everyone who knew me as I changed and grew and became who I am today? Will this be a life long struggle of back and forth, wading through stuffy airplanes & stale airports for elated reunions & eventual goodbyes and all the emotion those come with? Will I ever become truly and completely settled here or will a part of me always need to plan the next trip home, have a day in the future to look forward to? Could I honestly say I'm totally happy here if a part of me is perpetually waiting to return to where my family are? I don't have the answers right now. I just know the daily ache for these people never disappears or even fades in the slightest. In fact, with every hello and goodbye, I seem to find it harder to live without them by my side. But Ireland is my home, my life, my husband is here and soon we'll start our own family. So what I'm asking is, can one truly live with a heart in two pieces, two places?
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
A Life In Pieces
Maybe going back home only six months after moving abroad was too soon. Maybe going back to Portland, Oregon for a mere week brought along the realization that I had wasted so many hours in the four years I lived there not taking advantage of what that city had to offer. Maybe learning how to care for a newborn while feeling totally unready to bear my own children made me think I was a few steps behind in life. Maybe the time spent in my home state of Michigan, where the ones I love the most live, those that share my blood, made me confirm that I absolutely did not belong there anymore. Or maybe it was the cancelled flights, the night spent alone in a stale hotel room after a day of airport goodbyes, the spilled bottle of juice that had soaked the contents of my purse (including my laptop), or the fact that for a whole day I had been stuck in between getting back to my husband in Ireland and having just a few more hours with my parents, moving nowhere and having no way to call either party for the comfort of a familiar voice. Whatever it was, for one of those reasons or all of them combined, I found myself at JFK airport in NY, surrounded by hundreds of fellow travelers, with tears springing suddenly and violently into my eyes and no way to stop them but to hide away in a stall in the women's restroom, something I'd found myself doing quite often on these long journeys between all the places I've called home. But I've gotten ahead of myself, for the tears came at the end of my month back in the States, and before those tears came so much happiness and pure joy.
I had been looking forward to this trip home with an urgent expectancy unlike any feeling I'd had before, ever since hearing the day after my wedding that my younger sister was expecting something of her own. The moment she told us, I felt a piece of my heart crack in half and go in two completely separate directions; one piece melted into my sister's skin as I threw my arms around her, binding us together thru this happiness towards a new, yet unborn life that neither of us knew yet but already totally and completely loved. The other piece got stuck in the back of my throat and got me all choked up to the point of leaving the celebrating members of our family and hiding myself outside to cry and cry and cry - that piece of my heart was the realization that I was now legally bound in my choice to live thousands of miles away from all I'd ever known and how much I'd miss because of that choice. Now, because of this unborn thing, I'd definitely be coming back home sooner than originally planned; with my sister already three months along, I would be coming back sometime in April or May, and one winter in Ireland before returning for an American spring didn't seem like long at all. But the winter was long and I had never been more ready for a vacation from a life I had yet to truly settle into and maybe that's why this month back home was a whirlwind of emotions. It hadn't been enough time removed from America for me to be used to the distance and to feel that Ireland was definitely now my home; as if I'd spent six months in a still-plane hovering miles above the Atlantic moving not one inch closer to Ireland or farther from the States but perfectly suspended directly between the two, refusing to let me let go, inhibiting me from latching onto a thing. And so, having already been used to time spent apart from my husband, I kissed him goodbye at the airport in Shannon, for once not leaving behind a trail of tears through the security checkpoint, and happily boarded my fight.
The week in Portland was a flash, a blink of an eye in the timeline that will be my life. I was both saddened and at the same time, absolutely delighted to see that life had carried on exactly the same without me. Of course, I could never expect my close friends to wallow for years and years in my absence but it struck me as oddly poetic to see my belongings I had left behind sitting exactly where I had left them. No one had picked up the hand-crafted vase I had placed on the mantle so as to physically reminisce of their long-lost friend, or chosen to put my old lamp next to their bedside as a reminder to think of me whenever its light bulb glowed. I could have been more upset, but in a way, it comforted me. We all want to be missed, but it was nice to know I hadn't ruined anyone's life by going...The week wasn't short of laughs, excellent meals out, or plenty of time spent doing a lot of the things I used to do. But taking my usual busses, walking past familiar landmarks, coffee shops and boutiques, and seeing so many faces I didn't know but that seemed completely recognizable (for in Portland's uniqueness, comes a frightening similarity amongst its residents), I realized that I wasn't sad to have left, I wasn't pining for that life. Portland served its purpose for me during the four years I resided there, and although I missed my friends constantly (or wished to always be near an unabashedly pretentious veggie burrito and an unapologetically strong cup of locally roasted & brewed coffee), I found myself secretly giggling at all the little things that make Portland, well, weird. It rained and rained and I didn't miss that a bit (I get enough of that here, now) but on my last day there, as if the Oregon sky chose to either bless me for visiting or wish me good riddance, the rain clouds cleared and gave way to that typical yet always wonderfully appreciated perfect Portland summer day. I hugged friends goodbye, this time knowing that it could very well be years or so before seeing some of them again, and without any tears, boarded the next flight to return to Michigan.
The first couple of days home were spent lazying around my parent's house waiting for the inevitable phone call from Canada that there was a baby on its way. I had flown on my sister's due date and luckily didn't miss the birth. I'm sure of it now that my little niece was waiting for her Aunt to arrive before joining us all and sure enough, it wasn't until just a mere two days past that date that my sister gave us the go-ahead. My youngest sister, my mother and I excitedly packed overnight bags and started the three hour drive to London, Ontario, actually beating her and her husband to the hospital. When they did arrive, they did not even acknowledge our presence in the waiting room but checked-in and went right away behind closed doors (but there were a few minutes that passed while my brother in law gave the RN their information allowing my sister time to bang her head against the wall, lightly of course). I was filled with a sudden and overwhelming fear of how bad the pain must be if she couldn't even say hello and give quick hugs, it had been so long since we'd last seen her. All I wanted to do was hold her tight and tell her it would be ok, but I didn't know that for sure since this was something I had yet to experience myself. After a few meds were given out, we were allowed into the birth room to finally say our hellos and good lucks. She barely said a word, but I kissed her on her forehead, told her this is what she had been waiting so long for, that her daughter was about to be there for all of us to meet, and I let her squeeze my hand into oblivion as another contraction passed. Several hours later, dozing on and off, watching awful food television, and frequently readjusting on the uncomfortable leather couch, my brother in law came out to inform us all - 7lbs 15.9 oz, 10 fingers 10 toes, dark hair and eyes and somehow, my father's exact same chin - our little Adelyn Marie had arrived healthy and without complications and if we liked, we could go in and meet her.
It was a feeling I can not quite find the words for, for hours before there had just been a few people in that room and now, there was one extra. Something brand new, someone none of us had ever seen before and all of a sudden - there she was, this hour old little human. I felt like doing a comical double-take between my sister's still swollen but now empty belly and this floppy little thing that couldn't even hold her own head up if she tried. Wondering, even though I have full knowledge, how it got from there to here. When they put her into my arms, I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that I was now holding the most expensive, precious and rare treasure I had ever laid eyes on, and that moment that her eyes met my own, I realized there was now a new love in my life that I had never known before. I had no words. My mind just kept repeating, I love you I love you I love you! over and over again and when I thought there would definitely be tears over such a tremendously new and exciting emotion, there was only the extreme joy of this beautiful new life that had yet to experience fear or resentment or anger but just whole & natural & pure, pure love. I honestly hoped that she could feel that, that she could feel how much we all loved her already.
I know I will forever look back on the week I spent at home with my sisters and this new baby as one of the best weeks of my life; even though I'm (hopefully) only a quarter or so through my life I know without a doubt that there won't be many weeks that could rise to that occasion and top those seven days. Because I live so far away and maybe also because they were a little scared of being left alone with a new baby (don't all new parents have that feeling with the first child?), Audrey and Josh had asked me to stay with them for that first week after Adie came, along with my other sister, Betsy. We delighted in the task ahead of us, way over-enthusiastically changing dirty diapers, willingly waking at all hours of the night to rock a sleepless baby back to sleep, cooking meals and folding laundry, doing whatever we could to make this frightening new experience just the slightest bit easier for the new parents to handle. I watched with complete fascination at how quickly Audrey took to motherhood. I felt my heart soar to hear Josh singing to his baby girl while changing her clothes and would sometimes catch the way he looked at her, as if there was no one else on earth that could possibly compare and I realized I couldn't wait to see my own husband with that look in his eyes. One day, when the house was quiet, we prepared a bath for Audrey, turned the lights down low, lit a few candles. After she finished, she asked for us to bring Adie into the bath with her. I lingered only slightly, watching through a half-closed door as my younger sister (who used to dirty herself playing soccer or liked portraying Danny Zuko from Grease whenever we played pretend as children) now in the purest feminine act I had ever seen, nakedly bathing with her newborn girl, tucked gently between her thighs, softly pouring warm water over her tiny head, as Adie's little mouth puckered up towards her mother's breast. I forgot all about the tomboy of a sister I once had and promised myself to always remember this sacred moment of womanhood that I had witnessed whenever I think I don't have a clue about what it takes to be a mother. Apparently, it just comes naturally. Apparently, it's the most beautiful thing in the world.
The day before we were to head back to Michigan, I was attempting to rock our little one back to sleep. We had all started doing this funny bouncing walk through the house whenever we were holding her and today it seemed to be bringing her a certain peace. She wasn't getting sleepy but was contently looking straight into my eyes. I was amazed at how piercing her gaze was, as if she knew the sadness that was enveloping me in the realization that I had just one more day with her before it would be months until I held her again. I wanted to memorize everything about her new self at just one week old; the fierce darkness of her new eyes, the tiny furrow of her brow, the miniscule hairs that poked out around her ears, the strength of her little legs whenever she kicked at the changing table, the absolutely gorgeous scent of her head, the way all five of her baby fingers wrapped tightly around just one of my own, the one cry that would break suddenly- violently sucking in air and releasing it with such fervour as if she feared never getting fed again (a sound I found such happiness in despite the absolute desperation in its tone). I began to cry and I didn't want her to see me like that, weak and vulnerable, even though she herself was these things, even though I knew she had yet to understand what adult tears represented (they being so much more than the want for food or a clean diaper, a lack of sleep or desire for warmth). I watched her blink softly in the sudden afternoon sun that came from behind a cloud and through the window landing silently on her face and at that moment I hoped and hoped and wanted so badly for just a fraction of this memory of me holding her to stay hidden somewhere deep in her conscience.
Oh, these were the hardest goodbyes I had ever had to say. Our car was packed, we were set to go. I knew Betsy was sad to be leaving, but it couldn't compare to my own melancholy as our distances from our sister were incredibly different, mine being hours & flights and miles and oceans away, hers just being miles...I absently wandered the house for a bit, attempting not to make eye contact with Audrey, knowing immediately that I would burst into tears. I hugged Adie so tight, as tight as one can hold a newborn without squeezing the life from them, I briefly contemplated hiding her away in my suitcase and then decided it was best to just have one of my own someday. Then finally, came the time to hug my sister goodbye and the inevitable happened the moment we wrapped our arms around each other, the tears were too much, this was a parting unlike any other. I knew she feared her ability to do this on her own and I felt that in the tightness of her grip around me...don't leave me don't leave me...and my precious sister, I hope you know how hard it was for me to leave you for now with the arrival of the first of the next branch of our family tree I felt sick with the miles and time between us. I felt physically how far away from her family I would always be, how much I would miss, how little our children might know each other. Ours was a bond that increased a thousand fold during this week, as if we were now chained together somehow and neither of us wanted to let go. But we never really let go, do we? I kissed her and told her not to worry, that she was already an amazing and attentive and loving mother and that she'd be fine, more than fine, that she had a husband who would die for her and their daughter and that I would always be "there" for her. I gave one last look to Adelyn in her bassinet and tried once again to memorize every detail. How ironic that she had yet to say a word to me or express any love in return and was the newest member of my family, the one I knew the least, but somehow she was the most difficult one to say goodbye to. I kissed her little head and whispered her name and she cooed ever so slightly before slowly closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep, my absence in no way affecting her day, the knowledge not yet there that I just wouldn't be around that often during her life. As we drove away, I hid my red eyes behind sunglasses and wondered, for the millionth time, if I truly did have the strength to survive so far away from my family.
So there I was, crying (again, I guess there had already been a lot of tears during that month...) in the middle of JFK. I numbly boarded that plane, after a 24 hr delay, angry that I had been prevented from getting back home, saddened that I had lost extra time with family, and luckily had a seat at a window so I could stare in that direction and hide the flow of tears from fellow passengers. They wouldn't stop, no matter what I did and as we took off down the runway I felt as if there was some string attached to my heart that was pulling tighter and tighter and tighter for every hundred miles we lifted higher into the sky and that eventually my heart would be completely torn from my body and left behind to float back down to earth. I attempted desperately to stifle the sobs that were now coming from deep within my soul, and I feared I couldn't help crying out in the middle of this plane, loud enough for anyone within five rows to wonder if some animal had just died on board. My hand flew to my heart and without even thinking I repeatedly patted my own chest as if to calm it, to soften its violent beating. I cried for the next hour, thinking about the scent of my father, the way his eyes went all watery when he dropped me curbside at the airport (goodbyes at security have become too hard for me as I hate getting patted down while crying). I thought about the softness of my mother's voice when she said she was so proud of me, the way she reminded me so many times to pack a few granola bars for the trip (which, of course, I still forgot to do). I thought about how much laughing I did with my youngest sister, the brief visits with my brother, the beautiful mingling of my other sister's new mother smell that exactly matched the top of her baby daughter's tiny head. I knew these memories were going nowhere but that I was now on my way thousands of miles east, going somewhere far away and were memories enough to live off of? How often would I see my parents throughout the rest of their years? How well would my nieces and nephews know their Aunt Amy? Why did my family have to be so close and loving and well-matched, to the point that we probably would have chosen each other as relatives if choosing your family actually existed? And how was it possible that I had been lucky enough to marry a man that actually was worth moving far away for? I knew I'd never regret the choice I made, I would just have to live always in pieces, leaving little bits everywhere I go in places I cannot stay, never really whole. What do they say? Home is where the heart is? Oh, all the homes I've had, all the places I've left my heart...
Oh, all the life that will be lived without me there...
All the life here in front of me I have left to live...
And there's nothing left to do but keep on living.
I had been looking forward to this trip home with an urgent expectancy unlike any feeling I'd had before, ever since hearing the day after my wedding that my younger sister was expecting something of her own. The moment she told us, I felt a piece of my heart crack in half and go in two completely separate directions; one piece melted into my sister's skin as I threw my arms around her, binding us together thru this happiness towards a new, yet unborn life that neither of us knew yet but already totally and completely loved. The other piece got stuck in the back of my throat and got me all choked up to the point of leaving the celebrating members of our family and hiding myself outside to cry and cry and cry - that piece of my heart was the realization that I was now legally bound in my choice to live thousands of miles away from all I'd ever known and how much I'd miss because of that choice. Now, because of this unborn thing, I'd definitely be coming back home sooner than originally planned; with my sister already three months along, I would be coming back sometime in April or May, and one winter in Ireland before returning for an American spring didn't seem like long at all. But the winter was long and I had never been more ready for a vacation from a life I had yet to truly settle into and maybe that's why this month back home was a whirlwind of emotions. It hadn't been enough time removed from America for me to be used to the distance and to feel that Ireland was definitely now my home; as if I'd spent six months in a still-plane hovering miles above the Atlantic moving not one inch closer to Ireland or farther from the States but perfectly suspended directly between the two, refusing to let me let go, inhibiting me from latching onto a thing. And so, having already been used to time spent apart from my husband, I kissed him goodbye at the airport in Shannon, for once not leaving behind a trail of tears through the security checkpoint, and happily boarded my fight.
The week in Portland was a flash, a blink of an eye in the timeline that will be my life. I was both saddened and at the same time, absolutely delighted to see that life had carried on exactly the same without me. Of course, I could never expect my close friends to wallow for years and years in my absence but it struck me as oddly poetic to see my belongings I had left behind sitting exactly where I had left them. No one had picked up the hand-crafted vase I had placed on the mantle so as to physically reminisce of their long-lost friend, or chosen to put my old lamp next to their bedside as a reminder to think of me whenever its light bulb glowed. I could have been more upset, but in a way, it comforted me. We all want to be missed, but it was nice to know I hadn't ruined anyone's life by going...The week wasn't short of laughs, excellent meals out, or plenty of time spent doing a lot of the things I used to do. But taking my usual busses, walking past familiar landmarks, coffee shops and boutiques, and seeing so many faces I didn't know but that seemed completely recognizable (for in Portland's uniqueness, comes a frightening similarity amongst its residents), I realized that I wasn't sad to have left, I wasn't pining for that life. Portland served its purpose for me during the four years I resided there, and although I missed my friends constantly (or wished to always be near an unabashedly pretentious veggie burrito and an unapologetically strong cup of locally roasted & brewed coffee), I found myself secretly giggling at all the little things that make Portland, well, weird. It rained and rained and I didn't miss that a bit (I get enough of that here, now) but on my last day there, as if the Oregon sky chose to either bless me for visiting or wish me good riddance, the rain clouds cleared and gave way to that typical yet always wonderfully appreciated perfect Portland summer day. I hugged friends goodbye, this time knowing that it could very well be years or so before seeing some of them again, and without any tears, boarded the next flight to return to Michigan.
The first couple of days home were spent lazying around my parent's house waiting for the inevitable phone call from Canada that there was a baby on its way. I had flown on my sister's due date and luckily didn't miss the birth. I'm sure of it now that my little niece was waiting for her Aunt to arrive before joining us all and sure enough, it wasn't until just a mere two days past that date that my sister gave us the go-ahead. My youngest sister, my mother and I excitedly packed overnight bags and started the three hour drive to London, Ontario, actually beating her and her husband to the hospital. When they did arrive, they did not even acknowledge our presence in the waiting room but checked-in and went right away behind closed doors (but there were a few minutes that passed while my brother in law gave the RN their information allowing my sister time to bang her head against the wall, lightly of course). I was filled with a sudden and overwhelming fear of how bad the pain must be if she couldn't even say hello and give quick hugs, it had been so long since we'd last seen her. All I wanted to do was hold her tight and tell her it would be ok, but I didn't know that for sure since this was something I had yet to experience myself. After a few meds were given out, we were allowed into the birth room to finally say our hellos and good lucks. She barely said a word, but I kissed her on her forehead, told her this is what she had been waiting so long for, that her daughter was about to be there for all of us to meet, and I let her squeeze my hand into oblivion as another contraction passed. Several hours later, dozing on and off, watching awful food television, and frequently readjusting on the uncomfortable leather couch, my brother in law came out to inform us all - 7lbs 15.9 oz, 10 fingers 10 toes, dark hair and eyes and somehow, my father's exact same chin - our little Adelyn Marie had arrived healthy and without complications and if we liked, we could go in and meet her.
It was a feeling I can not quite find the words for, for hours before there had just been a few people in that room and now, there was one extra. Something brand new, someone none of us had ever seen before and all of a sudden - there she was, this hour old little human. I felt like doing a comical double-take between my sister's still swollen but now empty belly and this floppy little thing that couldn't even hold her own head up if she tried. Wondering, even though I have full knowledge, how it got from there to here. When they put her into my arms, I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that I was now holding the most expensive, precious and rare treasure I had ever laid eyes on, and that moment that her eyes met my own, I realized there was now a new love in my life that I had never known before. I had no words. My mind just kept repeating, I love you I love you I love you! over and over again and when I thought there would definitely be tears over such a tremendously new and exciting emotion, there was only the extreme joy of this beautiful new life that had yet to experience fear or resentment or anger but just whole & natural & pure, pure love. I honestly hoped that she could feel that, that she could feel how much we all loved her already.
I know I will forever look back on the week I spent at home with my sisters and this new baby as one of the best weeks of my life; even though I'm (hopefully) only a quarter or so through my life I know without a doubt that there won't be many weeks that could rise to that occasion and top those seven days. Because I live so far away and maybe also because they were a little scared of being left alone with a new baby (don't all new parents have that feeling with the first child?), Audrey and Josh had asked me to stay with them for that first week after Adie came, along with my other sister, Betsy. We delighted in the task ahead of us, way over-enthusiastically changing dirty diapers, willingly waking at all hours of the night to rock a sleepless baby back to sleep, cooking meals and folding laundry, doing whatever we could to make this frightening new experience just the slightest bit easier for the new parents to handle. I watched with complete fascination at how quickly Audrey took to motherhood. I felt my heart soar to hear Josh singing to his baby girl while changing her clothes and would sometimes catch the way he looked at her, as if there was no one else on earth that could possibly compare and I realized I couldn't wait to see my own husband with that look in his eyes. One day, when the house was quiet, we prepared a bath for Audrey, turned the lights down low, lit a few candles. After she finished, she asked for us to bring Adie into the bath with her. I lingered only slightly, watching through a half-closed door as my younger sister (who used to dirty herself playing soccer or liked portraying Danny Zuko from Grease whenever we played pretend as children) now in the purest feminine act I had ever seen, nakedly bathing with her newborn girl, tucked gently between her thighs, softly pouring warm water over her tiny head, as Adie's little mouth puckered up towards her mother's breast. I forgot all about the tomboy of a sister I once had and promised myself to always remember this sacred moment of womanhood that I had witnessed whenever I think I don't have a clue about what it takes to be a mother. Apparently, it just comes naturally. Apparently, it's the most beautiful thing in the world.
The day before we were to head back to Michigan, I was attempting to rock our little one back to sleep. We had all started doing this funny bouncing walk through the house whenever we were holding her and today it seemed to be bringing her a certain peace. She wasn't getting sleepy but was contently looking straight into my eyes. I was amazed at how piercing her gaze was, as if she knew the sadness that was enveloping me in the realization that I had just one more day with her before it would be months until I held her again. I wanted to memorize everything about her new self at just one week old; the fierce darkness of her new eyes, the tiny furrow of her brow, the miniscule hairs that poked out around her ears, the strength of her little legs whenever she kicked at the changing table, the absolutely gorgeous scent of her head, the way all five of her baby fingers wrapped tightly around just one of my own, the one cry that would break suddenly- violently sucking in air and releasing it with such fervour as if she feared never getting fed again (a sound I found such happiness in despite the absolute desperation in its tone). I began to cry and I didn't want her to see me like that, weak and vulnerable, even though she herself was these things, even though I knew she had yet to understand what adult tears represented (they being so much more than the want for food or a clean diaper, a lack of sleep or desire for warmth). I watched her blink softly in the sudden afternoon sun that came from behind a cloud and through the window landing silently on her face and at that moment I hoped and hoped and wanted so badly for just a fraction of this memory of me holding her to stay hidden somewhere deep in her conscience.
Oh, these were the hardest goodbyes I had ever had to say. Our car was packed, we were set to go. I knew Betsy was sad to be leaving, but it couldn't compare to my own melancholy as our distances from our sister were incredibly different, mine being hours & flights and miles and oceans away, hers just being miles...I absently wandered the house for a bit, attempting not to make eye contact with Audrey, knowing immediately that I would burst into tears. I hugged Adie so tight, as tight as one can hold a newborn without squeezing the life from them, I briefly contemplated hiding her away in my suitcase and then decided it was best to just have one of my own someday. Then finally, came the time to hug my sister goodbye and the inevitable happened the moment we wrapped our arms around each other, the tears were too much, this was a parting unlike any other. I knew she feared her ability to do this on her own and I felt that in the tightness of her grip around me...don't leave me don't leave me...and my precious sister, I hope you know how hard it was for me to leave you for now with the arrival of the first of the next branch of our family tree I felt sick with the miles and time between us. I felt physically how far away from her family I would always be, how much I would miss, how little our children might know each other. Ours was a bond that increased a thousand fold during this week, as if we were now chained together somehow and neither of us wanted to let go. But we never really let go, do we? I kissed her and told her not to worry, that she was already an amazing and attentive and loving mother and that she'd be fine, more than fine, that she had a husband who would die for her and their daughter and that I would always be "there" for her. I gave one last look to Adelyn in her bassinet and tried once again to memorize every detail. How ironic that she had yet to say a word to me or express any love in return and was the newest member of my family, the one I knew the least, but somehow she was the most difficult one to say goodbye to. I kissed her little head and whispered her name and she cooed ever so slightly before slowly closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep, my absence in no way affecting her day, the knowledge not yet there that I just wouldn't be around that often during her life. As we drove away, I hid my red eyes behind sunglasses and wondered, for the millionth time, if I truly did have the strength to survive so far away from my family.
So there I was, crying (again, I guess there had already been a lot of tears during that month...) in the middle of JFK. I numbly boarded that plane, after a 24 hr delay, angry that I had been prevented from getting back home, saddened that I had lost extra time with family, and luckily had a seat at a window so I could stare in that direction and hide the flow of tears from fellow passengers. They wouldn't stop, no matter what I did and as we took off down the runway I felt as if there was some string attached to my heart that was pulling tighter and tighter and tighter for every hundred miles we lifted higher into the sky and that eventually my heart would be completely torn from my body and left behind to float back down to earth. I attempted desperately to stifle the sobs that were now coming from deep within my soul, and I feared I couldn't help crying out in the middle of this plane, loud enough for anyone within five rows to wonder if some animal had just died on board. My hand flew to my heart and without even thinking I repeatedly patted my own chest as if to calm it, to soften its violent beating. I cried for the next hour, thinking about the scent of my father, the way his eyes went all watery when he dropped me curbside at the airport (goodbyes at security have become too hard for me as I hate getting patted down while crying). I thought about the softness of my mother's voice when she said she was so proud of me, the way she reminded me so many times to pack a few granola bars for the trip (which, of course, I still forgot to do). I thought about how much laughing I did with my youngest sister, the brief visits with my brother, the beautiful mingling of my other sister's new mother smell that exactly matched the top of her baby daughter's tiny head. I knew these memories were going nowhere but that I was now on my way thousands of miles east, going somewhere far away and were memories enough to live off of? How often would I see my parents throughout the rest of their years? How well would my nieces and nephews know their Aunt Amy? Why did my family have to be so close and loving and well-matched, to the point that we probably would have chosen each other as relatives if choosing your family actually existed? And how was it possible that I had been lucky enough to marry a man that actually was worth moving far away for? I knew I'd never regret the choice I made, I would just have to live always in pieces, leaving little bits everywhere I go in places I cannot stay, never really whole. What do they say? Home is where the heart is? Oh, all the homes I've had, all the places I've left my heart...
Oh, all the life that will be lived without me there...
All the life here in front of me I have left to live...
And there's nothing left to do but keep on living.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Being Here
These days have been like all the others so far. Sleeping in late, so as to use up half the day. Coffee. Email. Facebook. Breakfast. Work out. Shower. Lunch. More Email, Facebook. Stream television shows I'm missing from home. Watch downloaded American news programs. Clean something. Dishes. Laundry. Maybe organize a messy shelf. Even more Email, Facebook. Dinner. Tea and biscuits. Watch a movie with my Husband. Bedtime. And I'll lie there in bed and wonder - what about today was worth waking up for? I've experienced this before, a sort of circumstantial depression. My first year in college I could barely get out of bed at all. Maybe I'm just prone to taking a bit longer to adjust, to adapt. Maybe I'll always be just a little bit sad wherever I go.
I thought I was doing really well. The first couple of months here I was loving it; the quiet, the expanse of green land, walks along the ocean's shore, keeping a house for my husband. The permanence is sinking in now and I'm starting to wonder what it is, besides being happily married (which I am), that I'm supposed to be doing here. I used to do a lot of things. I used to do theatre, sing in a choir, I played piano and was almost always too busy to ever have time to just sit around. In college, I would write every day, I was mad about it. I couldn't write enough. There wasn't enough time in the day to get all the words out that I was thinking, the sentences continually forming themselves in my head every waking hour. I was obsessed with reading, with seeing what other people wrote, the beauty of their creations. In Portland, I loved riding my bike around the city, everything looked different from two wheels. Riding home at night became like a spiritual experience; hardly any cars, the breeze whipping past me, the muscles in my legs burning from the speed at which I'd pedal, I'd race myself every night. It was exhausting. And also my favorite way to relax after work. I even became one of those cyclist that kept it up in the pouring rain, it filled me with pride to be one of the only ones still biking when the roads were wet and slick. I honestly believe I'll get hit by a car if I try to bike here, even during the brightest and driest hour of the day...
Here...here, where is there a theatre? A choir? We don't even have a real grocery store. There's no room for a piano in our tiny apartment, no money to buy one either. I'm still reading all the time, more than I probably ever have in my life. A few books a week sometimes. But the more useless I feel, the less I want to write. If I write, then I'll have to admit to everyone what I'm thinking everyday. There's not a lot to do, so I don't want to do anything. I feel trapped in my own home, yet some days I have no desire to leave it. If there was an emergency, I wouldn't even be able to get behind the wheel of our car and drive myself anywhere. I don't know how to. I can only go as far as my own two feet will take me and that's usually to the beach. And I'll stand there, quietly, tasting the salty air, letting the dampness soak through my layers of skin, trying to look as hard as possible beyond the line of the horizon and maybe, just maybe, I might catch a glimpse of home.
***
As much as I miss my family, I moved far away from them years ago. I already know what it's like to have major distance between myself and my blood, my clan. I remember the first few months of being in Portland, I thought for sure I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I kept trying to figure out what it was I was doing there that was truly worth being so far away from the people that raised me, that molded me and guided me. I spent most of those first 30 days (that happened to be the wettest on record, ever in Portland) trying to hide my sadness from my friends, attempting to stop myself from crying during the seven minutes it took to walk to work, my eyes only looking three blocks of sidewalk ahead of me, my head down low under my umbrella. I remember the first time I ever went somewhere alone, how frightened I was to take the bus, how ashamed I felt that I was even the slightest bit scared to do something so easy. Most days, I'd want so badly to call home, to hear my mother's voice or the sound of my father laughing in the background. But I couldn't call home. I couldn't hear their voices because my own voice might break and then they'd know that maybe I was regretting moving so far away, they'd realize I was sad and lonely and the truth would come rushing out and I wouldn't be able to hold back all my doubts and fears from verbalizing. I barely wanted to admit to myself the extent of my sadness. There was no way I wanted my parents to know how out of place I felt in this new, scary town. It was so different from home, and I was still the same.
Slowly and surely, without even realizing it, these feelings faded, they evaporated and dried up like the rain. My first Portland summer arrived and with it came the most beautiful and perfect sunny days I'd ever experienced. The temperature was always just right, the sky was always incredibly blue, the rain disappeared for months. The city was alive, happy, cured from its own winter blues. So was I, and I was beginning to realize what made those rainy winter months worth it, why people survived them to make it to the summer. It truly was perfect. It was what you always hoped summer would be; and everyone that found themselves troubled throughout the rest of the year, forgot those worries and were just purely happy from May to October. You could feel the positivity in the neighborhood streets, in the coffee shops and restaurants. We'd all wear as little clothes as possible so we could soak up the sun on every inch of skin, store the warmth and light for when the dreary days returned.
I got over my fears and realized there was a place for me in Portland. I fell in love with the city, the vibrance of its culture, the weirdness of all the different types of people, the thousands of different restaurants and bars, the parks on every corner, the trees lining the residential blocks, and how if you paid close enough attention, you could catch the most stunning views of the city at the top of hills where the roads dipped away and the foliage opened up and then there it was - the entire expanse of downtown, or the West Hills, or Mt. Hood. And I'd think, how lucky am I, how lucky am I to live here! And how in the world did I ever feel like I still belonged in Flint, Michigan, one of the more depressing places in America? Here, the whole city was alive. Yes, it rained all winter, but it was pure green all winter. The coffee was delicious, the beer locally brewed. I could get vegetarian food everywhere I went, buy organic in every grocery store. I didn't need to own a car as it was just as convenient and a hundred times cheaper to bike anywhere in the entire city. Almost all of my closest friends from home had moved too and we started our own clan, representing the many Michigan transplants that somehow ended up in this progressive, "left coast" town. We were surrounded by mountains and rivers, forests and waterfalls, a mere hour drive to the Pacific and its breathtaking rocky coastline. Portland is pure and innocent in its attempt to be perfect. And it's not perfect but it's unabashed at trying. It screams, there are still good people here! And you'd be a fool to live there and not try to be good yourself, to be happy with who you are and to let everyone else be themselves too. In Portland, we lived and let live.
I didn't move to Portland to work in a Thai restaurant. I didn't move there to cycle from one bike lane to the next. I didn't move there to eat vegetarian. I didn't even more there to follow my friends. I moved to Portland because it would end up being the only place in the world that I'd somehow cross paths with my future husband. And he happened to be Irish and his life happened to be in Ireland and we decided that our lives would become one in his homeland, not mine. And so I moved. So I left the place I had grown to love, the place I knew I belonged and had come to feel an active part of, I left my friends and the culture, the restaurants and organic grocery stores, I gave away all my belongings that I had accumulated over the four years I spent there. I even gave away my beloved bike, the thing that probably defined my life in Portland over anything else, I gave it away to a coworker. She says she hasn't used it yet because of the weather. It fills me with great sadness to think of my prized Portland possession, leaning uselessly against a garage, rusting away in the rain, winter weeds growing around its flat wheels.
I'm going home to visit Portland and Michigan in three months. It's all I think about right now. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever really feel at home here, or if my days in Ireland will be spent counting down the ones left until I return again.
***
The other day was the hardest one so far and for the first time, I allowed myself to express my sadness in front of my husband. I cried and cried and told him I didn't know what to do, I didn't have any direction in one way or another, and I desperately, achingly missed home. I didn't want to see our friends, I didn't want to go out in public, I didn't even want to take a walk along the prom. He held me and said, it was ok. He said what I needed to hear the most, that this was normal, that he wasn't surprised and actually expected me to go through this sort of period. But he also said that it was my job to pull myself out of this rut, that it wouldn't always be like this and I had to realize that myself. Before I knew it, he was helping me put my coat on and putting me in the car. "We're gonna drive down the coast, I'll take you somewhere new," he calmly suggested. I didn't refuse.
It was the late afternoon and the sun was bright and warm, high in the sky in front of us and shining powerfully through the windshield, nearly blinding us. I didn't want to admit it then, but I already felt a little better, a little cozier. I stared out the window as he drove us along the small, country roads passing by the water's edge. The Irish countryside is unlike any other; it's one massive green, rolling land, property lines are marked and separated by ancient stone walls made by one flat rock piled upon another and another and another. Even in the distance you can see where one piece of land meets another, from the sky it looks like the entire country is made up of thousands of puzzle pieces. We pass lush, emerald hills, each dotted by skeletal remains of old houses and churches, maybe just three or four stone walls still standing, a triangle outline of what used to be a roof. I think, someone used to live there. Centuries ago, that was a family's home. And now here it stands, a ghost of its former self, untouched by its modern neighbors, left alone to fall apart stone by ancient stone. In America, a building like that would be bulldozed to the ground. Here, it remains intact as a trophy of a former country, a reminder of a simpler time, a small but important part of history, never to be torn down but to just slowly fade into the countryside, to sink back into the earth it was built on. I want to feel a part of a place that doesn't tear down or build over its origins, to blend into the kind of people that treasure the walls that once held their ancestors and who look upon ruins with pride, as a constant reminder of who they all came from.
We stop at Spanish Point, a very small residential town that gets its name from the ships from the Spanish Armada that came to ground here and found themselves wrecked and drowning on the Irish shores in a failed attempt to attack England. There aren't any shops or pubs, just some houses and a huge hotel, and a long, white strand; a beach that, despite only being a handful of miles away from our beach in Lahinch, seems totally different and new and serene. The tide was coming in so whatever walk my husband was hoping we could have was out of the question. So we just stood there, as close to the incoming waves as possible, listening to the deafening sound that the ocean makes. He found a bench and sat me down next to him, gently putting his arm around me and pulling me close. He felt me shivering and asked, "What's cold?" I told him my left arm was so he held me tighter and quickly rubbed my arm up and down with his gloved hand. The sun was close to setting so we sat there waiting and not speaking, a whole expanse of Irish coastline to ourselves, just staring off towards the giant and perfectly round ball of orange resting just above the horizon. Its brightness was blinding so I had to look away every few minutes, when I'd blink I still saw its outline on the inside of my eyelids. Once it started to hide behind the clouds, it disappeared almost instantly, fading away from the perfect roundness to become just a half and then a sliver of sun. And then, all of a sudden, it was gone, and in its place was a soft, glowing halo of orange light that brightened the sky for a moment, before blending in with the purple and blue hues of dusk. It was a perfect sunset, on a perfect beach, with the calming noise of a powerful tide and the strong arm of my husband wrapped tightly around me. Still, without speaking, we stood up and walked back to the car to head home. Home, this is my home, I thought to myself. I am so lucky to live here.
On the drive back, I found myself smiling, but still holding onto that sadness. I didn't just move across the country, I moved across the world. And I didn't move here with all of my closest friends from home, I moved with my new husband. I left all of my former life behind, and I am deeply mourning its loss, maybe wishing I had done more with my time, taken one more bike ride, met up with my friends a few more times instead of staying at home to watch tv. But isn't that what I'm doing now? Staying in with my sadness instead of socializing with new friends or breathing in the crisp and damp Irish air? It's only been three months, I can't possibly expect to feel settled yet. But I am the only one that can take that first road to recovery, to acceptance, to adaptation. Since I met my husband three years ago, I've known perfectly well I am meant to be here. I might always long for family and friends, for an old life and its pleasures. But I am here now, and now, I must be here.
I thought I was doing really well. The first couple of months here I was loving it; the quiet, the expanse of green land, walks along the ocean's shore, keeping a house for my husband. The permanence is sinking in now and I'm starting to wonder what it is, besides being happily married (which I am), that I'm supposed to be doing here. I used to do a lot of things. I used to do theatre, sing in a choir, I played piano and was almost always too busy to ever have time to just sit around. In college, I would write every day, I was mad about it. I couldn't write enough. There wasn't enough time in the day to get all the words out that I was thinking, the sentences continually forming themselves in my head every waking hour. I was obsessed with reading, with seeing what other people wrote, the beauty of their creations. In Portland, I loved riding my bike around the city, everything looked different from two wheels. Riding home at night became like a spiritual experience; hardly any cars, the breeze whipping past me, the muscles in my legs burning from the speed at which I'd pedal, I'd race myself every night. It was exhausting. And also my favorite way to relax after work. I even became one of those cyclist that kept it up in the pouring rain, it filled me with pride to be one of the only ones still biking when the roads were wet and slick. I honestly believe I'll get hit by a car if I try to bike here, even during the brightest and driest hour of the day...
Here...here, where is there a theatre? A choir? We don't even have a real grocery store. There's no room for a piano in our tiny apartment, no money to buy one either. I'm still reading all the time, more than I probably ever have in my life. A few books a week sometimes. But the more useless I feel, the less I want to write. If I write, then I'll have to admit to everyone what I'm thinking everyday. There's not a lot to do, so I don't want to do anything. I feel trapped in my own home, yet some days I have no desire to leave it. If there was an emergency, I wouldn't even be able to get behind the wheel of our car and drive myself anywhere. I don't know how to. I can only go as far as my own two feet will take me and that's usually to the beach. And I'll stand there, quietly, tasting the salty air, letting the dampness soak through my layers of skin, trying to look as hard as possible beyond the line of the horizon and maybe, just maybe, I might catch a glimpse of home.
***
As much as I miss my family, I moved far away from them years ago. I already know what it's like to have major distance between myself and my blood, my clan. I remember the first few months of being in Portland, I thought for sure I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I kept trying to figure out what it was I was doing there that was truly worth being so far away from the people that raised me, that molded me and guided me. I spent most of those first 30 days (that happened to be the wettest on record, ever in Portland) trying to hide my sadness from my friends, attempting to stop myself from crying during the seven minutes it took to walk to work, my eyes only looking three blocks of sidewalk ahead of me, my head down low under my umbrella. I remember the first time I ever went somewhere alone, how frightened I was to take the bus, how ashamed I felt that I was even the slightest bit scared to do something so easy. Most days, I'd want so badly to call home, to hear my mother's voice or the sound of my father laughing in the background. But I couldn't call home. I couldn't hear their voices because my own voice might break and then they'd know that maybe I was regretting moving so far away, they'd realize I was sad and lonely and the truth would come rushing out and I wouldn't be able to hold back all my doubts and fears from verbalizing. I barely wanted to admit to myself the extent of my sadness. There was no way I wanted my parents to know how out of place I felt in this new, scary town. It was so different from home, and I was still the same.
Slowly and surely, without even realizing it, these feelings faded, they evaporated and dried up like the rain. My first Portland summer arrived and with it came the most beautiful and perfect sunny days I'd ever experienced. The temperature was always just right, the sky was always incredibly blue, the rain disappeared for months. The city was alive, happy, cured from its own winter blues. So was I, and I was beginning to realize what made those rainy winter months worth it, why people survived them to make it to the summer. It truly was perfect. It was what you always hoped summer would be; and everyone that found themselves troubled throughout the rest of the year, forgot those worries and were just purely happy from May to October. You could feel the positivity in the neighborhood streets, in the coffee shops and restaurants. We'd all wear as little clothes as possible so we could soak up the sun on every inch of skin, store the warmth and light for when the dreary days returned.
I got over my fears and realized there was a place for me in Portland. I fell in love with the city, the vibrance of its culture, the weirdness of all the different types of people, the thousands of different restaurants and bars, the parks on every corner, the trees lining the residential blocks, and how if you paid close enough attention, you could catch the most stunning views of the city at the top of hills where the roads dipped away and the foliage opened up and then there it was - the entire expanse of downtown, or the West Hills, or Mt. Hood. And I'd think, how lucky am I, how lucky am I to live here! And how in the world did I ever feel like I still belonged in Flint, Michigan, one of the more depressing places in America? Here, the whole city was alive. Yes, it rained all winter, but it was pure green all winter. The coffee was delicious, the beer locally brewed. I could get vegetarian food everywhere I went, buy organic in every grocery store. I didn't need to own a car as it was just as convenient and a hundred times cheaper to bike anywhere in the entire city. Almost all of my closest friends from home had moved too and we started our own clan, representing the many Michigan transplants that somehow ended up in this progressive, "left coast" town. We were surrounded by mountains and rivers, forests and waterfalls, a mere hour drive to the Pacific and its breathtaking rocky coastline. Portland is pure and innocent in its attempt to be perfect. And it's not perfect but it's unabashed at trying. It screams, there are still good people here! And you'd be a fool to live there and not try to be good yourself, to be happy with who you are and to let everyone else be themselves too. In Portland, we lived and let live.
I didn't move to Portland to work in a Thai restaurant. I didn't move there to cycle from one bike lane to the next. I didn't move there to eat vegetarian. I didn't even more there to follow my friends. I moved to Portland because it would end up being the only place in the world that I'd somehow cross paths with my future husband. And he happened to be Irish and his life happened to be in Ireland and we decided that our lives would become one in his homeland, not mine. And so I moved. So I left the place I had grown to love, the place I knew I belonged and had come to feel an active part of, I left my friends and the culture, the restaurants and organic grocery stores, I gave away all my belongings that I had accumulated over the four years I spent there. I even gave away my beloved bike, the thing that probably defined my life in Portland over anything else, I gave it away to a coworker. She says she hasn't used it yet because of the weather. It fills me with great sadness to think of my prized Portland possession, leaning uselessly against a garage, rusting away in the rain, winter weeds growing around its flat wheels.
I'm going home to visit Portland and Michigan in three months. It's all I think about right now. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever really feel at home here, or if my days in Ireland will be spent counting down the ones left until I return again.
***
The other day was the hardest one so far and for the first time, I allowed myself to express my sadness in front of my husband. I cried and cried and told him I didn't know what to do, I didn't have any direction in one way or another, and I desperately, achingly missed home. I didn't want to see our friends, I didn't want to go out in public, I didn't even want to take a walk along the prom. He held me and said, it was ok. He said what I needed to hear the most, that this was normal, that he wasn't surprised and actually expected me to go through this sort of period. But he also said that it was my job to pull myself out of this rut, that it wouldn't always be like this and I had to realize that myself. Before I knew it, he was helping me put my coat on and putting me in the car. "We're gonna drive down the coast, I'll take you somewhere new," he calmly suggested. I didn't refuse.
It was the late afternoon and the sun was bright and warm, high in the sky in front of us and shining powerfully through the windshield, nearly blinding us. I didn't want to admit it then, but I already felt a little better, a little cozier. I stared out the window as he drove us along the small, country roads passing by the water's edge. The Irish countryside is unlike any other; it's one massive green, rolling land, property lines are marked and separated by ancient stone walls made by one flat rock piled upon another and another and another. Even in the distance you can see where one piece of land meets another, from the sky it looks like the entire country is made up of thousands of puzzle pieces. We pass lush, emerald hills, each dotted by skeletal remains of old houses and churches, maybe just three or four stone walls still standing, a triangle outline of what used to be a roof. I think, someone used to live there. Centuries ago, that was a family's home. And now here it stands, a ghost of its former self, untouched by its modern neighbors, left alone to fall apart stone by ancient stone. In America, a building like that would be bulldozed to the ground. Here, it remains intact as a trophy of a former country, a reminder of a simpler time, a small but important part of history, never to be torn down but to just slowly fade into the countryside, to sink back into the earth it was built on. I want to feel a part of a place that doesn't tear down or build over its origins, to blend into the kind of people that treasure the walls that once held their ancestors and who look upon ruins with pride, as a constant reminder of who they all came from.
We stop at Spanish Point, a very small residential town that gets its name from the ships from the Spanish Armada that came to ground here and found themselves wrecked and drowning on the Irish shores in a failed attempt to attack England. There aren't any shops or pubs, just some houses and a huge hotel, and a long, white strand; a beach that, despite only being a handful of miles away from our beach in Lahinch, seems totally different and new and serene. The tide was coming in so whatever walk my husband was hoping we could have was out of the question. So we just stood there, as close to the incoming waves as possible, listening to the deafening sound that the ocean makes. He found a bench and sat me down next to him, gently putting his arm around me and pulling me close. He felt me shivering and asked, "What's cold?" I told him my left arm was so he held me tighter and quickly rubbed my arm up and down with his gloved hand. The sun was close to setting so we sat there waiting and not speaking, a whole expanse of Irish coastline to ourselves, just staring off towards the giant and perfectly round ball of orange resting just above the horizon. Its brightness was blinding so I had to look away every few minutes, when I'd blink I still saw its outline on the inside of my eyelids. Once it started to hide behind the clouds, it disappeared almost instantly, fading away from the perfect roundness to become just a half and then a sliver of sun. And then, all of a sudden, it was gone, and in its place was a soft, glowing halo of orange light that brightened the sky for a moment, before blending in with the purple and blue hues of dusk. It was a perfect sunset, on a perfect beach, with the calming noise of a powerful tide and the strong arm of my husband wrapped tightly around me. Still, without speaking, we stood up and walked back to the car to head home. Home, this is my home, I thought to myself. I am so lucky to live here.
On the drive back, I found myself smiling, but still holding onto that sadness. I didn't just move across the country, I moved across the world. And I didn't move here with all of my closest friends from home, I moved with my new husband. I left all of my former life behind, and I am deeply mourning its loss, maybe wishing I had done more with my time, taken one more bike ride, met up with my friends a few more times instead of staying at home to watch tv. But isn't that what I'm doing now? Staying in with my sadness instead of socializing with new friends or breathing in the crisp and damp Irish air? It's only been three months, I can't possibly expect to feel settled yet. But I am the only one that can take that first road to recovery, to acceptance, to adaptation. Since I met my husband three years ago, I've known perfectly well I am meant to be here. I might always long for family and friends, for an old life and its pleasures. But I am here now, and now, I must be here.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Vignettes of a New Life, So Far
Even arriving, requesting "residency" while going through immigration, and collecting my 7 bags packed full of my last 26 years didn't make me realize that this is now my home. The familiar smell of damp air mixed with burning turf soaked into my skin after exiting the airport, it chilled me thoroughly and for a moment I felt extreme sadness. I was here. For good. It was the end. It was the beginning. The moment passed, and I was overwhelmed with the excitement one gets when starting a journey filled with unknowns. Hurry, hurry, load the car, lets go home. It rained the whole hour it takes to drive from Shannon to Ennistymon. I didn't mind it.
Within days, there were things I just had to have. New pillows (his were older than me, I swear, and entirely too flat for me to get proper sleep). I wanted a frame for this photo of my parents that my mother gave to me at the airport in Detroit. Over 30 years and still as happy as the day they said, "I do." My father smiling his usual professionally photographed smile. My mother smiling, my smile. I had to put it behind glass right away, so I could display it somewhere that would allow me to see it daily, to see them daily.
We drove to Ennis, a town 30 minutes southeast of us, the boutique capital of Ireland actually. He bought me new pillows, picked out a gorgeous stained wooden frame, which matched the background of the photo perfectly. Then we started down the street to a shoe repairman, to replace the heel on my favorite boots. The man gave himself an hour to do the job, so we decided to head to the chipper around the corner. With one bag to split between us, we passed the remainder of time wandering the town. It had started raining, and as we passed the bag of chips back and forth, I got this wonderful hot whiff of vinegar and potato every time I reopened it to eat more. We frolicked through the cobblestoned streets, I giggled loudly at how stupid we were to forget an umbrella and how I could barely see beyond the low brim of my hat, losing him at corners and crossing in front of cars. He asked me for the now soaking bag of chips, "They're really wet!" I laughed. "Potato soup," he answered back.
I suddenly felt the moment as being ours and ours alone. I realized how beautiful our footsteps sounded on the wet cobblestones, how ridiculous we must look window-shopping in the pouring rain with nothing but a bag of hot chips, how wonderful it was to be making memories in my new home with my new husband. Such small things. I reached for his hand, he held it tightly and pulled me towards the shoe shop and out of the rain. As the repairman was gathering my boots from the workroom, we stood there shivering and smiling at each other, shaking off the wet like two muddy dogs. He kissed me gently on the cheek. The cold of his nose, the radiating warmth of my skin.
So this is how a new life begins.
***
I love the smell of his parent's home. I have since the moment I went to meet them for the first time. The damp of Ireland never seems to go away no matter where you are, and this building smells like it's been collecting that dampness and hoarding it inside since the moment it was built, over 150 years ago. It's not at all a bad smell, but one that I've grown to love, a scent that my nose couldn't identify at first but now reminds me immediately that the voice of my mother-in-law will soon be greeting us at the top of the stairs.
Whenever we go visit, we enter first past the bright red but now empty shop front, walking along a stone passageway where the cold always hits me hard and fast, as if it had been secretly hiding there just to chill me to the bone. Once we pass the underbelly of the staircase, we turn left to find the old door that leads us up that staircase and into the rest of the house, the handle of which I have never been able to figure out how to correctly turn so that it actually opens the door. No matter the weather, it's almost always uncomfortably cold inside, except for the sitting room in the front of the house that looks out over the main street, where my in-laws keep themselves busy during the day. This room has the stove, forever burning coal, whether full-on or just embers, and it's by far the coziest part of the entire house that consists of enough bedrooms to count on both my hands, amongst other expected rooms.
Within moments of arriving, she's offering us tea. We'll both sit on the small red couch against the far wall, my eyes always wandering to the piano to my right that hasn't been played in years but is now functioning as a shelf for dozens of framed photos of the family. I must admit, I felt a soft warmth when I first noticed our picture on that piano. It was before we were engaged, but already there I was, family. I take note of how she serves us tea, every time, so that I'll know how to properly do it whenever we have guests at our home someday. It's brewed in the teapot, poured gently into each cup, and then placed onto a serving tray on a small serving table between us. Milk in the tiny pourer next to the sugar bowl, tea spoons on their sides, all surrounding the plate of biscuits (cookies, in America). After walking through the cold of the main street passageway, I always welcome the warmth of tea. Plus, it's an incredibly Irish thing to partake in. I've been told, even if the postman is simply dropping by a package, you should always offer him tea.
I've often daydreamed about this house. My curiosity gets the best of me. I try to picture my husband as a small boy wandering through it's room and corridors. I remember being a child myself and wanting so badly to have this sort of old-country upbringing, believing wholeheartedly that I should've been born in the 1800's in rural-somewhere, because modern, city life just wasn't for me. Then I lived in cities for a bit as I got older, and I loved the convenience and bustle, the fact that something was always happening somewhere close by and I never had to wander far to find a store or a friend. But this house is reminiscent of times, years, decades passed. There's no numbered address because The Walls have lived here for generations, since the last surviving member decided to take up residence there after the Great Famine. It's seen so many people come and go, it's heard so many conversations, so many souls have put down their guard to gently fall asleep at night in the many bedrooms. Its had work done, a second house built onto the back, an old barn off to its side. Across the alleyway in the back, there's this horribly dilapidated building that used to be a shoe factory but that is still part of their property. It has a flagstone roof so old, it's protected by some National Conservation group. You can still see old shoe parts hanging from the rafters. My husband has hinted that this building could one day be turned into our home. A modern space between ancient walls. I picture my children running through the yard, as I sit under the tree in the corner against the stone wall reading or writing, perhaps.
My father-in-law once showed me this incredibly old photo album they found in the house when they first moved back into it in the 1970's, after leaving London and then Dublin, where they raised their first four children. The photographs look so dated, they could be in a museum; some of them are labeled, but most were left with no identity except for the unsmiling face of some distant relative. There's some resemblance in a few of the photos and he tells me a story or two to go with each one. I don't even want to touch the book, having this fear that it would simply fall apart once young fingers graze it's aged pages. It thrills me in a new way to look at each captured moment in this stranger's life, and know my children will come about because they existed. My father-in-law barely knows much at all about any of these people and who they were except that he's related to them, as is his son, my husband.
There's such a comfort, deeply rooted from some long ago time, with no words to truly describe it, that flows from that book into my fingers and settles in my blood. It fills me with incredible amounts of pride. I'm a young soul in this old house. I'm the newest member of this family. I'm the start of our role in it's history. I'm a part of this now. Its past now gracefully molding my future.
***
I love driving back into Lahinch at night. Well, I'm not driving, he is. I'm far from being comfortable enough to maneuver a car on the opposite side of the road and as a lazy American, I never did learn how to drive a stick. So I guess I should say, I love riding into Lahinch at night, with my husband behind the wheel and myself, wide-eyed and distracted, watching the countryside open up before us to reveal this small part of Ireland that is now my home. The marmalade glow of lights in distant houses dots the hills, contrasting against the stark silver of each blinking star in the blackest sky I've ever seen. It's amazing how dark the night can be at the edge of the west coast here, with no light pollution to dirty it; nothing but deep and pure black, the absolute absence of any other color. A few times, we've taken nightly walks along the promenade all the way to its end and a little along the rocky cliffs above the shore. This is where it's truly the darkest, and I'll feel this overwhelming sense of how epically small I am, looking into that blackness and seeing star after star after star...a million too many to count. There's nowhere in the world where I've clearly seen so many stars before, that combined with the cold sea air leaves me breathless. The whispering sound of the Atlantic's waves lapping against the sand is deafening in such quiet. I sometimes look so hard into the distant horizon, the dark nothingness that I know leads back to the home I once knew, and wonder what's happening there now, without me. I left behind so much, so many. Life goes on, as they say. But this night sky, this natural quiet passing of time, this man, my husband, his hand in my hand - this is all new and beautiful and what's mine now. I try to remember what I felt before him and here and realize it doesn't matter. There's an ocean and a giant expanse of sky between now and that life, and this life, oh yes, this one - is only just beginning.
Within days, there were things I just had to have. New pillows (his were older than me, I swear, and entirely too flat for me to get proper sleep). I wanted a frame for this photo of my parents that my mother gave to me at the airport in Detroit. Over 30 years and still as happy as the day they said, "I do." My father smiling his usual professionally photographed smile. My mother smiling, my smile. I had to put it behind glass right away, so I could display it somewhere that would allow me to see it daily, to see them daily.
We drove to Ennis, a town 30 minutes southeast of us, the boutique capital of Ireland actually. He bought me new pillows, picked out a gorgeous stained wooden frame, which matched the background of the photo perfectly. Then we started down the street to a shoe repairman, to replace the heel on my favorite boots. The man gave himself an hour to do the job, so we decided to head to the chipper around the corner. With one bag to split between us, we passed the remainder of time wandering the town. It had started raining, and as we passed the bag of chips back and forth, I got this wonderful hot whiff of vinegar and potato every time I reopened it to eat more. We frolicked through the cobblestoned streets, I giggled loudly at how stupid we were to forget an umbrella and how I could barely see beyond the low brim of my hat, losing him at corners and crossing in front of cars. He asked me for the now soaking bag of chips, "They're really wet!" I laughed. "Potato soup," he answered back.
I suddenly felt the moment as being ours and ours alone. I realized how beautiful our footsteps sounded on the wet cobblestones, how ridiculous we must look window-shopping in the pouring rain with nothing but a bag of hot chips, how wonderful it was to be making memories in my new home with my new husband. Such small things. I reached for his hand, he held it tightly and pulled me towards the shoe shop and out of the rain. As the repairman was gathering my boots from the workroom, we stood there shivering and smiling at each other, shaking off the wet like two muddy dogs. He kissed me gently on the cheek. The cold of his nose, the radiating warmth of my skin.
So this is how a new life begins.
***
I love the smell of his parent's home. I have since the moment I went to meet them for the first time. The damp of Ireland never seems to go away no matter where you are, and this building smells like it's been collecting that dampness and hoarding it inside since the moment it was built, over 150 years ago. It's not at all a bad smell, but one that I've grown to love, a scent that my nose couldn't identify at first but now reminds me immediately that the voice of my mother-in-law will soon be greeting us at the top of the stairs.
Whenever we go visit, we enter first past the bright red but now empty shop front, walking along a stone passageway where the cold always hits me hard and fast, as if it had been secretly hiding there just to chill me to the bone. Once we pass the underbelly of the staircase, we turn left to find the old door that leads us up that staircase and into the rest of the house, the handle of which I have never been able to figure out how to correctly turn so that it actually opens the door. No matter the weather, it's almost always uncomfortably cold inside, except for the sitting room in the front of the house that looks out over the main street, where my in-laws keep themselves busy during the day. This room has the stove, forever burning coal, whether full-on or just embers, and it's by far the coziest part of the entire house that consists of enough bedrooms to count on both my hands, amongst other expected rooms.
Within moments of arriving, she's offering us tea. We'll both sit on the small red couch against the far wall, my eyes always wandering to the piano to my right that hasn't been played in years but is now functioning as a shelf for dozens of framed photos of the family. I must admit, I felt a soft warmth when I first noticed our picture on that piano. It was before we were engaged, but already there I was, family. I take note of how she serves us tea, every time, so that I'll know how to properly do it whenever we have guests at our home someday. It's brewed in the teapot, poured gently into each cup, and then placed onto a serving tray on a small serving table between us. Milk in the tiny pourer next to the sugar bowl, tea spoons on their sides, all surrounding the plate of biscuits (cookies, in America). After walking through the cold of the main street passageway, I always welcome the warmth of tea. Plus, it's an incredibly Irish thing to partake in. I've been told, even if the postman is simply dropping by a package, you should always offer him tea.
I've often daydreamed about this house. My curiosity gets the best of me. I try to picture my husband as a small boy wandering through it's room and corridors. I remember being a child myself and wanting so badly to have this sort of old-country upbringing, believing wholeheartedly that I should've been born in the 1800's in rural-somewhere, because modern, city life just wasn't for me. Then I lived in cities for a bit as I got older, and I loved the convenience and bustle, the fact that something was always happening somewhere close by and I never had to wander far to find a store or a friend. But this house is reminiscent of times, years, decades passed. There's no numbered address because The Walls have lived here for generations, since the last surviving member decided to take up residence there after the Great Famine. It's seen so many people come and go, it's heard so many conversations, so many souls have put down their guard to gently fall asleep at night in the many bedrooms. Its had work done, a second house built onto the back, an old barn off to its side. Across the alleyway in the back, there's this horribly dilapidated building that used to be a shoe factory but that is still part of their property. It has a flagstone roof so old, it's protected by some National Conservation group. You can still see old shoe parts hanging from the rafters. My husband has hinted that this building could one day be turned into our home. A modern space between ancient walls. I picture my children running through the yard, as I sit under the tree in the corner against the stone wall reading or writing, perhaps.
My father-in-law once showed me this incredibly old photo album they found in the house when they first moved back into it in the 1970's, after leaving London and then Dublin, where they raised their first four children. The photographs look so dated, they could be in a museum; some of them are labeled, but most were left with no identity except for the unsmiling face of some distant relative. There's some resemblance in a few of the photos and he tells me a story or two to go with each one. I don't even want to touch the book, having this fear that it would simply fall apart once young fingers graze it's aged pages. It thrills me in a new way to look at each captured moment in this stranger's life, and know my children will come about because they existed. My father-in-law barely knows much at all about any of these people and who they were except that he's related to them, as is his son, my husband.
There's such a comfort, deeply rooted from some long ago time, with no words to truly describe it, that flows from that book into my fingers and settles in my blood. It fills me with incredible amounts of pride. I'm a young soul in this old house. I'm the newest member of this family. I'm the start of our role in it's history. I'm a part of this now. Its past now gracefully molding my future.
***
I love driving back into Lahinch at night. Well, I'm not driving, he is. I'm far from being comfortable enough to maneuver a car on the opposite side of the road and as a lazy American, I never did learn how to drive a stick. So I guess I should say, I love riding into Lahinch at night, with my husband behind the wheel and myself, wide-eyed and distracted, watching the countryside open up before us to reveal this small part of Ireland that is now my home. The marmalade glow of lights in distant houses dots the hills, contrasting against the stark silver of each blinking star in the blackest sky I've ever seen. It's amazing how dark the night can be at the edge of the west coast here, with no light pollution to dirty it; nothing but deep and pure black, the absolute absence of any other color. A few times, we've taken nightly walks along the promenade all the way to its end and a little along the rocky cliffs above the shore. This is where it's truly the darkest, and I'll feel this overwhelming sense of how epically small I am, looking into that blackness and seeing star after star after star...a million too many to count. There's nowhere in the world where I've clearly seen so many stars before, that combined with the cold sea air leaves me breathless. The whispering sound of the Atlantic's waves lapping against the sand is deafening in such quiet. I sometimes look so hard into the distant horizon, the dark nothingness that I know leads back to the home I once knew, and wonder what's happening there now, without me. I left behind so much, so many. Life goes on, as they say. But this night sky, this natural quiet passing of time, this man, my husband, his hand in my hand - this is all new and beautiful and what's mine now. I try to remember what I felt before him and here and realize it doesn't matter. There's an ocean and a giant expanse of sky between now and that life, and this life, oh yes, this one - is only just beginning.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Breakfast, Best Friends and Broken Coffee Mugs: A Lesson in Letting Go
If I miss one definite thing about life in Portland, it would be breakfast. It may sound odd, but it truly is a way of life there. Breakfast is when people socialize, it ends up being the most important meal of the day and the most successful restaurants are probably the breakfast spots. When I didn't live on the same side of town as my closest friends, the best way to spend time with them was to meet for breakfast. There was one particular restaurant that we loved more than the others, Jam. And there was one particular friend I'd meet the most, Amanda. She is my longest friend, my most selfless friend, and was the only one I considered to stand next to me on my wedding day. When I think of breakfast in Portland, I think of her the most.
My last full day in Portland of course had to be started with breakfast at Jam and Amanda ended up being the only friend that was able to come with Vinnie and me. We had the same waitress we almost always have when we ate there and she overheard me refer to it as my "last supper." When refilling our coffees, she asked, "Is one of you moving? I thought I overheard you say that." I told her yes, I was moving to Ireland with my new husband the next day and chose Jam for my final breakfast out. I told her it had been my favorite place over the years and I was sad to be leaving. She came back with one of the coffee mugs they sell as merchandise and told me she wanted me to have it, so I wouldn't forget my favorite place and all the memories I made there. I saw Vinnie look disapprovingly at another thing we'd have to fit in our already too-full luggage but it didn't matter. It was one of the most thoughtful things I took with me; a gift from someone I hardly ever talked with except to say good morning and "I'll have coffee with cream" and questions here or there on the specials. It meant so much to me, to know that maybe it wouldn't just be my friends that would notice my absence in this city. I left behind some clothes to make room for that coffee mug in my suitcase. I don't think about those clothes.
Everyday since I've arrived in Ireland, I've had my morning cup of coffee from that mug. It's a bit larger than an average mug, all white with orange flowers and green leaves, and black lettering that says, "Jam on Hawthorne, Cafe and Art house, Portland Oregon." I've been making these amazing hot, milky coffees with cinnamon sprinkled on top, and every time I sit down at the breakfast table to drink that coffee while checking emails and Facebook, I think of sitting across from Amanda. I picture us eating Tommy's Joint - scrambled eggs with fake meat chorizo, salsa and sour cream, wrapped in a sun-dried tomato tortilla. Or maybe I've chosen my favorite - scrambled eggs with avocado and cream cheese, with a side of hash browns and spelt toast served, of course, with Jam's absolutely delicious and homemade, well, jam! (my favorite being their pear chai jam, seriously to die for). We're smothering everything in Aardvark hot sauce and getting as many refills as possible on Stumptown coffee and talking about every little thing that has happened in the days it's been since we last sat down for breakfast. We're both complaining about our waitress jobs, bad customers and bad tips. I miss my Irish boyfriend all the way in Ireland, hers is working the overnight shift and never home at the same time as she is. We're frustrated with roommates or the lack of funds to visit our families in Michigan as often as we'd like. Her car has overheating issues again, my bike got another flat tire. But the sun is out and the weather is gorgeous and we've got plans for the weekend so what is there really to complain about? It's all just normality now, we're far from home, but it's our new home, and we're still together and still best friends. With each sip of coffee from that Jam mug, I'm brought back to another wonderful breakfast with her. And I don't feel so absolutely far away anymore.
Last night, after a long, freezing day of sitting at an outdoor crafts market with my husband, attempting to sell his T-shirts but not being very successful at it, I was putting our dirty dinner dishes in the sink and ever so lightly tapped that Jam coffee mug and watched it, ever so slowly, teeter back and forth until it fell on it's side, rolled off the counter top, and dropped like the slowest drip of rain down the windowpane before smashing into bits and pieces as it hit the linoleum. I stood there, without moving an inch, except to rush my hands to cover my open mouth. Vinnie's look said it all, he knew what that mug meant to me. He also is fully aware of my attachment to things and their memories, seeing how difficult it was for me to pack my life away to move to Ireland, to choose between one thing and the next, one memory and another. The tears began to flow, much faster than that mug fell. Yes, I am an adult, and I know full well that things aren't memories, that broken mugs aren't the end of my existence in Portland, and that the splattered leftover coffee on my floor is definitely not the hundreds of breakfasts I shared with Amanda. But it was the knowing, the realizing, the pull back to reality that I am far enough away where I can't just get another one, I can't just call Amanda and say, "Hey! I broke that mug! Let's meet at Jam tomorrow so I can get another one, and I'll tell you all about how things are going here so far, and also how I'm such an absolute klutz!" No, I can't do that now. Because I've permanently moved to Ireland. And Amanda is down the street, past the prom, past the beach and the rocks, all the way across the Atlantic and then still beyond the whole of the United States and right before it's far west coast, in Portland. Miles and miles and miles away. The tiny pieces of that coffee mug is the reminder that I am not, and was not, having breakfast with her every morning; they are the uncertainty of not knowing when we will sit down across from each other again, over tofu scrambles and Pacific Northwest brewed coffee.
Maybe soon I'll realize that I don't need that mug to miss her, or think of her. I don't need the old green vase by my bedside or the aprons hanging in my kitchen to miss my Grandma. I don't need the "I love you" rock to miss my brother, or the wedding photo album to miss my sister and I don't need to hear the "i carry your heart song" my other sister wrote for me to walk down the aisle to, to think of her. I definitely don't need the collage of photos to miss all my other friends, or the gorgeous framed print of my parents sitting at the end of my bed to think of them every morning when I wake or every night when I get to lay next to the love of my life. Because I have to remember that is why I am here. I am not here because I left everyone else. I am here because I am with my husband. It was a decision I made freely, one I do not regret. And I know everyone knows that is why I came here, I know they realize that I did not leave them behind.
I just hope they know...I carry your heart, I carry you all in my heart.
My last full day in Portland of course had to be started with breakfast at Jam and Amanda ended up being the only friend that was able to come with Vinnie and me. We had the same waitress we almost always have when we ate there and she overheard me refer to it as my "last supper." When refilling our coffees, she asked, "Is one of you moving? I thought I overheard you say that." I told her yes, I was moving to Ireland with my new husband the next day and chose Jam for my final breakfast out. I told her it had been my favorite place over the years and I was sad to be leaving. She came back with one of the coffee mugs they sell as merchandise and told me she wanted me to have it, so I wouldn't forget my favorite place and all the memories I made there. I saw Vinnie look disapprovingly at another thing we'd have to fit in our already too-full luggage but it didn't matter. It was one of the most thoughtful things I took with me; a gift from someone I hardly ever talked with except to say good morning and "I'll have coffee with cream" and questions here or there on the specials. It meant so much to me, to know that maybe it wouldn't just be my friends that would notice my absence in this city. I left behind some clothes to make room for that coffee mug in my suitcase. I don't think about those clothes.
Everyday since I've arrived in Ireland, I've had my morning cup of coffee from that mug. It's a bit larger than an average mug, all white with orange flowers and green leaves, and black lettering that says, "Jam on Hawthorne, Cafe and Art house, Portland Oregon." I've been making these amazing hot, milky coffees with cinnamon sprinkled on top, and every time I sit down at the breakfast table to drink that coffee while checking emails and Facebook, I think of sitting across from Amanda. I picture us eating Tommy's Joint - scrambled eggs with fake meat chorizo, salsa and sour cream, wrapped in a sun-dried tomato tortilla. Or maybe I've chosen my favorite - scrambled eggs with avocado and cream cheese, with a side of hash browns and spelt toast served, of course, with Jam's absolutely delicious and homemade, well, jam! (my favorite being their pear chai jam, seriously to die for). We're smothering everything in Aardvark hot sauce and getting as many refills as possible on Stumptown coffee and talking about every little thing that has happened in the days it's been since we last sat down for breakfast. We're both complaining about our waitress jobs, bad customers and bad tips. I miss my Irish boyfriend all the way in Ireland, hers is working the overnight shift and never home at the same time as she is. We're frustrated with roommates or the lack of funds to visit our families in Michigan as often as we'd like. Her car has overheating issues again, my bike got another flat tire. But the sun is out and the weather is gorgeous and we've got plans for the weekend so what is there really to complain about? It's all just normality now, we're far from home, but it's our new home, and we're still together and still best friends. With each sip of coffee from that Jam mug, I'm brought back to another wonderful breakfast with her. And I don't feel so absolutely far away anymore.
Last night, after a long, freezing day of sitting at an outdoor crafts market with my husband, attempting to sell his T-shirts but not being very successful at it, I was putting our dirty dinner dishes in the sink and ever so lightly tapped that Jam coffee mug and watched it, ever so slowly, teeter back and forth until it fell on it's side, rolled off the counter top, and dropped like the slowest drip of rain down the windowpane before smashing into bits and pieces as it hit the linoleum. I stood there, without moving an inch, except to rush my hands to cover my open mouth. Vinnie's look said it all, he knew what that mug meant to me. He also is fully aware of my attachment to things and their memories, seeing how difficult it was for me to pack my life away to move to Ireland, to choose between one thing and the next, one memory and another. The tears began to flow, much faster than that mug fell. Yes, I am an adult, and I know full well that things aren't memories, that broken mugs aren't the end of my existence in Portland, and that the splattered leftover coffee on my floor is definitely not the hundreds of breakfasts I shared with Amanda. But it was the knowing, the realizing, the pull back to reality that I am far enough away where I can't just get another one, I can't just call Amanda and say, "Hey! I broke that mug! Let's meet at Jam tomorrow so I can get another one, and I'll tell you all about how things are going here so far, and also how I'm such an absolute klutz!" No, I can't do that now. Because I've permanently moved to Ireland. And Amanda is down the street, past the prom, past the beach and the rocks, all the way across the Atlantic and then still beyond the whole of the United States and right before it's far west coast, in Portland. Miles and miles and miles away. The tiny pieces of that coffee mug is the reminder that I am not, and was not, having breakfast with her every morning; they are the uncertainty of not knowing when we will sit down across from each other again, over tofu scrambles and Pacific Northwest brewed coffee.
Maybe soon I'll realize that I don't need that mug to miss her, or think of her. I don't need the old green vase by my bedside or the aprons hanging in my kitchen to miss my Grandma. I don't need the "I love you" rock to miss my brother, or the wedding photo album to miss my sister and I don't need to hear the "i carry your heart song" my other sister wrote for me to walk down the aisle to, to think of her. I definitely don't need the collage of photos to miss all my other friends, or the gorgeous framed print of my parents sitting at the end of my bed to think of them every morning when I wake or every night when I get to lay next to the love of my life. Because I have to remember that is why I am here. I am not here because I left everyone else. I am here because I am with my husband. It was a decision I made freely, one I do not regret. And I know everyone knows that is why I came here, I know they realize that I did not leave them behind.
I just hope they know...I carry your heart, I carry you all in my heart.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
An Essay on Chance Meetings Between Strangers, the Art of Long-Distance Flirting, How to Learn Patience and Grace in Dire Circumstance; or...A Love Letter For Vincent
(So, to start my first ever blog and explain it's reasoning for existence, I'd like to share something I wrote a few years ago. This is a piece I did for my now husband; I had only just met him at the time. I was a waitress in Portland, Oregon, and he was in town visiting his older sister when we met. We fell for each other quite quickly, but he went home to Ireland after only a week. I knew from the moment I met him that he was "The One" and wanted to share this with him without frightening him off (Irish men really don't respond well to such strong statements, or long-term commitment in general). I decided I had no choice but to just go for it, so I wrote him this piece for his 30th birthday, which happened about five and half months after we met. We had been staying in contact through Skype at this point, and we were about two months away from a vacation I would take to come spend time with him in Ireland to see if we truly did have the potential to continue a long-distance relationship. Needless to say, we did have that potential, and are now 5 weeks into a very happy marriage, residing together here in Ireland.)
***
Spring came early this year, in the Pacific Northwest. Winter broke without the usual rainy day after rainy day and with the arrival of a bright and powerful sun, I found myself breaking too. Or halting. Or maybe, taking the first step forward, which oftentimes feels like the opposite direction, only until one has the clarity to look back and see where their progress began. And that was the problem for me. The year prior to this, I had seen no progress. And I was desperate to become unstuck.
What some might refer to as a seasonal depression, I defined as simply my emotions overflowing due to rain. I have always been a passionate soul, feeling every emotion beyond its extreme. But the colder, wetter months always hit me harder. I embrace all the grays, and let the dampness release itself through my fingers and onto blank pages. I feel peace and a deep melancholy at the same time, whenever I sit and watch the rain. It inspires me and paralyzes me with sadness. This has always made it difficult for me to wade through the highs and lows. Sometimes, happiness would feel like a ton of bricks, hitting me so hard that it would throw me off and I could quickly fall into my own ocean of solitude, and those bricks would then sink me into its deepest depths. Some days, I would have no idea how to swim my way out, and spend hour after hour crying in bed, trying to figure out and define every idiosyncrasy I had accumulated in my near 25 years. I think too much. When one question desired an answer, dozens more would pop up and halt my line of thinking. Why did I choose to move so far from home? What was I accomplishing here that I couldn't do closer to my family? Were my parents right? Did God exist and would he banish me to hell for the choices I'd made thus far? Would I spend my life doing something that matters? Would I ever find the man I was made for? Or was I made to love a handful of different men at different times of my life because I have too much to give to just one? No matter how much lying around and crying I did, how many hours I spent walking under umbrellas hiding my own tears, I never answered any of these questions. I still don't have all the answers. All I know is that the exact day I finally realized I could just simply choose to be happy, was the day I met you.
***
I'm sure you had no idea what you were heading into when you first sat down at my bar. I'm sure you had no idea that the bartender happened to have spent time in Ireland, your country of origin, and also happened to have acquired a slight obsession with said country and its lovely and gracious people. Now, let me explain, because it is far from the "luck of the Irish" type obsession some have here. This is a true attitude of thankfulness and gratitude, of respect and admiration, of affection and a longstanding, continually felt desire to return ("I will arise and go now...and I shall have some peace there," wrote Yeats; I embraced this wholeheartedly and tattooed it on the inside of my left wrist, as a reminder to never forget the unending beauty of that country and the peace I found there and to always hold onto that desire to return). During that time in my life, right before I left to study in Ireland my second year of college, I was about as broken as I'd ever been, hopefully as broken as I'll ever be. I had cut ties with most of the things I grew up with. I no longer chose to believe in or follow a god. I had left all my friends in my hometown and was the only one to leave for college. By moving away, I had separated myself for the first time from my family. And I finally found the courage to leave my abusive boyfriend, who had spent our entire four-year relationship sleeping with other women and convincing me that I deserved it. I found myself totally alone on a campus full of strangers, and stripped of all my dependancies, I realized I had no idea what I actually was without them. It became increasingly more difficult to go to class and even harder to stay cooped up in my tiny dorm room. There was nowhere to escape to. After two years of antidepressants, I literally wasn't feeling anything anymore, except for numbness. And the absence of feeling resonated in my empty heart, louder than I had ever heard the sadness before, and I realized I couldn't stay there anymore. I had to leave. I had to get out. It could have been anywhere. It was fated to be Ireland.
There, I studied Irish literature while writing a new chapter in my own life. I drank in the pubs, listened to Irish bands while walking Dublin's streets, took trips to every site worth seeing and found myself in a constant state of awe, and fell asleep feeling complete at the end of the day, no longer needing my antidepressants, no longer embracing that sadness. I banned those emotions from my life, I denied them entrance into my soul and I refused to let them define me anymore. I felt at peace with God and my own spirituality in the darkness of Newgrange. I made a home in a city thousands of miles away and a thousand times different from everything I had ever known. I threw my stormy past off the Cliffs of Moher and watched it float away to the ends of the earth. And I became new in the mist of the Atlantic off the coast of the Aran Islands. I feel in love with Ireland and she loved me back so fiercely, I could feel it in my bones.
So, you must understand why, without ever knowing your name or seeing your face before, I felt an immediate connection when hearing your voice. You sounded like home.
***
I felt spoiled that you were so handsome. My first impression was that it must be my lucky day. When else do gorgeous men from my favorite country sit down at my bar and order a pint? I felt a sudden rush of warmth. I wanted so badly to impress you and I hoped I sounded intelligent or witty, whichever one you most preferred (which now seems to be a precise combination between the two, one I believe I can easily master). I tried all the tricks; making direct eye contact, batting my eyelashes, discussing my knowledge of your homeland. I felt my heart beat faster. I saw you look at me and then divert your gaze quickly. I wanted you to keep looking.
That night, I searched for you at the bar I told you to go to. After 45 minutes, I gave up. It must not have been meant to be. Perhaps I was reading you wrong, perhaps you met a different American girl who wooed you away for the week and I had lost my chance. I left thinking I'd never see you again, so I searched for you in my dreams that night instead. The next day, like magic, you appeared in human form and passed me on the street corner late at night. We stopped. We talked. We smiled. You remembered my name. I touched your arm. We made plans for a drink and I watched you walk away, a memory of a new soul on an old, familiar street. From that point on, I don't think I've stopped smiling.
It all went much like a dream, didn't it? After slight awkwardness during our first drink together, I felt like I was talking to an old friend. Our second night out, towards the end of the evening, there was a pause in our conversation, and as if it had been scripted, you suddenly leaned in to kiss me. Out of all first kisses, yours lingered the most, and it came so unexpectedly that I felt my heart leap into my throat, almost escaping through my lips and into yours. We kept kissing and I felt as if the crowded bar simply faded out around us, melting into the darkness of the night outside. I couldn't believe it. Here was a man that so desired to kiss me, he had to at that exact moment, and he couldn't just kiss me once but had to keep kissing me in front of a room full of complete strangers and with a ferocious passion I hadn't felt in years. Honestly, I would have died happy that night.
There was an unsaid calmness in our short time together. I could touch you with such ease and kiss you whenever I wanted. You held my hand everywhere we went, across tables and in the car. You put your arm around me while we walked Portland's streets and kissed me at red lights and crosswalks. I tried to show you some of the better parts of this city. We wandered through the yet to bloom Rose Gardens, but I could imagine us holding hands there amongst the blossoms in the warmth of summer. We toured the Japanese Gardens, stared at rocks in a sea of sand, kissed under bamboo ceilings and wrote our own haikus. As unimpressive as they were in the spring, I found the gardens to still be quite beautiful, like you; and like us, they just needed time to bloom
I introduced you to my friends and you fit in perfectly. At a house party, you held onto me in a dark corner while we sipped our beers and watched drunk Americans make fools of themselves. At a bar, we kicked ass at pool and I danced next to you when my songs came on the jukebox. From across the room, I saw how you looked at me. Longingly. I always stared back with dark fire in my blue eyes.
I took you to one of my favorite views of the city, an empty park overlooking the river. We sat closely on a bench near the cliffs and as we watched the trains move slowly along the tracks, you began to kiss me softly. I stared at the stars and their reflections in the water and I could feel you breathe along my neck, taking in my scent as you wrapped my hair around your fingers. It all began to blend together; the light from the buildings and bridges became the stars, the water was just a black void between the spaces, the sounds from the trains crept in with the breeze and the world below faded into silence, leaving me with only the sound of you breath moving across my skin and my skin begging to let you in. You called that spot "make out point," said it had been wonderful spending time with me, but sometimes it's good to just leave things short and sweet. I couldn't think like that. This is when I realized I just didn't want you to leave. This is when I knew I had no choice but to let you go.
***
Through all the impatience and expectancy in life, most moments end up being perfectly timed without needing any push of our own wants and desires. I find it not surprising that the week I met you was the same week I tattooed my most important life lesson clearly on my inner right forearm, "let all things go, so comes love." Too many times, I try to force forever out of all my relationships. I'm so enamored with all things love that I allow this emotion to be felt quite freely. I don't just let things be sometimes, my heart doesn't ever listen to my head. But I feel as if this is all I have, all I really want out of life. Even the name my parents chose for me, Amy, comes from the Latin word amata, meaning "to love." I was made to love; I was born with this sole purpose in life. But too much love breaks too many hearts, and in the end all I'm doing is breaking my own. EE Cummings wrote, "let all go - the big small middling tall bigger really the biggest and all things - let all go, dear - so comes love." I told myself to stop forcing love into my life and to allow itself to work its way in naturally. I had to be reminded of this everyday, and that tattoo came at its most perfect time. I glimpsed something wonderfully insatiable with you, an immediate comfort that could only grow, a flood of affection that I would have happily drowned in, and like a slap on the wrist to bring me back to reality, you left me after mere days together, and I had no choice but to simply let you go.
***
I hold all this deep within myself and it keeps me going, it keeps me moving forward each day. And even though neither of us have any idea what it will be like, or what will happen during and after the two weeks we'll have together, I know that what I've had so far has been enough to make me call myself happy again. I was ready to make that change in my life, but you encouraged it, you fueled the fire that already started within me. I found I had something to look forward to, something to endlessly desire, something to sustain myself with during lonely nights. A thought, a moment imagined or real, your lips on mine, your arm around my waist, your smile and your eyes looking hard into my own, the soft sensation of skin against skin, doing anything, being anywhere, but most of all, just...you. All I really want right now is you. You, the boy whose kisses touched my lips like an early morning Irish mist, whose voice sounds like a distant summer rain beyond the hills of lush green, whose smile melts me into a complete mess of sighs, whose hand wrapped so tightly around mine that I felt as if I was some rare and precious jewel, and whose eyes trapped me deep within their gaze, so much so that I don't see anything else when I close my own. Just...you.
Catherine of Aragon once ended a quite beautiful love letter to Henry VIII with, "And lastly, do I vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things." And Vincent, with no agenda yet no reservations, I give you this letter of potential love, of open possibilities fueled by a passionate desire that I know to be true within my own heart. And no matter what happens, no matter what we find or don't find within each other, I know I'll be happy with what you have been for me so far. So I write you this on your 30th birthday just so you know that if you felt it were right, if you found it was all you really wanted, I could stay by your side for at least another 30 years and give you more than you've ever had or needed before. Because, my only purpose is to love, and I have been ready to fulfill this since the moment I was first able to define the word, since the moment I first realized - that word defined me.
***
Spring came early this year, in the Pacific Northwest. Winter broke without the usual rainy day after rainy day and with the arrival of a bright and powerful sun, I found myself breaking too. Or halting. Or maybe, taking the first step forward, which oftentimes feels like the opposite direction, only until one has the clarity to look back and see where their progress began. And that was the problem for me. The year prior to this, I had seen no progress. And I was desperate to become unstuck.
What some might refer to as a seasonal depression, I defined as simply my emotions overflowing due to rain. I have always been a passionate soul, feeling every emotion beyond its extreme. But the colder, wetter months always hit me harder. I embrace all the grays, and let the dampness release itself through my fingers and onto blank pages. I feel peace and a deep melancholy at the same time, whenever I sit and watch the rain. It inspires me and paralyzes me with sadness. This has always made it difficult for me to wade through the highs and lows. Sometimes, happiness would feel like a ton of bricks, hitting me so hard that it would throw me off and I could quickly fall into my own ocean of solitude, and those bricks would then sink me into its deepest depths. Some days, I would have no idea how to swim my way out, and spend hour after hour crying in bed, trying to figure out and define every idiosyncrasy I had accumulated in my near 25 years. I think too much. When one question desired an answer, dozens more would pop up and halt my line of thinking. Why did I choose to move so far from home? What was I accomplishing here that I couldn't do closer to my family? Were my parents right? Did God exist and would he banish me to hell for the choices I'd made thus far? Would I spend my life doing something that matters? Would I ever find the man I was made for? Or was I made to love a handful of different men at different times of my life because I have too much to give to just one? No matter how much lying around and crying I did, how many hours I spent walking under umbrellas hiding my own tears, I never answered any of these questions. I still don't have all the answers. All I know is that the exact day I finally realized I could just simply choose to be happy, was the day I met you.
***
I'm sure you had no idea what you were heading into when you first sat down at my bar. I'm sure you had no idea that the bartender happened to have spent time in Ireland, your country of origin, and also happened to have acquired a slight obsession with said country and its lovely and gracious people. Now, let me explain, because it is far from the "luck of the Irish" type obsession some have here. This is a true attitude of thankfulness and gratitude, of respect and admiration, of affection and a longstanding, continually felt desire to return ("I will arise and go now...and I shall have some peace there," wrote Yeats; I embraced this wholeheartedly and tattooed it on the inside of my left wrist, as a reminder to never forget the unending beauty of that country and the peace I found there and to always hold onto that desire to return). During that time in my life, right before I left to study in Ireland my second year of college, I was about as broken as I'd ever been, hopefully as broken as I'll ever be. I had cut ties with most of the things I grew up with. I no longer chose to believe in or follow a god. I had left all my friends in my hometown and was the only one to leave for college. By moving away, I had separated myself for the first time from my family. And I finally found the courage to leave my abusive boyfriend, who had spent our entire four-year relationship sleeping with other women and convincing me that I deserved it. I found myself totally alone on a campus full of strangers, and stripped of all my dependancies, I realized I had no idea what I actually was without them. It became increasingly more difficult to go to class and even harder to stay cooped up in my tiny dorm room. There was nowhere to escape to. After two years of antidepressants, I literally wasn't feeling anything anymore, except for numbness. And the absence of feeling resonated in my empty heart, louder than I had ever heard the sadness before, and I realized I couldn't stay there anymore. I had to leave. I had to get out. It could have been anywhere. It was fated to be Ireland.
There, I studied Irish literature while writing a new chapter in my own life. I drank in the pubs, listened to Irish bands while walking Dublin's streets, took trips to every site worth seeing and found myself in a constant state of awe, and fell asleep feeling complete at the end of the day, no longer needing my antidepressants, no longer embracing that sadness. I banned those emotions from my life, I denied them entrance into my soul and I refused to let them define me anymore. I felt at peace with God and my own spirituality in the darkness of Newgrange. I made a home in a city thousands of miles away and a thousand times different from everything I had ever known. I threw my stormy past off the Cliffs of Moher and watched it float away to the ends of the earth. And I became new in the mist of the Atlantic off the coast of the Aran Islands. I feel in love with Ireland and she loved me back so fiercely, I could feel it in my bones.
So, you must understand why, without ever knowing your name or seeing your face before, I felt an immediate connection when hearing your voice. You sounded like home.
***
I felt spoiled that you were so handsome. My first impression was that it must be my lucky day. When else do gorgeous men from my favorite country sit down at my bar and order a pint? I felt a sudden rush of warmth. I wanted so badly to impress you and I hoped I sounded intelligent or witty, whichever one you most preferred (which now seems to be a precise combination between the two, one I believe I can easily master). I tried all the tricks; making direct eye contact, batting my eyelashes, discussing my knowledge of your homeland. I felt my heart beat faster. I saw you look at me and then divert your gaze quickly. I wanted you to keep looking.
That night, I searched for you at the bar I told you to go to. After 45 minutes, I gave up. It must not have been meant to be. Perhaps I was reading you wrong, perhaps you met a different American girl who wooed you away for the week and I had lost my chance. I left thinking I'd never see you again, so I searched for you in my dreams that night instead. The next day, like magic, you appeared in human form and passed me on the street corner late at night. We stopped. We talked. We smiled. You remembered my name. I touched your arm. We made plans for a drink and I watched you walk away, a memory of a new soul on an old, familiar street. From that point on, I don't think I've stopped smiling.
It all went much like a dream, didn't it? After slight awkwardness during our first drink together, I felt like I was talking to an old friend. Our second night out, towards the end of the evening, there was a pause in our conversation, and as if it had been scripted, you suddenly leaned in to kiss me. Out of all first kisses, yours lingered the most, and it came so unexpectedly that I felt my heart leap into my throat, almost escaping through my lips and into yours. We kept kissing and I felt as if the crowded bar simply faded out around us, melting into the darkness of the night outside. I couldn't believe it. Here was a man that so desired to kiss me, he had to at that exact moment, and he couldn't just kiss me once but had to keep kissing me in front of a room full of complete strangers and with a ferocious passion I hadn't felt in years. Honestly, I would have died happy that night.
There was an unsaid calmness in our short time together. I could touch you with such ease and kiss you whenever I wanted. You held my hand everywhere we went, across tables and in the car. You put your arm around me while we walked Portland's streets and kissed me at red lights and crosswalks. I tried to show you some of the better parts of this city. We wandered through the yet to bloom Rose Gardens, but I could imagine us holding hands there amongst the blossoms in the warmth of summer. We toured the Japanese Gardens, stared at rocks in a sea of sand, kissed under bamboo ceilings and wrote our own haikus. As unimpressive as they were in the spring, I found the gardens to still be quite beautiful, like you; and like us, they just needed time to bloom
I introduced you to my friends and you fit in perfectly. At a house party, you held onto me in a dark corner while we sipped our beers and watched drunk Americans make fools of themselves. At a bar, we kicked ass at pool and I danced next to you when my songs came on the jukebox. From across the room, I saw how you looked at me. Longingly. I always stared back with dark fire in my blue eyes.
I took you to one of my favorite views of the city, an empty park overlooking the river. We sat closely on a bench near the cliffs and as we watched the trains move slowly along the tracks, you began to kiss me softly. I stared at the stars and their reflections in the water and I could feel you breathe along my neck, taking in my scent as you wrapped my hair around your fingers. It all began to blend together; the light from the buildings and bridges became the stars, the water was just a black void between the spaces, the sounds from the trains crept in with the breeze and the world below faded into silence, leaving me with only the sound of you breath moving across my skin and my skin begging to let you in. You called that spot "make out point," said it had been wonderful spending time with me, but sometimes it's good to just leave things short and sweet. I couldn't think like that. This is when I realized I just didn't want you to leave. This is when I knew I had no choice but to let you go.
***
Through all the impatience and expectancy in life, most moments end up being perfectly timed without needing any push of our own wants and desires. I find it not surprising that the week I met you was the same week I tattooed my most important life lesson clearly on my inner right forearm, "let all things go, so comes love." Too many times, I try to force forever out of all my relationships. I'm so enamored with all things love that I allow this emotion to be felt quite freely. I don't just let things be sometimes, my heart doesn't ever listen to my head. But I feel as if this is all I have, all I really want out of life. Even the name my parents chose for me, Amy, comes from the Latin word amata, meaning "to love." I was made to love; I was born with this sole purpose in life. But too much love breaks too many hearts, and in the end all I'm doing is breaking my own. EE Cummings wrote, "let all go - the big small middling tall bigger really the biggest and all things - let all go, dear - so comes love." I told myself to stop forcing love into my life and to allow itself to work its way in naturally. I had to be reminded of this everyday, and that tattoo came at its most perfect time. I glimpsed something wonderfully insatiable with you, an immediate comfort that could only grow, a flood of affection that I would have happily drowned in, and like a slap on the wrist to bring me back to reality, you left me after mere days together, and I had no choice but to simply let you go.
***
I hold all this deep within myself and it keeps me going, it keeps me moving forward each day. And even though neither of us have any idea what it will be like, or what will happen during and after the two weeks we'll have together, I know that what I've had so far has been enough to make me call myself happy again. I was ready to make that change in my life, but you encouraged it, you fueled the fire that already started within me. I found I had something to look forward to, something to endlessly desire, something to sustain myself with during lonely nights. A thought, a moment imagined or real, your lips on mine, your arm around my waist, your smile and your eyes looking hard into my own, the soft sensation of skin against skin, doing anything, being anywhere, but most of all, just...you. All I really want right now is you. You, the boy whose kisses touched my lips like an early morning Irish mist, whose voice sounds like a distant summer rain beyond the hills of lush green, whose smile melts me into a complete mess of sighs, whose hand wrapped so tightly around mine that I felt as if I was some rare and precious jewel, and whose eyes trapped me deep within their gaze, so much so that I don't see anything else when I close my own. Just...you.
Catherine of Aragon once ended a quite beautiful love letter to Henry VIII with, "And lastly, do I vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things." And Vincent, with no agenda yet no reservations, I give you this letter of potential love, of open possibilities fueled by a passionate desire that I know to be true within my own heart. And no matter what happens, no matter what we find or don't find within each other, I know I'll be happy with what you have been for me so far. So I write you this on your 30th birthday just so you know that if you felt it were right, if you found it was all you really wanted, I could stay by your side for at least another 30 years and give you more than you've ever had or needed before. Because, my only purpose is to love, and I have been ready to fulfill this since the moment I was first able to define the word, since the moment I first realized - that word defined me.
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