12/29/16
12/30/16
12/31/16
All three dates are entirely possible, my phone has been dead since the day we arrived. Not that a conversion cord would matter, there’s no service in the mountains anyway. An odd knowing accompanies a purge from technology. Reticent scribbles echo as my thoughts configure. Our short hermitage in my Dad’s hometown; Dingle, Ireland, has us lost in silence. My old man and I relax into the solitude of his cliffside abode, breaking up the hours with cups of tea and existential musings. A little boredom can go a long way.
When we make errands in town, the aging villagers, who’ve known me before I knew myself, call me “yankee doodle.” Dipping in and out of Gaelic, they speak threaded deeply with rich brogues, quick enough to make your head spin. Scatting about tragedy, unemployment, rising prices and dwindling population. Then turning to me with warm, hopeful jealousy, as though they see in me all they took for granted. Like a fraud, I shrink into myself. “What do ye do, love?” Uh. “I majored in, uh, *cough* acting *cough* communications..?” Stop looking at me like I’m fucking Victoria Beckham. Can’t they tell I’m drowning in student debt? Or notice the fractures in my fragile self reliance?As an acting major, I steer clear from this inquiry. Four years tuition for art school is not a privilege one could imagine in such an impoverished community. I feel my dad look downward, shameful of such unwarranted excess. Maybe the do know, maybe they do see my adolescent problems. Their warmth sends a chill through me. What if the things I’m anxious about now, never resolve? Their smiles tell me that the missing puzzle pieces never show up when you need them, these problems merely transform to fit the time and circumstance. Clouds, like those that cling to Slea Head, will always linger, it’s a matter of finding peace in the introspection they offer. “Sure ye’ve got yer whole life ahead of ye, please God.” Gratitude doesn’t care if you show up or not. Gratitude is fleeting, like the clouds. I smile, as though I deserve their affection. Something I was never good at receiving.
The way the Irish recount thirty years is in similar scale to how I recall last weekend. So little time has passed, and yet their entire life lays like ancient paths forged on the Cliffs of Moher.
On the crooked village roads they replay recent deaths in the village with:
‘…aw fer thuh luhv uh Gawd..’s
And ‘ …der poor mudder..’s
Here, like the fog off the cold, white Atlantic, death looms.
It seems every visit is framed by multiple deaths of mutual friends, neighbors and extended family.
One can’t help but wonder when will the shadow move closer, perhaps that anticipation is what makes the Irish laugh so fully. Perhaps it’s the reason time moves less oppressively in this corner of the world. And, too, how they accept the inevitable with such grace. Any tear shed is quick, as if one’s eye merely watered, no choke in their voice, only moments of silence and warm connection.
For fourteen consecutive days of our trip, the church bells have rung their death knell. Large, black gatherings form in the street. Wet eyes and big smiles. Belly laughs and extended embraces.
These tragedies seem to occur so often, there’s a rehearsed desensitization. For instance, I heard a story today about an old farmer who shared a room with my grandfather in Dingle Hospital. An early 19th century building so worn, it seemed to be aging itself. The farmer would wake every morning and ask “am I dead yet?” Not only anticipating but nearly inviting the holy day to dawn.
The Irish catholicism manifests in Dingle’s selfless and unassuming disposition. Their sheer lack of vanity would make headlines in the U.S.. Smiles, off white and crooked. Faces, elegantly naked and proud. Joints, calcified with arthritic swelling. Clothes, sensible above all else, and if tomorrow’s weather is the same as today’s, why change outfits at all?
The collective lack of self involvement is what comprises their world-renown charm. Their quiet welcome of age translates with no fear of the unavoidable. Their community is built on their commonalities. There isn’t a trace of anxiety towards Sir Reeper. No one running to the plastic surgeon to hide from time, let alone their primary physicians, they simply “couldn’t be bothered. And who’d milk de cows?”
Instead, they recount their thirty-odd years with immense pride. Over cups of tea with neighbors and old friends. As they see in me what they remember in themselves-
Youth.
Freedom.
Time.
Through their gratitude, I’ve concluded that time is better spent making mistakes, because then at least we’ll have something to laugh about later.