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I taught my children that there is an invisible, silver cord connecting our hearts to one another and that it stretches as far as it needs to stretch in order to keep us always connected, no matter how far apart we find ourselves. Back when I told them this, the furthest it was stretched was from home to wherever they happened to be going on a school field trip that day or to Grandma’s house for an overnight. They believed it then and I think it gave them comfort on those short journeys, which at that time seemed so long. They’re all grown up now, even my youngest will be 18 next Spring, and I’m pretty sure they think of that ‘silver cord’ as a nice metaphor for being in each other’s thoughts and hearts no matter where we are. What they probably don’t realize is that I was telling them something I truly believed at that time, and still believe. Literally.
We’re so far apart at the moment that the cord is proving to be as flexible and elastic as I imagined. Its elasticity was tested first, when they moved from Chicago to their new homes in Los Angeles and Portland, Oregon, and then stretched about double that when we moved here to West Clare. I know the cords are still intact because I often feel them tugging at me and I’m sure my children feel the tug too, at times when they’re not distracted by the concerns and excitement of their daily, youthful lives. What I didn’t know before that I am finding out now, is that those cords are also installed from our hearts to those of our grandchildren — even in the weeks and months before their birth. My first grandchild, a granddaughter, is due any day now and when I think of her I feel that familiar tugging and know that we are already connected as she floats above her parents’ heads, checking them out in all their angst and joy as they await her entrance into their world.
This move to West Clare on the Loop Head Peninsula has been a good one in most ways. But I’ve learned that nothing good is perfect. You just have to get on with it and have faith in your journey, trying to be as flexible as possible and remember to appreciate the gifts along the way. Hardest of all is the distance between me and my oldest two children and the challenges of keeping in touch on a daily, or at least weekly, basis to remain a part of each others’ lives, and arranging to be together as often as possible. Other difficulties have been my distance from very much missed friends and family and, less profoundly, adjusting to the many little differences in my day to day life that were not even on my radar — like a new way of cooking on my induction stove, the metric system and jumping through the ridiculous hoops of Irish drivers’ license regulations, to name a few. There have also been the disappointments — such as the modest retirement nest egg that we were hoping to build upon, being banjaxed as my husband spent 2 1/2 years struggling to find adequate, full-time work in a pretty remote setting.
However, the immeasurable benefits from living in this beautiful place cannot be taken lightly. Not least of which is watching my teenage son become adjusted to his new world, carry on in school, go to discos and even hold a summer job at the Diamond Rocks Cafe, where we spent so many pre-move summers enjoying the food, the cliff walk and the Pollock Holes when he was little! It has taken a couple of years, but our little cottage in the bog is feeling like the home it was not when we arrived. Although there’s a lot left to do, comforts and repairs have been adding up to make this into a home that lifts my spirit when I walk through the front door and as I sit in my favorite chair beside the wood stove on cold, wet days. I’ve taken to calling it “Bogview” lately, in a nod to all the Seaviews and Oceanviews around Clare – giving the bog its rightful credit for the subtle but breathtaking views it offers from both my front door and in the back. I watch the light change everything and run from minding dinner on the stove in order to capture its magic on my phone camera so I can share it on facebook with the people back in my old home, while at the same time sharing it with those people nearby who can never get enough of this beauty we are surrounded by. And from the bog I have only a short drive to be in the midst of the beautiful terrain of Loop Head with its stunning cliffs, crashing waves, dramatic open fields, castle ruin, lighthouses, cattle, sheep, horses, donkeys — and sandy beach where I can walk in peace during the “off” season!
But the greatest benefit I have received from the move to this place has been the opportunity to meet the interesting, warm, creative and intelligent people who live here. Daily interactions with strangers and acquaintances can be a unique and very mindful experience when it is with people from a culture that is different than the one a person has lived within their whole life and for me it often sparks a tingle of joy and appreciation similar to the reaction I would have after hearing good news. These daily interactions leave me feeling grateful and so lucky to be here. And they can come out of nowhere — from short chats with the postman who calls me by name, the man who brings our turf, and “neighbors” walking on our roads, to the strangers I am daily surrounded by who make an effort to catch my eye and say “how-ya” as we pass each other, in a manner from a time long gone in most places! And even more enriching has been the opportunity to get to know some wonderful people who I now consider friends and hope feel the same about me. I can’t imagine going through life having not known these people or having not experienced every conversation and laugh I could only have had with them.
All these warm interactions and all this beauty that surrounds me has a quiet undertone of longing for my children so far away, and now the additional longing for a granddaughter I won’t be able to see as much as I would like to. But life is full of surprises — and even blessings that are overcast by loneliness for those you wish were near, are still blessings to be acknowledged, savored and appreciated.
** Please forgive any spelling and grammar errors. It has been so long since my last post that I could not find Spell Check in the new format. But it’s a blog, not a novel so I decided to go ahead and post it anyway!
“Whee-BOOM!” was the magic onomatopoeia that helped my 2-year-old son cope with the sound of 4th of July fireworks that startled and scared him. Once I put a name to the sound, the fun of imitating the “whee-booms” replaced panic and crying. Thirty-four years later I still catch myself making that sound when I hear the whistle and explosion of fireworks and it makes me smile to recall the days of being a young mother experiencing this American holiday with my first-born.
For a large part of my life, celebrating Independence Day meant attending my Uncle Bud’s yearly picnic at his rural home about 40 miles outside of Chicago. Uncle Bud was my mother’s beloved twin brother and we always attended his picnics, whether we wanted to or not. For the most part I was happy to attend, especially in the early years. It was great to see family and friends, many of whom I probably wouldn’t see again until the next year. We would arrive to the aroma of ribs slathered with barbecue sauce sizzling on the huge grill that my uncle had, created from a steel drum cut in half and hinged to make a lid. It was a grill large enough to easily feed a crowd with little waiting time. Tables would be set up outside jam-packed with serving bowls of side dishes that all the moms brought to supplement the barbecued ribs, burgers and hot dogs. Many years of Uncle Bud’s 4th of July picnics have left me with a jumble of memories that cover a time span from my early teens to the era when I would arrive with my own side dish and young children in tow. Memories of my WWII veteran uncles arriving with American flags adhered to massive Buicks and Caddy’s, delicious food, volley ball games, the clink of horseshoes hitting steel stakes, music blaring, bottle rockets and bonfires. There is even a memory of a fight that included teenage boys, my mother and another adult woman who came as a guest. I still experience a twinge of anxiety recalling my fear as I watched people who had spent their day drinking alcohol, lighting bottle rockets in the field at nightfall. More enjoyable memories involve the yearly nighttime bonfires, when the Cocktail Generation would move their party into my uncle’s large country kitchen and the hippies and us younger teens would sit talking and laughing around the fire, remaining there as long as the mosquitos would allow.
My youngest son, Eoin, came along well past the years of “Uncle Bud’s picnic”. By then my older children had their own 4th of July plans and then eventually left for new homes in LA and Portland, Oregon. So our celebrations became small family barbecues followed by a drive to the nearest fireworks display. The only constant through the years being “whee-booms” and mosquitos.
Today I am living in a West Clare bog where the 4th of July is just another day. The only US flag around is on my teenage son’s bedroom wall and my adult son and daughter are celebrating the day on another West Coast, half a world away. There will be no fireworks here today but we’ll mark the US holiday with burgers grilled on a disposable barbecue grill purchased at SuperValu. This 4th of July is one of nostalgia. Nostalgia for celebrations of the past, for people far away and for those no longer with us. And there is also nostalgia for an America that feels very distant these days, both geographically and philosophically. Always my country, if no longer my home.
My son’s Irish bedroom decor.
Blogging from the Bog 