Cill Chaise

Like you, I have spent much of the last year soul searching, wondering why life sometimes gets spilt across the table and drips to the floor before anyone has the wits to grab a tea towel. I haven’t found any good answers, but I think pondering is a worthy spiritual exercise so I’m glad I at least had that opportunity as I watched the world do its mopping up. 

Now that things are opening up here in Ireland and we can get on the road again, I am delighted to report that Dixie and I spent Monday afternoon out and about, searching for ruins and legends and encounters with nature. 

While in lockdown, I made it a project to learn some songs in the Irish language. It’s a beautiful sounding language and a mournful ballad can make you cry even if you haven’t a clue what’s being sung. 

One song I loved right away was the Caoine Cill Chaise (English: Lament to Kilcash). Probably written in the 18th century, it mourns the 17th century ruin of Kilcash Castle and its surrounding woodlands (historians say one greedy heir named Walter sold off the timber to finance his elaborate lifestyle, but the deforestation has come to symbolize the decline of the Gaelic way of life around that time). 

The ballad also grieves the death of the mistress of Kilcash, Margaret Magennis (or Butler), Viscountess Iveagh. Apparently she was very much beloved for her kindness and generosity and made the castle a refuge for Gaelic poets and Catholic priests clashing with unneighborly British Protestants (very possibly my Methodist ancestors!).

Here is the first stanza of the ballad/poem in English:

“Now what will we do for timber,

with the last of the woods laid low?

There's no talk of Kilcash or its household

and its bell will be struck no more.

That dwelling where lived the good lady

most honored and joyous of women.

Earls made their way over wave there

and the sweet mass once was said”.

I have learned that this song is a favorite of Irish school children, and Dixie’s brother Paul, a retired teacher, graciously agreed to sing it at a music session with me as a duet. To my delightful surprise, others joined in, having learned it at school years ago. Paul also casually pointed out that Kilcash is just down the road from here about 30 miles or so. 

What? Kilcash is just down the road? Why didn't I know this? So this week off Dixie and I went to find Kilcash Castle and the ruins of the medieval church next door to it, where many of the household, including dear Margaret, are buried.

 

It was easy to find on the side of the road just before KiIcash village near Clonmel. We stopped first at the church. Like many church ruins of the period (10th-12th century) all that was left were four stone walls enclosing a few random graves that hopefully appeared after services were discontinued. A carved Romanesque doorway was gorgeous and you could tell it had been really spectacular in its day. 

In a mausoleum to the east rattled the ghosts of Lady Margaret and other leading ladies and gents from so many old stories long forgotten. These graves of the Butler/Ormonde family date back to 1691.

On the south side of the buildings, among patches of wildflowers and high grasses, standing gravestones stoically bore witness to the cast of characters in supporting roles round the castle. As always, lichens and erosion made the epitaphs hard to read, but we made out the dates on several to the 1700s. The Caoine Cill Chaise kept meandering through my thoughts and I found myself humming along with the bees, who I’m sure were singing the words in Bee Irish.

After a while of looking at the stones, taking pictures, looking at the same ones again, taking the same pictures again, we strolled over to the castle. It’s pretty crumbly so it’s gated off and you can only view it from a distance. But I just loved staring at it and imagining the hustle and bustle of life there 400 years ago. No wonder time travel books/movies are so popular, right?

We left the church and drove over to the present church in Kilcash for a quick look at the stained glass windows then made our way a kilometer or so to our second destination of the day… the trail head of Sliabh na mBan, the Mountain of the Women. I’ll write about that lore and adventure next time.

 

 

Thinking About Change

Around the turn of the century (not this one... the other one), two young men were having coffee and discussing things. One of them asked the other if he'd seen one of those swell Model T cars yet. The other guy started getting visibly agitated. He said he didn't want to see one and asked his friend if he had carefully considered the implications of this popular new invention.

"I’m afraid our country is about to change radically. I’m envisioning a day when these fields outside our door will no longer be green and fertile, but will be drawn off into concrete lanes to accommodate the rising traffic. Our buggies will become obsolete. 

What will happen to the horse trade? The jobs of blacksmith, saddle crafter, wagon maker, etc will be all but gone forever. The peaceful evening sounds of crickets and bubbling streams will be replaced by the roars of speeding engines and the whole country will stink of gasoline and carbon fumes. America as we know it will cease to exist.”

He went on to declare that the people making and buying automobiles must surely hate America. If they loved America, why would they want to spoil it like that. 

Change happens. Sometimes it just can’t be stopped. It just happens. And, painful as it may be, there’s usually a good reason for it and we become a better society for it. The average life expectancy in the USA was 47 years in 1900 and today, it’s advanced to 75 for men and 80 for women. Call me an ambulance when the hip finally goes and I tumble down the stairs. I’m good with the automobile.

Over the years, people have been accused of hating America if they:

Wanted to free slaves,

Wanted women to vote,

Wanted integrated schools,

Wanted equal pay for equal jobs,

Wanted to end the draft,

Wanted to end internment camps,

Wanted to support the old folks with a thing called Social Security,

Wanted insurance to cover preexisting conditions.

Wanted to welcome immigrants who were tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse on our teeming shore.

Some new fangled things, like Obamacare for instance, get off to a slow start (but in four years no one has come up with a better plan). They’re full of glitches and it takes years to get them sorted. Have you thought about what grief the naysayers must have given the Wright brothers? Fortunately Orville and Wilbur ignored their accusers and kept on believing they were on to a good thing. 

Believing in change doesn’t mean you hate America, okay? It might mean you’re dreaming of a better America. It might mean you have faith in America’s ability to adapt to a changing world and still stay on top. 

And working for change doesn’t mean you’re un-American. If you are a citizen, you’re American. Americans define “American”. If you see a frog eating a minnow instead of a bug, you wouldn’t say it’s “un-frog”. You’d say, “Wow, frogs are evolving and are really diverse!” We’re ALL Americans (until we croak)!

The reason I felt compelled to write this is the huge number of media posts I read that accuse progressives of being un-American and hating America because they advocate change. I’m weary of the fear mongers who keep saying America is going to change and we’ll be ruined. 

Google “America as we know it will cease to exist.” It goes way back in politics. America as we know it is full of poverty, disease, rioting, hate, and division. America as we know it NEEDS to change, don’t you think? The best things will remain because the best things are us, the Americans.

Here’s one thing we should all agree to change: the rhetoric! Stop demonizing the other side. Let’s discuss the issues, policies and our differing visions of what it means to LOVE America. We can do it.

And btw, I’m a registered Republican and I hate change. But, as they say in Ireland, I’m willing to give it a lash.

 

Thoughts on Evolving Faith

For those of you who don’t know, I became an evangelical Christian when I was around 12 years old. I heard about this man Jesus and his message of love and peace for the world. That appealed to me even at that young age, and my faith has been the focus of my life ever since. I spent my high school years involved in various teen ministries then spent two years in Christian college before going on to a state university.

I’ve always been actively involved in churches, made most of my friends through church and even taught some Bible classes (I preached a couple of times but that was definitely NOT my calling).

In the last few years, since Greg died, I’ve taken this precious time of turmoil to ramble through all the rooms in my faith house. It’s much bigger than I thought. I’ve opened doors I didn’t know even existed, and cleaned stuff out and kind of disinfected. There were a lot of toxins growing on some walls and they needed to be scrubbed clean.

There’s actually an attic in this house where things were stashed that I never wanted to see again or deal with. I thought they were thrown away, but it turns out they were just in storage. They are neatly stacked and best left alone. 

Then there’s the basement… where it’s pretty scary. There are dark spaces here and I’m still afraid every time I venture down there. I’m afraid I might not
make it back up the stairs. But I find myself still descending now and then to see if the demons are still alive. They are. But they haven’t gobbled me up yet so I guess we can coexist okay.

I have found incredible peace in Ireland… which is somewhat surprising since I no longer have a church home and most of my friends here are what they call non-practicing Catholics. Nobody talks religion and I’m okay with that. I see people living religion and that’s better (maybe they’re “practicing” after all). I’m thinking if I can’t maintain my own personal faith in my own personal space, it probably wasn’t mine in the first place, but just a brainwashing. 

I might be wrong about that. But so far, my faith house is still standing and hasn’t been condemned.

It so happens that, as I go through this soul searching season of life (you’ll have yours too, if you haven’t already), I’m
paying closer attention to what’s happening in the larger community. I’m seeing and appreciating the diversity of Christianity. I’m less judgmental. I’m comfortable letting people be themselves, find their own way. I’m taking more responsibility for my own thoughts and behaviors and feeling less burdened by yours.

 

I’m feeling more weighed down by the suffering in the world than the beliefs in the world. It feels like I took a big bite from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I spent my early adulthood giving the church too much power to define who I was, cozily nestled inside the dogma bubble. When it burst, I went flying frantically through the air. But now that I’ve landed and dusted myself off, my eyes are wide with wonder. Just looking around is both frightening and exhilarating. Spiritually speaking, I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Maybe all this is what has prepared me for the disillusionment I feel with the evangelical church today. As the Irish would say, I’m GOBSMACKED that such a majority of evangelicals are supporting Donald Trump in the election. I really don’t get it. 

I hear, “I know he’s awful, but we’re all the same in God’s eyes." "He has said some horrible things, but so has everyone at one time or another." "God can use ANYBODY for good." "Nobody’s perfect." "The other guys have issues too." "Yes, he can be very hurtful, but God forgives us all for our sins." "Sometimes he’s really nice and does very good things." "We need him.” 

It occurs to me… this is what women say when they allow their abusive husbands to return home after beating them black and blue. I think it’s called Battered Wife Syndrome. It’s rooted in feelings of FEAR (planted by the abuser) that their world will fall apart without the powerful abuser to take care of them. 

I’ve been rereading the Psalms of David lately. The words David uses to describe his enemies are words my evangelical friends ascribe to Trump. Words like immoral, proud, mocking, scheming, lying. But they say it’s okay because he gives them what they want.

 

Sadly, what they want is not what I want. Guess that means I’m post evangelical. Not sure if I have a label now. I’m still digesting that bite out of the apple. Apparently that tree was well fertilized because I know a lot of people from all over the Christian world have also been snacking on it.

This is the last post where I’ll mention the election. When you visit me (after our vaccinations), we won’t talk politics. I’ll be showing you my favorite ruins, we’ll be climbing fences and running from excitable cows, then raising a glass or two to good health (Sláinte)... at the music session in the Monks. 

We probably won’t talk religion either (unless you want to and then we will).

 

 

Keeping Busy (Sort of)

 Our Covid cases/deaths had steadily decreased over the last few weeks, and last week the town crier stood boldly on the town square, unfurled his scroll and proclaimed the pubs reopened… with restrictions of course. We were overjoyed because, much as we loved our small music sessions in our kitchen on Wednesday nights, we missed the larger group and the “craic” from the Monks.       

 

We had a wonderful, socially distanced time of reacquaintance and merry-making last Wednesday. It seemed like life as we knew it was really back, and we could finally exhale (into our masks, of course).

 

Then it was announced over the weekend that our numbers were creeping back up, mainly due to the large parties and celebrations of those audacious young people. So now we’re back in partial lockdown for three weeks. Pubs closed again and even our house gathering is now taboo.

The Kim and Dixie Pub

So what have I been doing? A couple of the musicians in our group had made a list of their most frequently played jigs and reels. The list has just over 400 tunes (and those are just the ones they play most often!) I’m hopeless with the reels (because they are played “reel” fast), but I can hold my own on the fiddle with a jig. I know many of them already, but I decided I’d learn a jig a day beginning in September. And so I should have the entire jig list mastered by Christmas.

So far so good. I have a friend who will play a tune slowly for me and send it through WhatsApp. Then I’ve been recording the group playing on Wednesdays and writing the recording number beside the jig set (they’re played in sets of three) on my list.

 

I may have to slow my pace (a jig a day) because, going through the list this quickly, I’m tending to get my A and B parts mixed up. If you aren’t a musician, this would be comparable to learning to sing too many songs over too short a time and ending up with something like, “Oh Susanna, don’t you cry for me, cause I come from home on the range where the deer and the antelope play.” You get the idea.

Toll House cookies

This keeps me busy a portion of each day and I’m happy to have a project, a goal and something
to show when all this is over.

 

When I’m not fiddling, I’ve been reading. I am somewhat hooked on the exposé/revenge in politics genre. (Why do I torture myself?) I’ve read several books and tried to keep an open mind, knowing the motive of the writers was not just to enlighten me but was often something more self-serving and even sinister. 

I know there’s a danger of being brainwashed, and brainwashing is dirty business. You could make a mess of yourself and your friends will have to mop it up when the storm is over. I think sometimes when we try to “keep on the sunny side” by avoiding controversy, we’re just hunkering down into our comfort zones. You can easily lose sight of the bigger picture, which you can sometimes only make out in the shade of opposing opinions.

 

So, along with books, I’ve tried to read commentaries from both sides of the fence online every day, which may be why I have an appt with a dentist next week to examine my teeth that have suddenly gone sensitive and sore. I’m sure I’m grinding and clenching in the night. I hope trying to stay unbrainwashed doesn’t land me a root canal. I can’t win.

Thomas gave me Alexa for my birthday and I discovered she will read aloud to me from my Kindle. Now I’m hooked on the audio book experience. I walk around the house with my AirPods, and Dixie understands that, although I may look like I’m sweeping the floor or chopping up spuds, I’m really rambling through the White House, sizing things up. 

I may look like I’m glued to that European championship football match on the telly but, with carefully concealed AirPods beneath my hair, I’m actually chillaxing in the oval office resting my feet on the Resolute desk. Good thing you can’t catch the Covid through droplets of imagination.

I’m just finishing Rage by Bob Woodward. It’s very different from the other books I’ve read, because it’s all recorded dialogue between Bob and the Donald. Woodward seems to have been Trump’s personal confidant for at least several months. Go figure. There’s not much commentary at all, just the conversations written in a non-sensational narrative style.

 

It’s a great summary of the main events (and some you may not know about) of the last couple of years in American politics. If you’ve forgotten some of the names of the original cast or details of the story, you’ll love this walk down memory lane. Woodward doesn’t belabor any points or get too involved. He just relates what was actually said to him as the drama of Trump’s presidency has unfolded. I couldn’t put it down (or rather Alexa couldn’t put it down).

I highly recommend it to anyone who feels they may have leaned too far over one edge or the other and dipped their brain into the suds. It’s a true portrayal of President Trump in his own words and there’s no distorted context it could have been taken out of. You haven’t heard him deny any of it. It’s just real conversations, like flagstones we can walk across to connect one event to another without getting our feet all muddy. Too bad all journalism can’t be done that way.

Take me back to Donegal

Otherwise, we are watching lots of movies and we marathoned on a couple of series. Try Bloodline and Succession. We took the wonderful trip to Donegal in August and I'm so glad we did. I'm still feeling the tranquilizing effects of the scenery. When Alexa isn't talking she's showing off the photos.  

 I’ve done some baking but I’m not a natural. We take walks. I video chat with the grands most days and try to be content to be the Grammy App. It goes without saying, I can’t wait to see them again. They are both about to start walking… right into trouble I’m sure. They are lively, funny, happy and very spoiled, as they should be. 

Fan Slán... Y’all stay safe.

Some Thoughts on America

So... it looks like things back home are pretty chaotic. I have friends from both sides of the political fence and they all agree on that. I've been wondering what I could say here that might be meaningful to someone out there. Basically, everything that could be said is being said over and over, but it appears that saying is much easier than listening.

I can’t buy into the popular assertion that whichever party you are not associated with is evil and anti-American and going to ruin the world if given (or left in) power. Democrats and Republicans have successfully co-existed for a long time. What each brings to the table is valid and “American”. Whatever happened to respect?

Democrats prioritize equality and social justice, while Republicans try to protect our individual freedoms. Ying and Yang. It’s a delicate balance. To stay upright, we need each other. Remember that Star Trek episode when Captain Kirk encountered his alternate self in a parallel universe and found that both extremes of his psyche made him whole??? Never mind.

I have a unique vantage point from here in Ireland. Not only do I read and hear news from the American outlets, but I am exposed to the views and opinions of the non-Americans (poor devils). We baffle them.

Here in Ireland, the “common good” is the ultimate good, like in the early Christian church. They are a capitalist society but have higher taxes and spend more on social programs than we do. They understand that social programs do not equal socialist ideology. They are not afraid they’ll wake up one morning in Venezuela just because they can’t carry assault weapons to the grocery store.

In fact, fear tactics and intimidation are not really the way of work here. “Just the facts, Ma’am.” The Irish seem to know how to breathe deeply, hold their noses and sit down together at the table. They have their share of hotheads alright, as well as corruption, but they interact and solve problems as adults (if you’ve ever taught middle school you’ll get the distinction). It’s a gentler society than America.

Ireland ranks ahead of us in the 2019 World Happiness Report. And in another recent survey, 86% said they were “happy with their lives today.” The countries we would describe as “socialist” (such as Finland, Denmark, Norway) rank among the first, year after year, in the WHR. We should look into that. It’s interesting to me that one of the criteria examined is “Freedom to make life choices”. Think about it.

So I’m reading that America has 4% of the world’s population but 25% of the Corona cases. I hear otherwise good people say they refuse to wear a mask just because. What the…?  Someone here said that Americans are so obsessed with their individual rights, they are willing to sacrifice their neighbors. The Irish find that reprehensible. So do I. Get over yourself. Wear a mask.

Looks like I’ll be voting by mail for obvious reasons. Even if I could fly home before November, I may not be allowed to re-enter Ireland (and it has nothing to do with that night I had too much Guinness and…). I am a registered Republican. I didn’t vote for Trump in 2016 because I just had a bad feeling, you know, that someone who brags about grabbing married women by the pussy would probably not share my values. 

But I can say honestly, before God, that when he got elected I kept an open mind and looked for the best. I have friends and family members who believed in Trump and I decided to trust their judgement and give him a chance. I’m still trying to give him a chance but I’m afraid he just keeps disappointing. 

It’s not just his abrasive personality because I know we have had previous presidents who could out-obnoxious him in a heartbeat. But have you read “The Art of the Deal”? The man’s a crook. From the outset, he surrounded himself with thugs and criminals, several of whom are now in jail or facing charges. He has fired or intimidated those who oppose him. How many patriotic voices have to shout in unison before we can hear them? It’s a cloud of witnesses. 

President Trump has turned us against one another. He has tried to discredit one sacred American institution after another: our intelligence community, our judicial system, our science community, our military leaders, our diplomats, our free press. 

All these foundations of American life, he has disparaged. Do they all stand to be improved? Of course. They have always had their fair share of shame and scandal (as has the presidency). But they are America and when we stop believing in them, we stop believing in America. I’m not ready to do that… because the alternative is something other than democracy.

Make America Great Again? I never liked that slogan… because Americans have always believed their best days are yet to come. We are eternal optimists like my Irish ancestors, who courageously endured unimaginable hardships with visions of a better life. We’ve always been humble servants of the world, sometimes to our detriment for sure. But we’ve always known that as good as we are, we can do better. My slogan would be Make America Greater. We still have a long way to go.  

And I’m thinking… even if Trump were the most honest, likable, upstanding man in the country, he still has dropped the ball on leadership. Being a successful businessman (which is questionable with six bankruptcies) does not qualify one to lead the free world.

When calamity struck, I think he just froze and really didn’t know what to do. He really hoped he could wish away that virus and get back in his comfort zone. Then the simmering racial tensions boiled over (as was predicted after “very fine people on both sides” and other unbelievably disturbing comments). 

It’s been said that he just wasn’t up for the job. It’s too complicated for him. He’s one dimensional with a childlike naivete, and that really scares me when I think of his relationships with other world leaders. 

A letter signed this week by 70 (yes, 70!) Republican former national security officials (some from Trump’s own administration) states he “lacks the character and competence to lead the nation and has engaged in corrupt behavior that renders him unfit to serve as President”. Putin and the lot are seasoned politicians and seem emboldened by his arrogance and are playing him like a fiddle.

Fiddle??? I think this post is done and I’m going to treat myself to a jig or two. Wish you were here. We could have a spirited debate about the candidates. There’s so much more to discuss. I’ll stay calm if you will.    ( ;

My Home, the Pub

I’ve spent the past three months trying to decide what to write next. My thoughts and emotions have been whipping in the Irish wind like the bedsheets out on the line. Just when I think I have things figured out, it rains. 

My morning ritual involves hot porridge, chia toast, latte from the Centra around the corner, and reading whatever comes up when I google NEWS USA. Yes, it’s mostly depressing, but it keeps me connected and exercising my complaint muscle. It could easily atrophy here in the comfort of my snug little Irish hideaway.

I stayed up into the wee hours the other night to watch the Trump rally in Tulsa live. Who lures his own faithful, trusting followers into harm's way like that? I can see him gleefully dumping a load of starry eyed Democrats into a contaminated cesspool. But his own people? Shame Shame Shame (not to mention just foolhardy, because every Irish storyteller knows nothing will break a love enchantment like the kiss of a ventilator).

The media had said he was going to explain his vision for the next four years should he get reelected. At 45 minutes in, he had only defended his own honor (as if seeing our president walking slowly down a ramp was our biggest national concern), and trashed everyone he could think of to trash. So I went to bed. I taped the rest so I’ll painfully resume it later. I’m going to need lots of Doritos, dark chocolate digestives (you gotta try ‘em) and red wine. I might even have a Xanax stashed away somewhere. 

Everything in Ireland is about back to normal. Through careful attention to protocols set by the experts (and encouragement and modeling from the elected officials), we have zoomed, ahead of schedule, through the stages of safely reopening. Only a handful of cases left in the country. Business people are delighted! The last thing to open will be the pubs, still a few weeks away.

So in the meantime, Dixie and I have been inviting some core musicians to our home once a week for an “auld session”, as they would say. We're calling them the Cedarwood Sessions since we live in Cedarwood Grove. Not only do I get to hear my favorite music in the comfort of my stocking feet, but the quiet atmosphere and intimacy allows for more storytelling, quiet ballads and just transatlantic bonding. I hope we can continue this new tradition even after the pubs reopen. 

Generally, we have a piper, a banjo, two button accordions, a concertina, a fiddle, a guitar and a bouzouki. The piper also plays penny whistle (not at the same time), but we could use a flute. May have to invite a flute player next week. The blending is sweet, with nothing dominant or overpowering.

Just before the lockdown (literally the week before the lockdown) I went on a mission to find a new, better fiddle. I was told a musician in Waterford had a shop at his home and a good selection. Dixie and I made an appointment and drove the 90 minutes or so to check it out.

Walking in the door was magical. The seller, David, had almost 40 gorgeous, high end vintage violins hanging on the wall. I felt like the Donald at a MEGA rally. I was ecstatic as David placed fiddle after fiddle in my hand to test drive. He insisted I try every one (in every price range...yikes!) We were there for several hours... in heaven (I should write a book like other folks do about going to heaven and returning).

Dixie held a list of all the instruments and recorded my comments and rankings of each one. When we narrowed it down to two, we brought them home as you would bring home new puppies, to see if we would mutually adapt. 


After several days, I reluctantly had to admit that neither would work out. You could say they had too much bark but not enough bite (which for a puppy would actually be a good thing so this analogy has totally fallen apart). I was pretty sure this would be the last fiddle of my life (I know... I know... I've said that before), so it had to be just right.


We drove back to Waterford thinking we'd have to move on, but David shrewdly encouraged me to revisit a few fiddles I'd liked from before. 


How could I have missed it? Here in heaven... there it was... like Jesus! Perfect in every way! THE ONE TRUE FIDDLE!!! I cradled it gently in my arms singing Silent Night. And we drove home with our mission accomplished.


This new perfectly divine fiddle sounds truly majestic in my kitchen, at the Cedarwood Sessions. I suddenly play... better. I'm good with that. 

It was my hope, when we bought this house last summer, that it would be filled to the brim with laughter, music and merrymaking. And now it is. And I feel so incredibly blessed. My heart aches to hug my children and let my grand babies see that the Grammy App on the iPhone is a real person. But that complaint muscle just won’t flex. There is too much fat surrounding it!