Listening

Your prayers on my behalf were answered. The sun did indeed come out after two weeks of that chilling rain. Saturday morning it sprang on us little frozen mousies like a hungry cat, and believe me, we thawed out fast and scurried for cover. It was, to say the least, an abrupt change.

I’m still not over my cold (my virus went viral and is now hiding out in my ears, having just exited both eyes), but I knew I HAD to grab my share of the vitamin D before the natives bagged it all for themselves. I set out on a short walk, just to get refreshed, and returned six hours later. How could that happen? I thought graham crackers were what I missed most from home, but I was wrong. It was hot, sticky sunshine that flutters your lashes and tingles your skin. It was glorious!

I overheard comments as I walked along. Two ladies passed on the street with this quick exchange: “How are ye?” “Roastin”!  According to the weather man, it was 76 degrees. “Too warm,” protested another. People were standing by their doors fanning themselves as if about to swoon. I guess Florida wouldn’t be their first choice retirement destination. To be fair, MOST of the folks here were ELATED with the weather. Linda and her fam spent Sunday at the beach.

I went my usual route by the river but took a fork I've never taken before and followed my ears to a small waterfall next to the path. I eventually caught back up to the main trail and followed the river back to the road. I was keenly aware of the chirping of birds, every gurgle in the water. The breeze that had last week been ferociously slapping my face was now gently stroking it as if to kiss and make up. I gladly accepted its apology.

I think this throwing myself into intense fiddle practice is having fringe benefits. I am more sensitive to sounds. I wrote last week about the traffic noises outside my window that I interpreted as surf lapping the beach below. I’m sensing meaning and interpretation in what I hear around me. Everything has rhythm and tone and tempo and mood. I read on a friend’s blog that a fiddle teacher once told him to “lie out on the grass and just listen, eyes shut, to the sounds: dogs, cats, cattle, tractor, insects, wind, cars in the distance.” Doing so would enhance his ability to recognize tunes and their structure. I get it. 

On my way home, I stopped for a latte (what a surprise!) Two ladies were sitting outside chatting and, because theirs was the only space out of direct sun, I took a chair right by them. I was quickly assimilated into the conversation and noticed one of them had a heavy French accent. They were both B&B keepers, not to be confused with beekeepers of course, but they were nonetheless “abuzz” with talk of the season and how business was progressing. The French woman was concerned that people seemed taken aback by her accent when they made reservations. I guess when you stay in Ireland you expect Irish hospitality, not French. I wonder if she’s thought of faking an Irish brogue. Probably not.

My friend, Kristen, sent me a link to one of the best little video documentaries I’ve seen in a while (https://www.livegodspeed.org/watchgodspeed/). It was about an American pastor who was sent to Scotland to oversee a rural parish there. Basically, he returned home a few years later a changed man because he learned something that apparently they don’t teach in seminary: to listen, to travel God speed instead of culture speed. 

More profound than any sermon he could preach or message he could convey was the heart of Christ he expressed to the community by walking through neighborhoods, introducing himself, and just listening to what people had to say. Tuning in, slowing down, questioning, concentrating, attending to the details……. he could be a great fiddler someday! "God speed" to us all.

The View From My Window

So all my adventures came to a grinding halt at the end of last week (not that I’ve been climbing mountains or anything) when I came down with a bad cold. I’m surprised it waited so long to rear its ugly viral head since it’s been raining and cold here every single day for two weeks. One day I went walking and was bombarded by three separate showers, each with sunny spells in between. I took refuge under a tree, under a store overhang, and (best, of course) in a coffee shop.

Whoever makes these weather forecasts should be put in jail for causing so much suffering and misery among the Floridians among us. The natives just take it in stride and offer to bring me chicken soup or whatever.

Rain on the patio, ghost in the bucket

It’s not all bad, being home bound for a few days. I have found some creative and productive ways to spend my time…starting with cooking. I’m not the greatest fan of Irish recipes, but Irish meat and produce are the best. I don’t know what they do or don’t do to their chickens here, but I think you could dip a nugget in cement and bake it in a kiln and it would still come out tender. So I’ve made chicken and broccoli casserole and also beef stroganoff (with luscious Irish sour cream) and been greatly comforted, to say the least. 

Thank you, Ursy, for serving me this AMAZING array of Irish food.

I have discovered that many Irish people have never tasted a buttermilk biscuit. Can you believe that? Never tasted a biscuit! (The word “biscuit” here means cookie, as in “If you eat your dinner, you can have a biscuit later.”) 

Of course, many Americans have never savored that Irish staple known as the scone. Southern Americans think "scone" is just a word that comes up in conversation as in, “Looks like it’S cone rain agin. I declare, beats all!”

So I’ve been making batches and letting the natives try real biscuits. The white flour here is as light as White Lily, but I haven’t found any crisco so I’m using Irish butter instead. I actually think I’ll stick with the butter from now on. And if you add a little sugar and maybe a few berries, and cut it into a triangle shape, guess what you get? Yep, a scone! Who knew?

Biscuits like Mama used to make

Paul, accordion player extraordinaire, taught me three new jigs and two new reels yesterday afternoon, so I have lots of practicing to do today. I’ve also used this indoor time to catch up on my reading. I reread Love Wins by Rob Bell, a controversial book that renews my faith each time I pick it up and assures me that God is not horrified by my questions and doubts (or my honest expressing of them), but His patience is immense and His great love for us something like “from everlasting to everlasting” which sounds like a long time. If you read this short book, I’d like to discuss it with you. Send me an email.

I bowed out of a good trad session last night due to still feeling a little puny. I snuggled under the covers with Book 10 in the Poldark series and (spoiler alert!) sighed in disgruntlement as it looks like Clowance is getting back together with that “cad”, as my mother would say. Great period romance by Graham Winston (or is it Winston Graham? I always get that confused) set in 19th century Cornwall, with beautiful descriptions of the coast (and tin mining, for those of you who have that hobby).

My room here on the second floor overlooks the street below and I have imagined the sound of cars whizzing past is actually the ocean surf pounding the beach of my Gothic hideaway. I wonder if passersby see me staring out at them from time to time and imagine I’m someone’s mad wife chained in the attic. (Did I mention I also watched a Jane Eyre DVD this weekend?)

I’m feeling better today, will be in again tonight and, hopefully, ready for the weekly craic at the Monk’s pub tomorrow night. Pray for sunshine in Ireland once again. 

Btw, I taped the street sounds from my bedroom. Listen here. Don’t you hear the surf? Of course you do!

Starts and Stops

I have two fiddle practice cd’s at home produced by a distinguished Irish fiddler named Matt Cranitch. I don’t remember where I got them. I think some sympathetic friend or impatient session-mate gave them to me. I listen to them often, tunes played cleanly and deliberately, to internalize the rhythms and improve my technique.

I was just gobsmacked (been waiting a month to use that word) to discover that Matt, along with accordion player, Jackie Daly, was holding a workshop nearby for aspiring trad players. Sign me up!

Me and Matt

It was a great day with about a dozen musicians (some of them children) gathered in a cozy room of the pub where I play and sing on Friday nights. I sat right in Matt’s face but he seemed okay with that. Matt and Jackie like to play in the Sliabh Luachra tradition which I find exceptionally melodic with an emphasis on polkas and slides. It’s all about timing. 

When the workshop was over I realized, not for the first time, that I may be missing something when it comes to developing a distinctive style. I had a little chat with old Matt and he recommended his own fiddle course which is condensed in a book and cd package. He just happened to have a set in his car and sold it to me on the spot (signed, of course).

So as I walk along the River Suir today, I think about how unSuir I am of so many things. Life seems to be a series of starts and stops. I start learning a bowing pattern, then stop and reconsider because I still sound so choppy. I’m doing something wrong but I can’t figure it out.  And more serious things like, I begin a relationship but then, for various reasons, it stops and I’m once again sitting down at the debriefing conference table in my brain, having a heart to heart with…well, my heart. Explaining to it one more time that all is in order and we’re good to go. It sneers at me slightly before limping out the door.

Thistle be a great day!

Starts and stops. I have been informed of SIX deaths in the past week. Three were elderly but still seemed untimely. The other three were down right tragic and left me sneering at God and asking if I will EVER understand what He’s thinking in putting us through this. 

There was a time when I knew Him like a book (literally), when He was as logical and predictable as this lazy river. Then the waterfall…. and I almost got washed away. Don’t worry, I’m drying out nicely. But I have friends who are treading water at the moment and I just pray they can stay afloat a little while longer. Where the hell are the life rafts???

I admit it. I'm obsessed with swans.

Weekly session at the Monk's pub

I should mention there were also two births this month and two more due this summer. Starts and stops. Everything changes, is renewed, faith gets a second chance. When grace is illuminated it somehow radiates hope where there should be none, and the warmth of it is comforting.

I googled help for my schizophrenic bowing dilemma. I bounced around until I found a good chat board on a trad website that seemed relevant. A couple of guys were talking my language and as I read down the page, saw that the more accomplished musician was making a strong recommendation……The Art of Traditional Fiddling and CD by Matt Cranitch. Really? I’m ready to roll.

Out Of The Bog

When I arrived in Ireland on May 2, I assumed I’d be safe. But I was immediately ambushed at the airport by an overpowering chill that kept me in bondage for days. I literally could not get warm. I slept in leggings and two shirts UNDER my pajamas…AND did I mention two pairs of socks and the wooly scarf…AND a blanket over my duvet? It would have been embarrassing if anyone had known. Now it just seems funny. I have acclimated well and am running around naked like the natives. 

Slices are cut from the bog bank

Ireland has never been famous for its sunshine and Pina coladas. And for centuries her people have depended on the bog to keep them warm. 

The stacked peat takes weeks to dry

Online sources say the bog covers about 16% of the island and is thousands of years old. When the ice (from the ice age) began melting, the combination of poor drainage and dead plant debris created conditions that resulted in the formation of peat. It goes to depths of about 2-12 meters in most places. Last year I visited the céide fields in County Mayo where extensive ancient walls have been discovered deep underfoot….a village swallowed up by the bog over time. 

We still have a ways to go

This copious peat has been like manna from heaven to the Irish…. a life-sustaining provision that many still depend upon. Most homes I visit on cold days are burning peat briquets in a wood stove and I will forever associate that distinct, earthy aroma with Ireland.

Sooooo….you can imagine how thrilled I was when Margaret asked me if I’d like to go with her to “foot the turf” one day. It’s a practice that has been passed down through the generations and, though changed a little thanks to big machinery, still in some ways remains the same. 

Bog cotton is common

First, the turf has to be removed from the bog. The older generation here can tell you stories of using sleáns (two-sided blades) to slice and dice it up by hand then toss the chunks to a helper with a waiting wagon. Today a tractor-like thing does that, thank goodness. The load is then dumped on dry ground, cut into strips and, after it dries a few days, it’s footed or stacked into small piles so it can dry out completely. You can see what I mean in the photos. Then it’s delivered to homes and kept like firewood.

 

It was worth the work. Thanks, John.

Everyone here either still foots turf every year or they have fond memories of it from childhood. Linda told me her granny always said, “The tea never tastes so good as it does in the bog”. I expect that’s because the tea was a welcome interruption to the backbreaking work of bending and stacking. Linda still has the aluminum milk can her granny carried with her. Paddy Doherty (age 90) says the first order of business was to place the can in a hole in the bog so the milk would stay cool and fresh all day for the tea. And his wife quickly added, “Oh, the tea is so good in the bog. Just lovely!”

And would you believe? When Margaret and I had been footing for a couple of hours, John (who owns this piece of bog land) calls us into his bog kitchen (yep, it’s just a kitchen right there by the bog) and serves us tea (and pie!). And I can attest, it never tasted so good as it did in the bog. 

Back To Church

The countryside around Thurles is stunning

A few days ago I accomplished something on my Irish bucket list. I attended the Sunday morning service at the Thurles Baptist Church. Yep, Thurles has a baptist church. Who knew? Actually, I did. I found it online last year and even accidentally drove past it (it’s “out in the country”) when I was exploring one day. But I was preoccupied with standing stones and wedge tombs, and figured relics of the baptist movement would have to wait until I ran up the timeline a few thousand years. 

So in early April, I sent an email to the pastor and introduced myself, explaining I’d be in Thurles all summer and hoped to attend church. I got a really hospitable, informative reply from his wife, offering me a lift if I should need one. So Sunday was the day. She collected me personally and was just as warm and friendly as I had expected (and hoped).

There are over 6 million cows in Ireland. Thank you, Siri.

She explained that the reason the church is somewhat out of town and in the middle of the fields had nothing to do with “pastoral” care (my bad, not her’s). It’s said that, when the church was founded about 30 years ago, the Catholic Church did not rejoice but rather, the priest warned his parishioners not to sell land to the evangelicals.

Who’s going to disobey the priest? He might be the one who later hears your confession, right? I wonder if the priests were legally and ethically bound to report the sin of “colluding with evangelicals” to the local authorities. But maybe the church WAS the local authority back then. I don’t know these things. Nevertheless, I was told the only plot of land they could muster was the spot where they are, so that’s where they are. It’s a little in the middle of nowhere.

I never grow weary of stone bridges

I was so hoping it wasn’t going to be a fire and brimstone experience. Vesuvius is farther east, right? You never know with baptists. They’re as multi flavored as Haagen-Dazs. But I can say honestly, it was the most sincere, unpretentious, reverent evangelical service I’ve been to in a while. And I felt most welcome. I’m going back next week.

I’ve gotten away from “religion” in the last few years, which includes commitment to a church. I prefer to have my worship served with caroling birds and persevering streams as opposed to chatty well-wishers who spoon feed each other platitudes then wash them down with “America First”. Oops! Am I getting political??? Somebody slap me.

The larch tree is used for boat making 

You...shall...not...pass!

Thursday night I went walking with the Mid Tipp Hillwalkers (who by God’s grace did NOT go up any hills on Thursday). I felt the same hospitality from this secular group as I felt at church. We left at 7 which is early considering it’s still light outside at 10. We hiked along a river (a tributary of either the Shannon, the Suir or the Nore because they’re the Big 3 in Tipperary), past blazing fields of barley, through forests replete with exotic (to me) flora which one of our party continuously pointed out and identified. The Devil’s Bit was always on the horizon and the sky was apuff with mesmerizing pinks, blues and grays.

The O'Fogarty clan church in Inch closed its doors around 1700. 

This event was especially intriguing to me because the group not only walks together but they converse in Irish as they walk. I picked up a few words and they were kind enough to do some translating. I wonder how you say, “Who invited the klutzy American?” in Irish. Hmmm

Of course no outdoor excursion in Ireland is complete without a detour through a lichen splattered cemetery  and the reading of stones and the lamenting of crumbly, forgotten church walls. The Inch Old Graveyard was our memorial de jour and provided a peaceful rest stop although I don’t think any of us really needed one.

We completed our loop by nine or so and had tea and biscuits (cookies) at a pub/restaurant called The Ragg, which was our starting point. And because no indoor excursion in Ireland is complete without music, we had no sooner started sipping when out of nowhere appeared a penny whistle and a fiddle and two reenergized hikers who knew how to wield them. All I could think of was How Great Thou Art (which doesn’t work as a jig or a reel but nevertheless…).

I’m finding so many venues and ways to worship these days. But I have to admit, I miss church. Just the traditional stand and sing, bow in prayer, listen to the sermon, shake a hand kind of togetherness. Doctrine has zigged and zagged its way through the ages and unfortunately left grooves of self-righteous pride, division and animosity. And the controversies never end.

Music in The Ragg

Nature doesn’t demand a creed. Music doesn’t require all the answers. Just faith. But I’m still going back to church next week because I want to.

Some Thoughts on Goodness and Mercy

I was sitting on my bed with the guitar, trying to make “You Can Close Your Eyes” sound like James Taylor plays it on youtube. I was failing miserably. Such a simple little song with some quirky, aggravating licks. I glanced at the time on my phone and dropped everything immediately (except the borrowed guitar, of course, which I most carefully laid back in its borrowed case). I was due at the Garda (police) station in 15 minutes. No, I am not in trouble already. I had an appointment to get my passport stamped so I can stay in Ireland all summer.  I was so hoping there would be no red tape, no immigration controversy, no expelling me at once on the grounds I might be a closet banjo player on the verge of coming out.

I am happy to report that all went as smoothly as butter on a scone. I was walking home elated, a combination of relief, anticipation, and gratitude. I hadn’t actually taken the walk by the River Suir yet, so I decided this would be a good time to explore. It was a gorgeous, sunny warm day and I didn’t want to waste a minute more indoors, even if James Taylor was waiting impatiently back in my room.

It’s a gentle, peaceful path that snuggles up to the water just edging town. Only a few other people are there in the middle of the day. Progressing away from town, the traffic noises fade like that last chord James lands before the applause. So sweet!

“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.” My theme for the summer and one of the most confusing, misunderstood, provocative concepts in scripture (to me anyway).  I wonder what God means when he talks about goodness and mercy. I would like to sing you his intentions with the flair and confidence of James on the computer screen, but I’m sensing dissonance and distortions from what I see and hear around me. I can say with certainty that God has been good and merciful to ME, but I see others hanging by a thread. Just turn on the news…..or have a long conversation with your neighbor.

Today I went with two friends to Kilkenny for the afternoon. We wanted to visit Black Abbey, a 13th century Dominican church with the most elaborate and colorful stained glass windows anywhere. It just so happened (but it seems to happen all the time with me in Ireland) that we arrived in the middle of something. It was The Novena To Our Lady Of Fatima, a devotional commemoration of the Virgin Mary’s appearance in Portugal 100 years ago.

As we walked in we found ourselves in a line of people in the aisle. I assumed they were looking for seats and we followed them forward. Before I knew it, I was face to face with a priest anointing my forehead and palms with oil for healing. I tried to look as Catholic as possible and wondered if he knew the ugly truth... or if it mattered.

The touch of his fingers immediately transformed me from casual tourist to humbled worshipper. We made our way to a nearby pew and knelt in prayer as the strains of a Celtic chamber orchestra and choir swirled like faerie dust around and through the rituals. I felt blessed, not only by the hand of the priest, but by the faces and voices of all those gathered to worship the Lord.

There are many elements of Catholic theology and practice that trouble me.   But I was surprised how easy it was to put the differences aside as we all rose to our feet to sing How Great Thou Art at the end of the service. I felt peace, comfort and encouragement… the signs of healing.

Yes, I have a definite sense of the goodness and mercy of God in my life, as he continues to guide me and teach me about himself.  There are many questions that still throb in my head, but today I can say that at least my heart got it. Maybe I need to pay more attention to James Taylor, by now snoozing on youtube, awaiting my return.  “So close your eyes……you can close your eyes, it’s alright.”

The First Week

I had said I wouldn’t blog this summer in Ireland, just journal my days away in private and save the publishing for another time when I could put it all together and develop more purpose or theme. But alas, I’ve been here less than a week and I have so much to share with you, my friends and family. You, who walk alongside me, catching me when I clumsily trip over my own thoughts and emotions and nudging me forward when I get too lazy to have any. If you missed last summer’s musings, you can find them at dearestireland.blogspot.com. I think there were thirteen postings, written as letters to Ireland, that expressed my impressions and feelings of what I experienced as I took a risky, but exciting side road on my spiritual journey and discovered that sometimes the scenic route is the best.

A river runs through it

So, if you’re an interested party, you can follow me here at Suirly Goodness about once a week. The title isn’t a typo, but a reference to the River Suir (pronounced “sure”) which runs through town and which I intend to walk along for daily exercise of both heart and “heart”. If you haven’t been to church lately, you may have forgotten the 23rd Psalm which concludes with, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life…” King David believed that and so do I.

The night before I left home I had a crisis of faith. Not faith in God, but faith in myself to be an independent traveler, in a foreign country where there are so many unknowns. If you read my other blogs in the past, you know this sounds familiar. But things like health coverage, transportation (I’m still an adamant “NO” to driving here), housing, etc. all gave me a touch of traveler’s remorse, even before I left home. I wondered if I changed my mind at the last minute at the United Airlines gate, would they drag me on board anyway, kicking and screaming, because I’d bought a ticket and reserved my seat. 

Blanket of bluebells

I’m happy to report that the affirmation I felt when I first made my plans was not misleading. All is better than good….amazing really (Okay, I’ve used the worn out word “amazing”, so it’s taboo for the rest of the blog). I’d not met Linda and her young daughter, my hosts for the summer. My mother, of course, had to remind me that I really didn’t know anything about Linda and she could be a drug addict or a thug or something worse. And what in the world would I do without a car, just sit around all day? Gotta love a protective Momma.

A wild orchid asserts itself

Variety of wildflowers

Linda and Sarah are amazing! (Oh No! I didn’t just do that!) We seem extremely compatible to be perfect strangers. I did know Linda’s mother, Margaret, though, so it’s not surprising Linda is a non-thug. And what’s with Irish children all (and I literally mean ALL that I have met) being as adorable as kittens and refreshingly unbrat-like. Having taught school for 34 years, I think we could learn something here.

Ireland’s summer magic has already begun to take hold and cast its disarming spell on me once again. On Friday, I went hiking through, as my friend Joe described it from the photos, “a beautiful, diaphanous sylvan glade” (I should get Joe to write my blog). If I’d had any doubts about why I came back to Ireland, they faded like the sunlight as we made our way down the banks of sparkling bluebells to the calming streams and misty waterfalls below. Unfortunately, I’ve taken too few opportunities to stay in cardio shape this year. Walking back UP, I stopped every few steps to comment on the beautiful, diaphanous aura of the place and feign meditation. I was really trying to catch my breath without appearing old and out of shape (It’s the truth, Margaret). We’d like to go back, but they say the bluebells, like the tender maidens in the best Irish ballads, only bloom for a short season. Maybe next year.

Coziest spot in the pub

You KNOW I’ve been fiddling. The pub was just as I remembered. My favorite spot to sit was waiting for me and I relished every minute. Not just playing, but seeing my old friends and meeting some new. There are two trad sessions each week in separate pubs, both a short walk from where I’m staying. And a third just a few miles away. Someone is loaning me a guitar for the summer so I should be all set. It’s in God’s hands. It always was. Wish me well and come along for the ride. Even though Ireland is a small country, there's plenty of room for us all.