Rolling in the Green, November 7, 2012

So, a little over two weeks ago, as I listened to the safety instructions on an Aer Lingus flight that was getting ready to depart from Dublin, I felt the stinging of uncontrollable tears flood my eyes. I tried, very discreetly, to dab them away with my shirt sleeve, as I stared out the window, hoping that no one would see me.

I felt sad, and a little bit ridiculous. At least a couple of times during our trip, it occurred to Jeph and me that time was slipping away, and that our days in Ireland were growing shorter, and our return to reality was imminent. We knew part of it was just the feeling of disappointment that we would be going back to our busy lives, where time together is too short, and moments of appreciation for what's around us slip through our fingers all too easily. But as I sat in that seat, watching the patches of green slip away behind clouds, I also knew it was because every time I leave, I feel like a large part of me gets left behind with all those shades of green.

Connemara

I try to tell myself that I wouldn't really want to live there. For one, it would be a huge ordeal for us to move and take our dog, and we would never leave her behind. For two, I don't have any kind of game plan for a job or functioning in an Irish reality of fifteen percent unemployment. I also find myself diametrically opposed to the influence the Catholic Church has over women's health issues, and politics in general.

But as many obstacles as there are, they don't negate the affinity I feel for the craggy rocks of the Burren, the nearness of the oceans surrounding me on all sides,  and the connections I feel to every blade of grass, and to every gnarled tree root reaching into the soil. As someone who has spent a lot of my life feeling out of place and disconnected, it's one of, maybe, two places I feel I could truly belong.

When I leave that feeling behind, I imagine it's akin to leaving your child behind. I'm leaving a sliver of joy behind--a piece of my life--and all I have to bring back are trinkets, photos, and the hope that my memories will fill that space until next time.

On this trip, we chose to revisit several places we love, but took opportunities to see new places as well. We traipsed around the Burren and Ailwee Cave, both of which are in the county dearest to my heart, Clare. We walked around the grounds of Ballynahinch Castle, where we stumbled upon wild shamrocks, thistles and a waterfall. We were consumed by the cool dampness of the lushness that can occasionally overwhelm you in near darkness, even in the middle of the day. I helped fulfill Jeph's wish to see the Leviathan Telescope in County Offaly, and we explored the "magic" of Glendalough in County Wicklow. The ancient aura of Newgrange made me want to place my name in the lottery to return for the Winter Solstice, and to have the financial means to be able to hop on a plane at a moment's notice if my name was actually drawn.

I had promised Jeph that on this trip, we wouldn't run and run and run. But as we drove along the country roads of Ireland, I saw signpost after signpost, making it clear to me that it would require an entire lifetime to see everything I would ever wish to see there. And that's what I want. Given infinite time, wealth and freedom, I would jump on a plane, hop in a car, and never stop until I could say that I had seen all that Ireland has to offer.

At this point, it may be worth it to acknowledge that I realize the possibility that if I had the fortune to be there all the time, my appreciation for it might wain. I think that's a valid argument for staying here in the Midwest of the United States. After all, we live a pretty comfortable life, and I am not generally unhappy here.

But when we were in the limey Burren, without any thought, I declared that I wanted to "roll around in it." Jeph teased me, and thought my declaration was hilarious. For one, taking a roll around in the Burren would be anything but comfortable, and I'm pretty sure that anyone witnessing such an act would have thought me insane. That said, I can think of no other way to describe how much I want every surface of Ireland to meet with mine, and to tangibly connect to my every surface. I literally want to be as much a part of it, as I feel it to be a part of me. It's not about the "seeing" of everything there, it's about the "being" with it.

I think it's only natural to be coming to the end of a vacation and feel down about the prospect of returning to work-a-day life. Since returning, I have spent less time with Jeph than I want and need to. I have already begun to feel the strain we all feel with going through the motions of work and day to day life. It was always going to be this way.

While on our trip, a friend commented on one of my Facebook posts, saying that she realized that this trip was more than just a vacation for Jeph and me, it was a trip to someplace we could feel a sense of healing. I agreed with her. The last eighteen months have been rocky ones for us, starting with the tornado that swept through Joplin last year. A lot has happened in that time frame. We've lost our dog Blue. Jeph is still learning to cope with the lack of control he has over his body since his pulmonary embolism this summer. And I still have my sad days of frustration over my own body being out of my hands since my miscarriage. I think there are some wounds and assaults, from which it takes a very long time to recover.

Poulnabrone Dolmen, County Clare

In a dire moment, I asked for what I needed, believing it was what we both needed--something to look forward to, when everything seemed to be going to hell in a hand-basket. As we have returned, I think I understand that the need was for more than just a trip--more than just something to look forward to. I'm not close to my own family, so there are some things I can only speculate about. I imagine for people who do have that closeness, in times of crisis, you seek out your family--your common home--for comfort and for a place that feels like yours. That's the feeling of need that I had.

Right now, as I continue to adjust to coming back and to the day to day things that feel somewhat unimportant to me, I look at nine days as a band-aid. As the days trickled away, the adhesive slowly wore off, and all those wounds still have to heal the rest of the way. Only now, they have to heal away from the tickling waters of Powerscourt Waterfall, and without the brisk winds that whistle through the crevices of the lunar landscape of the Burren. The wild green I can still close my eyes and see is thousands of miles away. But if I could, in my heart's beat, I would jump at the chance to always be rolling around in it.

The Planets Bend Between Us--Snow Patrol

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