a note to my adopted country….

Dear Ireland,

I know we don’t always get along, but I do love you.  Too often I can’t see past your surface humour to the tender heart that upholds and supports it all.  My critical eye looks on talk of drunkenness and excess with judgement, without noting the spirit that so easily laughs and seeks to be merry.   The lack of refinement grates against my finely honed American Capitalist sensibilities, yet its pureness is exactly what I came here seeking.

There was a time when I looked upon your culture, a culture spawned from your rain soaked grasses and low hanging cloud, and longed to sit at her knee to learn a lightness and care my native homeland could not teach.  I saw your people, conscious of and patient with one another, and hoped to be bent, a little, in that form.  How can an island, so simple in its seasons, its customs, and traditions, be the complex, labyrinthine maze you are?

Your dew laden petals have kissed my cheeks and your spring song-birds enlivened my heart.  I have heard the lowing of your cattle on a moon swept field and wept with perfect gladness at the splendour of you.  The quick wit and lively conversation of those human creatures so fortunate as to have been born with your DNA in their blood have made me laugh at, and stand in horror of, my own superficiality.

Éire, your aged Mother whose mountains sucker her young, who is possessed of a thousand names yet can be called by one so perfectly: Ériu.  Here I sit in the bountiful lap of Mór Muman – the greatness of Munster, and the world around me is a perfect softness: a lap so comforting that my heart is grieved by the thought of leaving it.  Yet I feel like a stranger in the land who has not been adopted by the tribe.  I watch from the wild places at the bustle and occupation of so many, yet do not see my place.

The land… I would lay myself down on it and never leave, yet my heart is possessed by another: a fierce sister whose sharp edges and venomous mouth await my demise.  She birthed me, and within my blood swirl her hot talons.  How can I, a mere mortal, hold both the fiery passion of Tejas and the moist creativity of Ériu.  Can a child survive the coupling of this union?

Ireland.  Like so many before me, I am smitten.

Yours, in adoration.

…a simple Texas girl

 

Advertisements