Sojourn into Exile

So we left Dublin behind, on the tips of the waves, and we journeyed towards a new foreign land. I am quiet as I sat there remembering what a friend told me about our landing spot – Hollyhead. According to him it was the last place the British Druids made their final stand before falling to the Romans. Three times the Romans tried to take it and three times they were thwarted. Many years ago I had written a poem called “The Battle of Na Morna” where I describe such a stand; I shall have to fish it out when I return to the states.

Then I began thinking about the famine ships, the ones which brought so many Irish to America during those hard times and I wonder what they would have done to have the accommodations we had experienced. What it must have been like to stand for hours at a time with no place to relieve themselves, or to get something to eat. Just an hour earlier, on this vessel, we had a big breakfast and I wondered how long some of the Irish endured empty stomachs on their dark journey.

In a weird sort of way I feel as if I am going to another place that will feel like home, given the history, and how I will experience the run of emotions there. Although we are only there for a very brief time, I am excited. I cannot express the excitement of this part of the journey, going to a place I have yet to visit, and seeing the new sites and places. It feels very much like the first time we went to Ireland.

As I gazed across the vast stretch of the Irish Sea I saw no land. It is incredible when one looks at a map and thinks how small a distance it is, and yet the reality is the exact opposite. The waves were low and it caused me to ponder how different it must have been to sail before modern times. I remember studying how the Irish used these skin covered boats, currachs, and would cross more in the north where the distance between the isles was only a mere 12 miles. It must have been a dubious task to navigate across such an expanse.

Upon landing in Hollyhead we boarded the train right away. As quick as we landed we were whisked away from Wales and heading towards Edinburgh. Three stops and we would be at our destination. But before we made it I had a run-in with a very drunk Brit who had been listening to a conversation I was having with a bloke who was Scottish.

He and I were discussing how smokers had been pushed out of the pubs, along with restaurants, and yet they extorted a huge tax from us for their greedy endeavors. The Brit decided he would chim in and yell at me, moving towards me and into my face and shout, “Damn Americans think they can push their way into every place in the world. You Americans don’t rule the world and can’t push into England!” I was taken aback and tried to reassure the man that it was not what I was saying and that a misunderstanding had taken place. At this point the Scottish bloke moved away and looked at the ground, disengaging completely even though he knew that was not what I had said. I ended the confrontation by simply walking away as the Brit yelled at me, “Welcome to England!”

It stole my mood, took my energy and left me wondering not just about the hidden fury the Brits may have, but as to why the Scottish bloke did not even stand up for someone who had not said any of that. I was very quiet the rest of the journey to Edinburgh and I began to watch every little word I spoke. Then I remembered I was no longer in the land I call my second home and that hospitality held no place where we now were.

It made me ponder what other Irish experienced along their Green Martyrdom, or exile, and what sorts of conflict may have arisen for them as a result. Then we checked into our hotel and were greeted by one of the most cheerful people we had yet to meet, Charlene, and she helped to ease my already nerve by offering us complimentary drinks. Then she went out of her way to make sure we could get around Edinburgh and were able to see some of the sites it had to offer. My day had started out horrible but ended on a great note.

But I still ponder the very question of why.

Time of Exile

I awoke this morning with a deep sense of sadness. My heart wanting to stay in this small perfect world and my soul wanting more of what we have experienced here thus far; it was quite the experience. It isn’t everyday you come across people who resonate on the same level with you, or that accept you for who you really are, we found that here with the great people we have met at the Slane Farm Hostel. Not only did we do our pilgrimage to the Hill of Slane, but to Newgrange, the Hill of Tara, and now we are headed off across the sea.

We are now going into exile, a Green Martyrdom if you will, where we will now journey to the Isle of Iona in hopes to follow St. Columba’s steps. What we hope to find there is both personal and public; personal for spiritual reasons and public for the beauty and wonders of what this tiny island holds. Having just walked two of St. Patrick’s paths we are now ready to begin the journey. I feel energized and ready.

On our last night we spent it singing and dancing with friends we met in Slane. Their voices rose as the drums beat and the tambourines jingled. It was so fantastic to share with these people some of the songs we learned from the previous year, when we studied Ireland, and to participate in their songs. The highlight was when the owners of the hostel came in and spotted me with their bodhran and playing it with a wooden spoon. They laughed and noted how they had never seen it and remarked how well I could play – even without the proper tipper.

As the sun set and the music faded out, I lay in bed thinking of the past week. The healing, the conversations, and the photographs I had taken. So many memories but it was time to start thinking of what lay ahead.

Scotland. It will be our first trip there and we probably could have avoided the whole thing but then it would not be what it needed to be. A pilgrimage. I cannot express the fear of the unknown and yet the deep excitement it stirs up in me.

As we began to stir this morning we sat in silence as we ate our breakfast and both of us held tears in our eyes. These wonderful people, who for a moment in time had become our family on so many levels, would soon go about their lives, just as we would our own. But they will not be forgotten. They will not remain a memory for now we have to figure out how to get back to see them.

A few days ago we toggled our journey around in order to be able to spend one of our final days near so that we would get at least one more night of craic with them. It was deliberate and we are happy to do so as we will also hit a few other sites of the area we did not get this time around.

I took many photographs. So many I had to recharge my camera batteries a few times. I even sold a bunch to the hostel we were at and updated their website. Funny how things we used to do serve us so many different times throughout our lives. It is beginning to make sense why trades and apprenticeships were so important in the days of old.

Exile. What does that mean? Does it mean a physical separation from the world around you, or could it be one of a mental nature? Perhaps, to me, it could be both. When I was younger I once threw myself into exile. Separating myself from my family, friends, and the world around me. It was such a dark time that only now I am beginning to see just how much it had changed me. But I can say I am glad I am no longer that way.

It is funny how much something affects you when you walk the old paths that so many others had passed along. Druids, Christians, and peasant alike. When one sees the ruins one can only wonder at how we ever got by in America without them. They seem to beckon me with lessons of the past of how badly humans can treat each other, and how great they could also be. A deep historical tie of the modern world to the ancient one.

Am I any different today than I was a week, month, or year ago?

Very much so.

Quiet Conversations

Today I awoke to a cold cloudy morning, the wind knocking at our windows and the pull of something spiritual tugging at my soul; I needed to head back to the Hill of Slane. I had originally planned on taking more pictures of working people in Ireland but overslept by 2 hours and missed my opportunity at the dairy farm, so instead of taking the day off I went in search of my new friend Oak to see if he would give me a lift to the hill. He agreed and within an hour we were off.

I shut the door and waved goodbye as I looked up the path towards those ancient ruins. The wind welcomed me and the ruins seemed inviting. Very few people were there so it was a great opportunity to take pictures of a place that has resonated within me since Saturday, so I took out my Nikon and I prepared my memory cards for the slew of pictures I would take. It is interesting when you give in to the voices of the “place” and let them guide you on your mission. They did not do me wrong.

I only spent an hour there but that was long enough to rip off over four hundred shots. I was on a roll and even did some silhouettes, manual focus (which has eluded me since my vision was so bad!) and walked away with some very incredible shots. But as I was taking them I took a moment and sat on the field and silently prayed. Now I am not religious, at least not in the church going sense, but today I felt it was time to commune with Universe.

Vulnerability is not my best suit, hasn’t been since I was younger and had to be tough against the bullies, but as I communed the tears flowed and a sense of release came from it. This is what I so badly wanted my first trip – a moment of magic and healing. But it was not a trip for that the first time around; it was a trip of learning to go beyond my comfort zone in order to prep me for this one. It worked.

After my release I went back to shooting, feeling the arm of whatever guidance there was instructing me to go here or there. I was moving, sitting, and leaning to get all kinds of angles. My hands became the camera, my eyes the lens, and my soul was the instrument by which I would listen. All the while I had a quiet conversation with the saint who had at one time claimed this land. What it must have been like to see the fire early from the Hill of Tara.

What would the druids have thought? Other than giving King Laoghaire a strong warning, what else were they thinking? I wondered if they were afraid and if they knew (of course they did!) that their time was at an end. Perhaps they even knew it long before then, since their brothers and sisters on the continent had already fallen, and they were grasping straws to keep the waves of change at bay. No one can be sure as history is left to interpretation.

I thanked the Universe, thanked the land Ireland, and began my long walk back to the hostel in order to process both the pictures and thoughts. How does one process what they experience but cannot really explain? I feel transformed somehow and yet the same – a very liminal feeling. Yet I cannot help but feel that this will forever be another of those life changing events, like our last trip, and am very much looking forward to the next few weeks we spend in Scotland and the Isle of Iona. I have already made new friends, seen so much, and now I want to see more and experience that as well.

As I walked home I passed by a Catholic church and felt compelled, yes compelled, to step in and give a silent thanks to God. The beautiful stained glass windows and ornate altar reminded me of those years so long ago when I did go to church. With it came the hurt I had felt for having been made to feel guilty over the fact that no matter how much I believed Jesus would not heal my hands. It was then, as I closed my eyes and whispered an apology to God for the insanity of humans, that I heard a voice say, “How can I heal something that does not need healing, but just needs love?”

What does one do with that? I breathed deeply and let the tears flow. I had found my inner peace at last and with that I walked back standing straight and taller than before. My soul is recharged and my mind is full of possibilities. I truly cannot wait to see what we experience next…

The Walk of Faith

This morning as I awoke I had the desire to visit the Friary and College on the Hill of Slane. Admittedly I thought it would be one more site I would have to pay to enter and have some sort of restricted access to certain areas – I was wrong. The stairway to the top of the west tower was the only part of the set of ruins we could not enter but the entire site was free and complete access was available.

I underestimated the impact it would have on me.

The fantastic part of this walk was it was through back roads, cow pastures and even a corn maze. Once we cleared those we were left with a path that resembled an old cobbled road. It was also the point at which the air changed and a sort of ethereal feeling came over us. It was a feeling I once had when I was much younger and deeper into a faith I have not practiced so intensely for years. Even now as I write this I am getting goose bumps.

We stood on this darkened path and gauged the senses we both were having, when suddenly some sort of bird stirred in the bushes and scared me. I truly felt like we were being watched, not by a physical presence but a spiritual one, and we began the last leg of the journey towards our destination. Once we arrived at the final gate, jumped it, and walked up a small hill we were greeted by a set of ruins one only sees in movies in America. How do you even begin to explain to others how something so old and sacred impacted you?

Jill went to the tower as I stepped into the college. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt a long distant memory creep up in my mind. I felt connected to this place. I walked slowly through the ruins trying to picture the wooden beams that would stretch across and construct the floors upon which the priests, lay-brothers and choristers would live, work and play. How it must have been back in those times of 1512.

According to oral traditions the place was built sometime near 670 A.D. where in 674 Dagobert II, King of Austrasia in Gaul, was supposedly educated within its walls. Along with the oral tales, one medieval source also notes Ochré as having a rath in that location. A rath is a circular enclosure surrounded by an earthen wall: used as a dwelling and stronghold in former times. One other interesting characteristic is a coat of arms of both England and France within the monastery walls, which still can be seen, which causes some to wonder if perhaps it was Richard, Duke of York, who planted them there.

Whatever the oral stories hold, St. Patrick lit a fire during Easter in 433 A.D. on the hill, breaking Druidic Law forbidding any fire being lit while the festive fire was still burning in Tara. The druids warned King Laoghaire that if the fire were not put out that Ireland would be conquered. Later the Flemings would reconstruct the old tower, in 1512, only to lose it to the Reformation some 30 years later. Attempts were made to re-establish it but all ended in vain. It almost seems the druids were right.

As I stood in those very ruins I could feel the weight of the stones. I explored every inch of the place I could; walking up old stairs, ducking into tight dark places and sitting in the old area that possibly was the kitchen. In the walls that survived you could see the spots where wooden beams would rest in order to make the upper level, along with various alcoves for fires or reflection. It began to rain so I stepped into one of those alcoves and looked across the valley through a slit that served as a window.

After the rain stopped we decided it was time to head back to our hostel. We cried, we laughed and we were in awe at how something so old survived. Even though it was not a dolmen, nor Tara, nor Newgrange it was a place of sacredness. It reminded me of when I asked my friends about what they thought was sacred, or what that meant.

It would have been very sacred given the history and traditions associated with those times. It is sacred to me as I reflect and think of how different times were during St. Patrick’s time. I have read in some books where he was a druid, captured and turned Catholic priest; yet others say he was captured during some sort of raid and taken away, only to return later in his known form. Whatever the case, was he certainly knew of druidic rites and used it against them to make his case and in the end he won. From then on Catholicism would be the order of the day in Ireland until the Reformation but that is another blog.

I did not take my camera on this venture nor did I want too but given the situation I will be going back to take photographs of a place which resonates with me deeply. In a sense, I too left Ireland only to come back a different person with a deeper appreciation for this wonderful land.

Quiet Moments of Reflection

We have been in Slane now for a few days and I have already taken over 200 photos. I cannot express how deeply impacted I have become. In order to get here we would have to take a bus from Dublin, hitting a few towns along the way, but we had an angel looking out for us and were introduced to Bernard. This gentleman offered us a lift from Dublin to Trim, yes that town that part of Braveheart was filmed at, and made sure we were on our correct path towards Slane. It is moments like that I sought to have on our last trip.

As he drove and related his knowledge to us I sat wondering how it was that we were so fortunate to have an opportunity once again to mingle among the Irish people. After he dropped us off, at the right bus stop, we sat looking at the ruins of Trim Castle. I snapped off a few dozen pictures and sat in awe at the ruins mixed among the modern structures. I can only imagine what it would have been like growing up with these relics in view every day.

I sit here, sipping my coffee, yes I drink coffee even in Ireland, looking out my window at the tree of fire and am greeted every morning since we have been here by a council of crows. That dark bird of omens and prophecy cawing down at me and reminding me of Cú Chulainn and his journey. The Morrigu, the goddess associated with death and transformation, who followed him along his journey from Muirthemne Plain to Emain Macha where he would later join up with the Red Branch after displaying several feats uncharacteristic of a young man. Though I am not born from a god and mortal, I feel my own transformation has been going on since I began this journey.

I have changed from my first trip to Ireland, having been to a place I have only dreamt of, and I am changing once again. My emotions are free of any social dogma and I am finding my words easier to speak. It is a testament as to how the human spirit can soar to great heights and drown in some of the deepest sorrow. A journey I have been making for several years now. I am fortunate to have a partner in life who understands what I am going through, feels and shares similar experiences with me.

I close this with but a single thought – What do I get to experience next? What indeed.

Amsterdam and Images of the Past

It was exciting to be going back to Ireland, but when we found tickets with a lay-over in Amsterdam we were ecstatic! As we landed at the airport and boarded the train to the Amsterdam Central Station it all sank in. Not just the trip but the fact that we would be walking through the house of Anne Frank. I was not prepared.

The movies cannot portray the living space adequately. Nor can the human imagination hold at any length what it was like having to hide there, up a set of small stairs, and behind a bookcase. I walked through the small house reaching out to touch the walls and objects. I read the wall writings, gazed through the windows and shed my own set of tears. How can you not when you see what prejudices push people to do?

I am numb. Numb from the thought of human history ever possessing the ability to be so cruel and soulless. When I looked around at others I saw similar frowns and expressions of sorrow. I actually am having a hard time processing the wide array of feelings suffice it to say it has altered my sight a bit.

We walked around the streets of Amsterdam for about an hour after that, spoke with a very friendly lady who shared her opinion on architecture and people tossing cigarette butts on the sidewalk, and finally made our way back to the train station. We sat on the train, riding back to the airport, occasionally discussing Anne Frank but mainly in silence watching the various buildings go by. Their ever-changing shapes reach up into the sky like fingers stretching from a group of hands, hands reaching for a fence or maybe, or for a thread of hope.

The Calm Before the Storm

It is the evening before we begin our journey back to Ireland and I am deep in thought. Questions run through my mind, scenarios of photography arrange themselves in mental shapes, and the reflection of what is sacred resonating deep within. It fills me with much anticipation and I keep logging mental notes.

But what is sacred? Is it that place, amongst the grove of trees or that pristine waterfall, which resonated with the people of long lost time? Is it that stone monument jutting out of the landscape, or standing out amongst farms in the area, which so many make pilgrimages to see? Or is it that ornately decorated church, the Gregorian chants in the background, that so many find faith in? Perhaps sacred is a state of being, or one of presence, in that remote field or ancient jungle. In truth, sacred is interpreted differently for each of us and all one can do is respect what others view as sacred, share what one thinks it is, and be open to new experiences.

I am open.

In my mental notes I have this list of items to be photographed. Their state they are in, the time of day, and even where I might take them. The reality is most likely to prove different and I am sure to come up with interesting compromises but it will be fun to see how many I can get. I’d share the list, but then that sort of takes all the fun out of the art.

As I close this out, I leap back to the one thing Jill and I both have – excitement. To go back to a place we have been, along with new destinations, and study it through another perspective is very exhilarating. I am looking forward to what I may be able to produce.