I feel a post about windows brewing. I saw many a good window today.

June 30

I haven’t spent a ton of time watching Irish films. Actually, I haven’t spent a ton of time watching movies in general, much less Irish ones. But I was particularly impressed with one we watched in class this week. Instead of jotting down notes about lighting, costumes, or scene cuts, I found myself scribbling quotes, lines of poetry, and themes that paralleled ideas I’ve come across on the trip so far. If for no other reason, I thought these little inspirations were a pretty good indication of a well-made movie. I can gauge how much a like something by how motivated I am to remember it later.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley is historical fiction, chronicling the struggle between the Irish Republican Army and the insurgency of Black and Tans, British soldiers, in Ireland in the early 1920s. It shows how the confusing and often complicated conflict affected lives on a local level. Moments were incredibly heartbreaking.

A huge theme was the evolution of two main characters, brothers, who start out fighting for the radical IRA trying to win Irish independence from Britain and end up on different sides of the argument. Betrayed and near desperation, one brother reminds the other that he didn’t even want to get involved in the conflict in the first place, but now that he has, he can’t get out even if he wanted to.

It seemed to me that many of the young men found themselves fighting for things they believed in (to varying degrees) but nonetheless found themselves making choices they never wanted to make. I started asking myself how these young men ended up there. Why they kept acting like they didn’t have a choice when, clearly, they did.

The end of the movie reads a letter the main character, Damien, pens to his spouse and quotes, “Strange creatures we are, even to ourselves.” Maybe why we make choices isn’t always clear to us, or even a conscious decision at all. In Clockwork Orange, I will always remember the priest being the only one to express concern over the inhumanity of taking away human will. In fact, according to that character, free will, or choice, is the only thing that keeps our humanity afloat.

It’s a common literary theme, I’m aware. A friend of mine reminded me that even in To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout Finch admits she didn’t like reading until it was taken away from her. But it’s a powerful theme, and one that I keep running into. In one of the closing scenes of The Wind That Shakes the Barley, Damien reflects on his involvement with the IRA and his choices regarding his family and fellow Irishmen. “Its easy to know what you’re against,” he writes. “Quite an honor to know what you’re for.” And I think he has a point. Having a choice may be the most important aspect of our humanity, but maybe it takes losing it, or the threat of losing that freedom, to know exactly what we would do with it. (507 words)

June 29

If there is one thing I learned from Kinsale, it’s that the life I should be striving for, and probably should have been living this whole time, is that of an Irish dog. I would even forego the ability to see in color for the days of long walks next to fuzzy grass, splashing on rocky beaches, and lying on the warm floors of hillside cottages. Okay, maybe they don’t all live in hillside cottages. But just about every tenth person I encounter walking on the street is accompanied by a furry friend, and I can’t help but envy how loved these animals seem to be.

There are big, shaggy dogs. Small, fluffy dogs. Short dogs with black, wavy hair and half-folded ears. Skinny dogs with slender noses and muted splotches. There are old dogs, and young dogs. Dogs on leashes, dogs in laps on buses, dogs napping next to restaurants. Even more amazing than the abundance and beautiful array of these animals, is their collective behavior. Not once have I been, or seen someone, accosted by one of these dogs. A few show interest with a couple quick, exploratory sniffs, but not a single one has tried to smuggle their way onto my bus seat, or into my purse, or tried to eat my face off when I pet them (unlike my psychopathic puppy).

They must feed these dogs something special over here.

In all seriousness, they have it made. Every dog I’ve seen is attentive, curious, tongue-slopping-out-content. And why shouldn’t they be?

For them, the present moment is never anything more, never anything less than simply that: right now. Every meal is completely and totally welcome, satisfying that immediate sensation of emptiness. Dogs never eat because they are bored, or lonely, or stressed, or procrastinating, they eat because that’s exactly what their body tells them they need at the moment. Every walk is an adventure, every sniff a hunt for buried treasure. I can only imagine that the wind smells sweeter, the sun feels toasty, the ocean tastes saltier when you aren’t anticipating it, you aren’t lamenting yesterday’s greatness. And this is exactly how I imagine an Irish dog to approach life.

Based on the very limited observations I’ve made so far, their days consist of waking up to the smell of coffee drip drip dropping in the kitchen, followed by a sufficient romp around fluorescent green gardens. There is probably some eating, some running, maybe some more romping, until their owners decide to take them to the sandy or rocky beaches (either one will work) of the Irish countryside. The next few hours include racing up and down the shoreline, sopping wet, maniacally happy, chasing items of interest in and out of the water. Of course there are several, if not a bunch, of other dogs and puppies to play with who are all equally excited and encourage them to run their hardest, jump their highest, bark their loudest. And according to a recent theater show I attended at the Cork Midsummer Festival, nearly 44 percent of dogs sleep in a bed with their owner at the end of the day.

These dogs have the right idea. The more I can learn from them, the better. Less conscientious, more content. Less neurotic 20-something trying to figure out life, more trusting, appreciative, tongue-slopping-out-panting, happy Irish dog. (558 words)

June 28

Well, its finally happened. I woke up to the rain today. Well, if we are being accurate, I woke up to the 945 church bells ringing. When I opened my curtains to bask in the morning sunlight of our day off, gray clouds seeped in and tiny dots of water speckled the window. Sigh. It was bound to happen sometime.

You might think this damp, bleakness is unwelcome, especially after such a bright weekend. But its not. In fact, its quite welcome. More than welcome, even. Appreciated. I keep falling asleep and dreaming about home. Not in any particularly nostalgic way, just realistically enough to trick me into thinking I will wake up there when I’m blurry-eyed and hungry for Cheerios. I can’t help but wonder when my dreams will be about Ireland. Most days I’m still waiting to wake up from this. For some reason the rain makes this feel just a tiny bit more real. For right now, at least. I can smell the earth soaking up the weather. I can feel the water hit my forehead and hear my shoes squish and squeak a little on the pavement. While this is not the first time I’ve ever felt rain, nor is it actually any different from other rainy days in the states, being able to feel that cool mist calms my creeping apprehensions and confirms that I am, in fact, here, right now, not dreaming, but wide awake. (241 words)

June 25

Ping. Ping. Ping-ping. Flags clink against hollow tin. Katie, Michelle, Tricia and Molly sit in front of me on the sand, backs resting on the exposed rock. Cheryl and Tom dip their toes in the sparkly water as a young girl rides her chocolate brown horse into the surf. Matt is sprawled out on a floating dock several hundred feet out into the ocean. Puppies sprint after rocks, shells, sticks into the waves. Kinsale is sweet.

The one thing everyone can agree on is how we can never explain to anyone what this place feels like. Pictures are too dull. Words too empty. And still, we try. What choice do we have?

The thought crossed my mind last night that most of life is purposed around this frail attempt. Whether we write books, film movies, record music, take photos, shoot television shows or are just writing emails, talking to our friends on the phone, chatting with a stranger, there is a commonality in our shortcomings. Its probably true that some people are better at finding descriptive words and others are especially talented at snapping a camera lens at just the right moment, but in the grand scheme of things, how successful are any of us at recreating that feeling for others?

Anne Lamott writes that she believes there is no point in a hopeless novel. Everyone is acutely aware of the terminal nature of life. Some of us may even be aware of our puny significance amongst the confusion and chaos that tends to direct most situations. But this is precisely why novels serve such an important purpose. Regardless of how inadequate we know we are at imitating the intricacies, the grandeur, the complexities we encounter daily, we still try. That gives us hope. Or, at least, it gives me hope. I try to remember that when I’m sitting in a particularly enjoyable spot, or laughing at something particularly silly, or glowing with warmth inside when connecting with someone over something particularly surprising, that I probably won’t be able to do my emotions justice. But there’s no reason I can’t keep trying. (353 words)

June 23

Last night, after spending the day in the warm sun and cool, salty breezes of Cobh, we decided to celebrate the eve of our first day off from class. In short, a large group of us took the liberty of making this the fourth night of celebrating (and toasting to) Ireland, and didn’t fail to deliver obnoxiously American bouts of behavior. The juxtaposition is a first for me. I can still hear the hum of the green and yellow train cars pulling us into the Cobh shore. The glaring sunlight as we climbed the hills covered with purple, blue, green, yellow houses is still making my eyes squint. I can see the splotchy and weathered gravestones of the Lusitania victims. And I can taste the heel of my tuna and corn baguette soaked in potato leek soup that we—quite proudly—found for a mere 4 euro. As the train left and Cobh went sliding back to where it came from, I couldn’t help but feel like I was riding on a metaphorical hyphen: constantly in between, slipping from place to place physically and mentally.

In a slightly more compromised state of mind later that evening, I found myself accidentally engaged in one of the most interesting conversations I’ve had thus far. Occasionally glancing over at my classmates dancing to Michael Jackson and Cascada in a sea of equally uninhibited Europeans, I felt myself sliding on that hyphen again. The young Irish man was genuinely interested in how young Americans can be so disinterested in the rest of the world. He didn’t understand why it seemed that most Americans have no interest in travelling. I wasn’t sure I agreed with that, but maybe on a deeper level he had a point. Maybe Americans don’t seem to be interested in travelling emotionally or mentally past their comfort zone. The American-centric culture is so pervasive in the states I’m almost surprised anyone is able to break free of those self-preserving clutches. Now, I’m really not American-bashing as much as I am just mourning the loss (or was it ever really there?) of open-mindedness and compassion. Ireland was one of the first countries (if not the first) to have a woman president, according to my new friend. While Ireland’s president serves mainly as a figurehead, he was adamant that women are capable of more empathy and that influenced their governing. He was shocked to hear that American children grow up learning how heroic European explorers were, and how our country was based on freedom, democracy and individual liberties, but never hear about how barbaric and exclusive (respectively) their means were to achieve such greatness. However, this Irish friend was quick to admit that Irish are quite xenophobic themselves and that its human to hear and believe stories as they are taught to us, regardless of the merit.

It occurred to me that this is true of almost anyone. We value things based on how we have learned to value it—not necessarily because they deserve it. Whether we are overly proud of our country, or regrettably not proud enough, I believe the things that resonate most deeply within us are those things that inspire the best in us. I was re-reading an old journal entry I wrote from April about my thoughts on “heroes” and “people as concepts.” But my concluding line fits this train of thought quite nicely, I think. It reads, “Half the time we aren’t in love with people, we are in love with the concept they inspire in us.” And maybe that can be true about more than just people. Maybe it can be true about Cork, or Cobh, or Ireland, or America. These things aren’t supposed to mean one singular thing to everyone, or even to one person. My time in Cork is almost exclusively based on what I decide Cork means to me right now, the kind of person I am when I’m here. And for that, I am grateful for this hyphen sliding me back and forth, in and out of cities, sobriety, empathy and curiosity for that beyond my experience. (685 words)

June 22 4:00am

Some people notice architecture. Some people notice personality types and quirks. Me? I notice shoes. It’s honestly the second thing I always look at, second only to eyes. I feel one can tell a lot about a person based on their footwear. One’s daily aspirations, one’s daily habits, almost one’s hopes and dreams—depending on the shoe, of course. It leaves me with a strange sense of curiosity. Where these people are going. Who they were. Who they want to be. It’s probably the most superficial way to judge a person, but I believe clothes (and shoes) work as an extension of one’s being. Clunky, skinny, dark, light, jeweled, beaded, heeled, laced, slip-on, leather, rubber, canvas—they all convey a certain choice, a certain preference, a certain statement. The interesting thing is that in Europe, there are so many different kinds of shoes, and the majority I cannot recognize. My sense of judgment is momentarily suspended. And maybe that’s the best thing that could be happening to me, at this point.

Instead, I’m forced to look closer at three passing women, walking together, all carrying shopping bags. First, I realize they are wearing sandals all with a similar strap, and that strikes me as interesting. And I as I look closer at the women, I notice how similar two of their postures stand. I slowly realize those two women actually look exactly alike, and are most probably twins. The third woman clearly emerges as their mother, with a slightly older face, but remarkably similar attributes. When I understood their relationship (or pretended I did) a little better, my interest in their story peaked. Did they realize how similar they all looked? Did they know they were all wearing an extremely similar variation of the same shoe? Did they care? Or were they just so close that those things tend to happen incidentally? My mind drifted imagining their conversation. What they had been shopping for. Where they were headed next? Were any of them married?

Normally, these thoughts wouldn’t have been given a chance to grow simply because my initial judgment usually narrows the field of people I’ll allow myself to get to know. But without this built-in schema, I find I’m noticing a lot more about a lot more people.
My preoccupation with shoes may be a little ridiculous, although irrelevant most times. But I know things are slowly changing within me, and these are the silly ways that I can tell it’s happening. (404 words)