Irish Blessings

May you have warm words on a cold evening. 
a full moon on a dark night,
and the road downhill all the way to your door.
-Irish Blessing

I just touched down after the trip of a lifetime...aaand I have no idea what to say about it.
















You'd think that a life-changing experience such as this would net me a ton of raw material, but in truth, the raw material is so raw that I can't even pin down a story.

I've been blessed to travel a lot and (somewhat) disciplined enough to write about most of it. A standard travel diary is what I've often used to record my wanderings in the past.

"And then we went here"

"And then we ate this."

In recent years, I've been so bold as to venture into, "After we did this, I felt that."

I've practiced yoga in four countries in two years and written inspired lesson plans and boring, self-involved journal entries.

Truthfully, the most interesting ways in which I've described my travels is via Facebook statuses and emails to my friend, B.

So how does this modern BFA write this trip and how it changed me? Dear God, not with poetry...

I tell the Internet.

Dear Dad,

There may be inaccuracies in my telling of this tale. Forgive me. I am as much a storyteller as you are a scientist.

Love, Er

This trip began as a tiny seed, three years ago.  My dad (an historian and full-on genealogy buff for my entire memory) was torn as to whether or not to renew his ancestry.ca membership when he received an email from E, "I think you belong to us"

We do. We didn't just find new relatives. We found new family. In Ireland. A whole bunch of them. And they're awesome.

This story begins in 1906 when a young Irishman fell in love with a young woman from a lower class. They leave Ireland, marrying on the ship that carried them to Canada. And back and back and back. I have ancestors and they're as immediate as anything.

See? It's a HUGE story.

I expressed to my dear friend/brilliant yoga student, R that I'd been experiencing writers' block around this post. She said wisely, "don't try to write the whole thing. Let it sink in and then write the moments."

So...

My Irish Trip

Part One

Ireland is really pretty and green. I had fun. We saw a lot of castles and drank some Guinness. 

The end.

Okay. Now for real.

Dublin at 5am when the streets are still dirty and we walk down the river Liffey and past a pile of human feces on the boardwalk. It is covered politely with a restaurant napkin. My mother wonders what we got ourselves into. We have three breakfasts and then sleep for four hours.

Live music in EVERY pub. Every night of the week. The kind of bands we pay a lot of money to see in Canada when the opportunity presents itself. My throat is raw from singing along.

Hospitality so immaculate that it begins with a recommendation to visit the Dublin Zoo from the gentleman at Irish customs who stamps our passports (we do. It's the best zoo I've ever seen). The hospitality doesn't end until our cousin drops us off at the bus depot in Wexford two weeks later (again at 5am). In between, we are inundated with family love. They chauffeur us, tour us, feed us and hug us the entire time.

Sierra's favourite memory, "The clothesline." I admit it's one of mine too.

The death-defying country roads. Fiery death around every bend. Don't even ask about the fruit stands. Wexford strawberries are worth risking your life for, but risk it you shall.

Family. Loads of family. Kids with adorable accents. Sierra's first sleepover with her three new cousins/bffs. "I will be brave, Mom. I am not ashamed"
(Yeah. That's a direct quote. I'm in trouble).

Time. On vacation with my daughter, I am the kind of mother I always mean to be the rest of the time.



















Bonding with my Canadian family as well as the new Irish one. Time shared between Sierra and her uncle, her grandma, her papa. Loud time, quiet time. Time to drink coffee (the best coffee) while looking out over Waterford Harbour. Precious, precious time.



There were castles and abbeys. They took our breath away. More than once we went on private tours of these places because not only does our Irish family know EVERYBODY but they were also so generous in sharing their time and passion for history.

There was a kayak trip for which there is no photographic evidence because Jonathan dropped the camera in the water (sorry, Jonathan. Last time).

As is customary in my family, there are many inside jokes that no one else will laugh at but have to be included nonetheless. I'll refrain from elaborating because I've promised myself I'll avoid self-indulgent,boring travel-diary prose.

You're a Ballyhack

What does it mean to discover that you've got a whole second home, far away across the sea? To discover heritage you didn't know you had and experience it to such a first-hand degree that it becomes part of your marrow? To absorb the suffering and pride and resilience and humour of a culture that's simultaneously yours' and not? To leave home to go home?

(I'm not entirely sure. It hasn't fully sunk in yet.)

But I'm pretty it means that I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

I ate a lobster roll at Hook Lighthouse that all other lobster rolls will fail to live up to, got lost in a yew-maze with my cousin, traveled 36 hours with my brother (senses of humour intact) and was many times moved to tears by the embrace of a family brought back together after over a hundred years by new technology and passionate persistence.

I dearly hope we can one day return the hospitality of our Irish loved ones and show them what Canada's been up to over the last century.

Until that day, I'll keep the kettle on,

Er