nendrum

today is one of the greyest since i arrived. the rain won't stop, though it is quiet on the rooftop, and i'm glad to be inside. at 3 pm, i am still in pajamas, and i'm enjoying a nice cream of chicken soup lunch. rain and november: this is an emmylou harris' wrecking ball afternoon. i've got all the ingredients for a productive afternoon or the best nap i've ever had.

nicole is visiting this week, and we've been exploring girls. i am trying my hand at the role of tour guide, and so far, we've only been lost once. not bad for the american, right? tomorrow, we will begin a roadtrip adventure around much of ireland. we'll start at the north coast, and move south along the western coast. wish us luck. luck counts as prayer here, i'm guessing, as long as it is green.

here is a bit of our adventure from yesterday:

We walked around Nendrum Monastery. The day was quite similar to my time there with Curtis, and it was nice to see its familiarity. We met a woman who is renting the house next door. She had to be in her late twenties or early thirties and she had her six-year-old daughter with her. They were holding hands. "Are you Americans?" she asked. we said yes.
"On holiday?"
"Yes."
And I asked, "where are you from originally?" she bristled a bit, stepping back. "I don't know. We've traveled a lot, the two of us." she said, swinging her daughters hand. "We've been in England…a lot of places. It's a long story. I don't want to get into it."
"Ok," I said, surprised at how awkward the moment had become. "Do you like it here?" I asked to clear the air. "Yes, it is quiet," she responded. "But I have quite a time of it driving her to school everyday. It's forty minutes, one way. There are village schools around, but I don't want to take her out of her school in Belfast. It has taken us too long to get in. Right?"
The little girl, in her red skirt and pink jacket, looked nervously up at mum and nodded yes. I complimented the skirt and we were on our way after nice meeting you. And I've thought about her ever since. Trevor thinks she was an Irish Traveler. Maybe so.

blogs r us

here are three new blogs which you should be bookmarking and reading daily (or at least checking in daily, thus inspiring near-daily updates...):

random acts of senseless beauty. this is a great, witty, down-with-all-things-cool blog by my dear friend, jude.
already kindled. sandy hutchins is an amazing well-respected writer, who is also a mentor to me. a professor on sabattical, she must be inspired, because she writes thoughtful, inspiring blog-entries. (and read her archives.)
wide awake. sheila found my blog a couple weeks ago and left a kind comment. i found her blog via her that comment, and think she is up to something great.

more words later.
for now, i must find the tea kettle, which has mysteriously gone missing.

pillows like oranges

sunday evening. beth orton and me in an otherwise empty house.

it's been a quiet day. my past few days have found me immersed in alice walker, as i have voraciously read two of her novels in between mandatory medieval irish literature. i'm not sure why i have been so drawn to alice (if i may call her alice) lately; maybe it has something to do with gladness' recent email about her reaction to the color purple:

"My heart is stretched and 'bout
shredded. I want , Annie, for folks to get along, to understand and
appreciate one another. "

so. yesterday was my birthday. your faithful blogger is now twenty-four. years like hours.
it was a day of chicken-eating and book-reading. friends and laughter and honeycomb icecream with candles.

and an early evening due to migraine/stomache-achey ailments. but that's beside the point.

a few minutes ago, i decided that i would like to re-read annie dillard's an american childhood. i opened the cover and inside spilled out two poems: anna akhmatova's 'march elegy' and a napkin-scribbled poem i wrote for my sister, eileen, while on a plane to visit her in dallas, two years ago almost, for her birthday. a nearly forgotten day chronicled on napkins and scrap paper.

i remember.

i remember visiting my friend, sherry, before going to the airport, hastily copying akhmatova's words of malevolent memory and hope; i desperately needed those words then. and tonight, i remembered sherry's own elegy-inspired words--her mournful, beautiful song called 'blackbirds'; a song that carries such weighted hope: i can be a churchbell, sherry sings, even now.

as for eileen's poem (do you remember, sister?), i read my own words tonight like they were written by someone else, stumbled upon. and they're my day-after-birthday prayer:

we have seen darkness
enough
to recognize the light
and it is shining definitely
now
and brightly
(on us).
today is a gift and you're
breathing and.
alive (very much so)
so drink it in, sister
and celebrate
(we get to love each other)
keep your eyes
open and
look around (it is good)
and promise yourself to
choose. truth. carefully.
and hold hope tightly--
it is yours (to keep).