Quietly stepping through the minutes today,
cell phone at the handy. Feeling pretty useless.
But still in Ireland. R. still in hospital.
Seattle still six thousand miles away.

----

A little tenor treat, I recorded this downtown
this afternoon:



Still the most beautiful place on earth:




I'm hoping for quietly beating hearts, steady hearts,
unbroken hearts.

Invocation from Achill Island

After hiking up the hill from the cell phone towers
to the statue of the Virgin perched at the peak
the phone rang (thank god for good reception; we couldn't
have been in a better location) and it was my son Nelson
telling me that his older brother Reilly was in the hospital
with chest pains. I tried not to panic, and told Nelson
to call me back immediately when he found out more.
About twenty minutes later, the phone rang again,
to discover that R. had suffered a heart attack. He's 23.
No more information except that he was being transferred
to the Cardiac Unit of the hospital.
Then I panicked.

I recall very little of the 45 minutes drive
back to the house. Paul kept trying to reassure me:
he's young, healthy, doesn't smoke.
No blood pressure issues. It didn't help much,
there on the back roads of County Mayo, 6,000 miles
from Seattle. I felt centuries away. Light years away.
A lifetime away. Inescapably remote.
Desolate.

The good news is that it appears to be minor, his heart muscle
looks good. I spoke with him on the phone, and he insisted
I not come home. He made me laugh.
He sounded like Reilly.

Paul said, "I feel like we should celebrate.
I know that sounds weird, but you know what I mean."

Yes. I did. What a very short time ago sounded
like dirge suddenly sounded like a jig. An Irish jig.
Keep it slow for a while, though.
I need some time to breathe.

Interiors

A house down the road for sale.
In the photos on the realtor's website,
it's a pretty sweet spot (the tide out the back door),
both inside and out. Now it looks like someone has
trashed the place and left in a hurry. Squatters?

---

We walked/climbed up the flanks of Croagh (Mt.) Patrick
yesterday. All but Bob and I wimped out at St. Pat's statue.
Here's the path:



We weren't attempting the summit, and were without
water, so we didn't even attempt the ridge, but pressed
on for about 30 minutes, the view more spectacular
with every labored step.



The boys:



Bit & sparks of sunlight!

I sent out my first batch of postcards in the mail
today -- the card-stock was a mite bit thin
so I'm anxious to see how they fare in the hands
(and automation) of Irish and American postal workers.
But then, that's all part of why I do this: launch
my oeuvres into the world unprotected, at the mercy
of the elements. See how they fare.
So let me know if they arrive mangled.
If you want one and haven't sent me
your snail-mail address yet, there's still time!
(carrowhollygirl@gmail.com)

---

My niece Jane and I are enjoying a Nutella moment.

---

rainrainrainrainrainrainrainrainrainrain
all night
all day

Houseguests, all to bed early, drooped with j-lag.
A straight steady rain, the windows
and doors open: the world is white and green.

I cooked all afternoon, Guinness stew
and bread and apple crisp.

Two neighbor girls took their horses swimming in the cove.

Dishwashing liquid is called Fairy Liquid
and laundry detergent is called Fairy Powder.
Plastic wrap is called Cling Film.
(Learning the vocabulary.)

I took off on a walk after dinner, up the road
past foals and a cavorting bull and laundry
on lines and the vicious dogs locked up! Yay!
One Jack Russel wears a muzzle and comes
charging after me as if I were prey. Kinda scary.
Anyway, I was in search of wildflowers for a bouquet
to put in one of the bedrooms -- P.'s brother and his
family are rolling in tomorrow -- and I took notes
along the way: astilbe, wild fuschias, some wild peas.
This year (so far!) we are blessed with 65-70 degree temps
and no significant wind. (Last year at this time we suffered
a perpetual gale.) Ideal conditions for an amble.

I met three scarecrows holding court
over their potato & onion patch --






I discovered an abandoned flower garden at a house
for sale: poppies, lilies, borage, roses, love-in-a-mist,
nasturtiums, artichokes and lots & lots of nettles.
I'll come back tomorrow with a basket....

There was a big party at the Purple Cheese House
(the house is purple and they make cheese) with tents
and a live band and bands of live children bounding
across lawns and in and out of hedges and up and over
stone walls, all shriek & shout. In the next pasture,
a piebald mare, and her rambunctious piebald colt
doing his part to get in the spirit of the evening
(sound track, Ride On, by Christy Moore,
compliments of the party at the
Purple Cheese House):



And now, an hour later, it's still daylight
at 10:30pm. No wonder my sleep schedule
is askew!

I sno!rted MY coffee THRougH my!!!!!! nose
when rEading this (thanks to Cz. for the link).
I "can't" wait for tina FEy "and" SnL's take on this --
what A perfect golden ;opportunity THE "(former)"
governor! of Alaska "has handed" us -- !and oN a
**stuNning))) gold% (platter)!, no less!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HAPPY "BIRTH,DAY" AMERICA!!))!!

Yowza. Bee sting while IN THE CAR
while cruising the back roads behind Nephin Beg
and no relief for miles. Through my jeans,
smack into my quadricep, a sharp hot lancet
of WAKE UP YOU'RE ALIVE. Damn.
Hot damn.

And all around us rhododendrons, a wild
impenetrable thicket just past blooming:
remnants of purple, acres and acres.
And always that light, that swept-clean glint.
Sheep in the road, not anxious to move,
no rush for anything. Certainly not us.

Later on, a stop at the Healy Hotel in Pontoon,
on the shores of Lake Conn, Paul with his pint
of Guinness and I with my new favorite repast:
black tea with milk.

And I'm still cursing that bee.

A young female sparrow crashed into a window
this morning, leaving a considerable glob of feathers
stuck to the glass. It tried to stand, and toppled.
I picked it up, and cradled it for nearly an hour,
as its breathing went from frightened and labored
to slow and shallow, eyes closed, one foot and one wing
seemingly hurt. Such intricate, tiny feathers!
Around me, on the porch, a host of bees and flies,
all about their work. Two male goldfinches sparred
for the attentions of a female. Horses across the cove
grazed and whinnied. Barely a breeze.
I was thinking about those strawberries
purchased yesterday, small Irish berries:
breakfast. And coffee. And oats.
But it all kept.

I kept waiting for my sparrow to suffer
her last breath. Just last week I buried
a cat who, in her prime, would've made a quick gulp
of this feathered handful. Who am I to be troubled
by this small death: chicken soup in the fridge?

And then her eyes slowly opened, and she righted
herself, and after a few minutes, fluttered off
to the gorse. I went in to my berries and grain.

It's Irish postcard time again!
If you would like a receive a handmade
card from moi, send me your snail-mail address
at carrowhollygirl@gmail.com. I just completed
my first batch yesterday, so I'm ready to roll!
(And I have to admit to being smitten with pastels,
much as I was when I was ten years old.)

This morning, I wanted a blue-speckled
bird's eggshell to place at the feet of
Our Lady of Flotsam. I had one last year
but it has disappeared --
I very intentionally did not write this
earlier because it seemed too precious.
And I hadn't a clue where I'd find one; the last
was on a walk, beneath a tree,
a serendipitous moment.

So this afternoon, when Paul called out,
There's an eggshell on the patio,
I answered,
No! It's a snail shell!
Thinking it was the leftover pieces
from Sunday's bird.
And Paul:
T., I know a bird shell from a snail shell!

He was right --
deposited beside scattered seed was a perfect
half-shell, blue & speckled. Not fallen from a tree,
because there is no tree in the yard.
It's as if a bird was doing an exchange:
shell for seed. Or the universe was fulfilling
my request --



Not a miracle, but an answer.

Detritus

There is a beach several coves away
where broken pottery washes up -- nothing
particularly special -- cheap plates flung to bits.
Beautiful in their disarray, every year more,
and I gather pocketsful and place them
at the Altar Of Our Lady of Flotsam
on my kitchen windowsill. But flung from where,
and by whom? A deceived wife in splintered rage?
Fallen from a boat in a move from island to mainland?
Out of fashion teacups cast-off to sea?

My neighbor Pat tells of an elderly island man whose body
was strapped to a door and towed to town behind a dingy
when he died. (There are 365 islands in Clew Bay,
some as big as a wink.)

These shards remain a mystery.

As the jt-lg recedes, so do its letters....
In that odd space where I haven't quite
settled in to where I am. Restless.
Can't set myself down to read. Messed around
a bit with a new set of pastels, took out some
of my rice paper, my leaf-and-petal-shot papers.
And put them all away again.

Now Paul and I play "Name That Poet"
and read aloud to each other, first William Stafford
then Stevie Smith: The River God.
I am not good at this game.
I am under-read, over-fed, not quite dead.
--she said.

__

Dropped a triangular piece of Connemara marble
on my foot in an attempt to retrieve my copy
of Irish Traditional Cooking, By Darina Allen.
Mostly I spilled my unoaked South African
Chardonnay, in a crystal glass, and howled.
Paul ran for ice, refilled my wine, offered Aleve.
No. That's not right. I refilled my own wine,
in a second glass. And then Paul opened
a bottle of French red, and we ate leftover
chicken rice soup, and listened to Ronnie Drew.
We had it all, we had the best of times....

Just outside our front door....

Battling the j-lag haze. Sleeping in the sun
this morning, I kept dreaming that I was
going blind. The more I slept, the more blind
I became. When I finally did arise, I had trouble
focusing. Weird.

I bought a chicken today and made a chick-rice
soup for dinner, with thick chunks of portabello
mushrooms. Good leftovers. I don't want to go
anywhere: here is just about perfect.

Paul and I walked along the curvy cove,
out a long gravel driveway to an island with
one house on it. When we turned back we discovered
that the tide had rather quickly come in, so it was
a sloshy-slog, testing out the water-resistance
of my new hiking boots. They passed the test
except for the water which came in up at my
ankles. No wind: rare. Warm: rare.

We heard that last week there were high tides
and the mackerel were so thick in the cove
you could almost pluck them out with your hands.
I would like to see this. Last June I could stand
on the front porch and watch mullet swirl about
in the salt water.

Often when the tide is out, girls on horseback
gallop across the mudflats. (I've only seen girls.)
It's wonderful to hear this -- the rhythmic pounding
of the hooves. I want to do this --

Our neighbor Mina received four chickens
for her fiftieth birthday. One, named Houdini,
made her escape via the fox's jaws. I suggested
she name one of the remaining three Henster Prynne.

Sun! Where am I?!!
This can't be Ireland.

Errands today, groceries, phone.
Paul lost his prescription sunglasses.
I asked for garbanzo beans in the store
and was met with a blank stare. Ah..."chick peas."
The regular trolls were at the bar
in Matt Molloys, where I sipped a brandy-port
and 'himself' downed a Guinness.
Stopped at all our regular haunts:
Seamus Duffy Books, Empowerium,
The Record Store. Our little wine shop
has been replaced by a realtor. Ezio of Mediteranneo --
our favorite restaurant -- has disappeared also.
A lot of the merchants, when I asked how they're
weathering the recession, said that they're just
barely hanging on. The next ten weeks or so
will be good, as the town fills up with tourists
such as ourselves.

And it goes on.

Ireland!

Sloggy, sluggish, snoozy.
The usual air-travel complaints, yet I will never fail
to be amazed that a tin tube (okay, so it's not tin,
but I like the alliteration) can elevate hundreds
of humans into the sky. And remain there,
in the troposphere, for hours on end.
It's 4:43am Seattle time, 12:43pm Irish time.
On a bit of a jag. Need to come down.

A sparrow on the patio is holding a black & orange
striped snail in its beak and banging it repeatedly
on the concrete: lunch.

Jack-the-dog, across the cove, didn't race to greet us
this time. His puppy-crazy days are over, apparently.
He seems to be more interested in his Sunday
afternoon nap.

If I go to sleep now I'll be awake all this Irish-night-to-come.
What to do? The afternoon looms, a drawn-out yawn.
Topsy-turvy night and day....

Each time I arrive in Carrowholly, I am stunned
by the fact of my being here, and by the absolute
beauty of the countryside.

Alice, during her 17 years, slept approximately
111,690 hours, or, 12.75 years.

Well then.

And this tidbit from the NYTimes,
with apologies to JFK:

"Ask not what your cat can do for you
but what you can do for your cat."

Reilly talked me into a bottle of Remy Martin
V.S.O.P., which made for a suitable toast
for our dear Alice. I've always believed
that having pets helps us practice for the death
of loved ones, readies us for the Big Ones.
But my sweet sons, well, they did it backwards.

Alice: torty, ornery, weighed 8 oz. when we
adopted her, rescued her from certain death
on a cold October Sunday. Her favorite activity
was fierce biting. On her first Big Hunt she brought
me a rather large worm. Purred like a pan
of corn popping. In fact, she loved to eat popcorn.
And she sang: long drawn-out feline syllables.
Very small brain, but we loved her nonetheless.

R.I.P.

A Short List

1. Leaving for Ireland Saturday.
2. I need a root canal.
3. Putting-down my 17-year-old cat Alice
this afternoon: suddenly blind, deaf
and having seizures.
4. My sons have grown up to be tender
and sensitive men.

Hard-working hands.



Often the by-product of my job is as beautiful
and colorful as the actual product. Today I exclaimed
over my fingers, a damp paper towel covered with
paint splotches, and smears of a plum-colored
paint on a piece of parchment.
I'll take beauty wherever and whenever it occurs.

I climbed a tree today to get some cherries.
And it was worth it.
Thanks to Melinda!
(And I didn't fall out of the tree or break anything,
either.)