Failte!

I'm excited to share my adventures with all of you! I want your first taste of my life in Ireland to be this poem that I wrote very late one night when I was a Junior in College. Its meaning seems eerily prophetic now. More than anything, I've created this blog to make the actualization of this life-long dream of mine visible to those I love: my friends who are my foundation, my endlessly supportive family, my mentors and co-workers who inspire me, and my former students who have given me enough satisfaction and fulfillment to last two lifetimes... Have the courage to believe that your wildest dreams can come true.

Is fhearr fheuchainn na bhith san duil, (It is better to try than to hope)

e
Mourn (A Seaside Peak in Southern Ireland)

The dark, earthen sod saturates her fair feet,
but briefly since she frolics fast in knee high
blades of greenest grass that blow dizzily in the Celtic-sea air.

Her wool skirt, stiffened by ware of evenings past
is splashed by cresting waves that break
against a beach blacker than her hair.
Those once stiffer fibers were loosed by nights upon nights
of hanging perfectly on his line before being wildly blown dry
by the crisp Hibernian salt air.

The pair sits to rest a while instead of dodging
breakers or skipping paler stones.

"Indian summer's here," he says softly,
but all of summer here feels like the edge
of autumn to her, even though she grins in agreement
as she dangles her pale, soft feet off Achilles' peak,
where Erin's vermillion-gold sky meets
an ocean that is grey with years.

She sleeps with her eyes closed tight most nights.
He asks her if she believes in Tier-Nan-Og,
and she asks him if he believes in anything eternal.
Outside the tide is rising, or it's receding—
She never can tell but for the strengthened smell of
salty freshness strained through his light, lace curtains.
She thinks to herself that he is like trying to hold the sea 
and she imagines the water running between her fingers--
clenched so tight.

And so, the night calls her out of her sleeping,
like daytime chides her into dreaming.
She slips her white fingers through the holes of an old loose scarf
that affords her more company than warmth
on these newborn autumn evenings. She is off-- 
Night clouds reflect emerald from land to sea,
And the tara that she never eyes from long hours of
staring too far into star blanketed skies,
feels cool against the thickening pads of her pallid feet.

Elisabeth Lewis (2005)

29 October 2011

snapshots of the market and my future.

 For to listen as you browse: My favorite song or... have you been searching for a heart of gold?


Almost went JeanVal-Jean on these tarts

Yeah, He's Irish. All the good ones are ;)

I don't know how to eat this. But I want to learn.

I have to eat here at night, it has lights hanging everywhere.

Delicious!
Post-Rain abandoned street sunshine :)


And this guy played Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" the whole time! What a perfect song for a perfect morning.

Things I will never say when I'm married* 
"hubby." I hate this word
"hubs." worse
"date night." Just, No.
"We think ____." What, how?

*This is not a stab at those who do say these things...
I just need to vow this publicly so I don't recant.

I'm not good at being negative, so I started a List of things I DO want when I grow up
So far all I have is:

Extensive herb garden
hand-carved wooden bed
A room for piano playing and yoga practice for my sisters to visit
front porch swing (because where else will my old black lady ghost sit, AK?)

Happy Halloween Weekend! <3, e
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1 comment:

  1. Anna Kate01 November, 2011 16:41

    I still think the lady was real. Whoa - maybe she was our ancestor visiting you a la Song of Solomon. We looked at a house that seriously had a perfect dance room, all it needed was a barre and mirror. How awesome would that be?

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