Ulysses

I'm going to be wandering for a bit. Metaphorically and otherwise.

These photos are some that I took at the James Joyce center in Dublin. They're marvelous, extemporaneous illustrations from readers of Ulysses and they cover the walls in the outside courtyard.

If you've never ventured into Joyce's Ulysses I urge you to do so. If possible read it aloud. With a partner or friend. If a part doesn't make sense just move along - maybe it will become clear later, or maybe its supposed to be murky.

But some parts will crystallize for you, I promise. Some characters will tug at your heartstrings. Some moments will make you laugh. Weep. Gag. And may even move you to create a montage or collage of images. On a wall. In Dublin.

Life beckons me on a bit of a wander, and I doubt I'll have much time for blogging for a bit. So this seemed appropriate.

Sorrow

I don't make a habit of ranking sorrow. Or grief. It is a thing unto itself.

It is what it is.

I've had people say to me that because they have but one child I can't understand their fear of losing that child. Because I have three. As if any one of them is dispensable, or disposable, or replaceable. Or something.

I have lost three. Their young lives ripped, ravaged and painfully pulled apart from mine and I was young, afraid, and even amidst family and friends I was so alone. I know now that I was pretty unconscious during all of it. I've often felt bad about that. Like I didn't "show up" well enough.

But other times I think that was a gift.

My three girls are precious to me. Perhaps more so (to me) because I know how fragile life is. Even looking at their robust features and dealing with the petty annoyances. Fragile.

Today a family in Vermont is dealing with the loss of a baby girl. They shared their journey and I felt so much of the hope, fear, pain and sorrow that I wasn't able to feel earlier in my life. Thirty years ago.

My mother's heart breaks. Because that's what mother's hearts do. They break. Over and over and over. That's probably why they're so strong.

Good bye Jane. Much love to you and your family.

Doors in Dublin

Georgian Dublin - just a sampling.

Ancient Bones of Ireland

Newgrange and the Hill of Tara. Ancient sites of some amazing peoples. What a stunning day. The wind was whipping the beejeezus out of us on the hills, and gray clouds scudded across the sky and still for thousands of years these stones stand. It's downright breathtaking to stand there with them. To be able to trace your finger along the carving. Made over 5,000 years ago. Puts you in mind of a kind of perspective it's hard to hold on to when the national attention span can't quite break 2 minutes any more. We spent the day driving about the Boyne Valley. Immersed in Irish history, from the Messolithic to Irish Independence. I admired our young guide as she lovingly told the stories of the passage graves, and what the possible meanings are.

She was lovely and her voice was lilting and I can see why so many people want to find some drops of Irish blood in their veins!

Body In Ireland

Dublin is simply gorgeous. A wonderful walking city. Well, maybe on one's first day it is a little confusing because there is so much to see and most of the people are going to work and I clearly stand out as a visiting wanderer.

Oscar Wilde seemed mildly happy to see me. Well, at least he didn't object. His memorial sits in a lovely, quiet corner of Merrion Square. There are two smaller monuments with many of his best quotes written all over them. It's hard not to laugh out loud whilst reading. (sorry, but it's in the air - one has to say whilst while here) The shopping on Grafton Street is inviting. The people are friendly. The smells are delicious. The bells ringing are musical.

I've been to The Library at Trinity College and had my first look at The Book of Kells and other medieval manuscripts. Stunning. Breathtaking.

Really enjoying myself. .

Eyes on Ireland

Life proceeds apace, with busyness intruding on all my plans for a thoughtful, methodical and conscious year. Our upcoming trip to Ireland looms - we leave on Thursday and I have yet to pack a single stitch of clothes or even pull the suitcase out of the closet.

I have downloaded a great (I think) daylong walk of the city of Dublin, and hopefully we will do that one of our days there. And, I think we are planning a trip to Newgrange - which should be wonderful.



I'm caught up in reading, writing and hopefully some painting soon. I feel a bit overwhelmed, and am thinking maybe that is a good state of mind to be in when approaching such a place as Ireland.

I'll muse on this, and take pictures of my own...and see where it leads.

(Oh, and I know Joe wants to see a Martello Tower)

The Magi

So what journey will I be on this year? To what star am I oriented? What draws me?

This is how T.S. Eliot saw it, this journey:

"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The was deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death."

In quotations, looking back. I am always struck by the idea that the writer is coming to terms with the similarity of Birth and Death. Not simply accepting that they are opposites, but rather possibly intertwined experiences.

And that after a birth, or a death, the world is just not the same any more. There is no longer any "ease here, in the old dispensation" and I find that very apt.

This is what Yeats has to say on the same subject:

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

Somehow I think Yeats is onto something visceral for us Moderns. Unsatisfied as we are by Calvary's turbulence, we return always to the uncontrollable mystery of the stable and the birth. Is it that we seek a do-over? Could we do it better?



I love this time of year. Contemplation of The Magi, Epiphany and the idea that I too get to travel forward toward a star. Visible if I have eyes to see. Guided by some hand, some light. Purpose.

But still, at this point, potential.