Begin at the End

Beginnings: it is that time of year in which you can feel them humming in the air.  The budding tress, the tulips showing off their vibrant colors, the birds sharing a new song, and the lambs merrily prancing in the fresh green grass.  Mother Earth is waking up and stretching her cold, stiff muscles in the newborn sunshine.  And it is beautiful.

With as much as is beginning right now, I feel sharp the edge of endings.  Part of this is my mistake of counting to and from significant and insignificant dates; four months since that happened, five weeks until this, two months on Friday since that occurred, three days until this starts.  In many ways I have lifted myself out of springtime and observed it from a distance.  I have forgotten to sink into the small spaces, to allow myself space to process and enjoy the moment for what it is: longing, joy, fear, excitement, frustration, satisfaction.  Instead of embracing and appreciating the experiences for what they are and what they might help me learn, I have been avoiding living through them.

The realization of my avoidance struck a nerve recently, and I dove into some considerable thought as to what I want from life.  I won't spoil the surprise for anyone who might read this, but let's just admit, I do not want to follow the stereotypical path that many of my friends currently post about on facebook.  And you know what that realization brought me?  An intense sense of invigoration.

Although deep down I've known for a while I'm not following the beaten path, I've never quite been able to imagine what it might consist of.  It took some dark days and floods of tears to realize that I'm on an amazing and exciting adventure.  That I can still support those I love and cherish while I explore my own trails and push societal expectations aside.  I have realized that, thanks to the unique Tiwi relationship to their own family members, I can fill the roles of mother and father, of auntie and uncle, but maintain my fierce independence from the norm.  In many ways I feel like I can see my happy ending; I have realized a role I find revitalizing and igniting.  And the best part is, I know that it is not the end, but a whole new beginning.

A Thousand Kisses Deep

Poem by Leonard Cohen 

which I cannot listen to enough times this evening.

Kissed by the rain.

Don't matter if the road is long 

Don't matter if it's steep
Don't matter if the moon is gone and the darkness is complete
Don't matter if we lose our way it's written that we'll meet
At least that's what I heard you say
A thousand kisses deep

I loved you when you opened like a Lilly to the heat 

You see I'm just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet
Who loved you with his frozen love
His second hand physique
With all he is and all he was
A thousand kisses deep

I know you had to lie to me
I know you had to cheat
You learned it on your father's knee
And at your mother's feet
But did you have to fight your way across the burning street
When all our vital interests lay
A thousand kisses deep

I'm turning tricks
I'm getting fixed
I'm back on boogie street
I'd like to quit the business but I'm in it so to speak

The thought of you is peaceful
And the file on you complete
Except what I forgot to do
A thousand kisses deep

Don't matter if you're rich and strong
Don't matter if you're weak
Don't matter if you write a song the nightingales repeat
Don't matter if it's nine to five or timeless and unique
You'd ditch your life to stay alive
A thousand kisses deep

The ponies run the girls are young
The odds are there to beat
You win a while and then it's done your little winning streak
And summoned now to deal with your invincible defeat
You live your life as if it's real
A thousand kisses deep

I hear their voices in the wine
Who sometimes did we seek
The band is playing Auld Lang Syne but the heart will not retreat
There's no forsaking what you love
No existential leap
As witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep



He reads it here. Entrancing.

Embracing the Vulnerable

Madeleine L'Engle was one of my favorite
authors growing up.

Recently I have been considering the tumultuous state of vulnerability within my Self, Others, and my relationship with those Others.  A touchy concept, vulnerability.  As I observe and recognize it in other people, I realize the plethora of negative connotations vulnerability embodies.  Even in my Self, my latest (consciously recognized) vulnerable encounters have been difficult and emotionally draining.  But why???

When I travel alone, I am particularly vulnerable.  This scares my mother.  In all honesty, sometimes it scares me.  At the same time, when I take the opportunity to open my Self up and embrace my vulnerability and dependence upon the actions of another human being, I allow my Self to experience a unique connection with another wandering soul.  This connection, however fleeting, nourishes my engagement with the universe via the kindness of another.  Embracing vulnerability allows the expanse of the universe, all that exists, to seep into my own Self and mingle with my own expression of the cosmos. 

Can vulnerability be more beautiful?

Viewed this way, a constant state of vulnerability, a constant exchange with the expanse of nature, might parallel enlightenment.  Yet since being home, my dalliances with vulnerability have not left me feeling more connected.  They have not left me lifted and open, but hurt, closed, and disjointed.  Recently, when I witness those close to me confront a vulnerable state, they appear lost, angry, and depressed. This time spent at “home” has twisted my relationship with vulnerability.  Where once I felt connected, now I feel exposed.  Where once I felt uplifted, now I feel dragged down.

Could these negative vulnerable experiences be as much a part of the beautiful exchange with the universe as the uplifting vulnerable experiences?

As a society of pleasure seekers, we are often sent a message: any experience which makes us feel “bad” – anger, loneliness, fear, anxious, weakness – should be avoided and exchanged for a “good” experience as quickly as possible.  But as a patient seeker of my own true Self, I am slowly, meticulously, learning these “bad” emotions and experiences are equally important to embrace as the “good” ones.  Opening to a vulnerable state no matter its connotation among today’s society allows my Self to experience deeper and fuller states of Being.

In seeking my true Self, more and more I realize it is more important to change my view on an experience rather than changing the experience itself.  In recognizing the positive encounters with vulnerability, I am also able to recognize the positive-ness of negative encounters.  This is proving to take practice, patience, and compassion with my Self.  Acknowledging the small spaces, appreciating moments in their essence, breathing through experiences no matter their positive-negative associations, each of these conscious choices small steps toward embracing my vulnerable states.  Small steps toward fully opening my encounters with the Universe.  Allowing safety in vulnerability.

Seeking the Small Spaces

I recently had a conversation with a friend of mine about Time.  More specifically, Time for your Self, Time to renew the energy drain that comes from interacting with other people, being at work, studying, taking care of others.  Often in this age it can be difficult to find Time.  Demands on where we are, who we are with, and what we are doing, make for a constant spin of days, weeks, months, even years of motion.  Many of us have forgotten, by choice or by force, what it means to Take Time.  And many more of us are suffering for it.

How does society respond?  We make Taking Time into a money making scheme.  Don't get me wrong, I think the idea of going on a retreat with a like-minded group of people in which we are all seeking ways to simplify our lives is great.  To be honest, I enjoy the experience of that setting.  Even if I don't immediately connect with another person in the group, I connect with my Self and the grand Universe.  Sometimes I get ideas on how I view my world, or go forth with an unexpected gain in my Self.  I feel I come out better for having shared in that experience of paid retreat.

Here we have Time, the most expensive, monetary-free commodity that any of us have to do with what we will, and we are willing to spend hundreds or even thousands of dollars for someone else to take charge of our Time and "give" us Time for our Selves.  Does anyone else see the irony here?

So in lieu of spending timeandmoney to attend a retreat right now, I have embarked on a journey into Small Spaces.  With all that I need to get done in a seemingly limited amount of time, I realized that I was not allowing my Self space to actually Take Time.  I moved to Ireland with plans to take advantage of as many opportunities as presented themselves.  My first month here, I traveled every weekend.  I attended as many sessions as I could find, explored the city, went to classes, joined clubs.  My calendar was so booked I forgot to allow space to process all my experiences.  Running from one activity to the next, planning the next outing before I finished the one I was currently experiencing, taking photos to help remember so the moment I looked back (likely months later) I could recreate the time, I was so disjointed from the moments, the special places, the here and now, that I was experiencing my Self to exhaustion.  It wasn't until I had a night planned to attend my so-far-favorite session and instead fell asleep by 9pm that I realized if I'm actually going to enjoy my Time, I need to be present in the moments and be present after the moments to appreciate the experience.

After several lengthy journal entries on Time, Space, Awareness, and Self, I am seeking out then relaxing into the Small Spaces.  I still have a lot on my plate.  I still have articles and books to read for my courses.  I still have places I want to travel to, sessions I want to play in, stores I want to shop at, and restaurants I want to try.  Within all those experiences, there are Small Spaces tucked into the corners: five minute breaks from reading that essay or chapter, the wait for the bus or train or plane, time before tunes begin, moments between placing an order and receiving the meal.  In these Small Spaces rests the Time for my Self, the Time to process, to figure out what has happened, and to plan what happens next.  I don't need to significantly change my plans or my schedule, I simply need to recognize the Small Spaces, seek them out of the general milieu and allow my Self to take advantage of their presence. 

Because I Don't Skydive

One afternoon while packing my house up to move to Limerick, my mom confronted me with THE question:

Why Irish music, anyway?

   It seems like such a simple, straightforward question.  Four little words, surely a few words to answer and move on, not a topic of length and debate.  To those of us who have found ourselves entrenched within the Irish traditional music scene, it's not a matter why we pursue the tunes to such great lengths.  We just do.  It is what it is and we love it.  Trying to explain it to an outsider with any degree of success is like trying to explain color to someone who sees in black and white.  It is only explainable to a certain degree until one side or the other just has to nod, smile, and say they understand, before continuing on with their lives as normal.  Irish traditional musicians see and hear something incredibly special and enticing within the music, the community, the instruments, the craic; something that is difficult to view from the outside.
     So why Irish music, anyway?
     As an outsider entering the tradition, it is even more difficult, I believe, to explain why we become constant listeners, why we become constant players, why we become obsessed with this foreign music.  Someone who was raised in the scene might have a simpler answer to "Why Irish music, anyway?"  It is what they have heard  since en womb and often played since they were old enough to sit upright by themselves.  It is as much a part of their life as taking the evening meal together is in some families.  As an outsider that question becomes a daunting shadow; family and friends outside the obsession don't always understand your lifestyle.  They question your choices and your mental stability.  They don't accept a simple, straightforward answer, even if there was one to give.
     Why Irish music, anyway?
     I am thankful I was able to meet a (relatively new) friend up in Ennis last weekend and then again in Tulla this weekend.  We are both in the same boat as we were not raised in the Irish music tradition, but have entered it from the outsider's point of view.  We both have traveled extensively to find tunes and build relationships with others that fulfill this longing for the music.  We have both spent hours in a week listening, practicing, playing with others, picking apart techniques and styles of famed players, trying to replicate their sound in order to become more fully ingrained in this tradition.  And we are not alone.  I have friends that have moved halfway around the world to be close to good tunes, friends who have selected cities to live in based on whether or not there was a session close by, friends who listen to little else but the diddling fingers of their favorite Irish traditional musician at the time.  Many of these did not grow up in a family of Irish musicians, but have come to it of their own accord, for one reason or another.
     Anyway. Why Irish music?
     Since our meeting in July, my friend and I have extensive discussions and created many theories regarding a variety of things Irish.  She is traveling now with her husband and her father and mother in-law.  They were kind enough to let me join them for a few days during the Tulla Trad Festival.  Our make-up was as follows: two deeply entrenched Irish musicians, one interested and learning the fiddle, one who appreciates hanging in pubs drinking tasty liquids and friendly conversation, and one who doesn't mind tagging along for a bit to these (seeming to her, I'm certain) ridiculous activities. The balance of our group made for some interesting discussion and debates about music, playing, learning, and living within a traditional music society.  It was not far into the weekend when the question was raised:
     Why this obsession with Irish music, anyway?
     Such a question has so many layers and angles, but during our exchange, we hit on an interesting comparison, I believe brought to light by my friend's father-in-law.

We play Irish music because we do not skydive.

     Yes, I am sure there are Irish traditional musicians out there that do skydive, but let me delve into a bit deeper.   As a regular session-goer, there are several things you can do at any given session.

1) Enjoy the music: sit back, listen, relax, and have a drink (beer, whiskey, and tea are the culturally accepted choices),
2) Bring your instrument and join in when someone else starts a tune you know,
3) Learn tunes on the fly within the safety of large numbers (NOT recommend for small, intimate sessions, when someone is playing a solo or duet, for a chance to "noodle" through a tune, an excuse to accompany or harmonize because you don't know the tune, or if you play an instrument in which there is no dynamic control!),
4) Start a set.

     Of these options, words I've heard often associated with the fourth are:
     Maybe once I've warmed up.
     I'm a bit rusty, maybe next week.
     When I think of a good tune.
     No.

     It can be terrifying as a new player, or someone new to a particular session, to be asked to start a tune.  In the world of an outsider entering the Irish music world, it may be akin to skydiving.  You know you want to do it.  You've seen others do it, and do it to degrees of highest success.  You understand there's an excitement that can come from leading a set on your own.  But you also understand the pure terror those little words, "would you like to start a set?" can bring to your head and fingers.
     Given the stress of this step on the way into traditional music, jumping into the world of starting sets can be a serious problem for many players.  All eyes and ears are on you.  The possibility that you will mess up a transition, switch B parts for another tune, not get the attention of the group when you are ready to change, or completely stop at the most inappropriate time causing a train wreck and a disastrous cacophony of sound, is extremely high.  But once you've been in this world for a little bit, you know that starting sets at sessions pushes you further along your work toward becoming an Irish musician.  Perhaps not the pinnacle of existence in this world, but certainly a leap toward the level of becoming a full participant in a session.  It marks movement from follower to leader, from bystander to contributor.  Starting a set takes an act of courage, knowledge, practice, and a bit of faith.  You can train and prepare in your own time for the moment, but when the instant arrives to jump, you have to trust in yourself and allow the space to fall.  As with many activities, it is the first time that is the most intimidating.  Once you've jumped out of that plane, it gets a bit easier each moment you come up to that open door again.  And upon a safe landing, the satisfaction of your accomplishment makes it worth every moment in trepidation.
     Skydiving has never enticed me to jump.  Irish traditional music entices me to train for the next dive every day.

Finding sólás

Dictionary.com defines solace as comfort in sorrow, misfortune, or trouble; alleviation of distress or discomfort.

Brian O' translates the Irish word solas several ways:

Solas (Sol-as) - light, brightness
Solas an lae (Sol-as un lay) daylight
Solas (Sol-as) - enlightenment
But tonight especially:
Sólás (So-lawss) - comfort, reassurance, consolation

It has been an intense evening, in need of both solas and sólás. Shortly after we arrived at my grandmother's house outside Chicago, the gusts and lightening rose to knock power in and out. Not a steady blackout, but a constant brush with darkness. Teasing, threatening. Despite, we managed games and dinner, and a bit of light hearted (croí solas) talk.

Not all was croí solas. Throughout the evening my grandmother sank further into the darkness (gan solas). Well into the stages of Alzheimer's, conversations became strained as we repeated the same banter: where did we live? how long were we staying to visit? did we know her songs were on the radio, stolen by the lady who came to her house? wasn't it nice she could come visit our beautiful house; it reminds her so much of her own!

That last comment hit me hard each time she came back around. No, Grandma, this is your house. Oh, really? She'd answer, truly surprised. I live in a nice house I guess.


She doesn't have a home any more.


To her, home is 40 years away, in a little house on Nelson Street in Chicago. Not her house on Pitcher Drive from my own childhood memories; hunting for fireflies or playing games late into the night. And certainly not this place, where strange ladies come and steal her songs to put on the radio, and she always has her friend underfoot (who was hired several years ago as a live in aid). As we left, she told us how nice it was to meet us. It was all I could do to not hold back tears.


Arriving at the hotel, my fiddle became my immediate solace. My comfort. My light in the darkness. Sólás.

The Session Dilemma

I have a secret.



I've quit.  Cold turkey.  No more.



Except maybe for social reasons.



Sessions are now a thing of the past.  For now, anyway.



As I'm working on these tunes, cleaning up (and dirtying down) habits, I'm finding I can play at home, alone, for hours.  I feel like I'm making great progress in my technique and confidence.  Although some days, as to be expected, are better than others, I am feeling like I'm improving.

Except for when I go to sessions.  About the last three or so weeks, I've found each session I've attended to be a frustrating and even debilitating time.  Attending sessions I find I cannot focus on the tunes with the detail I've found a deep rooted desire for.  I cannot allow the space in the tune, and especially the time to (gasp!) practice a tune during a session setting.  Given the amount of effort it takes to relearn a music, I feel like I'm simply reinforcing bad habits when I play with groups of others.  So this is it.  I'm done going to sessions.

On that same note, I've also significantly cut back on my listening.  Though Majella encouraged submerging myself deeper, I recently found that when I am listening (too?) much, I implant what I think I hear over my playing, instead of hearing my own playing for what it is.  Perhaps seems counterintuitive.  Nevertheless, has been quite an effective strategy.

Playing has been upped to a minimum requirement of 60 minutes each day.  More often than not, I don't complete what I feel I should do for a day in those meager 60 minutes.  I am working at starting playing earlier in the day so I don't feel I'm impeding on other crucial activities (such as sleep. Which apparently my body has decided it needs more of than it's been getting and tells me this with great gusto).  Day 330 and I make sure I get my minimum, but I haven't sorted a way to make sure I start playing sooner.

Will work on that.