From my pub to yours…

One of the reasons that I choose to return to Ireland so often is that I find this country an open vein for inspiration. To the uninitiated , I’m not talking about the Oh Danny Boy type of shamrocky inspiration, it’s more a weird ineffable vibration that pulses through both the concrete dirty of Dublin and the mundane beauty of now-familiar towns throughout the island. Maybe this is my personal Danny Boy. Either way, I find that coming over here does wonders for my mental health.

Ever since moving to my nation’s capital, I have combatted an ebb and flow compulsion to craft some sort of diatribe against residing there. I keep putting off doing it though, largely because I figure that the key to tapping into DC’s finest points comes from within myself. You don’t like the place where you’re living? Maybe you just need to change out your eyes.

Often when I find my backyard brain grumbling about something (or someone) bothersome, I try to turn that complaint on its head. The very thing that I find grating is usually just a reflection of myself– and not the subject in question.

But still, as we grow old and start to respect our personal operating patterns, we all eventually pick up on how we are best suited to live our lives. Sure you can adapt to certain situations, but I sincerely believe that if you neglect the most basic tenets of your proclivities, you’re going to carry out a life that is laced with sadness. This could manifest itself in anger, irritability, substance-related escapism…I dunno. I’m not a doctor, but I can tell you that some of the most sour people I know are not the ones that seem to be living in a way that makes them happy.

I know this because I’ve been there.

And so I now come back to this country as often as I possibly can. When I come, I stay with gracious friends who not only know me incredibly well, but they are also artists who believe that life must be lived in a way that demands remaining true to yourself.

Quite often I think about my ten year exile from Ireland, and how the moment that I finally returned in 2009, it was like I had reclaimed a long-lost key to a forgotten about and locked door. In returning, I felt both gutted and rejuvenated. The scales of a decade’s worth of build-up were dropped from my eyes in an instant. On that trip I picked up my pen and paper. Writing was once again a very serious thing, and I wondered how I had ever had adapted to leaving a life that was painted with so much color.

Maybe there is something to those aging Irish-Americans who cry in their beers whenever it’s last call in the pub and they hear the pipes a-calling. Good God. I’m getting old. I’m growing into the cliché.

But at least for me it’s a true cliché.

My goal in writing all of this is not to tell you some depressing Christmas eve tale of low grade redemption. Instead, I would hope to offer up a holiday gift that might serve as a wake up call of sorts. If you feel dulled, if you’ve grown too satisfied by executing the stupid day-to-day motions with minimal incident, then I might offer up that you’ve veered onto a path that doesn’t have your name on it.

Everybody should know where to find their places of sanctuary– be they physical or otherwise. For me, my refuge typically comes in the form of a crowded transportation hub that necessitates a passport. For you, it could be walking in the woods or teaching your kid how to simulate a loon bird call with your hands. Whatever. You just need to have places in your life where you can be reminded that, “Oh yeah, this is how I’m meant to be living.”

If you don’t have any of this, then I believe that you’re in a dangerous space. It is here that existence becomes a place that is ripe for recalibration– and this adjustment may not happen on your own terms if you don’t refine your living accordingly.

These days, one of my major efforts is to try and try and keep my ship upright by keeping current with the things that I tended to push aside in the past. Ireland is far away, Ireland is expensive, Ireland means that I must pack a suitcase. It’s so easy to find an excuse not to do something that looks like an indulgence– but I can tell you from personal experience that preventative maintenance on your personal sanity is not an indulgence.

Sure, the Guinness here is superior, as is the good craic that comes with reconnecting with old friends. But those things at the end of the day are symptoms of a greater issue. I’ve got to come here, because in doing so it reminds me not only of who I am, but also of the type of life that I am supposed to be living.

You can’t wrap any of this up, but for me it’s a happy Christmas indeed.