I believe in Fairies

September 4, 2017

When I was a little girl I believed in fairies with all of my heart. I saw them everywhere – not whole, full-on images, but corners of them; glimpses of shining golden or red hair, a sparkle of fairy dust, the sliver of a glinting piece of a fairy's dress. I can't remember particular story titles, and don't remember my mother or grandmothers actually reading fairy stories to us, but I know they must have. Mine and my sisters' passion for books and stories I know we got from my mother and grandmothers. I know, without doubt that they read to us, hours on end sometimes. I wish I could remember. What I do remember is the feeling, the awe, the wonder of stories and the fuel for my imagination. My great-grandmother was a first generation Irish-American, born to parents born in County Cork; there were fairy stories told to her, to be sure. One of her daughters was my grandmother, and of course she passed a love of stories and books down to her daughter, who in turn passed it down to her own daughters; both my aunt and my mother passed that joy down to us, my sisters and I. I have no daughters to pass it on to, but I share my love and passion and my belief in fairies and magic with everyone I can, especially in the imaginations of the children I teach, and to the children of my friends.

When I was in Ireland close to ten years ago my friend Edel rented an 18^th century customs house for us to stay in. Friends from Florida came and went before I got there, but Edel's sister and her family visited from Greece, along with Edel's own family, some friends from Dublin, and myself. It was a grand adventure – verbiage that sounds so Irish, as I hear Edel's words echo in my head. The house is in County Cork a tiny coastal town called Castletownshend. Castletownshend is famous for having on display at the Church of St Barrahane an oar rescued from the Lusitania, the ship sunk prior to World War 1 by German U-boats. Our customs house was on the main street of the town, down at the end of the hill, not far from the castle and across from the well-known restaurant Mary Ann's. The house, long since retired from service, is rented out as a vacation home for tourists. It's full of lovely, wonderful windows, several stories of bedrooms and sitting rooms, along with a small-ish kitchen and a completely fabulous walled secret garden. I was thoroughly enchanted with the garden, the house, the country. My imagination ran rampant as I walked the beautiful roads and countryside. I wanted to pack my belongings and move there, lock stock and barrel. Except it was really a vacation, and in reality, what would I do for a living in the long run? The town is in western County Cork, and the closest villages are Skibbereen, Leap, Rosscarbery, Clonakilty or Drimoleague – none exactly hotspots for an American with a library degree. Still. I loved it immensely. There was something comforting about the village, about Ireland itself. Dublin was a bit too much for me; although it is deemed as a small city; city life is not for me. Visiting Ireland was like going home in a way; all soft and rounded, old, green, familiar, like a comfortable quilt. There is an air everywhere of magic and imagination, and yet, somehow the Irish people are very practical in nature. Quite a divergence of thinking, really. This land renowned for a belief in fairies and leprechauns and magical thinking, yet inhabited by so much practicality and no-nonsense ways of living. 

During our stay at the old customs house I was always the first to rise. The sun, in the summer, comes up early so far north, and it sets long into the evening creating 16 hours of daylight. The bright sunshine always enticed me to get up and head into that wonderful walled garden. The dazzling sun and the heavy dew enchanted me, casting rainbows and glimmers all over the yard. Miniscule spiders spun webs in the night to catch unsuspecting tiny creatures, but in the luminous light of day, heavy with dew, these tiny webs became lovely pieces of iridescent artwork. I remembered reading that where fairies walked they left rainbows in dewdrops – that is how one knew fairies had been there. It was enchanting, even to my adult mind. A few times Edel and Sinead, then around 12, would join me early mornings in the garden. I told Sinead about the shining rainbows being the evidence of the fairy's ball the night before; that the glittering grass was a trail of a fairy's footprints. Her beautiful, young eyes shone with the joy of belief and possibility. We tried so very hard to sit immobile and see if they would come back and let us glimpse them, but even when we sat as still as possible, we never could quite catch sight of them. I loved those early mornings of quiet in that beautiful, wild secret garden in County Cork, Ireland, and I love the memory of those special moments with Edel and Sinead. It was as if I became a part of traditions being passed on and experienced by my ancestors, and I felt such a sense of belonging.

We walked everywhere, those few days I was in Castletownshend. Edel's brother-in-law did rent a car, but it was tiny and not nearly enough room for all of us to ride in. We walked to the old crumbling Roman wall that overlooked a branch of the Celtic Sea called Castle Haven, and during our walks it was a bit like stepping back in time. We walked to the cliffs overlooking the same branch of the sea and it was breathtaking to be so high up, to see the power of that cold; even in July; deep, dark sea crashing onto the rocks as it has for century upon century. We walked through the village, to the pubs, to the shop up the hill. We did nothing special, yet everything was wonderful with a hint of magic to it. Ireland is surely a magical place.

This summer I visited the Hoh Rain Forest in the Olympic National Park in Washington state. There is something about the forests of the northwest. They, too, are magical in their feeling. It is still wild and rugged there, but it is more; it is the wetness of the climate and the growth of moss, and the air of age and mystery that surrounds the park, and that whole part of the country. It is not to be found or experienced in hotter climates or even colder, or those with less rain. There is just something about the right combination of rain and elevation – neither Ireland or the Hoh get the same kind of continual freezing temperatures or snowfall as is common in other parts of country. In the rain forest we walked the Trail of Mosses and it was fantastic. A long walk, in the heat (because even rain forests get hot in the summer), and it was crowded with many people. Still, I loved it. I loved the silence of letting others go by, and sitting on a bench looking at the roots pushing trees up into the air, how little caves and openings were underneath. In reality, this is Mother Nature's doing I know; tree's use each other's life and death to survive. Where one tree falls, other's take root on the downed old friend. As the newer trees grow, the old tree slowly crumbles into soil and it leaves the roots of the newer tree exposed. But to me, this is where fairies and gnomes live; they are fairy trails and paths. It makes the world more magical and so much less serious. It was one of the most captivating and fun adventures, imagining such folk running through the forest just out of sight, giggling behind hands as they played hide-n-seek with me.

It occurs to me that this is part of the romance of reading for me, this escape into my imagination, into other worlds with unlimited possibilities. This is why I became a librarian, I think, unknowingly. In order to share that love and passion with others. My original goal was to work in a museum because I love art of all kinds. I love that creative process and I love knowing what the meaning is in art work, and I love the process of learning about the reasons others create. In library school I took a course in children' literature which was intended for those planning to become school librarians. My professor saw something in me and encouraged me to take that path, and I did.  The road less traveled, and for me, it has made all the difference.

Worlds await us in books. But even more, our world awaits us when we broaden our minds with books. Through reading and exploring we can see so much more than with just our eyes. We can see with our hearts, our imaginations, and the world becomes such a larger place full of wonder and opportunities.

I believe in fairies. I believe in a world just beneath ours, just beneath our realistic knowledge. When I catch a glimmer from the corner of my eye, or a flash of a rainbow in the sky; in a dew drop, I know that the fairies have been here just before me, and I hold on to the hope that my belief in them will continue to open the door of opportunity for me into the beautiful world of imagination, hope, and possibility. 

On Being Happy

I have not been writing. I've been thinking a lot, but not taking time for pen and paper – or typing, as it may be. I've done a lot of soul investigating, contemplation, and so on. I've been learning myself again. So much has changed, as life would have happen. Isn't the old cliché true, the one thing we can count on is change? What I am thinking of tonight is not my 7 week long cross country trip this summer, or the loss of my Mom-Carole or any of the other things that have occurred. I am thinking of my tired, aching legs, I am thinking about the hundreds – thousands – of steps I took today, but how blessed I am to have legs that will carry me, tired as they are. I am thinking, too, of how fortunate I am to have a quiet life to come home to. No dinner to fix, no television playing, no husband, no children who I need to prepare for the first day of school. Most of the time I am a little sad and disheartened I do not have these things, but tonight I just feel like I am really very lucky indeed.  

For the majority of my married life I wanted children. Even as a young girl I always imagined having children; children to pass on my who-it-ness; what makes me tick; lessons gleamed from my mother, my sisters, my aunts, my grandmother. I wanted to pass on my heart and I wanted to be remembered in a long family line. For me, it stops with me. My sisters have children and grandchildren, and they are the ones to carry on what our mother shared with us; her mother shared with her, and so on. It's taken a long time for my heart to be okay with not having children. There are reasons for everything I know, and we are not meant to understand them always, but it was a hard road of acceptance. It took forever to really face the loss of my marriage, my husband, to find my way again, to start a new life, to actually live it again, and to learn to live it well as a Me and not a We. 

Tonight, though, I think of my friends with husbands and children and I think, gosh, I am really lucky tonight. Because sometimes you just need down time, time to prop up your legs, have cereal (or nothing) for dinner (and yes, I will be hungry in the morning.). Sometimes you just want to put on comfy night clothes at 6:30 and curl up with a book, a glass of wine – let the cat snuggle in your hair on the pillow and kitty purrs are the most perfect song to fill the silent house, sometimes. Tonight is a perfectly perfect night, and I am happy. 

Optimism, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"...And e'en in this great throe of pain called Life
I find a rapture linked with each despair,
Well worth the price of anguish. I detect
More good than evil in humanity.
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old."
~Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Optimism from Poems of Pleasure, 1888

The Cycle of Life

February 4, 2017

This morning I am wandering about the house aimless, yet with little tasks on my mind to do – picking up this or that, emptying small garbage cans, making coffee, watering plants, etc. I think I am in avoidance mode. Avoidance mode is that place where you know you should deal with something – a thought, an action, an activity – but you just can’t quite make yourself do whatever it is. I am declaring right here and now that avoidance mode is an alright place to be. Not always, but sometimes. 

I know what I am avoiding, and I guess now that all my little tasks have played out and I really need to get on with my day that I can let a little of it out. I am avoiding thinking of those hard decisions to be made in life. Move, or not. Work, or not. Marry, or not. So many things we have to make hard decisions about. I think the most important decision must be the one that takes us down the road to our own destiny. We are born. We die. What happens in between is living, and sometimes we have to make that decision to lead us down the path to our own death; or maybe it is our own destiny. I had to do that for someone I loved a long time ago. It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made. It was the right decision, I know without doubt, but it was not easy. My mother-in-law made me her health care surrogate, which means when her faculties shut down and hard decisions had to be made, she asked me to make them for her. It took me a long time to sign that paper, and even after I signed it, I wanted to take it back. But I know it was the right thing to do.
To me, our lives are unscripted, yet somehow with pre-written endings. We have free will to choose the paths we travel, but that path always takes us to where we are supposed to be at any moment, always toward the end of our lives. That is a hard truth sometimes, and it probably goes against what others believe, and that is okay. Maybe I am wrong. It does not matter in the end. We walk the path of our lives wondering if we are on the right path, but I think we always are. To me, that means that every breath we breathe, every step we take, every decision – everything leads us to where we wind up. 

So I think of the little moments of my life sometimes – those gone by. They cannot be changed, but each of those tiny moments has made me who I am, where I am today; it is always the right place to be, the here and now. This morning I had little moments of memory of my early teen and teenage years. Of waking in my old bedroom, patchwork printed curtains tied back at the windows, the antique bed and dressers; the beautiful smooth, mirrored vanity. Of the way the sunlight came in, soft and subtle through the sheers in the windows with their slightly wavy old glass. I think of polishing the banister, of cleaning mirrors downstairs, mixing up cookies on the kitchen counter; of the old Charles Chip can on top of the refrigerator. I think of late nights downstairs in the house – with everyone asleep upstairs, of watching out the front windows at the silent, sleeping village; watching nothing special but longing always for something different. Of the sound of the distant train on the tracks, or the low sound of a boat horn on the river as it signaled for the boathouse to raise the bridge so it could continue on its own journey. I think of the dusty smell of metal screens raised in the summer, of the cold, fresh spring air that would pour into the house as we aired it from the long winters. I think of the gurgle of the pool summer nights, and of the soothing sound of the old box fans in the windows the hot nights, pulling in cooler air from the outside. 

I think of these things, and then I know what I am really avoiding. Thinking of my Mom-Carole. How she’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I think of her teaching me to float in Joan Armstrong’s pool many, many years ago – when I was very young; when my parents were still together, and her Spike was still alive and our world’s touched always until they collided in my pre-teen years. How my father and I moved in with her and the boys, after the turmoil and upheaval in all of our worlds brought us all crashing in together. I think of how happy they were for a long time, of how confused the boys and I were, but how much we all were a family, despite it all. And how hard it was. But I also think of how hard she tried. And I think of how she’s been a mother to me, and so often she was there when my own mother was not. I think of how she has supported me and loved me, even after she and my father parted. I think of the changes in her life, and how she became less independent over the years, and how losing my father, Danny, her parents – how all of that really destroyed her confidence and sense of security, and how hard life became for her, despite her often brave face. How bitterness took hold, and it made everyone sad, but no one was able to fill those voids left behind in her life.

I have tears in my eyes, running down my cheeks. I know that life; her destiny has led her to where she is now, and to the decisions she is making now each day; that hard choice to say no, I cannot do this anymore. I am done. That her life will end, and it will not be pretty or easy. I would not want to do it either. But I am in a different place in my life, and I continue to think of all she has done for me, been for me – good and bad, because life is never, ever perfect, and we are never perfect to those we love or who love us all of the time. I think of her, younger, robust, full of life, pride, purpose. I think of her in more recent years, and I know her existence and reason for living has become a shell of what it once was. 

I think of how much I will miss her, because when we are faced with such a reality of loss, I believe we realize even more how much someone’s presence in our lives really means to us. We don’t know what we have until it is gone; or we are faced with the reality of loss, I guess. 

Here’s the thing that is so odd, though. Life does go on. We do not think we can bear it; the weight of loss, and yet we do. The reality of losing my Mom-Carole saddens me, and I feel lost already, even with her still here. I know I will survive; I always do. I value life and love life, and I love the people in my life. But I have survived loss, and I will now. It makes me think of my own life, and all those little moments long forgotten that have transpired to bring me to this moment; to this now and I feel so grateful. To God, my angels, to those moments and all those people intertwined within my days over the years. And it makes me determined to live my life and appreciate those small moments, because each and every one is vital to who I am right here and right now. I love my Mom-Carole. I always will. She has been such an integral part of who I am, and I love her.

A Poem a Day

January 16, 2017

Calm quiet
      Crept up on me today-
I'm not sure when;
       I wasn't looking.
There's been stirrings
      of turmoil in the air
       the last week or so;
It looked as if Turmoil wanted
         To move in.
It's a slippery sliding slope
      sometimes
           but I hold on -
I'm a master of that.
   Today when I realized
      that quiet Calm was here
I didn't rejoice...
   I welcomed him softly,
                               with open arms.

Things Are Spinning 'Round Me

I have so much to do. The truth is, I can't seem to get beyond my own thoughts to get anything done. Writing has helped all of my life – helped to clear my head; my mind. It's a purge or a catharsis, depending on the need. Today, a purge, I think. I began the year with high hopes, and my hopes are not dashed. I am subdued from goings on in the last week, but I still have not given up on the year, and I won't. Life happens. There are things that need to be done sometimes, before others can occur. I just have to be patient and continue to do housekeeping – not a term I like very well, but it is all I can think of. I need to sweep my mind from all the debris tangling there – thoughts of death and life and the huge amount of work piling up around me. 

There is a Jim Croce song going through my head - "Well, things were spinning round me and all my thoughts were cloudy and I had begun to doubt all the things that were me. Been in so many places you know I've run so many races and looked into the empty faces of the people of the night, and something is just not right". That is me the last few days. Spinning thoughts; things are just not right. It is plain what some of it is about – the death of my cousin's wife, the death of Jan Thompson, such a dear family friend. Those things in themselves are hard to wrap my head around. Jan's death –her life was so wonderful and the world she and John created together for 63 years are truly inspiring. Their family – my extended family – they are just the epitome of a family; not perfect, they argue, fight – but they love each other and they come together in times of happiness and sorrow both. I love them all dearly. And Jan will be missed. She and my mom are drinking coffee in heaven, I know. Jan might be sad to have left her worldly body behind, and my mom might be saying, but Jan – it's ok; you will adjust. They will adjust. I have watched my girls for 11 years now, and I promise, it will be ok. They will all join you one day, but for now, look - we can drink coffee and we can smoke, we can laugh like we always did, and we can shine down on them from heaven.

Eryka's death. That is something else. Not planned, not expected, not welcomed by anyone she knew – of course, whose death ever is, right? But she was young, healthy – beautiful; she had a beautiful young daughter who loves her, a mother who loves her – a husband, who, despite their differences, loved her a long time. They mourn her, all these people. I mourn her, and I did not know her as they did. I mourn the loss of her, and I mourn my family for their loss. It is heart-wrenching, and I cannot get my head around why she would take her own life. Suicide is not something I can fathom. I understand, logically, that people are unhappy, and I understand suicide happens. I don't condone it, and I don't believe in it – and I know it is not my place to pass judgment; I am not doing that. I just do not understand it, and my brain says why, why? Why would you do that? No man, no situation – nothing in life cannot be changed. Life changes, minute by minute; hang on; give your life a moment to adjust. I am not arguing for suicide and I am not arguing about it; it is truly not my place nor is it my intention. I just am having such a hard time with the depth of what it leaves behind. The beautiful daughter; the mother; the husband. The friends – the family. The world shifts a minute, immeasurable amount when someone dies. It has to. The course of history changes, even in the slightest bit; the air that is displaced when a butterfly flutters its wings, or a ripple that flows outward in a pond when a pebble is dropped, or someone passes from this world; it can change the world. I feel my heart ripping at the thought of the exquisite pain she must have been in; down inside her soul and how hard her last moments must have been. The depths of that agony are beyond my measure, but oh, the sadness it brings to me; the thought of another human being in so much pain.

Such thoughts are clouding my mind. I have other things happening in my life that just seem so trivial in comparison. I am not downplaying my own life and all that is filling my head right now, but those things – work deadlines and responsibilities I cannot seem to concentrate on; health concerns; daily more and more to do, bills to pay, plumbing issues, the need for a new roof, classes to take, books to read for deadlines; my step-mother's terminal illness and the changes that is bringing to life. It's all there, and it is all part of what makes up the fabric of my life. It is weighing on my mind. But it will all get done, somehow. Those things that we encounter each and every day – they do pass. This moments worries will, in a month, be behind me, taken over by the new worries of that moment. I know that. I just can't seem to stop my head from spinning a little out of control. This, too, shall pass. Life has a way of taking care of such things. I am blessed to be alive. Blessed to have these worries and concerns – these minor burdens. It means that I am alive. I am living my life. I am taking breaths, one after the other. My head is spinning, but it is thinking, and it is trying to come to terms with everything; everyone. I am so, so fortunate. Thank you, God, for life.

Villa I Due Padroni

Even before Frances Mayes enticed readers to visit Italy, I fell in love with all things Italian. My dream was realized in 2005 with a trip to Italy, alone, for 22 days. I stayed in a home much like Stef and Nico’s for 8 days, took cooking classes with the local Italian Mama’s, and have longed to go back since I boarded the plane to come back. To me that is the ultimate American dream – but I can see that it is really an International dream, too; living la dolce vita. Stef Smulders book Living in Italy: The Real Deal – How to Survive the Good Life shows that two gentlemen from Holland are living out the ultimate deal – and Stef wrote of their adventures. What is not to love about that?

I was given the chance to read Stef’s book by way of an advance e-copy from the author. I delayed reading it for a bit, but I am so glad I finally settled in and finished it! What a delight. The chapters are short, comically humorous snapshots of Italian bureaucracy, Italian thinking, and the Italian way of life. But there is more underneath; the story of two people who take control of their lives (as much as they can in a foreign country!) and make their own dreams come true; dreams that they secretly held, or had yet to discover. That is true adventure.

One of the things that struck me the most is the tone of the book. Stef is never judgmental of the Italians and their way of life or thinking. He accepts them as they are yet still maintains his own good humor despite all the very real struggles he and Nico encountered. To experience it is one thing, to write about it and keep the tone light and humorous is perfect for this narration. I am grateful for the gift of this terrific read, and I hope Stef writes more about their Italian adventures soon! I look forward to reading more – and to pay a visit one day soon to Villa I Due Padroni.

Living in Italy - Book Reviews
http://www.duepadroni.it/