Shining a light

Not much to say.. it is deep winter now..the blizzard buried us, we shoveled out and here we are.

Tonight it has been raining....and soon it will all freeze.

I honor winter's deep internal time and rhythms. I usually return to my island musings in the winter and now I feel the clock tick again, as usual.

But...I am busy helping and being with my parents. So all I do now is shine a light on my papers and photos and drawings. I turn on a small lamp with mirrors on the lampshade and keep it lit as I sit here typing.

It is a small symbol for me...a beacon of hope and light that I will find time to turn to it once more.

I shine a light on that archive of work.

If I had stayed.

My huaband and I go out to our country place for a day. It's been a while since I was there and I am eager to see our place again, even though it is falling to the ground.

Our wonderful neighbor has a house that is more like a museum. It is a folk art assemblage of fantastic pieces he has collected over the years. Truly amazing pieces that are arranged fastidiously.

He is a generous person who always has a little mini rummage sale and free table on his front porch. I gaze over the assemblage of objects and pick out the well carved wooden piece of an old woman. A carved piece of wood of an old woman clutching her shawl about her. She gazes at me, smiling with her wrinkles lined up with the grain of the wood.
Smiling and old, just the way I would look had I stayed. Had I stayed in the old cottage that would be me now. Walking the island byways and paths with my old shawl clutched round me.
would i be married? ( ah..that handsome redhaired man I fancied?) or would i be a single woman, living out a hermit's life in my old cottage...
"ah faith going on 30 years now, the creature...ah yes, she came years ago and just never left...ah the creature...she goes to mass regular...she does...some say she's an american..but faith if she isn't an islander now."

yes. Thirty years could have passed on by, and I could still be there. Tending my fire, and perhaps having written my book I would be fine so.

There in wood is carved the life I never led, had I stayed on the island...yes, carved in wood there is the woman I never became.

she rests now, on my table, in a small beautiful bowl of walnut halves...kind of an Irish Venus rising up from some kind of inner beauty....all carved and wrinkled...lines in her face like the grain of wood she is carved from...

That could have been me. Instead I pick up a reminder from a friend's table. Musing on what might have been.

The Forager

It's an early spring here in the Midwest. We are all led outside into the bright sunshine....and I linger by my favorite swimming beach...pushing ahead the date of my first swim because it is already so warm.
I take a short walk by the lake. There by the side of the path are young nettles. I gingerly gather a bunch and bring them home in a plastic bag. On my next walk I gather more and finally I set out one evening last week before the sun set to gather a whole bag.
That bag waited in the refrigerator for two days. I googled "nettle soup" on the Internet and ended up on a Romanian blog. Just to think that my ancestors in far off Romania probably gathered nettles to eat in the spring gives me some kind of comfort.But the labyrinth of the Internet is somehow funny to me. Just google a word, and click a link and who knows where you will end up.
I recalled the recipes I had seen and chopped the onions, the garlic and potatoes. All this went into an old dutch oven that sat on top of the stove..Soon I added in the green nettles to simmer a while...and so they did...memory simmered too..and soon I was recalling my life on the island as a forager of seaweed, limpids and blackberries. Whatever the season brought I gathered. The old islanders told me the good times, the good tides and so off I went with my bag, my dog to the back of the island. There I waded into the low tide to gather carrageen, to gather kranach. Seaweed writhing in the low tides. My dog sniffing around. And once in a while my gaze drifting to the far off shore that I knew was out there. America. Somewhere far away...
Bright sunlight, low tide, me clad in my simple clothes picking the seaweed. Musing now on that moment I feel a sense of wonder at the simplicity of it all. Little did I know the mermaid of musing and recollection drifted nearby...that the particular moment I waded into would be retrieved decades later on a laptop only to be posted to a blog on the Internet. Innocence was mine.

Walking back I carried my heavy wet sack of seaweed back to the old cottage. If I met anyone they would smile and sure didn't I know then that the whole island would soon know where I had been and how much I gathered. My life as a forager.

Back at the cottage I either spread the carrageen out on the wall to dry and bleach to a white brittleness or I spread out the purplish kranach to dry. I would boil up the carrageen with milk and strain out the sand to make a crude pudding. The kranach would either be boiled up into a bright green mass that I ate hungrily with my potatoes or I would munch on the dried strands. Protein and calcium and salt.

An anguished foraging took place when I gathered limpids. Down by the sea's edge I pried the shells off the rocks and threw them into a bucket. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Back home I poured boiling water over the little creatures and then boiled up the lot of them in my iron dutch oven over the fire. Not unlike the one I made my nettle soup in. One batch of limpid soup turned out delicious, the other one like rubber bands. Such is the unfortunate life of a forager.

Now I forage for more memories of my island life and I recall my dear friend Noni.
She was the wise spinster sister of my landlord who knew every bit of news on the island. She was my friend. I recall going out to pick periwinkles with her at the western side of the island. With a wry smile she told me how the old people used to gather them for food. So here I was, a 23 year old foraging with her at the sea's edge for a meal. We gathered up the precious spiraled shells. Back in her old thatched cottage we poured boiling water over them. She showed me how to carefully remove the sliver of scale from the edge with a needle and then pull out the membrane. Not as tough as limpids, more delicate and somehow kind of good with butter over them. She told me more tales of island life as we ate the periwinkels.

Now she is long gone and I sit here remembering. Knowing that as I forage among my memories, there is a lot more to say....

The nettles cooked up great. I pureed the whole batch again and again, ending up with a thick green soup that was actually very delicious with some salt and pepper and tamari. Full of green vitamins, I felt revtalized eating it!!! Nourished by my foraging at the side of the road....and now nourished by my foraging among memories from long ago.

The Wake

Here in 2010 I find myself very busy in March as the snow melts and spring starts to appear on the horizon. My cell phone rings all day long and I drive here and there. I look back to my quiet island life with some solace thinking of it's utter simplicity now that my life is so complex.

My life then, my life now.

My life then: solitude, coal fire, daily weaving, letters from my parents who were busy with their lives, a kind of wistful longing, walks to the shore, meals by myself.

My life now: so many doctor appointments for my parents, watching them age, living with my husband, meals with him, our own house, driving, Internet, cell phone, wistful looks at the pile of island memorabilia on the table by the stairs.

I think back to my island life. How deeply it acquainted me with solitude,and death.
So now, I think back to the rhythm of island life. I am back on the island in early march. Everyone is busy getting the gardens ready for spring, hauling seaweed up in baskets on the back of a donkey. Laying that seaweed down in rows. Cutting the seed potatoes just so. The island stirs back to life. A few tourists are seen. And in the midst of the cycle of the island coming back to life old Petey dies. In fact, right in front of me as I make my way to Mass. There I am walking to mass that Sunday and faith if he isn't walking ahead of me.So he is...And then he falls, and that's it.
Ah sure, the word goes around fast, faith Petey's dead so he is. Petey is a fine strong man from the Formna village. His face had been creased in grief for a long time over the untimely death of his wife...and now he finds his peace.

Somewhere on the island a simple wooden coffin is pounded together. If you listen carefully you can hear the nails being pounded into the sides...and soon, all too soon, the lid.

But first the wake. I know the island rhythm now and I walk carefully up to the house where the wake is held. I push open the door and walk in. A solemn atmosphere fills the quiet space. I am handed a glass of whiskey, or sherry. I sip it quietly, knowing what to do next. Yes, I am now woven into island life and so it is that I am woven in.

When the time is right, I go into the back bedroom where a woman sits with the body. There he is, old Petey. All quiet and at rest, Catholic rest. He has the traditional brown cassock worn by the faithful at the time of death. His cold hands are clutched round the rosary and sure when the talk went round about Petey's death wasn't everyone after saying...that ah sure Petey died on the way to mass....and faith he never missed a day of mass...ah sure, tis how it tis so...what a holy man. and now he lies there.

I take my seat in the aft room again. Eating the proffered cakes and drinking another glass of something strong. I am sure I say the right things, or at least I try to.
Even though I was a single woman I had visited Petey several times on the island. A glint in his eye and a glint in the eye of other's that, faith, now there's a good match for you.
But not even a fledgling romance occurred and now he's dead. And I have taken my place at the wake. Solemn and sad.

Somewhere in my soul there is a Jewish spark flying around, even at that moment. Wondering and wandering, I know my soul is from somewhere else, but where will it land? There's a similar relationship to death between the Catholics and the Jews. The body is never left alone and is placed in a simple coffin. Catholic, Jew, Christian. All, all of it ends in the great mystery. I attend to that moment now, here as winter ends on the tundra.

I walk by the creek here in Minneapolis. There is a lovely reflection of the trees and the melting snow in the waters that are starting to rush by. I sit down and look into those waters. I sit there quietly as spring starts to warm the ice and melt it. I sit there as memory rushes by. I am lucky. I have my memories and my reflections of my island life. Perhaps it all starts to thaw now. The creek of memory is full now, it rushes by and then I am carried away by it...tumbling, tumbling all the way down to the great river which I fasten myself to all the way out to sea.

What you find in old boxes.

Yes it's a long winter. Long as in long. February 17th and I have worked a long day. My distractibilty is a symptom of my fatigue, but I follow it.

Instead of finishing off those paintings of my cat that I started the other night in order to commemorate him...finally, or just watching the Olympics or preparing my props for the Rumi show I am doing in a few days I just drift...Yes, I just drift like a mermaid and go upstairs to the watery place of memory and my island life.

It's crowded in that corner of the house. Is it the boxes of letters and outlines for my memoir? Or is it just the way emotion crowds in for me around that experience? Both. It's dusty. I have not sorted things out and my years of journals shout from the corner.

I won't attempt any organizing tonight. I'll just dive right into a box and see what I find. I am a deep sea diver and the box I choose is a long one. It says Dining Room on it...marked from our move of four years ago. I have a feeling I know what's inside...some rolled up paintings and what else?

There they are are, the most humble drawings I've done. Simple drawings on cardboard from boxes sent to me....Drawings on cardboard of the interior of my old cottage.

I took some photos of them and will tell you about them now. Ah, sure here they are for the tellling..the most simple, humble drawings a person could do.

A drawing of the side room with Joe's hat and a wooden hanger on the wall. Lace curtain at the window.

One small drawing of Joe's hat.

An easy to read drawing of the church and environs.

The most simple drawing of them all. A bag of coal and my pile of coal outside the back door.

What else is in the box? Other paintings I did not even photograph.

A whole collection of cardboard objects that I carefully drew all over....with loop de loop lines.

Crosses, lots of crosses..I was so trying to be Catholic then. Lots of hearts, some with crosses, an anchor and other mystical symbols that I am not even sure about. I did not photograph this collection yet.

And there. The simple handmade blouse with heart buttons that I made for myself. Stitched, stitch by stitch with flowers and utter simplicity and modesty. No bosom will show. Wearing this simple garment I will be as utterly modest and forsaken as any island woman could be.

I will post these items now.

Is there an interested PUBLISHER out there for this project?

Greetings. In the midst of posting these new and old entries from my past I would like to put it out there that I am very interested to find a publisher for the Memoir that I have compiled about this long ago experience in my life.
I have organized memoir essays that detail my life on the island as well as reflecting on the present moment I am in. I have a cartoon graphic novel about my relationship to the storyteller whose cottage I lived in. Fortunately I also have lots of photographs and more drawings than you can shake a stick at. (every brushstroke is a blessing!!) I have worked over this material for years. It is ready to be delivered to the public. Who will be the mid wife? Who will help me?

In the meantime it is winter. I rest inside my memories, my sweet dear memories of Inisheer from so long ago.
Now here I sit at my laptop computer, my cell phone rings, the CD music drifts up from downstairs. I recall my simple existence with no running water or electricity. I remember sitting by the coal fire in the long evenings reading War and Peace or drawing the intricate details of my beautiful cottage....the cottage of the old storyteller...I recall listening to the radio with exactly one choice of station..I remember it all and I fan out my peacock tail of stories...ready to tell you...ready to publish..ready for completion.

Saint Bridget's Day : a short reminiscence

There on that small island I wove day in and day out. Winds moved from each direction. The long winter seemed to start in September with the last of the tourists leaving. Excitement leaving with them, as the island was left to itself and winter's torment and talk.
There I was perched by the fire, keeping warm over the hot coals......Anticipation was my companion as well. I began to know the cycle of the seasons and looked forward to the events that brought companionship and fun. I looked up into the roof of my thatched cottage to see the crosses made from rushes that the old folks had made... They believed that these protected the house from fire.
And as I wove on Saint Bridget's day I waited for the knock on the door that would bring the little girls dressed up as Bridget into the enclave of my hearth and temporary home.
The timid knock came and I opened the heavy wooden door. There stood the daughters of the nurse from the next village over. Decked out in lace curtains, and a bit of finery they came in and sang me a song. I think I gave them cookies or apples or something sweet. I can't remember... but I do remember how they sweetened the day for me. They often stayed a while and we would draw together....little did I know that I would be among so many children in the years to come.
Sweetly they left and sweetly I waved good bye. Sad to see them go as I turned back to the inner sanctum of my stone cottage.
Later in the evening I looked up at the Saint Bridget's crosses...wondering who had made them and when...and if small girls visited those makers of crosses and sweetened their day as well.

SOAP A POEM

SOAP

I stand there naked before the stone hearth
water heating in the iron pot

when it's hot enough
I lift the heavy pot and pour the steaming water
into my chipped white enamel basin that sits on a brown wooden chair.

I will take my bath that is a bath and not a bath
gazing into the swirling steaming waters
I catch a glimpse of myself looking into the basin that holds time.

my past, my present and my future swim round and round
I see what cannot be seen in those shallow waters that conceal deeper waters.

there I am treading water trying to make my way on this small island

I see the long swim through tearful ambivalent waters
that conceal the blossoming of a water lily

there, on that Catholic island
how can I ever know I will eventually emerge from the waters of a mikvah
saying a Jewish blessing, rising up smiling

my bath resumes

a small pink bar of soap
chipped white enamel basin on a chair, a washcloth, a towel and me.

standing carefully near the fire, I wash myself in the half light

no island lad sees my nakedness,
and the pink soap cleans all of me.






-2-

the last chore,
washing my long, long, hair that is braided during the day


at night it streams over my pillow
like a mermaid's as I drift through dreams

I dip my head into the white basin
and pour a small pitcher of warm water over my hair again and again.

finally I am clean, naked and dripping on the cold floor.

I get dressed.

the next morning I lean over the basin once more,
washing my face with the pink bar of soap.

as my braids dip into the water
I glimpse myself at another time and place
with short hair makeup and earrings,
all dressed up and ready to go to shul

A splash of water and I am back in the moment.

stepping out of the old stone cottage
I join the island women walking to mass.

INISHEER: MY ARRIVAL

INISHEER: MY ARRIVAL
At age 22 I landed on the sandy shores of Inisheer. The smallest of the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. There were rainbows dancing on the waters the day I arrived. I knew it was a good sign. Clustered on the beach were the men in their dark sweaters and rough clothes huddled in what I later learned were sheltered places from the wind. There I stood alone on the beach of this small island and I had arrived on the wrong curragh.(canvas tarred boat) Peter, my landlord yelled at me for my stupidity in taking the wrong boat in. (The one not oared by his son) Immediately the subtle personal politics of the island started to weave its net around me. Alone and landed, the same way a shell might was ashore. I had only to pick myself up and listen to the ocean dwelling within.
That day I saw the cottage for the second time. It was newly cleaned and the feeling in the house was one of handmade care.The scent of the lime-whitewash was still in the air. Most of the holy medals had been taken away, the pictures burned, but the Sacred Heart of Jesus seemed to beat steadily on the wall. My heart was beating fast too, as I began to contemplate my lost and lonely fate on this little island so far away from home. The cottage was fixed up in its simple way, as my landlord envisioned it should look for an American to live in. I found so many things in the nooks and crannies of the storyteller Joe Martins old house that I now inhabited. I reached in to the dark little square nook on the left side of the hearth and found his pipes, gnarled and worn, with cloth wrapped around them to keep them sound. I could almost imagine him puffing on this very pipe as he told a winterÆs tale to a rapt crowd in this very cottage.
His wife BiddyÆs knitting needles were in the right side of the hearth in a similar dark nook. . They were also wrapped round with cloth and thick with grease to keep them from rusting. How many stitches did she click as JoeÆs stories wound round the cottage and knit up the long dark night with fable and lore Peter started the fire with a leftover thick candle from Christmas time.. The sweet smell of turf filled the air. The smoke drifted upwards as thousands of fires had done before. Every action bearing a secret.
The first time I saw the cottage it was shining in the shadows with the sun high in the sky behind it. Immediately I knew that this was the place I wanted to live. Without thinking or carefully planning out the days ahead I agreed to rent it. Little did I know that this impulsive move would lead to a three and a half year sojourn on this barren and lonely island. A few days before I had made the rocky crossing to the island with my friend Paul. Crashing up and down with each roll of the waves, we held on. The gray skies tumbled together and the depths of the sea curled around the sides of the tiny boat. Inside the perimeter of the island we were safe. We docked, spat up by the waves.
As we walked the back of the island a few days later I casually asked an old man who weÆd met if there were any houses to rent on the island.öAh, faith there are a few cottages for rentö he said. His kind face framed by a wool cap and homespun clothes. The humility of his presence moved me.`. . I inquired no further. The next day we planned to set sail to the other islands. The rainy day kept back the boat in Galway. As we huddled in the pub for warmth another tourist relayed a message to me,öNow, arenÆt you the girl looking for a house to rent?ö IÆd almost forgotten that I had asked. The secret hand of the island had plucked me up. Drawn out of the waters like a fish, I felt myself on a new shore.
We stayed in the cottage that night. The old musty scent enveloping me. Days and years
of the past wafted around me. Being in the cottage settled my body that had traveled so far for so long. Lining the walls were clusters of holy pictures, heavy with smoke, hard to decipher. The
halos of the saints shining out, a few inscriptions denoting a pathway through pain. Suffering redeemed by a holy formula and whosoever remembers and adores the sacred heart of Jesus will have a happy death....only so many hail maryÆs and the fires of hell will be that much farther removed in the long gray halls of purgatory where one waits after death.
One candle lit up the curving walls of the old house. The stones set in place so long ago to form this dwelling in the bend of the hill, beneath the shadow of the ancient castle. I dove into the smaller room across from the fire. Among the bags and baskets emerged a wheel and then a standing wooden structure. A spinning wheel! It was intact with rusty scissors holding the straw part in place. The old ways began to reveal themselves.
The coal fire burned into a red glowing pattern. Sparks flew upward. The Jewish spark in my soul remained concealed there on this Catholic island. High above me, the Saint BridgetÆs crosses held their place, stuck into the beams, guarding against fire. Every year the old people gathered rushes on Saint Bridgette Day.They fashioned a cross that they believed guarded the house from fire. The wise old people whose stories were retold many times. Their hard work and suffering a constant reminder of how they lived. . Tucked into the hearth, seated by the fire on a small bench, it was not hard to imagine the old times. I felt the spirits move.
********

THE STILE

The Stile

Its another bitterly cold winter morning. I get in my car to go deliver a job application. I know it’s a stretch and I know I won’t get it, but I try. On my way to work I realize I do not have my cell phone.

I pull up in front of my house. The shiny icy snow mound covers the entrance to my sidewalk and home. I cannot jump over it. The snow and ice glisten in the sun. I feel its cruel certainty.

I try. And then get down and go by another route.

Another busy day at school and yet I keep pestering people to tell them my winter tale of obstacle and frustration. People roll their eyes as I badger them. Winter is in its ruthless faze and we are already tired of it. Everyone has their own story of survival and we are sick of it already. There are three more months of it. The temperature hovers at zero.

Later in the day it comes to me. My need to tell the story of trying to climb over the snow mountain. That moment has triggered a very deep memory for me. One that I have not examined before. Yes. The tale I have to tell is of jumping over the stile to my cottage on the island. It was the only way to get there.

So now dear reader come with me as we approach my old cottage. Jump over the stile. Leave the twentieth century behind. It is deep winter now. I have tales to tell. Come with me. Now

*****************
So, the island was small, there were hills and bumps. Unpaved roads. I lived up on the top of a hill. There was a natural resting place at the bottom of the lumpy hill. There women rested on their way to mass, while waiting for others to come from the farthest village. There, the lads gathered at night on their way to the pub. Their lit cigarettes, the only punctuation of the dark, dark night. There. There I would look out to nearby County Clare or over to Galway…or gazing farther south to the Connaught Mountains. Yes, it was all there before me. Distant places, dreams. In winter there might be snow on the faraway mountains and I would think of home. All those faraway places and there I was on that tiny island.
The old school teachers house was to my right as I started up the hill. There and empty and it not knowing nor me that it would hold me and my husband a decade later.
And old Peteys house to the left. The hill had an odd bulge to it. First one walked up and there was a plateau. There one could rest again, looking out to sea. There one could rest with the other women of the village and hear the latest gossip, or be the focus of it.
There by Josephs house.His eyes were as blue as the sea and his wife Delia had a silvery voice that rang out at the Old Folks Parties year after year. Farther up was my little village. There in that fine gray house to the right was the house of Mike ned Pole.The man all the islanders wanted me to marry. The road curved on up to the enigmatic castle with its faces of mystery all around it. Yes, there it was.
And then the two houses facing each other. People who befriended me and people who were so unceratain of me.

Then the house of Tom and Mary. If you walked up the driveway my old cottage was right behind it.

The Stile. All the fields of Aran were bordered by stone. Solid stone walls that had particular openings. The wall was set and where you went through was a loose gathering of stones that one climbed over. Some times there were stones set in the wall to get a foot hold on.

My stile had stones and some boards. I climbed over it going and coming from my cottage. I left it each day as I went to get water from the well and I carefully set the board in place at night. Sometimes at night I would hear the clattering of stones as a donkey came near….one night I heard the clattering of hooves out there. I looked out through my tiny window to see a white horse….as if out of a dream or old Joe’s storytelling. It was then and at other moments that I knew I was living in a dream.

The Next Day
It’s snowing and icy. I drive down the slippery alley and bump over the frozen lumps. Winter is eternal here on the Minnesota tundra. My memories enliven me. I jump over the present moment back into the past.

Welcome to my new Blog

Greetings.
Welcome to my new Blog. This blog will take you back in time with me to when I lived on an island off the west coast of Ireland for three and a half years from 1975 to 1979. I look forward to sharing my memoir experiences with you rhrough my journal writings, essays, poems and artwork created back so long ago.
I lived in the cottage of the old storyteller Joe Martin. It was a beautiful stone cottage lovingly patted out by hand nestled into the hillside not far from the famous O'Brien's castle.The house had one main room, the kitchen and a large bedroom off as well as a small side room. The dresser held all kinds of beautiful delpht patterned dishes.I lived a very simple, primitive existence. I wove for a small living, wrote and painted. The pratical things I learned were how to keep a coal fire going, how to knit, how to gather seaweed and how to survive on very little. There I lived among the amazing islanders who knew the wind, the waves and each bend of the weather. I dedicate this blog to the islanders of Inisheer who taught me so much.