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.