Being Irish

... means being an artist of the heart, and an artist of the earth

This morning I celebrate what it means to be Irish, which is to know deeply that one’s artistry is fite fuite, intertwined, with nature, and one’s sovereignty is fite fuite with the land herself.

The snakes were never driven out of Ireland — they just went underground, like the Tuath Dé did, became the Sídhe.

Everything changes, but nothing disappears: it becomes the bog, turns to stone, is buried under heather, under moss & bone… the land still speaks millennia of story in wildfire tongues, the rivers sings an old, familiar tune.

And let me tell you, we are the bards — fall asleep til the imbas forsonaí spits fire from our hearts,

and we write and we make from the soul, dirt under our nails, broken-hearted so the light gets in, and the light gets out —

spreads, everywhere, gifts that reach across the globe — all of them sods of earth, soul in the soil of our art.

Because the land in Ireland could never be colonised, truly — it was always protected by the invisible ones, the snakes, the fae — she chose her kings

and we reign, still — through rain, and pain, and displaced dreams —

we reign, through story, and we rouse hope in this moment on earth when the world needs our songs.

There were years when I lived in the wilderness, walked barefoot on the earth, shaved nothing, wanted for nothing — and I intend to return to it —

but for now I am a city woman, preened & ambitious.

Nature persists, though, will always find ways of reminding me of where my true freedom comes from.

I am fed morsels of wilderness.

A profusion of nettles and cleavers on the corner as I wait for the green light to cross a road on my bike. Daffodils. Ancient trees that line park pathways like sentinels. Some crows that I watch building a nest outside my bedroom window. The foxes that wake me at five am, fighting over some scraps of compost from our bins, two facing off, baring their teeth, and one onlooker, perhaps a wife or girlfriend, begging them to stop (I needed the sleep, but I cannot be angry at foxes — I stand in my nighty and marvel, feel an affinity with them — creatures of the night — cats of the dog world — solo, strange & shy).

All of these living beings come to me as blessings — I bow to their wilderness, and my heart softens, reminding me that we’re all just out here trying to survive.

The morning light dazzles me these days. I often feel myself on the edge of tears, or gasping — to me it renders everything with extraordinary beauty, reality becomes a painting, with clear lines, perfect shadowing.

My joy is echoed by every past moment like this, multiplied by the nostalgia — I remember beach mornings, when the light promised a good day, and we knew we’d get bundled into the car and driven to the coast — the drives where I’d receive the only music education I’ve ever had, through my dad’s cassette tapes.

The other morning my dear friend and I stand outside the front door as the kettle boils, and we let the sun trickle through railing and hedge to dapple our cheeks — it is a quiet, eternal, momentary blessing — and the world is not okay, but right now, everything is.

Nature has its ways, nature gets us both beyond ourselves and down to our true roots — and insists, even in hard places, that life goes on, and all is well.

This is what it means to be Irish — to know that the land is the source of our freedom, the wellspring of our creativity. To daily take inspiration from the living world, and add more, make it more beautiful.