A natural foods store draws my attention.  Behind the counter sits a dark haired beauty with a presence that fills the space.  Karen Garvin and I become fast friends, in a matter of moments.  She says to me, “you have gypsy blood, as do I.”

Karen and I

A healer, mother, wise woman, she has been tried by fire and made into gold.  Despite the trials of a life that could foster bitterness, she is joyful and radiant!  She tells me she has a good friend she knows I need to meet, within an hour he is at the door.

Alan has a boyish charm, an intelligence, wit, an orators skill, that raises the bar.  He is a proclaimed hedonist, a Self led and soul taught man.  We wander the streets until ending up in a field that has a commanding view of the land. A weathered blue folding chair, a working man’s throne, sits a lone sentinel in a tangle of wild overgrowth.  He rolls a cigarette.  Green even in winter, it is cold enough to see our breath though the skies are clear and the sun is shining.

Our conversation seems to create itself and we follow one another into terrain that opens us both.  Alan shares his knowing about the Sheela na gig.  He says that when the Vatican attempted to control the Irish King, the King had the image of the Sheela put over the threshold of churchs, castles and other prominent buildings a blatant, “fuck you,” to those who attempted to unseat the sovereign, the Goddess. From the beginning of known time, the Goddess has ruled this land and the King was a devoted servant; betrothed through sacred sexual union with the Goddess herself.  It is said that she appeared to him as a crone, not a youthful and desirable maiden. The King by lying with her had to intentionally let go of his passions, illusions and desire for the superficial and transient, in spiritual terms, the ego.  He made his union consciously with the wise and immortal, only then was he fit to be King.  The Irish are legendary in their resistance to foreign invaders, even to this day you sense their fierce independence, and freedom of spirit.  Alan is passionate in his storytelling, and I find myself in another place and time.

My days in Kinsale are seamless.  Karen takes me to her place of pilgrimage, a truly holy place.  Guagan Barra was founded by St. Finbarr, the patron Saint of Cork.  The oratory sits on a little island in the middle of a lake where a pair of mated swans glide on glass smooth water.  The air is mountain fresh, and fills every  hopeful cell. The river Lee finds its source in the surrounding mountains.  We walk in a hushed silence.  In a circular stone enclosure are several little caves where the monks of long ago slept.  We enter the solitary dampness of these ancient wombs, and trace our hands over moss blessed stones that have endured for centuries.  Once again I am struck by the relative micro existence of this fleeting life, of the bones within my body that will someday be soil.  Entering the small oratory I turn to see my beloved lady of Guadalupe in faded glory hanging above a host of burning blue candles.

Our lady of Guadalupe

Here she is, the Goddess once more in one of her many guises.  I have been to her basilica in Mexico City, seen the place where she revealed herself to Diego in his near disbelief.  I wear her image around my neck, a constant reminder of my true nature.

Karen and I walk in a mystical woods just down the road from the island.  It is clear to me that the place is enchanted, a place where the little people make their home, where the elementals stake their claim.  I feel my senses sharpen, as the air becomes fine and the light prevails.  The veil between worlds thins, I step into the unseen.

Guagan Barra

Water snakes its way down the mountain side finding its way into a clear stream.  Trees tower above us in emerald green perfection, wild grasses mound in a pattern only nature could create.  We see a small white kleenex hanging on a little branch.  It is the entry way to a dark forest within the forest.  We cross a small stream, bow low through a narrow opening to find ourselves in a hallowed place.  Karen wraps her arms around a tree, I sit on a raised earth.  A thousand eyes upon us we merge with this sanctum.  I raise my arms to the sky and I thank in whispered hush my beloved for bringing me home, for blessing my life with amazing grace.  I have found my tribe at long last. Surrounded in the darkness, in the midst of day, I feel at peace.

My last day.  Karen and I go to the English Market in Cork, we are going to feast! No meal out tonight, we are going to dine at her home with her two boys, her former partner and their yorkie, Joey.  The market is a food lover’s mecca.  Specialty shops all under one roof.  We buy smelly french cheese, artisan bread, olives in every size, shape and color, fresh basil, sundried tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, home made pasta, organic apples and a mixed berry custard tart, and cream.  So much fun!  She and I are sisters, moving in joyful tandem from one culinary intrigue to the next.  I find myself wanting this time to last, to be kept alive, to be an ongoing experience. We make our way back to the car but not before listening to the lyrical sound of the pipes played skillfully by a Russian busker on the street.  He looks as if he was just transported from another era where music was the bloodline of the people.

I awaken at 4:00 am.  The city sleeps.  I drink my cappuccino graciously made by the night porter.  I unroll my window to let the darkness in.  The air is crisp and sunless. I drive on the left, my arrow still tucked within sight.  I want to close my eyes to remember every bend in the road, the power of the land, the way I feel in my body. Now I am transiting.  A long day of three flights, several layovers, mechanical failures, and late departures.  Air bound, I watch the patchwork quilt of west Cork disappear into the mists.  I will make Ireland my home.

P.S.

Someone asked just this morning what my most amazing moment in Ireland was. It was when a beautiful Irish, renaissance man, serenaded me in the wee hours with his musical genius.  He playfully made the instruments come to life, to tell a story without words. I sat spellbound, as my heart and soul took flight with his. That moment will live in me forever…

santidevi

Landing in Chicago, the city is blanketed in white.  We land on a runaway covered in snow and ice.  A two hour layover that turns into four.  I stare out my window seat and watch the world beneath me.  Drifts accumulate on the wings,  little tonka trucks shovel the impossible, while our luggage sits amidst the dropping temperatures and flurries.  I see a whole line of emergency vehicles following a plane that has just landed.  The wind is howling strong, and relentless.  I call to it, will it listen?  Just to be sure I knew I had been heard, it begins to form small dust devils, lifting the snow into circles of shimmering light.  I have seen it do the same with sand in the high desert, in northern New Mexico where the wind never tires.  A good omen. Everyone on board is anxious, it is a long flight and as I watch the sci-fi of the de-icing robotics I wonder if the alien green fluid will keep us from falling from the sky.  It is midnight before we are in the air, and the cabin grows quiet.

I arrive at Heathrow, a virtual maze of an airport, and a city unto itself.  I have been through here several times but it  doesn’t make it any easier to navigate.  I have less than 45 minutes to get through U.K. customs and make my flight on Aer Lingus for Dublin.  The interesting thing about time is the more you slow down, the greater its expansion.  I refuse to be in a rush, adventure will be had one way or another!  I consciously center my awareness on the fact that there is no where to be other than where I am.  This is how I choose to live my life no matter what the circumstances.  I arrive minutes before they begin boarding flight 165.  I sit behind  hollywood actor, Samuel Jackson who is easily recognizable and conspicuous in his ray ban black sunglasses.  I am relieved to travel in this world anonymously.

A short flight to the Dublin airport, exactly an hour.  I pick up my one “no worse for the wear” suitcase at baggage, grateful to the Gods that it is here and not anywhere else.  I exchange my nearly worthless American dollars for the upgraded euro.  I am on the road again.  I love nothing, nearly as much, as I love being anywhere I have not been before.  All the comfort of the familiar is erased.  I don’t know where I am going or how I will get there.  My immediate dependency on the unseen and the unknown is so keenly felt when I am out of my element,  it makes my surrender ever more sweet.  As I  listen to the symphony of languages being spoken, none of which I understand, I savor my new world.  I have always felt as if I was a foreigner, looking in from the outside.

I take the air coach to City Centre, the heart of Dublin.  I have a room for the night at the Arlington Hotel, a three star landmark with nightly traditional Irish music and dancing.

The Arlington Hotel

This I didn’t know prior to my arrival.  My room is simple with the only amenities I need, a bed and a bathtub.  It is now nearly 6:00 pm and I am starving.  I cross the Liffey river by way of the temple bridge.  No pub food, not tonight.  The Gourmet Burger Kitchen.  More vegetarian choices than I can decide upon.  Falafel with homemade chili sauce, raita, fresh tomato, lettuce and red onion.  Best burger I have ever had!  I wander down cobblestone streets, a brightly painted pub on every corner.

I venture into the Temple Bar and listen to soulful Irish ballads and pop hits from America.  When I enter the Quay Bar the men are gathered around the T.V. watching a football game and drinking beer.  I decide this is a good spot to have my first ever Guinness.  I guess I needed to go to Dublin before I indulged.  The bartender makes sure I understand that it has to sit before it gets its second pour and then once it has formed a perfect foamy head I am allowed ceremoniously to take my first sip.  I love the ritual of course but the taste is even better!  I end the evening at the Knightsbridge Pub adjacent to the Arlington.  The music begs my body to move, but no one’s dancing.  Hand clapping seems to be the preferred show of enjoyment.  Two young, spirited and dark haired beauties join me at the bar.  Anya and Barbara are longtime friends and spent a year living together in Melbourne.  We have an interesting conversation about the existence of spirits and the gift of sight, the economy, immigration woes in Ireland, the beauty of travel etc.  They give me kudo’s for traveling alone.  This gypsy is at home where ever her feet land.

The Temple Bar

My senses are awakened.  The scent of uninhabited land, wet earth, sagebrush and pine. The wind dries my hair into winged curls that take flight and the boundary between this finite self and the natural world dissolves.  Cradled in the walls of the canyon I sigh into its other worldly embrace.  These sentinels have always silenced the inquiry of my restless mind, the ache of my heart.  Their presence a comfort to my transiency, to the briefness of my human life.  From their stony bodies they have witnessed time claim its own.  The erosion that distances history from the present moment never ceases.

I watch as fall begins to gain momentum, stealing the distinction of summers palette, the heat of desert sun, and the predictability of afternoon rain.  I feel the cold breath of snow not yet fallen, of wind that will strip bare the trees that now shade. It is a strange solace to witness this timely and ritualistic death.  Continuity within change.  Resurrection is natures grace, it is also mine.  Having cast a host of paper thin guises, as naturally as a snake sheds its skin.  In my demise I am reborn.  The earth swallowing its history, my history in guiltless pleasure, an insatiable lover.  I am fluid, letting nature form me accordingly, just as the canyons offer no refusal to the water that shapes them. We are destroyed and made anew moment by moment by the subtlety of our own longing.  Something is always thrown into the abyss of the unknown, given as a token of our trust and our surrender. We lay bare our willingness and vulnerability to face the uncertain life with noble wonder.

In the city that steals my pulse I am an exile.  Far from the terrain that reflects my soul, from the broken unevenness that I boldly tread upon.  Nature is my muse, the inspiration of my being.  I follow it into the wilds of my own insistent heart and I lose all claim to knowing myself.  In its ever changing haven I discover secret arroyo’s worn smooth by time.  If I listen closely their hush will speak to me.  There is a sound resiliency in surrendering to what is, accepting my own unearthed selves with curiosity and patient love.  In letting go, I free my hands and take flight.

santidevi