Forget it all

I haven't written in a while. I mean to every day but for some reason these past two weeks--with being sick and on the move, I lost my literary mojo. I've been absorbed in the book Wild and dealing with the usual writer problems of having a gazzilion things to write about and not finding one of them worthy. I've also been trying to live in the present moment and get out of my head a little bit.

About that...

I guess that's why I write. Because it's the one way I can actually get out of my head. So here I go.

The last time I wrote was back in Killarney. I went on a 4-day solo excursion to Clonakilty where I did as I promised I would and worried my heart out. I stayed at a beautiful B&B that is run by an adorable elderly couple. I was afraid they'd hold a tight ship and be teetotalers but within the first I realized this was not the case when the father of the home asked if I'd like to have a nightcap with him. This nightcap was a full glass of whiskey. He later asked if I wanted another! They had four daughters and understood what it was like having girls around the house--the chaos and need for independence. They had one daughter who sounded like a kindred spirit of mine who they told me would sneak out of the windows at night and come home drunk in the wee hours of the morning. She now owns a pub in NYC and is "more American than the Americans" and with no plans of ever coming back to Ireland. Oh the things we do to our loving parents...

Those days and evenings we also spent talking about America, Ireland, family, politics, and travel. I went out one night but had more fun hanging out with them in their sitting room watching Ireland's Saturday Night Show and Irish soap operas. Through watching these shows I've stumbled upon some interesting and even depressing facts about Ireland which I would like to address in a separate, more intimate post.

I can't say what pleasure it was staying there. Waking up late in a bed of mine own to have the most indulgent and tasty breakfasts they themselves made. I walked about the town and along the coast during the day and relaxed in the pubs or sitting rooms with them in the evenings. I'm not sure most B&Bs do this but they truly took care of me. Maybe it was because I was on my own. Maybe it was because it was like having a daughter living with them again but it was just the TLC I needed. Every time I was around, "Would you like a sandwich?" "Some soup?" "We'll have a nice cup of tea before you go out?" I obviously never declined their offers and was fed like the ravenous travel child I've become, licking my bowl of homemade soup clean that their daughter made. Which was incredible.

Sometimes their grandchildren came around and that was just the tiniest thing that made the stay perfect. They told the children to leave me alone so I could rest and be in peace but do to my adoration of children they came to me and I enjoyed every minute of hanging out with them as if I were back home with my nieces and nephews. It warmed my heart to be called "the lady" when they made me surprise lego creations and told me funny stories about their cousins. Their grandparents were stunned and told me time and again that they tend to stray from guests, shy and uncertain. But not with me. "There must be something about you," Noel told me. "You're very good with kids," said Chrissie. I'm just part of the amazing Auntie Brigade.

Since then I've bussed it to Waterford, Tramore, Kilkenny, and back to Dublin where I basically live on my adorable friend's couch. I'm still in love with Ireland. Dublin feels like a home to me. The infamous statues, churches, and castles are all a normal part of my new and familiar landscape.

I love my friends and family but I don't miss home yet. Wherever home is.

I do however miss American food sometimes. That is until I have the most incredible pancakes at some cafe in say, Tramore, and decide once again that everything in Europe is actually better.

The towns of Tramore and Waterford resembled towns in America. They're hilly coastal towns--places I could imagine on the east coast or near L.A.. Sadly, I've seen so many buildings empty and dead. A sign of the crash that was felt allover the world. The towns also open late which is actually refreshing. Like, go ahead, take your time. Relax and have a nice cup of tea. I thought about L.A. a lot while I was in Tramore and Waterford. I think about L.A. a lot in general. It's strange how connected I feel to Los Angeles and how protective of her I've become. I miss the sun and that bounce you get in your heart when you step into the street because something in the lights and air make you feel like anything is possible.

I suppose it is that exact feeling which I miss more than anything and am constantly striving for. If you really did believe anything was possible, the world would be a field of endless wishes. Each one you'd blow into the heavens and smile, believing your wish would come true. I'm not sure I understand the idea that birthday candles, weeds, and coins as being magical tools that hold the power to make a future dream come true but I will tell you this, I've blown on a lot of weeds and have  tossed a lot of coins into fountains.

One such wish is to be over my past. Over the fact that from the past I've landed where I am which I still feel insanely uncertain, uneasy, and guilty about. I want to be over the heartaches and men who've broken my mind as well. The ones who make me seriously wonder if true love is possible. The ones who've hurt not only me, but my friends and family like the one I wrote about last time in particular. The time wasted and yet not wasted and everything that happened afterwards. I did the rebound thing, fell in love, broke my heart again, then got over it. But what remained of the one before, the one who really "fucked me up," the one who I still find myself writing about--that "schtuff" still remained. Despite the rebound, falling in love again, and finding my strength again. The pain from before was still there.

That's the thing about moving on versus letting go. Just because you move on doesn't mean you've let go and the pain that was there never went a away. In the case of a rebound it was momentarily covered by a bandaid. When I pulled the bandaid off, the wound had scabbed over but wasn't fully healed.

That's the thing about scabs. Once they're exposed to the elements, the slightest brush against even the smoothest surface can scrape the scab, reopening the wound and bubble in new blood. The surface can be a smile, the smallest of touches, or an intimate kiss with another. The blood is everything that comes to the surface the moment you pick your scab. And that everything reminds you of how you got hurt before.

I've picked scabs so many times they have become scars. A permanent discoloration on the skin of my life. There is no hiding them. Eventually someone will get close enough to see them.

So now, after trial and error of various "scar removers" I must learn to live with the scar. It is a part of me. The me in which I have to live with and love with this scar that looks so ugly to me. So out of place. So unnatural.

But it's mine. It belongs to me. I will take it to the grave with me on wrinkled hands.

Wish number 4,953. I wish to be young again. To go back in time. Before the pain. Before the scars. And do it all differently.

Lord knows I wouldn't though. So then what?

"Forget about it." My Irish friend who's couch I've been living on tells me. "Forget about love. Can you do that? Just forget about love? Did you come here for that?"

I think. Technically not but... I answer with a shy, "No."

"Didn't you come here to forget about all of that and the states for a while?"

"Yes."

"So then forget about it. Forget about it all. Forget you went to school. Forget about the states. Forget about love. Because none of that will matter here anyway, will it?"

No.

Back in the states, I got big into quotes. Big time. For real. My Pinterest is loaded with quotes. Particularly ones to help you deal with love, heartbreak, and yourself. I've even posted some on this very blog. A few months ago, I found one that read: "Sometimes we survive by forgetting." I instantly loved the quote and pinned it. But I didn't really comprehend it's weighted meaning until my friend gave me this advice. In trying to live an examined life and use my pain as a ministry, I forgot the art of forgetting.

Naturally, I'll never really forget. But since this concept was blown into my mind I haven't really thought about much of the crap I usually think about. It's as if space has been emptied in my mind and is now available for the new. I've become more open to doing things differently and looking at things differently.

And that is why I came here. I'm learning through both real food and soul food that the way I've always done things doesn't always mean it's the best way.

Some days I still get uneasy. Like when people ask where I'll go after this. Shit. I didn't know I had to figure that out yet. But then my loving friends and family bring me back to sanity. As my father said before I left, "Helena, don't feel like you need to make a decision for the sake of making a decision. If you're still unsure, don't make any decision at all." Thank you for your blessing Dad.

And I'm still very unsure but certain things still ring in my mind as they did back home. Only time will tell...

Until then, I'll go for a walk.

My favorite moment in Dublin is when the sun comes out. Not because I can't handle the changeable weather, but because of what happens when the sun comes out. The moment it does, it seems like everyone in Ireland goes out to greet it. The parks fill with friends and family. So many young people too. Sometimes there are so many younger crowds I feel like I'm at a party I wasn't invited to. Girls in  navy blue velvet hats and cat-eye sunglasses. It's Jackie O meets Lady Gaga in the fashion universe.

La vie boheme.

Iridescent pink hair, skin-tight skirts, and breezy blouses. They're all so beautiful. Girls coming and going from work dressed all in black--their lips popping in color. They smoke cigarettes while lying on their bellies.

Oh and the boys. A strange blend of Buddy Hollies dressed like American jocks and jocks in skinny jeans.

There are tourists drinking beers and kids playing soccer.

My favorite sight are the couples and babies. The couples rest in the sun, reading books or simply enjoying the silence. I caught one man shading the eyes of his lover from the sun which blazed her face. A dog snoozing in the minute crevasse between them. Babies in the background, running wild and curious as pigeons scurry away from them.

These people, the glisten of the sun, the bright green grass, the smell of the water and flowers in the air, and the act of forgetting everything else. This is what I love about Ireland.