...To Becoming Super Cool, Part 1

Being Convinced, Courtesy of Neil O'Malley

There are things I know only cool people do.  Things like surfing, and skydiving, and hitchhiking.  These are things I am historically less likely to try.  However.  I did not decide on this adventure to give myself a pass on things that intimidate me.  If (when) I experience big fat failure, or people realize I'm a nerd sooner than later, it's for the best.  Pressure's off for me, and how very refreshing to own my weaknesses and vulnerabilities instead of trying to hide or deny them.

Today was a big day, beginning with my decision to surf with the the most lovable trifecta of Irish boys, visiting from Dublin.  Warm and friendly gentlemen towards me, total clowns with each other.  Clearly friends for a long time, but gracious about inviting and encouraging me to join them.  I knew if I thought too much about it I would flake, so I made a valiant effort not to psych myself out.  This was made easier once we learned that our hostel rooms were next door to each other, and there could be no hiding out come morning.

 We donned our winter wetsuits and boots, which began the workout of the day.  Eesh.  I tried to play it cool, surrounded by hunky surf instructors with accents from all over the world.  This was not made easier by wearing a wetsuit.  They wore theirs well (daaayum),  but I'm pretty sure I looked like a lovely sausage.  I did however feel a little better when a fellow walked out with his on backwards and inside out, many thanks to him.

Champion, courtesy Neil O'Malley

We armed ourselves with our boards and marched into the fuh-reezing Atlantic just before the morning rains arrived.  My perception of surfers being cool was only enhanced once I got on my board.  It was such a great workout, for muscles I've known for years, and muscles I'm quite sure I've never before met.  We were surrounded by little pods of children learning from said hunky instructors, and looking very natural (and cool).  I flashed back to some snow ski disasters with Laura Lee, followed by firm scoldings from the preteens who helped us collect ourselves on top of the mountain many years ago.  Kids.

I can't say I had much (any) skill, but I had a ball trying.  My greatest accomplishment was learning how to paddle without falling off... while laying on my belly.  I did manage to get up once... to my knee.  Sigh.  Sweet Neil even tried to help me catch the whitewash, as there was very little umph to the waves, but to no avail.  It reminded me of being taught to water ski by my favorite Pettengills on the Chickahominy so many years ago.

Lehinch, known for best surf in Europe

Eventually we made our way back up the beach, as the boys had to drive back to Dublin, and I had to prepare to hitchhike down the coast to my next destination with the dearest Renae (see part 2!).  I recharged with a fresh shower, hugged our favorite surfer roommates goodbye, and headed out for what would be an even more epic afternoon.

...Over the Cliffs

Made it!  Sort of.

I awoke multiple times the night before to the sound of gale force winds outside.  I knew I was going to attempt the hike either way, but was praying that it would die down enough to get out of Doolin.
Very thankfully, the wind and rain slowed enough for me to begin the trek up after my second breakfast, hobbit-style.

I paced myself under the weight of my pack, hearing the voices of Steph and Syd, my uber-athletic friends who coached me prior to leaving the states about climbing.  There were very few people making the hike on this particular day, which I was grateful for, not realizing at the time that they knew better than to try when such brutal storms were expected.  My heart quickly filled up with awe, and my quads (and glutes, and traps) slowly with lactic acid.  It was f-ing glorious.  

I think they knew it was coming

I have to be honest, I had more fun those first 3 hours than I have in ages.  It is possibly the most fantastic, badass thing I've ever done.  Upon reaching the summit, I began to encounter people advising me in multiple languages to turn around, and not attempt any further distance with my pack, as the wind was unsafe.  As if on cue, my little self experienced the scariest 5 seconds of my life, at a particularly precarious point, with no room for error.  As the wind lifted me and my pack right from the ground, I threw myself towards the mud pit under the barbed wire on my left, to avoid certain death on my right.  Holy shit.  I wasn't able to stand for several minutes, as the wind was literally holding me down under the weight of my pack.

I did continue on past the summit, only because I couldn't head down in what was now a hella storm.  I was unable to walk more than a few feet at a time without being pushed back by the wind, and rain, and at this point, horizontal gravel wailing me in the face.  Right around this point, I crossed paths with two generous American girls who offered me a ride, which I initially hesitated to accept because it meant I failed.  Then I realized I was being a prideful dumbass, and gratefully accepted.

I recovered with several hours of hot tea and red wine with my favorite Aussie, followed by Irish ballads sung by the half dozen locals in the pub next door.  Made me want to cry when I was there, and kind of still does now.  Tonight I'm watching (studying?) a fellow silently emulate 80s Tina Turner that he's watching on the tv.  I'm surrounded by guys who have been out all day surfing, and are cooking themselves surprisingly healthy dinners.  And for tonight, that's enough adventure for me.

PS. If REI was a man, I'm pretty sure I'd marry him.

...Down The Burren Way

Hike over Doolin

I feel like a little teabag, this place is beginning to steep the mess out of me.  It is beginning what I'm praying will be a slow, steady process of learning to let go on every level, slowly steeping out the hurts and regrets and roles I was never meant to own.

Steeping out my false idols, and expectations, and fears.  Changing my perceptions of limitations, limitations I'm learning are more cultural construct than truth.  Steeping out my western inclination of prioritizing productivity above relationships.  Steeping out the racing pace of my insides, and my tendency to draw anxious conclusions, always too quickly.  Exchanging my need for answers with my need for questions.  Enforcing my deep need for wondering, and wandering.  Not helping me to find myself, as some suggested before I left, but rather, helping me to lose myself.

Ireland is not brewing Katie Tea without infusing me with some of its most delicate, riotous flavors.  The sea air, and the humor of the locals, and the rain.  The all-day-long tea, the vulnerability of my roommates, and the unlimited hours of hiking obscure paths in silence and solitude.  It's the gentleness of Kevin, an Inis Oírr local who shyly found me to a few times during my visit, just to check on me, and ensure I was okay.  It's teaching me to respond to what my body actually needs, instead of the shoulds I'm working on unlearning.  It's listening to the Psalms while the sea crashes into the limestone that holds me precariously above the rising tide.  Because geepers, does the western coast of Ireland enforce my certainty of a divine, expansive creator.

The Cliffs of Moher (Irish: Aillte an Mhothair)

There's a reverence here that stretches beyond any religious organization, or relic hanging in the windshield (of which there are aplenty).  It's the reverence of the people for their own land, and history, and language.  It's how the traditional music so perfectly reflects the crashing of the sea against the coast, in ways I never before understood.  It's the reverence with which they steward their natural resources, and each other.

Tomorrow I will try to hike over the length of the cliffs to my next village, which I think is over 20 kilometers away.  It'll be my first long trek with my overstuffed pack, so I'll gratefully dole out my clothes to my sweet, under-packed Swiss roommates.  I'm more powerfully citied-out than I realized, so will stick to this holy, powerful coast until I've absorbed enough of her to move on.

...Into Ireland

Mutton Light, last seen by those fleeing the Great Famine

My sadness at saying my last goodbyes, and anxiety about setting out into this by myself was immediately tempered by receiving my first acts of unsolicited kindness, and first hellos.  And all before my plane left the ground.

Josie, short for Josephine she quickly informed me, was the lovely 73 year old sitting across the aisle.  The aisle of the otherwise entirely empty 5th row, which both she and I had been bumped into at no charge.  Josie shared with me about her 6 children, 4 of whom now live in Philly, while the others stay with her back in Galway City.  She shared about her husband Pete, who died suddenly and recently.  She told me stories (repeatedly, she was mildly perseverative, that Josie) about how badly damaged her shoulder was when someone's luggage fell on her during one of these Atlantic flights.  At least I think this is what she told me, as I understood only about 60% of what she said through her thick brogue.  She was wholly delightful, and I realized a bit into our trip, a bit of a lush.

Found the Fairies

When we arrived, I helped her collect her luggage with her bum shoulder, and she helped me take my first steps into for-reals Ireland.  Immediately upon meeting him,  her son Jimmy insisted on driving me all the way to Galway.  Jimmy reminded me of a slightly more handsome Colin Quinn.  He was grouchy, but his eyes were twinkly and kind, and I felt safe.  Kind of like my dear friend Brady.  There was to be no fuss, nor refuting his offer.  We headed out into the rainy countryside, where he and Josie bantered back and forth, as she clearly drove him a little (lot) crazy.  He even called her "Josie" when he was annoyed, which seemed to be approximately all the time.  Jimmy dropped me at the doorway of my destination, and set me off with his phone number, strict instructions to call him if I needed a ride anywhere (at no cost, he continued to insist), and a kiss on the cheek.  Such perfect, generous provision, and assurance that I am not doing this alone.

Galway Promenade

Since I've arrived, I've slowly come up from under the haze of jet lag, and logged miles and miles of coastline, both by foot and by bike.  I've had Guinness in Irish pubs, which really does taste significantly better here, and befriended the sweet little family I'm staying with.  My initial impressions are of the dichotomy between the untamed, wild coastline, and the seeming calm, patient, hospitable people.  They don't seem to feel at all entitled to space or time, which is a real refreshment from my years in the city.  Nobody even tried to run me over on my bike, which was also, quite refreshing.  They don't seem to be waiting for an excuse to curse each other out or wave fists from their cars.  I've been called love, darling, young lady, and lass without any nuance of creepiness.  Tomorrow I head farther south, to stay in a village under the cliffs.  I could get used to this, for sure.

...Through Good Ol' York

I'm not entirely sure how how to articulate my feelings, or thoughts, or experiences here this week.  I'm sitting outside on Mom's patio, with Lucy at my feet, desperate for her bunny babies to make an appearance and give chase.  We are surrounded by fireflies and bats, and God bless her, now that she's an oh-so-mature 5 years old, she's no longer trying to collect all of them as new best friends.  It smells like the fresh hay that's stacked across the street, and the berry patches up the road, and when I was 15 and running around the east side with girls I believed were the best besties a girl could have, sober of substance but so very high on each other.

This week has been simple.  95% family, supplemented by a very few old friends.  Lots and lots and lots of consecutive dives and cannon balls by our babies who are equal parts fish and cherub.  Remembering how much I love to blast the radio when I drive alone, especially if I know the words or need to work. it. out.  Scrambling to get everything together, making very consistent bubblehead mistakes that include leaving both my wallet and my hiking shoes in Chicago.  Rescued only by the fact that Geoff knows me well enough to check my work, and loves me well enough to save the day (thank you!!).  Ordering my remaining supplies without enough time for actual arrival before I fly out (sigh).  Trying to explain to different companies why I can't provide a new address that I don't have.  Testing my mom's patience as I completely took over her house in all of my flustered glory. Reminded of so many memories, and adventures, and misadventures.

Camping Out, Maria, age 5

I wouldn't trade York being my home, the base from which I first jumped.  I learned my first lessons, and gifts, and frailties here.  Made my first adult decisions, chose my faith, and developed a deep desire to work with populations of people that are often under-represented, ignored, and misunderstood.  Where my brothers and sister and I puzzled together what it meant to grow up as a collective unit instead of only singular individuals.  Our bunkbed wrestling and cornfield kickball  evolved into a fiercely loyal little team of 4 who would see each other through some dark days.  A quad who laugh inappropriately in public at the same things, read one other from across the room without words, and who honestly believe that together, we can do anything.  I know, for damn sure, that I can set out on this crazy adventure because they are my people.  I will continue to draw on Erin's strength and faithfulness, and Christopher's heart and humility, and Timmy's depth and compassion when I can't muster my own.  Because I have done so for over 34 years, and they haven't failed me yet.

York has been kind to me, and very gratefully, remains so to the people I love most.  I'm entrusting my most beloved to you, you "first capital", you.  Take good care of them.  Keep growing your apples, and hardy little babies, and Harleys.  Keep teaching us to drive stick on your windy hills, and that bats and skunks are actually kind of cool (except when you accidentally smoosh one in your driveway).  And please oh please, remain a safe place to land after an arduous day at work, or a
lifetime away.  I'll be seeing you.

...Out of Chicago

I have always referred to her as a she.  She is quite a lady, my Chicago.  A concrete contradiction.  Of beauty and violence, of blizzards and beaches, of stunning diversity, and persistent segregation.  And I love her, despite how she makes me crazy, and fuels my tirades about the ills of, well, everything.

If this is my love letter to my chosen city, I want to tell her that I'm grateful.  For how much she's taught me, and for keeping me humble to the fact that I actually know very little about anything at all.  For teaching me to persevere through some gnarly, painful experiences.  For both strengthening me, and softening me.  

For exposing me more personally to the reality of systemic racism.  For further cultivating my deep desire to DO something about it, both here and abroad.  For allowing me the opportunity to learn from men and women who align their lives under the assertion that in fact we haven't yet arrived as a nation or a culture, but we're up to the task to get ourselves there.

For the privilege of relationships with people from all over the city, and all over the world.  Patients who persevere despite staggering obstacles, limited resources, and inconsistent access to broken systems.  Coworkers who choose to actively engage in the healing of others, and who are well aware of the fact that we receive far more than we give.  Neighbors who've taught me the value of community, and learning to ask for help.  Friends who are family, who have personified vulnerability, and honesty, and faithfulness these past 7 years.  Friends I am fiercely loyal to, and proud of, and dreadfully going to miss.

I won't miss the aggressive driving, or the 4 am SpyBar nonsense outside our condo.  But I will miss my walking commute each day, and the exposure to all sorts of shenanigans on CTA.  I won't miss the cost of food, any food, at Whole Foods.  But I will miss the the dazzling smile of the fish monger, who tries to charm me into buying salmon for only $20/lb.  I won't miss the hook-up culture at the bar, or what seems like the ever-devolving maturity of so many otherwise lovable men.  I will however, miss my freedom as a single woman to go out with whomever I want, whenever I want.  With neither a male chaperone nor a faux wedding band.  Which incidentally, I now own, and kind of love.

A few nights ago I had a few hours at home alone.  In my dizzied state of trying to figure out which of the million little things I should accomplish first, my body decided for me that I should actually dance my ass off.  To nobody's surprise I'm sure, "All Along The Watchtower".  Live of course (is there any other way?!).  And our windows were wide open, and my heart was wide open, and a part of me knew as I faced my city that it was our last dance together, at least for now.  

So thank you, you crazy lady, for being the most worthy dance partner, and occasional opponent these last 7 years.  Be sure to save some groove thang for me, as we're sure to meet again someday.

...To Making the Decision to Actually DO This Thing!

This was not a decision come to impulsively or quickly, as anyone who knows me will believe.  I think this trip has been in me since I was a little girl.  (I hesitate to even call it my "trip", as I've really started to think of it as more of an overhaul of my entire lifestyle).  I pursued career counseling as a freshman at JMU, because I didn't know how to quantify this crazy longing into an actual major.  Thankfully, I was directed into the field of Speech Pathology, which has certainly been a tremendous avenue for learning about people, and relationships, and life.

Fast forward to 10+ years into my career, or the end of 2013.  I had just turned 33, and paid my last student loan, hopefully ever.  Phew.  Enter divine intervention, in the form of a few beloved friends who loved me enough to speak truth to me.  Truth that said that I could actually, as a single, white, not-19-anymore woman, make this dream a reality.  Ballsy, audacious courage that they believed enough for me until I started to really believe it myself.

Game on.  I spent the first 6 months of 2014 liquidating everything I owned, Subaru and all.  If I couldn't sell it, I gave it away.  Drove my Lucy Langley home to Pa to take care of my mama (thanks, Mom!).  Asked my sister-friend Cindy to live on her sofa bed, no small sacrifice on her part, and what a ball we've had together.  Left the Laflin gang in June, to begin the process of socking away as much money as possible.

Spent the past year learning tremendously more than I bargained on, including how to live more presently and how to say yes more willingly.  Worked to fight the lie of the culture of scarcity, or never having enough, often with nothing more than my thick Langley legs and a backpack full of books.  Enjoyed the mess out of my dear friends, and coworkers, (holler at ya', NP & co!!), and church.  Made mistakes, took surprising risks, and relearned my natural hair color.

It's hard to believe that I'm now less than 2 weeks from actual departure date of July 20th.  First stop, Ireland.  To meet my distant family, to claim some random gingers as cousins, or even more likely, to enmesh myself even deeper into the Lynch/Walsh clans.  I feel incredibly humbled, and excited, and ready, and WHOA.

I don't presume to know what to expect.  I've counted the cost, though I believe there's a cost to all the decisions we make.  My truth, that I fully own, is that the cost to my soul would be far greater to stay than to go.  It could be a big bust.  I could be back in a few months.  But Lord willing, and if this past 18 months of preparation is any indication, I'm only just getting started.