Irish Time

 

Okay, so I suggested last week that maybe I was not cut out for this whole retreat thing, that I didn’t really need to run away from distraction in order to be productive.  But I must admit that I’ve managed to get some real writing done while I’ve been isolating out in this little cottage by the sea—most urgently, a big lecture on Donne that I’m scheduled to deliver in early March and an accompanying powerpoint that makes reference to Doechii, Taylor Swift, and Kendrick Lamar. Never let it be said that my lectures don’t keep the kids in mind!

I’m also relishing this opportunity to settle again into slow life in rural Ireland, returning to the rhythms of my time here when I was younger.  I love stopping for a chat along the road with some auld farmer whose Kerry accent is harder to parse than his Gaelic, and having that chat turn into half a morning of substantive dialogue about poetry.  I love being out on my nightly run in the rain and having someone holler at me from her doorstep to stop in for just a wee cup of tea to warm me—and leaving 2 hours later bearing an unexpected bounty: a reflective vest, 2 CDs of my host’s sean-nós singing, and a new friend.  I love having Radio na Gaelige playing all day long when I’m at home in the cottage, trying to recover the Irish I used to speak functionally.  (For the record, I am failing at fluency, though I can pick out 100 words or so, and counting.)  I love the slow attentiveness of building a peat fire, and then, once it finally heats to red, the long enjoyment of it into the small hours.  And I love finding new trails every day alongside a different cliff... 

among a new color-scheme of sheep... 

to another collapsed abbey...

or up a previously unexplored spongy sliabh to its gorse-covered blackrock top. 

When I lived here in the 90s, I used to refer to the pace of life here as Irish Time.  You make plans to meet up at the pub at 8?  Don’t for a minute imagine that your friend will show before 830, at the earliest.  You want to go to the chemist when it opens at 11?  Better aim for 1230 to be on the safe side.  The shop with posted open hours of 12-5 Thursday through Sunday isn’t.  The bus that is supposed to come every hour might or it mightn’t.  For someone who was, even as a younger person (perhaps especially as a younger person) a driven, clock-slaving American, the adjustment came with some little irritation.  But as I got used to it, I found myself generally happier.  I became, finally, able to stroll along a beach at low tide without thinking that there was something important I was meant to be doing; the beach-stroll was the important thing.  Again, I’m feeling gratitude for this strange travel year, for the gift of its unhurried unfolding.  I’m hoping I’ll be better in my maturity than I was as a hungry and ambitious youth at keeping my soul’s clock set on Irish Time when I move on to the next adventure.