Boston...

"In the light of the sun, is there anyone? Oh, it has begun...Oh dear, you look so lost, your eyes are red and tears are shed, this world you must've crossed; You said you don't know me, and you don't even care, oh yeah, and you said you don't know me, and you don't wear my chains; She said I think I'll go to Boston, I think I'll start a new life, I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name..." [-Augustana]

Dublin International Airport

The customs officer is looking at me, my hands are trembling, just slightly. Less nerves. More emotion. His eyes are a soft cornflower blue, and his accent, like a familiar song to me by now- he smiles as he hands me back my passport and says to me "And did you like our fair city now, Jillian from California?" And my voice is a whisper, "Yes, very much so. I should very much like to come back someday." And he nods his head and as I pass through the gate he says "We'll be here to welcome you back when you do. Safe travels now."

It was all only ever suppose to be a dream.

This, Ireland.

Ireland.

But here I sit at the Delta gate in the Dublin Airport, waiting to board a Boston bound flight to carry me back home to the States. Here, I sit saturated in the flesh and bone reality of living this dream these two weeks last.

And I know now that I cannot go back.

I cannot go back to that woman that I was before this moment.

I can no longer be the woman that felt herself content at the thought of settling for a dream.

I can no longer be the woman who as Dumbledore might have said of her, dwelled on dreams, forgetting to live.

Because she woke up, that woman, she woke up on a Saturday morning, on the 2nd of September and she boarded a flight bound for Amsterdam which led her on to another flight that took her to Ireland.

And after years of sleeping, she woke up.

And it changed her, irrevocably, this waking.

It changed her.

I am pondering the sheer enormity of this thought, it changed me, this changed me, when I hear the boarding call for my flight.

For a split second, I can't make my feet move.

My body is crying out, no, no, I can't go back.

It feels as though once I take that seat, it may very well erase the woman that I have awoken to.

I close my eyes. I breathe. In. And out.

How different this moment than that of the one two weeks prior.

How different indeed.

And yet the collision of that moment and this moment is found in the same echoing of baby steps, get on the plane. Breathe. Baby steps, just breathe.

And so I do...

****

Boston Logan International Airport

After an 8 hour flight, I am in for a 5 hour layover and the only coherent thought that I am capable of at this moment is that of, I need coffee.

I am tired. I am emotionally spent. And I NEED coffee.

I am standing in line at Starbucks wishing for something that might remind me that it was real, Ireland. Because the tired has set in. The cold has descended. The heaviness of this life that I live present day has been roused and I feel it gnawing at me, this life where I feel like a constant mistake, and it begins to pull at the fabric of that treasured tapestry that Ireland built into me, as if this layover is some kind of litmus test to the vitality of my seemingly new narrative.

And when the Starbucks kid condescendingly informs me that I cannot have a cappuccino freddo because it's like this, we're not in Europe yo and like welcome back to the States, so what else are you having because I've got a line lady? I feel my hands clench while my heart sinks and I say, just an ice coffee, while a tear slides down my face and think to myself, well, there you go, you failed...

I walk away with my ice coffee, aimless.

My body is a solid weight of nervous kinetic energy. I walk in circles. And when the circles give way, I walk in disconnected patterns. Down the escalator, past the long passenger corridor, up the escalator. Past the Sabarro Pizza. Past the Boston News Store. Past the drinking fountains. Past the West Jet gates. And I turn around and walk back to where I started from. I walk this loop about five times. And somewhere along the way, I finally take notice of some large white wooden rocking chairs and I simply collapse into one.

I close my eyes and the world becomes still. And for a moment, I am caught up inside a memory, well a montage really, a broken stream of moments, all of the moments that led to this moment:

I was 17 years old crying myself to sleep for the umpteenth time, the hallmark of my fractured childhood- and as I lay there in my bed, staring out at the moon, I closed my eyes and transported myself to Ireland.

Shadows of my tumultuous 20's. Always holding on to this wisp of a dream in the blackness...

And then there was that ultimate dark night, Arizona. Keep holding on, that is what I told myself through those first few years.

That night I woke up in the detox unit at Hoag Hospital after severe addiction complications.

The 172 days of treatment that followed.

The days and nights of putting myself and my life back together that came after those 172 days.

And that Wednesday- it was 3:37 in the morning, when my fingers pressed the confirm button for a round trip plane ticket from Los Angeles to Dublin.

To that April afternoon where I sat in a doctor's office hearing the news that my heart was really sick, that I was really sick.

At the crux of it all, I had every reason to not go.

But then again, at the crux of it all, I had every reason to go.

It was a paradoxical tug-o-war inside my head up until the night I was packing my suitcase.

I had wondered if I was merely running away from my life because I am a runner after all.

But life happened in Ireland.

And life beget life, beget life.

And for the first time in my thirty plus years, I lived the most authentic version of myself that I have ever known.

I lived.

And I lived it well.

And so maybe sitting in this rocking chair in Boston, what I know now is that I was not running away from something, I was running towards something.

I was running towards myself.

And with that seemingly significant thought, I walk back to the Delta gate.

And I feel a resolve building inside of my fragile being, that this is not the end of that woman that Ireland built, no this is not the end.

And I close my eyes, and put my headphones in and sing out softly, "I think I'll go Boston, I think I'll start a new life, I think I'll start it over..."

I hear the boarding call for my flight. 6 hours to California. Back to where I started from.

It's not the end.

And I take my seat and watch Boston fade into the clouds and think, no, no, it's not the end, it's just the beginning.

Somehow, someway, I will keep this woman alive, one breath at a time.

I promise.

-Jillian Nichole, it's just the beginning.

Everything Rides on Hope Now...

"When my life is like a storm, rising waters all I want is the shore; You say I'll be okay and make it through the rain; You are my shelter from the storm; Everything rides on hope now, everything rides on faith somehow; When the world has broken me down, your love sets me free; I'm not my own, I've been carried by you all my life..." [-Addison Road]

I am walking up to Malahide Castle on a seemingly picture perfect day. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, I pause myself mid-step and breathe in some kind of lightness that I have never known in myself before this very second. And I stand here, a thirsty girl, drinking in this postcard that I should like to write to myself years from now about this moment, on this day, when all the world was safe and warm and dripping in the holiness of ordinary miracles like that of a girl who stood in the glow of the sun while the wind danced around her as she smiled for the pure joy of smiling and I will say to that girl, you were here my darling, you were here. Because years from now, this, all of this will surely seem a dream that I will rouse myself from, only to wish for it for the rest of my days. And so I stand here, committing this all into the marrow of my bones, inking these very coordinates where my feet stand, 53.44494'N, -6.164586'E- into my veins, so that I will never lose the infinite joy that I feel right here, right now.

I walk through the day with an awakening unfolding in my soul. Because at the end of this road that I have been walking, what I know now is that these days and these nights have been reviving me, bringing me back to life with each step off the beaten path and while I am keenly aware that tomorrow will find me on plane back home to an uncertain future, in a life that I am still trying to own, today is for the living, today is for hope and so...

I sip tea as if  am entertaining royalty.

I sit in the old butterfly greenhouse on the Talbert Estate at Malahide Castle, forgetting to keep time, mesmerized by the stunning grace of fragile wings.

I trace the old stones beneath my fingers as if I am learning a new kind of poetry.

I find that there are moments where I click the shutter frame on my camera, looking through the lens, as if I had never seen beauty before.

I seem to listen to the world in a new way as if I am discovering a new song, one that I will love for my whole life, the one that I will come back to and play again, and again, and again, and never grow tired of hearing the beat because that beat will be timed to the beat of my own heart, of that much I am certain.

And as the sun begins to fade over this technicolor postcard, I make my way down to the old marina wall in Malahide Village, and I walk in step beside the quiet solitude of the Irish Sea, heart cast out into the water deep, vowing that I will learn to be a sailor of these tides, that I will know them one day as sure as I know my own name.

As I am walking back to my cozy little room in my Marina Village Air B&B, the words girl in me begins to unravel a thread of her complex thoughts:

I carried this dream for over 15 years, Ireland.

And I've spent the last two weeks, walking it out, flesh and bone.

Each part of this strange and wonderful journey was it's own thread, weaving into the existing tattered fabric of my being, building into me some kind of sacred tapestry, a living, breathing, waking, Ebenezer that I will carry with me as I walk forward:

Dublin was grit: Dublin said to me, come my darling, let me show you what you are made of. You were made for something more than safe and sound, you my darling, were made for standing on the edge of a wild and fierce world, yours is a strength formed of fire, a fragile, unyielding grace, that's whispers of brave, messy, stunning grit. Yes, my darling, grit, carry this thread and let it remind you that come what may, you will stand your ground and hold your own. Always.

And Cork was heart: Cork held me in her arms and whispered, come my darling, break, break wide open and grieve for the things that grieve you but do not go into that dark night alone. She said to me, your heart is broken but oh my darling, you are not, drink from that cup that runneth over inside of you, that tender place that aches for belonging, lean into that my dearest, for that is the heart that beats inside of us all, a connected beat wherein strangers are merely friends that you have yet to meet; I know that once upon a time that part of you was so deeply damaged, forgive that wrong, and let is be so again, that you should walk through this world, heart wide open, able to give the best of yourself and to receive in full measure and with each step, allow it to fill you up; Heart my darling, this broken, aching, beautiful, redemption work of the heart, this is my thread, carry it with open hands, and let it remind you that even our broken pieces matter. Always.

Edinburgh was magic: Edinburgh was an ancient incantation pulsing through my veins, oh my darling, up! Wake up! Believe in this ordinary magic that is all around you, ever flourishing. Let yourself let go of who you think you ought to be, I dare you. Be that playful girl with messy hair, the one who jumped in leaves and stained her clothes with puddles of wonder mixed in every splash of mud, that girl who laughed until she was clear out of breath, the one who did all of these things and then did them all over again, losing herself to this magic. Color outside the lines that you have drawn yourself into and set free that captive, wild child in your soul, let her out into the sun again, free to cause merry making and mischief, but above all my darling, set her free so that she might live her life wide awake, believing in the magic that she alone can create. Always.

And Malahide was hope: Malahide was the pulsing resilient beat of this rising song in my blood that sang out to me, oh my darling, it is a beautiful redemption, this story of yours, take my hand and hold on tight, hold on my darling, just a little bit longer, this is a good story, keep walking. There will be days in the days ahead where storms will surely rage but remember that this hope that has been ignited in your bones is eternal, darkness no matter how dark cannot be obscured by the light, so hold on tenaciously to this thread, this audacious hope of yours. Always.

Grit.

Heart.

Magic.

Hope.

And it was all so much more than I could have ever imagined. It was all so much more for a girl like me, who used to fall asleep at night, dreaming of a spot on the map, of this place that to her was her own little lighthouse in the dark of her life.

The lights are flickering in the window by my bed. My eyes are heavy and I find myself marveling at something that I had said two weeks prior to my therapist Heather, it was all only ever supposed to be a dream, I told her.

It was all, only, ever supposed to be a dream, Ireland...

And I fall asleep, holding the depth and with of it in my arms thinking, what a lovely dream, this, what a lovely dream, and hope rises in me as I let go and give in...

-Jillian Nichole, everything rides on hope now...

When Life Hands You Lemons...

I am standing at the Ryanair desk reminding myself that love does not express itself in violence and I love people, truly, I do- but I do not love this...

I force myself to exit the curricular and frustrating conversation that I'd been attempting to have with the Ryanair agent and I sit in a daze at the Edinburgh airport watching suitcases and children and flight crew and rain.

Think, I need to think...

After about twenty minutes of this kind of dazed, anti-climactic thinking, I stand up with no particular convictions on where to go but I walk until I find someone that looks infinitely more official and human than the lady I had been speaking with. After a brief review of my current predicament, I am pointed to the Swissport desk as they are the big brother so to speak of Ryanair.

I am having more annoying arrhythmia issues, still battling a fever, my anxiety is absolutely tapped, and I am done. I am done with this. So. Done. And I take a deep breath and march my little 5'3 inches of doneness up to the Swissport lady and I launch into my tired spiel of "Please for the love of god, help me..."

It's rather like a volleyball match...

Swissport lady: "I can get you on the Glasgow flight tomorrow at 8:30a..."

Me: "Okay, yes, I understand that but how am I supposed to get to Glasgow?"

Swissport lady: "There's a bus service that can take you to the Glasgow Airport."

Me: "I can't take a bus, I don't think you understand, I have a heart condition, I am not doing very well, and I. CAN. NOT. take the bus..."

Swissport lady: "I have five seats left on this flight, so do you want me to confirm you?"

Me: "Is that really the best you can do for me?"

Swissport lady: "I'm afraid so..."

Me: *Sniffling* "Fine, just do it. I guess I'll be taking the bus. But please, I'm really very ill and I can't spend the night in the airport, please, I am literally begging you to help me, please..."

At this point, we have been volleying for almost forty-five minutes because in between words, I have been gripping the desk whilst trying not to cry- so each one of these exchanges are timed between deep breaths and silence...

I don't know what it is but as that small, strangled please rolls off my tongue, the Swissport lady looks at me and says resolutely, "Okay, let me see what I can do. Come back to me in an hour."

I walk to Starbucks and order a coffee. I resign myself to the 3 hour bus ride to Glasgow and a very long night at the Glasgow Airport.

As my favorite boss Joe used to say to me, suck it up cupcake. Because when life hands you lemons, you take the bus to Glasgow.

I console myself with the fact that at least I'll be on the morning flight to Dublin.

I walk back to the Swissport desk, infinitely more clam than when I left. And as I see the Swissport lady, our eyes meet and then she disappears and I think to myself, this is not good, she's running away from me...

But to my surprise, she actually meets me where I'm standing and tells me her good news. "I have arranged a stay for you at the Travelodge at Glasgow Airport and I have secured you a private car hire and you have dinner and breakfast vouchers at the hotel."

I am so overcome with gratitude that I throw myself at her in a very undignified display of emotion, the Scots are not a hugging lot mind you, and she pats at me in the most utterly amused fashion while I continue to utter, thank you, thank you, thank you...

My Swissport angel walks me to the car hire and I am off to Glasgow.

It is a quicker 2 hour drive sans the bus and before I know it, I have arrived.

I am a bit sad that I am missing a day in Malahide but even so, I find that I am grateful for this unexpected detour.

Edinburgh taught me a few things, and while I am not quite ready to fully articulate the lessons, I know that in the series of near disasters over the last four days, it seems that I have learned something important about myself that I had not known before, something that speaks of an inner capableness that I am quite sure that I never knew existed in my being up to this point.

All in all it is a strange detour, this quiet day in Glasgow. A long day. A day I chose to interpret as the gift of rest.

As the night draws to a close, I am packed and ready for my early morning flight back to Dublin and I crawl into my borrowed bed at the Travelodge at the Glasgow Airport, grateful for the lemons while dreaming of lemonade...

-Jillian Nichole, making lemonade in Glasgow...

Blow It Up & Burn It Down...

"All my hopes and memories are blowing in the wind, I started off with nothing and I'm back here once again; The little things in life are free, the simple things, like you and me; Like love, like love; It's okay to start again cause change is gonna come, nothing ever stays the same, it's not like we're still young; Let's blow it up and burn it down so we can stand alone, fear of change, no fear of the unknown..." [-Amy MacDonald]

Thursday, September 14th, 2017...

It is a wild and untamed land, something out of a Burns poem, the highlands. It is magic in the most complex manor. It is a people that still carry the weight of folklore and superstitions. The Loch Ness Monster, the river horse, the fairies, the bend in the trees, the light in the shallows, the depth of the black- it is mountains that peak into a kingdom of clouds and roads that stretch forth into a world not yet see by the eyes of men...

I stand in the rain staring out into the black of Loch Ness, my heart skipping beats, a fine mist of rain falling around me- there are words that I want to speak that seem to rise up from the core of me and yet those words remain unspoken because quite frankly, they are words that have yet to be invented. And so they rest in the worn out corners of my soul, unspoken, and yet I know them just the same.

The day is a blur of color and rain and cold and awestruck wonder at the works of the hands of the God in which I have believed in since the summer that I turned seventeen.

It is a wrestles kind of wonder that I wrestle with around the corner of each bend in the road as we ascended into the highlands and so too, as we descended back down.

And when the day comes to an end, I walk back to the Paradise Palms, quiet, and full.

***
[Blow it up. Burn it down. A detour...]

Earlier in the day, I had realized that I did not have my wallet on me. I figured that I'd just left it in the room. I had decided to have dinner with some of the people that I had gotten to know on my tour, and so I walked back to the Paradise Palms to retrieve my wallet and as I searched my belongings, it was no where to be found.

Cue massive panic...like apocalyptic panic...I tore through my room like a hurricane, desperately searching for it and when it was clear that it was not there, I sunk to the floor, like a Raggedy Anne doll, folding into myself.

I was in shock for all of thirty seconds and then I was a hyperventilating, crying my mascara off, rocking myself back and forth kind of disaster.

I am in a foreign country with no access to money. I am alone. I am terrified. I don't know what to do.

Perhaps you are more situated for these kinds of things but I assure that I am most certainly not...

I begin to dial numbers in my phone until I realize what time it is in the States. But I make one more call to my mentor Vicky and she answers and I am almost certain that I am not making coherent sentences but she is able to decipher me just the same.

She is a pillar of calm. Breathe Jillian. Breathe. Call the bank. Call your credit card company. And breathe. Keep breathing.

I start with the credit card company, Sarah from Capital One did not train for this, for the girl in Edinburgh who lost her wallet, who can't breathe, who is choking on tears, whilst saying that she knew she ought to never have come here abroad by herself, because everything she touches falls apart, that she's scared, really scared, and that she doesn't know what to do- what does she do, can you help her, you have to help her, please, please- at that last please it was as if I had lost the will to move forward and it came out a breathless, broken, sob.

We go through the motions. We check the boxes. We breathe. And as Sarah gives me the last bit of necessary information, I hear it in her voice, she's crying too. And that somehow makes me cry all the much harder.

The dial tone echoes so loudly in my head. And I sit there in the pulsing lights of the street life below, a fragile piece of a burnt down courage.

***

Interlude: 2 hours after the fact through what is now an amusing exchange with my mentor Vicky, my wallet is found. Truth be told it had never been lost at all, I merely hid it between the mattress that first night at the Paradise Palms because I had not the security of a door with a lock as I had when I was staying in hotels- and I was so afraid, so afraid that my wallet would be taken. Strange how in retrospect it was my fear that ultimately took it from me- Thinking about it now, I don't exactly know what to do with that, I only know that it somehow feels significant...

***

It's almost midnight and my phone lights up with a text message, I read the words and the thin rebound of courage that I had, blows up into little pieces of shrapnel... "We regret to inform you that your Ryanair flight has been canceled..."

WTAF (and for delicate readers, I will leave it at that...)

Let's review for the record the series of events that have taken place in the last 48 hours:

A. I am a girl with a broken umbrella in a city that is drowning in rain...

B. I lost my wallet. And while it was found, it locked my bank account and shut down my credit card and the only useable income that I have is on Apple Pay with my new credit card information- and literally nowhere takes Apple Pay here, except Tesco, and I have developed an unhealthy bond with Tesco at this point...

C. RYAINAIR CANCELLED MY FLIGHT TO BACK TO DUBLIN...AND I AM NOW STRANDED IN EDINBURGH WITH A BROKEN UMBRELLA AND THE USELESSNESS OF APPLE PAY...

Let the capitalization reflect the state of things...

I don't sleep. I stay awake trying to figure out how not to need a rescue from this...I don't want to be this version of myself that always somehow feels as if I am a walking princess in a tower. And my god, it seems at every turn, with every exhaustive step I try to take forward, it all blows up and burns down- and maybe I never feel as though I am able to extinguish the flames on my own...

***

Friday, September 15th, 2017...

I am laying awake in my bed- the alarm has been ringing- it's a surprisingly un-rainy day. I wonder if I should bother to go on my adventure for the day or if I should resign myself to this bed, cursing my ineptitude at adulting-

Jillian, get the fuck up. And yes, this is how I talk to myself- Sometimes it's needs be...

Jillian get the fuck up. NOW.

RIGHT NOW.

And while it is slow and clumsy and mechanical even, I put on my clothes, I paint my face, I pull on my boots and I grab my backpack and step into the cold Edinburgh morning.

Years from now, what I will remember the most of this day is Mike the driver from Liverpool, who told us stories of his Glasgow days and that pretty little Glasgow girl that he married, of his favorite tour participant to date- the elderly lady from Beijing who loved sheep so much that he made a special stop just for her so that she could take photos of them and how she was so happy that she actually chased after them in circles for a good fifteen minutes, I will remember the jokes that he told, the ones that were passed down from his father and his father's father before him-

I will remember walking over the Tweed River crossing into England. How I stood middle ground between two worlds and looked out over the lowlands of Scotland and clear into the empty road leading into Northumberland.

I will remember standing still in the archway of Alnwick Castle- a.k.a. "OMG, I'M AT HOGWARTS!!!!!"

I will remember the sun on my face and the rush of the wind and the childlike joy in my heart as I yelled to a broomstick, "Mount!"

I will remember laughing as though I had never laughed before. With an unbroken, untamed, uninhibited spirit, running to and fro across a lawn, on an otherwise ordinary Friday afternoon in the courtyard of Hogwarts with my fellow first years.

I will remember the warm camaraderie of this particular tour group. The couple from Utah, the grandmother from West Virginia, the newlyweds from Reno, the sisters from Japan, the father and mother and son trio from South Korea- the way we chatted in beautiful weaves of yarn, how even the silence seemed a new brand of friendship.

I will remember walking back to the Paradise Palms watching the sunset set over the North Bridge as a gentle rain began to fall.

I will remember how there seemed a sacred albeit simple kind of magic to this day that despite my broken umbrella, my lost and found credit card, and my canceled flight- despite all of that, this simple, undefined, near scared magic flourished up in between the ashes and the rubble.

And I will remember that I knew it, that magic, for even but a moment, in my heart I knew it.

As I crawl into bed, I tell myself that I can face tomorrow, cancelled flight and all, I can face it, I can look it in the eyes, I can feel the fear, blow it up and burn it down, and I can stand in my own right, and face the unknown, and isn't that a magic all it's own, I wonder...

-Jillian Nichole, let's blow it up and burn it down...

A Tale of Two Cities...

Leaving Cork City...

"Take me to the station and put me on a train, I've got not expectations to pass through here again...never in my sweet short life have I felt like this before...And as I watch you leaving me, you pack my peace of mind..." [-The Rolling Stones]

It's just past six in the morning and I am sleepy. And cold. And sad. And happy. And perhaps stuck in that place where the cup is neither half empty nor half full, but both coexisting in my heart.

The taxi drops me at Kent Station and I make my way to the platform. As I step onto the train, I pause and inhale and close my eyes, and exhale and board.

The train pulls away and I watch Cork City fade into the distance as silent tears roll down my pale face. I didn't expect this. I didn't count on this. I didn't prepare for this. My heart as it were is a lot like Dorothy searching for Kansas, walking the yellow brick road, looking for the great Wizard of Oz, just trying to make her way back home. Home. That place where you know that you are loved. That place that whispers belonging into every fiber of your being, deep into the marrow of your fragile bones. It is a warmth. And a calm. It is a joy. And a hope. It is the place where you find the best of yourself. Home. And as strange as it might seem, this place felt a lot like home for a girl who is always searching for that place...

I close my eyes and let myself say goodbye.

All the while hoping that's is really just see you later.

***

Welcome to Edinburgh...

"So long my friend, we could always count on the same things; The ups and the downs like time; We crawl through the abyss then we came through the other side; Heaviness is only temporary, the daylight will soon break in, the sunlight can change a heart in the wake of a bitter end. Oh I know I’m gonna rise again, set my sights on where I’m going and my goodbyes to where I've been; Oh I know I’m gonna rise again..." [-Needtobreathe]

The taxi drops me off at the Paradise Palms, my Air B&B for the next few days. I love it immediately. It's all things artsy and colorful and it touches that part of me that resonates with the dreamers and the poets and the creatives of this world.

It's late in the afternoon and I find that I just want to walk around the city, just enough to taste it. And so I grab my umbrella and step out the door without any particular direction. I find that I am embracing the getting lost, for it is in the getting lost that we find ourselves and so I walk. Through Edinburgh University, down West College Street, past Potterow, up South Bridge and back down again.

I walk in disconnected patterns. I walk until the sun goes down. I walk until my feet are as tired as my heart. And then the sky opens wide and pours down on me, and I stand there for a moment, in the pouring rain, lost in the city, washing off the last traces of home.

My umbrella breaks. Isn't that lovely, welcome to a new day my darling, a new path, a new discovery of who you are, let's take a walk, just like Calum told you up the road and around the corner, let's find out where it leads...

I finally find my way back to the Paradise Palms, 2 hours later, drenched head to toe in the Scotland rain. And while it was a shock to my system, this welcoming committee, it seems to signify a newness to this journey.

And it rises up in me, that song that I love, and I think to myself, yes, yes, I am going to rise again.

And I crawl into bed, clean and ready to rise...

-Jillian Nichole, rising...

Rooftops & Invitations...

It was a long day. Mostly quiet.

It was Abbey Ruins to remind me of faith. That what is true will hold through the ages. That hope springs eternal from even the rubble of what once was; that hope springs forth from the remains of what is.

And the Wild Atlantic Way to remind me to live. That storms will come, they will beat at you with wind and rain but you will stand nonetheless; you will dig your heels in and grip your hands tight and you will hold your ground as it reigns down in all it's furry...Although conversely, let's not tell my cardiologist that I did that last bit...

***

I walked across the Mizen Head Bridge- and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean- a storm blew in from the coast- I must have been a peculiar sight, standing there, no umbrella because a gust of that wind would have blown it clear across the ocean all the way back to California- no rain jacket, nor rain boots, not even a newspaper to hold over my head- just a girl standing in a ragging storm, soaked to her core, alive, and living...

We pull into Cork at half five and I am walking back to the Maldron. I know it by heart now, these streets. I fold myself seamlessly into them as if they have always been inside of me. As I am walking past a shop window, for a second I catch a glimpse of this woman, I think to myself how did I not know her all this time, this woman. She is me. And I am her. It as if I am seeing myself for the first time, strong, capable, vibrant, neither half empty, nor half full, but embracing both in these fragile hands and still standing even so. How is it that I never knew this woman existed inside of myself? But there she stands staring back at me, this woman, in the fading light of this ordinary day, and I see her so vividly, I see really see her.

***

It's half twelve and I can't sleep. The wind is howling outside, waking the Shandon Bells, they cling and clatter in disconcerting, broken chimes and it stirs up in me, this broken place, this reverie of a journey that I am still trying to understand. And so I crawl into my window as it were and I stare out over the rooftops of the city and I close my eyes- something about the day keeps rising up inside of me and so I begin to write so that I might unravel it. And perhaps knowing that it would not make sense outside of myself, I write even still, maybe for myself...


She sits in the window
Under the pale of the moon
Looking out over rooftops
And invitations of dreams
That she might have if she'd let herself sleep
But the wind in the trees blows fierce as can be
And there's a chill in her bones
And her heart's on her sleeve
Though she promised herself that she'd not feel a thing
Until the rise of the sun
To lessen the sting
But with a huff and a puff
You just might call her bluff
While the clatter of chimes from the bell up above in the sky
Plays on her melancholic reverie
And she thought to herself, for whom does it toll
In a city asleep, no lights alive to receive
And with the pull of the ropes
She's swept back through the hours
To her face soaked from the spray of the rain
As she stood by the cliffs of the sea
And watched in her way
A storm as it raged
But quiet as a church mouse must be
And it's dark in this room
And she searches herself for a secret
That she didn't know she would keep
A lock and key to a leaf on a tree
And this city built on the River Lee
And faces and names
And things she can't speak
Save for grace upon grace
Through her skin as it bleeds
And she closes her eyes
And thinks of the tide
And the shanty it softly sings
And her lips know a tune that she'd sing at the moon
Her voice trembles low
As if for the streets down below she'd would play-
Oh that I might live like the sea
Wild, unbroken and free
A love I might find if I make up my mind
To go this way or that way, whichever might be
And oh that I would love like the sea
Arms open wide to embrace what she'd find
Wherever her heart to the four corners might blow
Be it cut on a reef, or lost to the deep, a lover the same
Be it joy or it pain
Oh that I might love like the sea
Oh that I might live like the sea
Wild, unbroken, and free
And it plays at her mouth, these words that fall out
And it's all so much more than she'd dreamed
And her heart in this window beats-
Like rooftops and invitations
A sailor learning the seas
And she crawls into bed as it plays in her head
The blood and the bone
Of the life that she owns
Maybe wild
Unbroken
And free,
Rooftops
And invitations
Of this woman in the window that she didn't dream
Her heart on her sleeve
With a lock and key
To a leaf on a tree
And a city built on the River Lee
And she closes her eyes at the toll of the bells
And she knows that she knows, that she knows, she's awake to receive-
These rooftops and their invitations
Of the woman that she didn't dream
The woman that she didn't dream...

***

-Jillian Nichole, accepting the invitations...

Where Do We Go From Here...

"There are places I remember all my life though some have changed, some forever not for better; Some have gone and some remain; All these places have their moments with lovers and friends I still can recall; Some are dead and some are living, in my life I've loved them all..." [-The Beatles]
 
Sunday, September 10th, 2017

I am headed to the Rock of Cashel and Kilkenny- cue more castle and history geek outs...It's a soft grey, drizzle and I am quiet. I wander through the ruins of the Rock of Cashel, and hold myself tight against the cold and the wind. I watch the sky as if I am trying to read tea leaves in a cup. But neither fortune nor apparition appear, and so I hold my gaze steady.

We reach Kilkenny and the rain has ceased for a moment. It is a subtle, reluctant sun, set against a marbled white and grey backdrop. I walk a circle around the city block. Tired. Again. And I decide that perhaps ice cream for lunch might revive me and so I pop into Murphy's and grab a scoop. I find a bench and finish my ice cream and I send a quick message to a friend back in the States. As I go to stand, I can't catch my breath and I sit back down.

My heart is at war with my body. It is something that I do not talk about, in part because I am still trying to understand it, as much as my cardiologist is still trying to gauge the depth and width of it all. There was a lot of discussion about this trip, a lot of debate and direction and pinky promise Jillian that for once in your life you will follow my directions to a tee...Well, I almost did...

I can't walk one more step, this much I know and so I walk back to the coach where Calum, our tour guide is waiting. He sees me and nods and I smile and tell him that I'm a bit tired. Calum is salt of the earth, a wool cap, weathered hands, and a smoker's cough. He tells me that he lives in a fishing village two hours out of Cork City, that he moves piano's,  and does odd jobs and every now and then picks up a tour and that he goes to the same pub every night at home for a red ale and some local craic with the lads as it were. He tells me of the sea. And of his travels, he loved Japan but it is India that he will some day return to. I smile and tell him that I should very much like to see India one day as well. He tells me stories of Finn MacCool, the Irish hunter and mythical legend and I surprise him when I interweave my own bits into the narrative because I know the stories well myself. We are for the day, fast friends and Calum as if sensing my inner unrest, keeps by me as we stop here and there...

When we pull into Cork City, I snap a photo for my book and as I walk away, Calum calls out to me, "Take care of yourself lass." And I smile as I walk back to the River Lee.

My heart is arrhythmic and there is pain in my chest wall and I am running a low grade fever. This is very bad. I phone my cardiologist in the States and in turn, I speak with the cardiologist in Dublin. It's all quite normal, I'm told: you pushed beyond the parameters, etcetera, your body was not built for these environmental pathogens, etcetera, mind the fever and above all REST. Etcetera, etc. 

I am wrestling with the added emotional weight of this. And so I make my way down to the terrace, to my friends, to what has been my sanctuary.

Sitting there, Mariead, one of my new friends at the River Lee pops over to me and asks about my day and we chat for a bit. It is warm, comforting and I need it so. And then Seona comes by and we chat and at the risk of being annoying, I ask if I might have one more picture and we take a selfie and I say to her, "Look it's almost like we're real friends." She laughs at me and says, "What do you mean looks like, we are real friends."

Before I leave Mariead comes back one more time to say goodnight. I'll be leaving tomorrow and she won't be in before I leave. I ask if we might get a photo, one more for my book, and she agrees and we snap a quick picture. She gives me a hug and wishes me well and says that she hopes I'll be back someday and I tell her that I dearly hope so, with all my heart.

***

Monday, September 11th, 2017

My heart aches. It is as much physical as it is emotional. I'm sitting on the terrace for the last hour that I have left at the River Lee. I sip my tea and write two thank you cards, one for Mariead and one for Seona. I'm crying little rivers into the ink and have to rewrite each card. Because maybe in all of this crazy journey, for 3 days, this place became more to me than a stay over. It became a refuge, a home really. It was belonging. And friendship. I wonder how it is that my heart can hold all of this- this joy, this sorrow, this hope for better days ahead, this curious doubt of what if...but perhaps, how is it that I can hold more love than I came with- because all of it has grown my heart full and overflowing...

I am walking out of the terrace one last time and I stop at where Seona is. I hug her. And we take one more picture that I refuse to call our last because I hope that it is not. And I do not say goodbye as I walk away, I say see you later. And it is a softer kind of sadness that folds into me as I leave.

After I check into my new lodging, I spend the rest of my day wandering through Cork City in a daze; I sat in the old sanctuary of St. Anne's Cathedral, walked the halls of the Crawford Art Gallery, and had a proper afternoon tea at Tara's Tea Room and I made my way back to the Maldron Cork. I wash the day off of me. And email my cardiologist to inform him that I have done very boring, restful things, that I am still fighting fatigue and a low grade fever, that I will watch for the tale-tell signs of  pericardium inflammation and I will monitor my chest sounds.

I crawl up into the window ledge in my room and look out over the street. The row of window lights stretches out before me and I wonder at the people in those houses- if they are happy, or sad, if they are tired, or wide awake, if they are sick, or if they are well, if they feel lost, or if they feel found, if they know that they know they are loved, or if they grasp at every straw, always searching for it, that love- I close my eyes, and listen to my heart beat- it is slow and labored. Heavy. And so too am I...

I miss them all, Ellie, and Jimmy, Calum, Mariead, and Seona. I miss them fiercely.

I never imagined that I would come to Ireland alone.

And more than that, I never imagined that I would walk through Ireland among friends.

And though they are merely beautifully, fragmented, stained glass pieces in this story, they are apart of me now, all of them, my friends. And I know that long after I am gone from this place, I will carry them with me always.

I'm crawling into bed, thinking about the last few days, and I fall asleep to the truth that Dublin might be in my bones, but Cork is in my heart.

And when I think of this place years from now, no matter where my life might take me, the truth of it all will be, in my life, I have loved them all-

Retract that- in my life, I love them all.

I love them all.

Always...

-Jillian Nichole, my heart is here...

And We'll Walk In Fileds of Gold...

"So she took her love for to gaze awhile upon the fields of barley, in his arms she fell as her hair came down among the fields of gold; Will you stay with me, will you be my love among the fields of barley? We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we walk in fields of gold; I never made promises lightly and there have been some that I've broken but I swear in the days still left we'll walk in fields of gold; We'll walk in fields of gold..." [-Sting]

Saturday September 9th...

I am tired and my heart is beating slower than it ought to. But I close my eyes and inhale and jump out of bed. After a few minutes of clothes, make-up, and this and that, I make my way to Electric Soul Tattoo.

I love shop life. I love the stories. I love the banter. And most of all, I love the passion. Because shop life is not meant for the nine to fivers of the world, it is meant for the artists and the dreamers. And I always find that I can check my baggage at the door and just be.

Ellie reminds me of a little pixie, small and slight, and a voice low and light, she is full of sunshine and it is contagious. She is the shop assistant/ apprentice and Jimmy's partner. She offers me tea and makes some small talk and then floats away as I sit waiting for Jimmy to finish up his client. I'm browsing magazines and thinking about my time in Ireland thus far, my thoughts are scattered because it feels too overwhelming to process but what I come back to is that its is all so much more than a girl like me could have ever hoped for.

Jimmy is silent and solid. He smiles every now and then, just slightly but enough for me to know that he is pleased with his work. As I watch the ink come to life, it as if with each stroke, Ireland bleeds into my skin, deeper still. When he is finished he asks me in his low Bulgarian accent if I like it and all I can do is nod my head because if I open my mouth, I know that there will be no coherent words. Eventually I find enough words to say thank you. And on a journey where I am desperate to freeze every moment, I ask in a small voice if he might take a picture with me and he laughs and we snap a photo and I say goodbye.

After a very brief tour of the English Market, I grab a quick lunch and walk back to the River Lee. My body is reminding me that I need to slow down. But I don't want to miss it, whatever that is, I don't want to miss it and so I push back at myself with as much as I can- I am thinking through all of the things that I dreamt of the most and I know that the day is fading and so I rally myself for one more adventure and take a walk to Daly's Bridge, otherwise known as the Shaky Bridge- It is an old steel and wood suspension bridge that crosses the River Lee. I walk through Cork neighborhoods, past Fitzgerald's Park and finally in the distance, I see the white gleam of the old painted steel- I walk slowly, every step, careful, methodical even because I just want to breathe it into me.

I walk the expanse of the bridge. I pause every now and then and close my eyes and feel the air. I watch the river and trace the clouds. I hold it softly in my heart as I walk away, feeling both heavy and light.

Making my way back to The River Lee, I walk through Fitzgerald's Park. I am so tired. And so I sit down on a bench. Funny, but I can't remember the last time I just sat on a bench in the park on a Fall day. Maybe it's the quiet in me, or the slow beat of my heart, or the tired in my bones, whatever it is, it is enough for me to notice. And I find myself in this moment where I notice it, life happening around me but what I gravitate towards is the way that the wind moves through the trees. It is so achingly beautiful.

Have you ever watched the way a leaf falls from a tree, bent in the wind, how it leans into the fall, gentle, and fluid, grace upon grace. I watch that dance, memorize it, tuck it inside of myself so that years from now, I might recall it in a dream, that grace, on this day, in this moment, in this city, I grab at it with my fragile hands and hold it close as I make my way back home.

I am sitting on the River Lee terrace, drinking tea and eating chocolate cake for dinner just because I can, when Seona, my favorite person at the terrace comes and hugs me and asks about my day. And I tell her about it. Seona has been an angel, she's made me feel as though I belong, and her company has been an absolute godsend- as we chat, I ask her if we might take a photo and we do.

And as I walk back to my room, I feel the wetness on my cheeks, I didn't even know that I had started crying- but it's okay because it's not quite sadness, it's bittersweet, it's joy, it's hope, it's being able to look at this road that I am on and say to myself that I am right where I am meant to be.

And as I fold myself into the night, I think of those trees, and their grace, and I fall asleep and dream of fields of gold...

Jillian Nichole, walking in fields of gold...

Ink Stain's & Postcards...

I'm on Cork bound train, watching the rain. It's a tired kind of day. And so I let the train rock me like a lullaby, gentle and calm.

I arrive in Cork and hail a taxi. My taxi driver is full of charm and wit and it is a warmth that breathes into me.

I check into The River Lee Hotel. And I have no plans. It's even written into the itinerary...

But maybe the one thing that I need to do is sit and have a proper cuppa. And watch the river. Because for months upon months, I dreamed of that- through sleepless nights, and hard fought days, when I wanted to give up, when I couldn't move beyond fear or pain, or sickness- I looked at those pictures and that spot and I told myself, just hold on my darling, just a little longer now, just hold on. And I held tight-

I walk into the Wier Rooms and feel horribly out of place. But nonetheless, I ask for the terrace and I arrive and sit at a table. And I order tea. And I can't even process the transition of those nights into this day. And I feel the trickle of tears at the back of my eyes. When the server comes to check on me, somehow I end up sharing a bit of the heart behind this trip and she hugs me. And I needed that hug, it allowed me to both grieve and hope- it unlocked a door that I had not the key for. I sit for awhile with my tea and my hope and it fills me up.

And as I settle into my room, I write because it's what I do- and so this is my heart on this day, ink stains and postcards...

Ink stains

And postcards
That read, wish you were here
And she’ll snap the still frames of
The light between the trees
And the buildings that tell stories
About their stories
And the places where the land meets the sea
And the sunset in Africa
And the rain in Ireland
And the sunrise in California
And all the miles in between
She’d take a picture of them all
To fill up her soul
And let hope overflow
That somehow, we are still always, only, ever meant to be
Dust to dust
Broken but,
Made beautiful in the hands of
The one who made the stars
The one who created symphonies out of every beat of every heart
The one who set the sun on fire in the sky
The one who hung the same moon to whom she still whispers goodnight
Goodnight-
And she is ink stains, aching fingers, fragile hands
And postcards, born of words from her kaleidoscope heart
And she’ll write, I miss you
And she’ll say, I wish you here
Because it’s not the same without you
And she’ll smile when she signs with ink
I’ll be home soon
All my love my dear
And she will wander through the world
Marveling at the places where her feet would touch the earth
And she’ll be ink stains
And postcards
And still frames of wonder
That remind her to chase after
Wonder
And to look for the places where the light shines through
And for the beauty within ordinary days
And for the secrets buried
In every long, forgotten corner
Waiting for her so that they might be discovered
And she will remember that she was made for
Flying
And ink stains
And postcards
That hold dreams bigger than the ocean
And the promise that one day
She will find herself brave enough
To walk on the water
And her soul will be painted
By ink stains
And postcards
Her ink stains
And postcards.

-Jillian Nichole, ink stains and post cards...

Part Two: And I Think it's Going to Rain Today...

"Scarecrows dressed in the latest styles, frozen smiles to chase love away; human kindness is overflowing and I think it's going to rain today...Lonely, lonely, tin can at my feet, think I'll kick it down the street, that's the way to treat a friend...And I think it's going to rain today..." 
[-Bette Middler]

Thursday forecast, rain, a whole lotta rain...

The clouds are stretched out in the crisp Dublin sky, dark and angry. And I am late, late, late for a very important date. Can't a girl catch a break around here?! Oh well, I tuck my hands into the corners of my jean jacket, straighten up my spine, and make my way down the street.

I'm in Temple Bar looking for my landmark but I take a wrong turn and it's all a maze of alley ways, and store fronts, and garbage men, and morning suits with coffee and umbrellas and Alice searching for the white rabbit. Damn my lack of geography skills, sorry Mr. Henderson, I should have paid more attention to that 6th grade geography class...

I check my watch, if I don't make it to the Paddywagon tour pick up point in exactly seven minutes time, I'll miss the Cliffs of Mohr and end up buried under the covers in my hotel room, consoling myself with some form of chocolate- As I feel my tears begin to fall, I look up and see an elderly suit with a newspaper standing at the street light in front of me and I call out, "Excuse me sir but I'm trying to find the Molly Malone statue, you know the Tart With the Cart (Dubliner's translation...) Am I close?" His eyes twinkle with mischief and he let's a hearty laugh followed by a smoker's cough and takes his newspaper and says "The tart is that way, cross the road, head straight, you'll see the gates to Trinity and she'll be just left up a ways, not more than five minutes time." The light turns and I call out to him as I am running up the street, "Thank you and have the best day ever!" And in my echo of running steps, I hear a fading laugh, cough, laugh.

Out of breath, I arrive as the last passenger with about thirty seconds to spare. A quick scan of the bus and I have limited seating options so I take the first open seat next to a woman who seems to be around my age if not a few years younger. At first, I think she's alone and so I try to make some semblance of small talk with her, you know, the kind with the underlying subliminal message that screams, "PLEASE BE MY FRIEND..."

Spoiler alert: We did not become Facebook friends, or otherwise...

As it turns out, Sammy, my seatmate is with her two BFF's and they are not looking to audition a fourth member of their gang.

It's a strange thing, that moment when you are faced with the fact that you are alone in another country, lonely, because you are alone. And I could feel that- and I thought of all of the people that I miss the most and wish for a moment that they might materialize before me but it's just Sammy, sitting in the opposite direction of her seat, laughing with her friends and trading phones, to see what so and so posted and do I look fat in that, and did you know that hot guy was totes checking you out last night and we should hit up O' Neil's Pub tonight...

So I throw my headphones on and close my eyes and every now and then I watch the evolution of the Irish countryside unfold before me.

We make a few stops- Kinvara, the fishing village, and then to Doolin for lunch before the Cliffs and I head to Fitzpatrick's Pub. I stand in the que and order my lunch and it's crowded but I see an empty four top and we have a strict schedule and so I commit high treason and I sit down, alone. And the glares start at first subtle, but quickly audible. I'm a bit upset but then this couple asks the people sitting next to me if there is any open seats at their table as it is a long table but they shake their heads and I look up and say "You can sit here, if you'd like." And they are grateful for the invitation. We make some small talk, all of us universally agreeing that the seafood chowder easily beats San Francisco and Boston combined- we talk about Dublin, and the Cliffs- they tell me that they think I'm brave for coming to Ireland alone and soon, we part ways, each heading off to our respective tour groups.

Before we get to the actual Cliffs, our driver stops at a location that the locals refer to as the Mini Cliffs. It's so beautiful. And we have about fifteen minutes to stretch and walk around. And this ladies and gentlemen will forever go down in history as the time that Jillian fell off a cliff in Ireland...cue overly dramatic movie score...

I'm officially starting a new blog entitled "Stupid Shit That Tourists Do" and it will be inspired by the following:

I get off the tour bus and there is another tour coach that pulls up too. The rush of people is madness- the Cliffs, mini or otherwise are not going anywhere folks, slow your roll people but no, no one slows anything and I have been moving a bit slower these last few days and I had a moment where I couldn't catch my breath and so I had to pause, unfortunately it was not well timed and the couple behind me did not get the memo that I was going to take a moment...And suddenly I was pitched forward, I took a bit stone down with me, nothing like truly embracing history right?! And in an attempt not to face plant, I employed an old dance move and drew my knees up and tried to slow the force of my fall with my hands...And we all fall down...I landed smack on my knees, ouch...So my left knee cap is black and blue, my right knee cap is blueish purple and green and I have a lovely little skin rash that will probably be a battle scar, mores the glory...

And so there you have it, Jillian fell off a cliff in Ireland...

We get to the real Cliffs and we have about an hour and half. I make my way up the trail and diverge to the left. The Cliffs are something that I knew I would have to be careful with in terms of asthma and heart issues because the incline in the trails and the altitude can be a shady cocktail and so I walk in small stages, pausing. And I don't mind it at all because truth be told, it's all so breathtaking that I could stand in one spot and never quite stand there long enough. I climb as high as I can and there is a short window in which the sun intermingles with the looming gray clouds and the rain drizzles light- I don't take as many photo's as I ought to because I just want to stay in this moment. In an instant the fog begins to roll in, thick and dark, and the rain starts to pour down and I make my way slowly back to the flat land of the visitor's center. It is cold and vibrant and full- this moment as with every point on this journey, it to becomes one more piece to tuck away carefully into the corners of my heart.

The lonely of the day stirs up in me as we drive slowly back into the city. And I allow it to exist within me, to feel it to it's core, to not run away from it- and I tell myself that so as it was before, it is too now, both lovely and ugly the same.

We get into Dublin at half seven and I am worn out. Emotionally. Physically.

I am barely at the feet of the Ha'Penny Bridge, the last time that I will cross over, and the rain begins to fall and I think to myself it is like sorrow falling from the sky. People become a blur. And I don't bother with my umbrella, I just walk.

I walk with Dublin in my bones. Gritty. And electric. Light. And dark. Sorrow. And joy. Broken. And bent. Lovely. And ugly the same.

My feet kick at the ground. The rain wraps me up and carries me home. As I round the corner to Parnell Square West, there is a woman sitting on her porch, smoking a cigarette, her features worn as much as my heart, and for a moment our eyes meet and I offer her the only thing that I can, a smile, as if to say, I understand. And you are not alone.

-Jillian Nichole, what's a little rain...

Part One: Bring On The Rain...

"Another night has come and gone, can't imagine what else could go wrong; sometimes I'd like to hide away somewhere and lock the door, a single battle lost but not the war; 'Cause tomorrow's another day and I'm thirsty anyway, so bring on the rain..." [-Jo Dee Messina]

Wednesday: Cloudy skies and a storm brewing...

I took the Red line to Heuston Station, leaving Tallaght behind. Something inside of me feels sad, and I can't identify it, so it sits inside of me just behind my smile. Heuston Station is busy and it's all making me dizzy and people are a blur and without warning, the world flips upside down and inside out and I know what's happening in an instant and I can't stop it, I just have to let it happen. It's a bad one. And I am afraid to move but I know that to not move will be a very bad thing and so I find a corner and wait.

I've often said to people that you do not get to control the triggers. Sometimes you will not even know what the trigger is. This moment is that- I don't know what triggered that part of my brain- PTSD and anxiety is a strange and terrible beast- I am standing against a wall going through my operating manual. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. What do you see? Focus. I see a woman in a tweed suit, holding a newspaper, drinking a coffee. What do you hear? Focus. I hear the walkie talkie of the station worker standing near me. What do you feel? Focus. I feel the wall, cold, rough. What do you taste? Focus. Mint, I have mint gum. What do you smell? Focus. I'm next to a coffee cart, espresso. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I have lost time, I don't know how many minutes have passed. My heart rate has returned to normal, though my hands are still trembling. I need air. I NEED air and I leave the station at the nearest exit, desperately searching for the taxi que. I see the road that leads out of the station. I am standing there trying to think and then a taxi passes. And another. And another. And another. All of them empty. And I am so disoriented that I can't figure out where they keep coming from. I see another one coming but from the opposite side of the road, the one that leads in and they pull to the side and drop their passenger and all of sudden my brain screams, jump in now!! And I sort of fling my body into the street just enough to startle the driver who hasn't quite moved yet. He stops and takes my luggage and laughs and says "Misses the que for outgoing is just up and around but yer man will get you where you're going, so where to?" And I let out a nervous sort of half-laugh and tell him,"Maldron Hotel, Parnell Square, please." He makes small talk but I can't concentrate and he has thick Dublin accent so eventually we drive in companionable silence. I reach the hotel and I am emotionally spent. And so I quickly scan my itinerary, it's half two which is Dubliner for 2:30p, so something's gotta give- my heart sinks. Well, pick one Jillian and so I pick The Little Museum of Dublin and off I go...

I arrive just in time for the 3p tour and I meet my tour guide June and I love her instantly. She is full of life, brimming with contagious joy, warmth, humor, and kindness. And I just want to stand next her and soak it all in and so I do- as we move through the tour, I make sure to stand near her- and somehow her energy renews me, her light and lightness refresh me and I feel so much better. After the tour, I stop and thank her and ask if I might take a photo of us and she graciously concedes.

I catch the hop on/ hop off bus with no real direction when the driver announces St. Patrick's Cathedral, something pulls at me and I find myself getting off. I walk into the cathedral and pay the admission fee. It's almost half four now and they'll be closing for evening prayer soon but it seems the right place to be just the same. I wander around and take it in, breathtaking stained glass, ornate alcoves with worship stations, an alcove for prayer and meditation, a living memorial wall to those that lost their lives in World War II, but it is the Victorian aged pew boxes that I find myself glued to and so I find one and sit, starring up at the center aisle, at the alter and the cross.

I need to be quiet. And so I sit. I sit so long that I don't realize that the hall is emptying out and yet as it empties, so too does it fill. Suddenly people are being ushered into the pew boxes and I am being handed the liturgy card and I realize that St. Patrick's evening choralsong and prayer service is open to parishioners and visitors alike. The brother's of the cathedral file into the choir boxes and the bishop opens the service. The brothers sing the nightly prayer anthem and it is all acapella in this centuries old church with the most amazing acoustics- I am speechless with wonder. Their voices are echoes of heaven and I close my eyes and let myself fall into their praise. The liturgy moves on, we sing, we listen, we kneel, we pray- it is a profoundly beautiful process and I am trying to hold it all in as much as I can. I leave the cathedral, walking into the late afternoon, the clouds have grown darker and you can smell the rain coming in.  

I know the city well enough by now to navigate some areas and so I head towards the Old Temple Bar. I've a ticket to a play that I had wanted to see, being the theater geek that I am. I am slightly unsettled as the Old Temple Bar can be a bit of a rowdier crowd at night and my anxiety is still floating around in my head but I really don't want to give in to that and so I find the theater and wait it out. The theater is small, only 60 seats, the play is a one woman show about life in an Tipperary Catholic Girl's Academy- it is an emotional roller coaster, absolutely brilliant and devastating at the same time. I resonate so deeply with the themes- at it's core, the central theme, the longing to belong. It is a longing so deep in my own world, in a year where I have often felt lost at sea, always trying to find an anchor...

I walk away from the theater with a gnawing melancholy, soft, and sad. The rain begins to fall and I decide to not retrieve my umbrella for the sheer fact that when in Dublin, do as the Dubliners do so as not to be a walking neon sign that I am an outsider, easy prey for the night. Anxiety is rising with each drop of rain but I steady myself against the cold Dublin air and walk back to Parnell Square, mind the landmarks, they are my map. Walk across the Ha'Penny Bridge, turn right, paralleling the Liffey, make a left at The Rolling Donut, past the Supermac's, onto O'Connell Street Upper, walk straight until you see the corner church, turn left, past the Dublin Writer's Museum, past the Hugh Lane Gallery, make a right at the end of the row onto Parnell Square West, up the row to the street lamp and you have arrived.

The day has left me utterly exhausted. I am wet and cold and tired and my thoughts, a kaleidoscope of things that I cannot begin to write. And so I shower and make a cup of tea. And I turn off the lights and listen to the rain fall outside my window.

Because I am thirsty anyway, so bring on the rain...

-Jillian Nichole, a thirsty kaleidoscope...