My Irish Eyes


Right now... I am sitting in the courtyard of a stable converted to living quarters, our housing for the week. A stone exterior frames a bright blue door, one of many brightly colored doorways in Ireland, predominantly red. It feels like optimism brightening the doorway of an otherwise grey facade. It feels like her people. There’s a cheerfulness everywhere, easy going, never stressed, always a kind word or turn about into a subtle joke making me smile. Underneath there’s a vein of sadness, from where I don’t know and can only speculate. They say we carry seven generations within us, the stories, the emotions, the repeated behaviors. I believe that. The history and weight of oppression, famine, hopelessness, rebellion and the fight for freedom lives on in the spirit of these people. English is the language of the oppressor I’m told like it all happened yesterday. Books still line the shelves giving hero status to rebels. I read in the paper that suicide is a problem here. It surprised me. I couldn’t match the cheerfulness with the sadness. Guinness and whiskey rule though as coping mechanisms along with the smiles. Along city streets and in country pubs you are sure to see men stooped over, baggy clothes, crevices in their faces, stumbling along and women with vacant eyes. I see myself so clearly in the blue eyes reflected back at me. We each mirror the cheerfulness, the happiness, the optimism. The delicate line of sadness easily accessible in the iris of the eye just behind the twinkle. We see it in each other, nod, smile, even have a good laugh together knowing the depth of what lies beneath, the history we each carry.

Well, we do what we must dear, don’t we, the Irish woman at the airport said to me before boarding. Yes, we do what we must.

Corolla, North Carolina, USA. Dyanne writes as a way of healing herself and others. She is an inner wisdom coach, psychotherapist, midlife and beyond blogger, mind-body healer and guide to your Holy, Wholly, Holey self,