Author: kevshinn

I decided to cut my Ireland trip short by four days.  Forgoing the remaining historic destinations were an easy trade off for the assurance of getting home.  Being stranded abroad will be the fate for many travelers in the coming days. That was an experience on which I wanted to miss out.

Already this morning, it’s painfully striking the number of tempers flaring and accompanying complaints that their owners feel the need to broadcast audibly as we stood in multiple queues for immigration and security.  Impulse is rarely a good idea, unless it’s jumping out of the way of an oncoming truck.

The slag of all that negativity that was splashed on me without my permission needed to get washed off.  I sit on the tarmac with other grumbling passengers, waiting for the others to make it through security. But I don’t care to complain, even though there is plenty to stew on.  I don’t want to be wealthy in complaint. I’d rather be rich in Gratitude.

Complaining is just like Twitter.  There is no upside to using it, and I’m better off by staying far away.  One ill-timed, 140-character sucker punch can damage a career, a relationship or suddenly spoil a good mood.   All this because of a reaction that could have been avoided by someone taking a deep breath and hitting delete. 

The uncertainty of these days led me to be on the move while I can. This is less about fear and more about prudence. If it’s slow and frustrating today and the travel ban goes into effect tomorrow, I can only imagine it getting worse before it gets better.

I can’t fathom the multiple tremors that are going to ripple out across the future of every social and economic circle imaginable because of this disruption.  That makes today a great time to move in the opposite spirit of the circumstances of the day. Now is the time to oppose scarcity with abundance.  Tackle frustration with peacefulness. Go up against cynicism with vulnerable kindness. Watch who wins.

Negativity is always easier because it cooperates with gravity.  Drop one thoughtless complaint and it will sink to the bottom quickly, and bring you and others down with it. 

On the other hand, this airplane on which I sit, also cooperates with gravity. In doing so, it takes me in another direction.  It moves me upward, not down. This flying machine can lift lots of people off the ground and safely carry us for a very long distance.  But it does so by design, not by accident. And that’s a key difference.

Doomsday headlines are already reading like this: PANDEMIC RISKS BRINGING OUT THE WORST IN HUMANITY.  I’m going to stand on the other street corner and shout the opposite.  THIS PANDEMIC RISKS BRINGING OUT THE BEST IN HUMANITY. There’s no reason it can’t. All it will take are enough people who chose to respond intentionally, thoughtfully and beautifully rather than negatively and impulsively. 

Malcom Gladwell coined the term, tipping point, as the point at which a series of small changes or incidents becomes significant enough to cause a larger, more important change.

The pandemic of sickness has tipped the whole world.  I believe the pandemic of generosity and kindness can tip it back over, right side up.

Make today count.

2020 will be marked as the year I found the writings of the late Irish poet John O’Donohue and the impact they have had on me. I brought a book of his with me and cannot get past page 27. He writes in his introduction:

“What is nearest to the heart is often farthest from the word.”

This is the description of what I feel most of the time here in Ireland.  I can’t describe it adequately. There is a vibration deep inside me that feels like it is searching for a song to allow it to escape. It resonates when I unintentionally found the old graveyard, when I chatted with the old shepherd and when the elder Irish woman convinced me to sing a song last night in the pub. It is impossible to describe, but it is as real and tangible nonetheless.

David Whyte puts it this way:

“The language we possess is not large enough for the territory we’ve entered.”

The pathway of loss has led me into a place where I have crossed its borders a few times, but I now find myself in a region that I am fumbling to communicate, even to myself, what I am seeing, feeling and discovering.  I think that’s why O’Donahue’s poems are so critical. Poetry is a language against which I have no defenses.

Negotiating With Being Alone

The awareness of being alone
Is easily transacted
For a lesser companion
One that fills a void
But brings no color
No brushes
And no mind
To paint a pretty landscape

Reason tends
Time will not allow
The ache of longing
Adequate space
For love to satiate
Hunger that isn’t sensible

But a choice to settle
Is still a decision
To find an answer
And resolve a riddle
That has more than one solution.

I went to dinner at a local restaurant in Waterford Sunday night.  The music in the pub didn’t show till 10pm, so I had a little time to kill.  The barman recommended a spot just off the square, so I made my way down there.

It was a lively joint, with the buzzy kind of energy I like about a place. It was loud and crowded and since I was by myself, I had no one to hear. So I turned my attention to watching the clientele.

The host seated me on a banquette along the wall.  As the night unfolded, I was eventually flanked by two couples, one on my right and the other at the table to my left. I tried to not be obvious, but their countenance and mannerisms were hard to ignore.  All four seemed to be near my age, and all were wearing rings on the appropriate finger to indicate the nature of their relationship.

All seemed distant and disinterested in one another.

One woman was checking her phone regularly. The couple on the other side hardly said a word to each other. I started getting annoyed. But I kept quiet and paid attention.

I kept to my rule of not speaking against that which I don’t understand. And this helped me change my point of view.

I didn’t know the backstory of each of these couples.  Maybe one of them just got some bad news and was in no mood for conversation, or the woman might have kept checking her phone because her daughter was about to go into labor and mom wanted to know the progress. Everything isn’t as it seems.  There’s always more than meets the eye.

I wish it was easier to make gracious assumptions.  I guess it’s just like developing an accent. I mimic the people I listen to. And there are so many negative voices to hear, it’s no wonder there is an absence in the sound of kindness.

Loss has heightened my senses.  I look at folks on the train, bus or airplane differently now.  What’s going on in their mind? What does it feel like to be that person?  Does anyone know?

I’m planning to slow down my posts for a bit now on this next leg of the journey. I won’t keep up the same daily pace in writing as I’ve done recently. I’m on the rail toward Dingle peninsula this morning and am intent on doing what I came here to do. I may never pass this way again, and I have a feeling there are lots of roses to stop and smell.

Feicfidh mé ar ball thú”.

I’m not sure what it is about this place, but the grief and sense of loss has surged since landing here. I didn’t come here to feel worse.  I thought I was coming for something charming and alluring. It must be the sudden encounter of that very thing I have been looking forward to experiencing. Beauty has a tendency to unsettle the soul.

Beauty is fleeting, therefore it creates in me the need to archive it.  Beauty does not demand it. Beauty is simply being itself. Like the prolific gorse brush that blankets the Irish countryside.  Each Spring it sets its delicate yellow flowers amid prickly and disagreeable thorns. They bloom whether I see them or not.  But once my eyes get a glimpse, the clock starts ticking. How can I ever possibly capture this beauty and the feeling that goes along with it?

Thankfully we now have the camera to assist the task.  But It’s not enough to take a picture of an inspiring setting and never show it to anyone.  The impulse to put images on social media is proof of this. Regardless of how blurry the shot of that sunset that you saw on vacation, the urge to invite us into your experience supersedes the quality of the photo.

I have a closet full of photograph albums from years of memories.  But what good are they without someone to enter into the memory together? My pictures are not a part of your story. They are of no use to you.

I’m traveling alone. I’ve done so by choice because I know I still have a lot more grieving to work through. There are times the road is only wide enough for single file.  That’s my current path. I know that I won’t always feel this way, and wise enough believe that this, too, shall pass. In the meantime, I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I have nearly 30 years of archived memories and the one I cataloged and referenced them with is no longer here to recount them with me.  That’s another reason this trip feels so different than others in the past. I’m starting my new library. 

I love certain linguistic accents.  I could listen to Saoirse Ronan and Fiona Ritchie all day. I enjoy how their articulation sounds to my ear. The lilt, the cadence, the emphasis on certain syllables. Could it be because the way they sound seems more exotic and attractive to me? Or maybe it’s because it makes me feel like my Okie elocution sounds pedestrian.  Don’t be surprised if this immersion among the Irish these next two weeks has me sounding like Liam Neeson when I get back.

How does an accent develop?  Why do Midwesterners think they don’t have an accent? Who taught the Irish how to sound Irish?  Or who showed a child in Alabama how to sound different than a kid from Boston? 

We learned it from each other. 

From an early age, we instinctively repeat what we hear. In both language and accent, the words formed and the particular way they sound are an imitation of those we learn from. I could try to sound Irish, but at my age, it would be a difficult conversion.

Already, a few times on this trip, I’ve been asked where I’m from after I’ve opened my mouth to speak. To some, it’s obvious because they predict I’m from the U.S. How I sound is an indication of where I live.

The dialect of social media has a predominant accent.  So does our current political discourse. It sounds like dismissive annoyance and rage. I spend less and less time there because of that. I don’t want to pick up that accent. It really doesn’t matter what side of the aisle or point of view, if it ends up being delivered in the same patois, everyone sounds alike.

Here in Ireland, I’m a little self-conscious about sounding different, but in the realm of social media and politics, I don’t mind standing out from the crowd. I hope my voice sounds like it was raised in another Kingdom.

The fascination of transition has begun, and it always starts in the same way when I travel internationally.  It’s the eye for things that are different. Some drastic, others subtle. It always takes a day or two to remember to go to the left side of the car or ask for crisps or biscuits in my food order.  I am, however, smart enough not to order an Irish Car Bomb or a Black & Tan from intuition and not failed experience.

I love eavesdropping on the three French women sitting on the train in the row next to me, even though I have no idea what they are saying.  Instead my mind considers how vastly different their perception of the world is than mine. They possess a language that has rhythm and timbre that sounds fetching.  Much like Celina yesterday at her shop, le chocolat de Fred. Though she spoke fluent English, it was with the winsome accent of her heritage.  The sound of her voice was enough to make me want to stand in the queue and order another savory crepe to hear her say, Oui. Merci.

These initial observations of cultural variance are fun to account for, but they can become the same things that drive a person crazy.  My friends who have lived in a multinational context have told me after a while, the novelty wears off, and the yearning to return to a familiar life takes over. One guy once told me he couldn’t wait to get back to the States to once again sink his teeth into a hamburger and a Snickers bar.  Regardless of the reasons why, these two things connected him to a sense of place. They reminded him of home. His idea of belonging.

Familiarity fosters comfort. It’s another reason why loss is devastating. Not only is the person gone, but so is the lifestyle and the constancy that was attached to them. That good feeling isn’t coming back.

This longing for home isn’t optional.  It’s compulsory. Homesickness is nothing to feel guilty about. But it is something that might need to be set aside for a season.

I remember as a young child getting homesick at church camp. I recall wanting to go home after day one. I was pretty young and it was only for a week, but everything was so new and unexpected to that little boy. I wanted something familiar right away. I cried in the bathroom so I wouldn’t be seen. I wasn’t old enough to have perspective that things would settle down. But I was old enough to feel shame.

In the same heart as that little boy is the yearning to be home.  Not to the empty house I will walk back into on March 19. But back to a dwelling place, to a familiar shelter furnished in the environment of companionship.

Grief is homesickness. 

Eleven years ago this month, I took my family to Ireland for a ten-day excursion. After only four days into the trip, we got word that Karen’s dad had passed away.  We were in Galway when the news reached us, so we had to say goodbye to the Emerald Isle and return home. I always felt robbed of that experience, so I told myself I would someday revisit and complete the unfinished business.

I landed in Dublin this morning for two weeks of writing, hiking, listening and observing.  I don’t know why I’m drawn to Ireland over any other country in the world. My last name has Gaelic roots according to Ancestry.com, but no one in my family identifies with the heritage. I think it’s something less cognitive and much more visceral. It’s a feeling that is evoked by music and lore, of ideal and history.

I can hear the Divine Voice in their fiddle, speaking quietly, saying it’s OK to feel joyful, while giving me just as much permission to the necessity of weeping. Music like theirs flows from centuries of life experience, not out of theory. To know Irish history is to know that it’s anything but lucky. They are a people with a past that taught them what it means to grieve, something I intimately identify with right now.

Even their most noted beer has an historic context, having been brewed for 261 years, 17 years before my country was founded.  That leaves 8,739 years left on the 9,000 year lease at St James Gate. This endears me to a sense of place that is unlike my own. Nebraskans might imagine their Huskers playing football for 261 seasons, all of them with a winning record. That might get close to the devotion the Irish manifest.

I look forward to watching what unfolds in the next two weeks. I made the journey by myself because I wanted to be free to see where will the Hound will lead. Down which trails and paths will He take me? I’m eager to find out.

Slainte’

A neurosurgeon is experienced in the science and study of how the brain works, but no one has ever opened up the cranium and found the thoughts held by that patient. No one knows the thoughts of a person, except that person themselves.

This makes each of us unique in a very peculiar way.  I have no idea what is going on in your head. I can only observe behavior that your thoughts produce.

I write about grief because you can’t read my mind.  You can’t see my thoughts, but my act of writing can give you a glimpse of what I am going through.

I don’t mind the question, “How are you doing?” Mainly because the answer keeps changing. Answering that question is helpful to me in remembering where I’ve been and mindful of where I want to go.

Anger filled my thoughts in the beginning stages of loss.  This was very unsettling to me. I’m not comfortable with anger.  I don’t like the damage it causes. And I especially don’t like the business of cleaning up the mess that it leaves.  But I knew I had to investigate it. I went in eyes wide open.

I bought a journal specifically for this stage of grief.  I got very honest, more so than I’ve ever done in a writing project.  I had to face the fear of that book ever being discovered. I wrote a disclaimer in the front of it, in case someone ever found it before I eventually burn it.

“On these pages are the thoughts of a grieving man.  If anyone ever finds this, please don’t read it. But if you are unable to discard it, please know that this is my deliberate war between Love and Anger. Like any war, combat is grim and shocking. But I have every intention of seeing that Love is victorious.”

My angry thoughts had to be confronted, or else they were going to set up shop in my mind, and they had no intention of paying rent for taking up space. It was up to me to evict them. I couldn’t hire a surgeon to remove them for me. So I went to work.

I’m much less angry now. I’ve worked backwards through the years and fought through the initial negative emotions and experiences.  I finally found the Place of Good Memories.

Traveling has been my calming tonic in the operation.  I had a lot to suss out. I prefer the space to let my mind wander.

I struck up a conversation with a woman standing with the expectant crowd in front of the stage as we waited on Tanya Tucker to perform.  Among the chit chat we exchanged, the subject of past concerts came up. I told her one reason I was down front like this was in solidarity with my daughter, who taught me the importance of getting as close as possible.  I regaled the story of waiting for 5 hours at the barrier in front of the stage for Mumford & Sons. That makes a better memory than being lost in the sea of people somewhere in the middle.

Her name was Nikki. She asked about the rest of my family.  I told her I was recently widowed but that I didn’t want to stop living life, thus taking up my friend’s offer to come to the show. She affirmed that decision. The lights went down. End of conversation. It’s showtime.

The name of Tanya Tucker’s 2020 tour is Bring My Flowers Now, taken from her recent song of the same title. The sentiment of the song is to never wait to express love, but if the thought to bring flowers home comes from the heart, regardless of occasion, then by all means, bring ‘em home.

At the point in the concert where this song was performed, I started tearing up. As I soaked in my past memories, Nikki noticed, reached over and patted my shoulder and gave me an unexpected gift.

“You did that for her, didn’t you?”

I lost it.

Who knew that a simple kindness from a complete stranger would have such a positive effect? It served to remind me of the many times I did bring flowers home for no reason.  And the annual ritual of cutting forsythia in midwinter to force their yellow blossoms to bring a little color indoors to help assuage a dreary winter. And my practice each fall of planting tulips in my garden just for cutting in the spring. 

Yes, I did that, Nikki.  Thank you so much.

We all need more kindness in this world.

I lived more years with her than without.  There was a time I didn’t have her in my life.  Now I’m back to where I started.

Marriage is a process of dying to self.  It won’t work if both partners are not willing to set aside certain personal preferences and predispositions for the sake of creating an intimate union with each other.  It’s no wonder that many marriages don’t work out. Folks, especially religious ones, who look smugly on those who have separated are missing the log in their own eye. Anyone who cannot see divorce through the eyes of compassion are likely avoiding their own painful realities.

The word is deference.  I adopted this word early on.  It means humble submission and respect. At first marriage felt like it was leading me into a world full of grey where there was very little right or wrong. I later learned that I was color-blind.

Over the years of my marriage, I started to see how it was coloring my world, not making it monotone.  When our first child was born, it felt like an invasion of our private time together. But as I submitted to the restrictions that came with being a parent, I saw life differently.  I no longer focused on the loss of freedom. I could see the beauty of this woman and the tiny little humans that made their way into my life.

In this transition, I lost some of myself. There were things I enjoyed that I could no longer do.  I couldn’t stay out as long as I wanted. I had to be home a certain time each night. I had to check in if I was going to be late.   To each of these I chose to defer out of kindness and consideration of this new life. 

Ultimately, I was gaining something, not losing.

Now that this partnership is gone, it’s back to just me again.  It’s like I’m 22 and fresh out of college, but with the perspective of a 56 year old mind.

I have 30 years of being shaped intimately by the lives of three unique, special individuals.  I get to go through another transition with the exact same regard.

Do I major on what I’ve lost or on what I am gaining and becoming?