Lullaby

Javier's onsie has a two small holes in it: one under the armpit, and one around his ankle, where the 'footie' meets the leg. It's second-hand, and stained in a few places, but it's clean and freshly pressed. He's been dressed with love, which can never be shabby.

I press my nose against his baby-sweet neck. Scents of soap, warmth and a mother's perfume are nestled there. I cajole and cuddle him, and his face lights with a silly, toothless grin at the tickling sensation of being smothered in kisses.

His small head teeters on a wobbly neck, straining to investigate the world of the ceiling above him. Eyes rest and focus on a rainbow-colored kite suspended from sagging tiles. In a gentle voice I tell him of light and prisms, color and sunshine. He listens, gnawing thoughtfully on a dump truck as I speak.

We spend the hour similarly engaged, while a dozen other children shout and sing, laugh and give chase around the toy room. Javier stands, tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and bounces with enthusiasm. I point out that he is quite a big boy now, and soon will join the teeming mob. Childhood will soon be upon him, complete with all the mysteries and whimsy that are his right.

A whistle blows, and my shift is over. His mother, young but so loving, is waiting at the door. With pride and affection she cradles him, and he joyfully buries his small face in her breast. Softly, and as rhythmic as the shuffle of her slippered feet against the linoleum, she hums a Spanish lullaby. Her music creates an acoustic veil between Javier and the din of the homeless shelter and, lulled as if by incantation, he becomes unconscious of the turmoil surrounding him, feeling only that he is safe and loved.

Back, and complaining already...

Back in the states again, and logging in to my poor, neglected blog after all these long months. If you know me, you know that we're happily settled in Boston with new jobs, a new apartment and even a small, white dog to complete the picture. Newton was named after the famous Sir Isaac. He doesn't exactly live up to his namesake in the intelligence department, but he's extra cuddly, so I let it slide.

The beauty of blogging to an audience of none: no explanation for my absence, or these changes listed above, is necessary. Therefore, I will jump headlong into my blog once again. This time, I hope it will be with a more disciplined posting schedule.

Another perk of having no followers: no one minds what I say. In light of this, I will be saying any and every thought which illuminates the inner caverns and pathways of my pretty little head. Ah, freedom! Another word for "no one cares."

Let me begin, then, by complaining. As a new resident to the metamorphosing neighborhood of East Boston (or Eastie, to those who frequent such haunts as Trainor's or Kelly's Square Pub), I am shocked and appalled at the state of the neighborhood's trash collection practices.

The problem is, residents are encouraged to leave their bags of trash on the ground the night before trash collection day. Dirty. And the filth is then compounded by the fact that East Boston is infamous for its skunk population. I'm sure I don't need to describe the scenes of garbage carnage and destruction one witnesses the following morning. Yesterday, I stepped over a stinking tray of discarded chicken fat, covered in flies and maggots.

What really shocks me, however, is the simplicity of the solution: trash bins. A trash bin, with a proper lid, would reduce litter, render street sweeping almost unnecessary and relieve the citizens of East Boston from the horrors of a putrid, reeking river of trash each Tuesday morning as they walk to work.

I intend to solve all social ills on the blog. Check back frequently.

Church

A young child sits silently and obediently beneath her mother’s soft, strong arm on the wooden and high-backed pew. Her thin legs dangle and swing from the seat and only the preacher’s head, mouth earnestly uttering old and sacred words from the Bible before him, appears in her line of vision. He’s the ring master at the centre of this Sunday circus, flanked by organ and piano on either side and a host of clowns dutifully performing various assigned tasks.

But above centre ring, high above the preacher’s balding head beaded with perspiration waits a ceiling. It’s higher than her mother’s arm, higher than the preacher’s waving arms and higher, even, than the upper reaches of the ornately carved baptismal chamber. Peaks of white rolling mounds like the icing trim of a wedding cake are cut into perfect rows and lines and squares, an infinite grid of white. The child runs her eyes down each row and back again, loving the curves, cultivating a tenderness for the mounds and lines. If she could dip her small finger into the ceiling and then her hand, she could pull it back to her coated in a buttery smooth loveliness. But the ribbons and waves of white are not to be disturbed.

It’s there, above the warm realities of her close, teeming world, she firmly believes in the God they’ve come to worship, this solemn congregation that never looks up. She sees His omnipresent mist swirl and seep between wooden columns, caressing each white moulded dollop of plaster in His translucent cloud of being. She sees Him sway and glow with the rhythm of the sermon and swell with love at the crescendo of a favourite hymn. And at the service’s close, as the last worshiper steps into the sharp morning sun and blinkingly greets his fellows, the mist slips unnoticed behind, and she sees it unwind itself from the columns and rows of crevices and silently hold each worshiper’s torso close as they walk away, the strands pulling and separating with the growing divergence of paths.

Edinburgh

Those bent on attacking the ancient Castle of Edinburgh would have found it formidable. The craggy hill juts almost sheerly up from the coastal plain, and well-placed cannons peer down from the dizzying height of the walls. Long before it was a English fort, however, it was a sacred and religiously vital monument of the original Scots, before Romans march to the highlands and before their kings were deposed in favor of the British.

King Arthur's Seat, to the north of the city, is reminiscent of how the castle hill, pre-British control. The climb is heart-poundingly steep, but the wind at the top is fresh and the heather is sweet, and the view of the city around it unrivalled.

I've included pictures of both from our trip to Edinburgh over the weekend. You can see the sandstone buildings at the base of the castle hill, each laboriously built by the Scots the English used as slaves, and each carved beautifully into the side of the hill, making the streets wind and twist into and under and around each other. It really is a fairytale city.

Sacrifice

There's a man who washes dishes at Liam's brother's pub. He begins at 9:00 am every day, and finishes at 10:00 pm. The plates are heavy and soiled with grease, the kitchen is hot and close. He doesn't say much, as his English is limited, but he jokes in his broken words, and each member of the staff truly enjoy his bright smile and pleasant demeanour.

Lately, Cannon's been leaving early. He's taking an English class from 7 to 10, so he can improve, and communicate in this new country he's made his home. Instead of going home at 10 to spend a tired bit of an evening with his wife and young daughter, Cannon then returns to the pub after class to finish every last dish that's accumulated in the 3 hours of his absence.

I find that absolutely beautiful, and had to share it with you.

Loss

In the moments between unconscious sleep and the first fleeting thoughts of an awakened mind, where dreams and truth slip and twist around one another, a lonely feeling haunts me.

It's always the same hollow, the deep black of a hurt that will never be resolved, never entirely heal. My friend is gone. She's gone and gone and gone forever.

Seven months have passed, but the same emptiness swallows my mind as those first waking thoughts remind me what's missing. She's looking at me, big brown eyes full of love and devotion, and a companionship complete and whole, without one word ever spoken. She knows I love her too and she sits comfortably beside me, but deep down, my conscious mind knows she's leaving. There's no warm brown fur under my stroking fingers, and there'll be no small friend in the bed beside me, nose pressed against my cheek to wake me, ready for our next adventure.

Then my mind plays the meanest trick of all. It's a twisted thing it's always done, especially in social settings where I should be particularly appropriate or well-behaved: it shows me the most horrific thing it can muster. In this case, it's my friend, fur rotted, or mostly so, in a shallow grave in my mother's garden, the elements of the last seven months having decomposed my darling into a horror beyond recognition. Sometimes an active imagination is not a blessing.

That thought passes, too, and as my mind drifts and eases towards those last few seconds of semi-consciousness, the hollowness returns. I'm close enough now to reality to shake my brain awake, grasping at the morning light and holding Liam close, a warm, safe balm against my chest. The dark feeling is fading and my rational mind is able to talk itself calm again, but there's a desperation tucked deeply away from the cool light of day and I know it's permanently a part of me, just like she is.

Clubbin' (moved to the top, so you can find it)

In the first flush of excitement, in the planning stages of my move to Dublin, I tried to prepare a life. Months, even, before I was deciding which linens to store, which kitchen appliances I could possibly part with and which shoes would be most suitable for a wet Irish night on the town, I had used (wasted?) hours of valuable company time to hit search engine after search engine with keyword searches like, "making American friends in Dublin," or, "Dublin clubs for women."

Some happy combination of like phrases delivered a link to the American Women's Club of Ireland and after perusing the site, I decided that when I arrived in Dublin, I'd call on and be befriended by these ladies, fellow countrywomen living abroad, just like me. They'd take me to their ample, red-blooded American bosoms and shower me with the motherly affection and friendly companionship I'd be craving in a few month's time.

I did just that last Thursday. Ticket clutched in my mittened hand, I took the Dart from the Pearse Street station to Landsdowne Road and crossed the little stone bridge spanning the canal, finding the Herbert Hotel on the right, as described on the AWCI website. One flight of stairs brought me to Generic Meeting Room A, already filled with weak tea, packaged biscuits and a wrinkled, perfumed gaggle of American women.

Ages ranged from me, to almost dead. A smiling woman from Houston greeted me at the Guest Table, and I was outfitted with a huge, white name badge, clearly indicating my status as NEW. It was the first indication that I was, in fact, in the midst of some very American women. I'm not sure name badges even exist in Ireland, and if they do, I can guarantee that no one expects a guest to slap one across their chest, thus exposing their vulnerable NEW position to the congregation at large. Standing out from the crowd in Irish social settings is not encouraged.

As I took off my coat, I realized that I was severely under dressed. It seems that beauticians across the world have perfected the perm-and-fluff combo, and these American women were not about to attend their social meeting without a fresh 'do. Their mom-slacks were newly pressed, elastic waistbands tastefully hidden under tummy-minimizing blouses (that word has never applied so thoroughly), and their sensible-yet-sassy shoes put my muddy runners to shame.

All the same, I marched in those muddy runners right up to the first person I saw also bearing the affliction of a NEW badge, a pretty girl in her early 30's from Dallas. She wore a look of constant unease, and I thought some friendly conversation might be appreciated. We exchanged pleasantries and the basic where-are-you-from questions, but the conversation fizzled shortly after I mentioned my occupation as a freelance writer, and Liam's as a graduate student. Apparently in Dallas, these things are not impressive.

I floated next to Rose, also NEW, freshly arrived in Dublin from Arizona, and VERY excited to be there that morning. She had already hunted and found the leader of the Book Club (a darling, grandmotherly woman named Patty) and was zealously searching for the Bridge Club leader next. She suggested we sign up for both clubs TOGETHER(!!!), and I enthusiastically agreed to the Book Club, somehow easing my way out of a Bridge Club obligation, thank goodness.

By now the president, carrying herself with a heavy air of pomp and a solemn awareness of her own importance, was calling the meeting to order, and we filed into the rows of chairs. The first order of business, apparently, was for President Northeastern Accent to regale us with a 10 minute summary of her recent trip to Las Vegas with her five "fabulous" sisters and 80-year-old mother. After ending with a moral ("Valentine's Day is coming up, and...you wanna talk about love? I love those fabulous ladies, my sisters and motha!), she perceived that we were thoroughly bored, and introduced the first speaker.

The woman was the most sane, pleasant person I'd encountered all morning. She was the soft-spoken owner of a small franchise of book stores in the area, about which she rambled for 30 or so minutes. I found her speech completely devoid of any useful information, yet enjoyable all the same.

The highlight of the morning, however, was The Ancient Filmstar. Just down the lane from God Knows Where, someone on the Program Planning Committee found Ancient Filmstar still inexplicably alive and kicking in Ireland and invited her to entertain us all with her stories of pre-war era Hollywood and her days as a child star on Our Gang (yes, the original Little Rascals). Now, do the math people. This woman had begun her acting career in SILENT FILMS. I saw them bringing her up the stairs, a cushion of five women around her, doing the toddler arms thing (you know, when you're helping a toddler walk, and you want your arms there, just in case). It took about 30 minutes.

She was handed the mic (while seated, mind you. there's no way she could have stood), and immediately started on the longest sentence ever uttered, while successfully managing to entirely avoid making a point or finishing a thought. I would have loved to see it written and its punctuation attempted. It went something like (punctuation added for your own sanity's sake), "I started acting when I was 6 months old and, did you ever see the boulevard in Hollywood? We used to be there and I was there one time and donkeys (!) up the hill. We rode them to the, oh (!) one time, my mother took me to the coast. My father left my mother. Did you know Charlie Chaplan? He was such a....I met him once. We ate eggs on the set every day. Do you know the best way to cook an egg? Everyone loved my dimples and there's no business like show business! I'm an egomaniac."

How this woman, with 4 years of fame she earned solely by being very young and relatively cute, could still manage to receive solicitations for speaking engagements, is beyond me. It's inspiring, it's enterprising, and bless her ancient, feeble heart, it's downright American.

And though she, and the rest of the characters I met at AWDI were absolutely bizarre, it was nice to hear familiar phrases and accents, speak to those who know about the sites, food, entertainment we all love and miss and to realize that I'm not all alone in my awe, love and slight resistance to this country where I've chosen to spend limbo. They've learned to drive on the left side of the road, and they'll ask for "mince" instead of "ground beef" at the grocer's, but their hair remains as teased, their accents as nasal and their broaches as patriotic as the day they left the US. You can soak the American girl in a cold, slow Irish rain, but you can't dampen her spirit!