The Keeper

Ireland: the word speaks to the depths of my very soul, sending a surge of comforting warmth shooting through my veins. But it pains my heart. Vivid memories of deep green fields –the soil soft and forgiving under my bare feet -, stormy seas crashing into black rocks as briny gusts of ocean wind twist my hair wildly in the air about me, soft rain falling gently on the windowsill –the steady beat of the falling water matching the rhythm of my heart-, drinking hot tea every afternoon, the sound of laughter in the pub, and the smoky smell of a fresh peat fire all dance tauntingly through my mind, snaking themselves around my heart; constricting until the bonds are so tight I feel as though I will break under the pain. An excruciating sense of longing overtakes me and I am desperate to go back: to see those green fields just once more.

     My body is content where it is, sitting under a big pine tree, but my soul aches with memory, with sorrow so deep even I cannot understand it, though it is I who feels the throbbing of the wound. My soul yearns for home while my mind tells me I am foolish to think of leaving the place where I grew up. But the pull of that small island is so strong! I feel it playing upon my heart strings even when I do not actively seek to think about it. I felt such peace within myself while I was there. Here I feel only churning turmoil. I have never experienced peace and balance the way I did in Ireland. It was a jarring feeling of finding solitude in a time of chaos: of being truly and completely happy, not just content. The world seemed better, brighter. Even on rainy days –of which there were many- I felt lighter and more carefree then I ever have.

     Yet the logic of my mind makes me question myself. Can I really leave my family? My friends? The country which watched me grow up? Even before I finish my thoughts, I know my answer. I have to leave my family, and my friends. I have to leave the U.S., for though my body belongs to this country, on some level I know that my soul has always belonged to Ireland. It is she who has guided me through my life’s stormiest seas. It is her language, her food, her music, her dance, and her people who have helped shape the person that I am today. When my mother died in July of 2008, it is Ireland who helped me begin to heal the fresh, gaping wound that cancer had inflicted upon me. The hole in my heart where my mother’s life once dwelt can never be filled, but Ireland dulls the pain enough so that it does not control my life. In Ireland, I know I can begin to live again. There, I experienced bliss in a time when I needed it most. I now cannot settle for contentment. My family will always be there no matter where I live, and I hope my friends will be too. Though I am grateful to America for giving me the opportunities which I have been afforded, I know in my heart of hearts that I do not belong here. Sometimes I think that I never had a choice in where I would end up for I feel that Eire has always been a part of me. She is a protector of the helpless and a giver to those in need. She is a mother to the motherless. She has experienced pain and suffering, tears of sadness and tears of joy, chains of slavery and the sweet taste of freedom. She is my soul’s keeper, and it is to her that I must return.