There's something you must know about me. I'm Irish. I wish I had been born there, raised there, had the accent, the issues, the homeland--all of it. On my father's side I'm from the O'Callahans, irish catholic royalty. On my mother's side I'm from the McKeowns, also irish catholic, but not royalty.
Although I have this heritage, the names, the blood, I don't have the homeland. Something deep within me misses it, yearns for it. One day I will go there. I will probably hug a tree, kiss the ground, and keep rocks in my pockets. I love it like you'd love the old house you grew up in, with all it's history and stories. With all the memories and treasures. I love it like a dream of something I once knew.
In my desperate attempt to be Irish, I read books, buy claddagh rings, irish knot rings, listen to old irish folk music, basically digest anything and everything humanly possible having to do with Ireland.
Most recently I read this book:
It is fantastic! Although the lady on the cover looks sadly more manly than she should, the book is filled with incredible stories of daring women, bold and sexy, willing to face death, women who stood up for what they believe in. These women are in some way my mother. They are the line I come from, the heritage I love, the sassiness within me (or lack of tact). I love these women, and I hope that someday I can look back on my life and know that I did a little of what they did.
I'm glad to be Irish with all it's tactlessness, passion, sincerity, charm, and charisma. The Irish name for Ireland is Eire.
To Eire is human, to Eire divine.