It’s St Patrick’s Day.   A day that people celebrate whether they are Irish or not.   A few years ago, I would be wearing green and celebrating in a pub, the night before but perhaps at 45, I’ve become much like my Irish grandfather, who died a decade ago, and was not like a stereotypical Irishman – drinking whiskey and lamenting with stories of old.

A decade later, I still remember the pipe he smoked.  It’s funny the things you remember and appreciate people more, posthumously, right? A smell or song, a subtle cue that brings back cherished memories. He was an entrepreneur, celebrated local artist and a golfer with a single digit handicap even at the age of 94, which was the year he passed.  As the last of my grandparents to die, I had the realization that my lineage was fragile, there was nobody to

I knew I had family in Ireland, so off to the emerald isle I went, via London. It was time to connect with the other side of my family. Well, technically, it was Ireland via a wild week in London. More on that later…

Potatoes and Raves, Oh My.

I felt blessed to visit the home of my great grandmother in Carrigaline.  My cousins, made a traditional Sunday roast.   The connection with family from the young to the old, was just awesome.   I loved hearing the stories as we sat around a lunch of roasted potatoes and chicken.  The irony was that the night before, I was at a rave in Brixton.  Dressed in a corset and stockings, I danced and made out until the sun came out and it was time to head to airport for that Sunday lunch. On two hours sleep, the taste of that meal, the laughter and smiles around the table, the barking dog sound of my cousin’s mobile that let him know his boss was calling, those are vibrant memories I carry with me.

The Yin and Yang of Life.

Life is being in a constant state of realization that propels you forward. That trip was dynamic in that I connected with my past that filled a longing to understand my lineage. The rave, and a week of serious debauchery, accentuated a “live in the moment” attitude. A Sunday lunch table with relatives, left an impregnable mark, knowing they were telling stories that I would never hear again from their mouth.

This was a tale of how every moment of the time spent there was unique and one that I knew I would never be able to duplicate. Luck of the Irish, perhaps.

Music mood: “Shipping Out to Boston” Dropkick Murphys

I'm a writer and a lover not a fighter, except if I really want something.

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