Grounded by a Snowy White Owl

The sun had cast shimmering gold flakes of light onto the sands at Plum Island in Newburyport, MA. It was difficult to not stray from the boardwalk and plop down on the soft piles of warmth. My husband and I had skipped household chores to drive to the refuge for a walk. It was nearly 50 degrees and we were basking in a snow-less, mild winter. As we strolled on the boardwalk, buoyant and expectant, we came to a silent assembly of birdwatchers, swathed in outdoor gear and carrying impressive telescopes, spotting scopes, binoculars, and tripods. We stopped to watch, too, pulling out our pair of cheap binoculars and our good digital camera. Someone made room for us and whispered, “It’s a snowy white!”

I was in a silent sanctuary of worshipers who had come to view a holy sighting. The scent of the  briny, vigorous sea breeze became the incense carrying unspoken prayers to the heavens, and the candles were represented by the dancing points of golden sunlight surrounding the snowy white owl. There was a sacred hush amongst us, and I wondered if this was how people felt when they went to see apparitions of the Virgin Mary at the Medjugorje shrine in Southern Bosnia.

I have seen the barred owl in the middle of the day, flying over my car. I have heard the barred owl outside my window and we have called to one another back and forth, the owl coming closer. Me, shutting the window quickly, fearing too much intimacy.  Once, driving down the road at midnight while in a heated argument with a friend, a barred owl stood in the center of the road. I had to brake hard and she spread her wings. I got the message. But this was my first snowy white owl sighting. It wasn’t as close as my barred owl sightings, but it didn’t need to be. Through my scratched, inferior binoculars I saw enough of this snowy white female to make my head spin 270 degrees as her head does. When she put out her five foot-wide wing, it was only half-way, but it was enough. I felt it cover my heart and dissolve my doubts. I left church that day renewed, invigorated, and the vision of this snowy white mother was vivid in my memory for weeks. She is still with me.

It is an unprecedented year for snowy white owl visits to the United States, especially as far south as Texas. Scientists say it could be due to the harsh winter in Canada or because the snowy white owl food supply is limited, i.e. lemmings are on the decrease. Photographers who have searched for snowy whites for years are ecstatic and stunning photographs are everywhere on the web. The evening news reporting graphic stories of violence and tragedy are inserting cheerful vignettes of snowy white owl sightings. Grown men are nearly weeping and crying out, “You don’t find owls. They find you!” Warnings are being sent out to protect the snowy whites from too much human contact and intrusion.

Owls represent wisdom, mystery, death, and intuition. A snowy white owl hunts during the day and seeing one during the day could indicate you need to bring forth something in the light of day that you have hidden. Ted Andrews writes in Animal Magick, “Owl people have a unique ability to see into the darkness of others’ souls and life.”

Perhaps a visitation by so many snowy whites to the United States can have further meaning than a harsh winter and low food supply. Death to old, linear, starchy, restrictive, greedy, and oxygen-less ways in our lives and in our government. Why not all of us seek to be owl people and embrace wisdom and intuition? Maybe we are being visited by our Creator through Mother Snowy White Owl.

I believe there are certain places on this earth, the anima loci, that hold special energies and sacredness where the veil between the earth and the beyond is very thin. I went home that day after seeing the snowy white owl with my insides re-adjusted and re-aligned. Good thing, too, because that evening I had a very disappointing phone call. After the call, I wondered at my resilience and my peace, but then I knew. Mother Snowy White Owl had prepared me.

There are better videos online than mine, but I thought you might capture the spirit of this blog by viewing the time captured:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qe0iGfjbquM&feature=youtu.be

And one of my favorite poets writes about an owl:

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —

as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

~ Mary Oliver ~

St. Brigid and The Murmurings of Spring

I grew up in Watkins Glen, New York and there were so many Italian-Americans living there that the town was oftentimes derogatorily referred to as Wop Town. I was sometimes called Redheaded Wop because I had flaming red hair and my last name was Filippetti. And people can be prejudiced and ignorant, especially in small towns like Watkins Glen, New York. The Italian name was given to me by my step-father when he married my mother, but there wasn’t an ounce of Italian blood in me. There was some Irish blood in me, however, which was somewhat obvious. I prayed to the Blessed Mother, Holy Mother of God, and Virgin Mary and was a member of St. Mary’s of the Lake Church. Once when I was ten, I was kneeling with a statute of Mary and saw her wink at me. St Mary was on my side! However, I never prayed to St Brigid and it wasn’t until I was an adult that I came to know her.

I love what is said about St. Brigid – that she hung her cloak on a sunbeam. Brigid means “high one,” “bright one,” “Mary of the Gael, Queen of the Irish race.” It’s also believed that this same Brigid was once a goddess before she became a saint. Brigid, the goddess of water, fire, and transformation; healing and encouragement. I have no problem these days enriching my beliefs with this light green pagan feminine energy. I have danced with the goddess and shepherdess of Kildare through the wind in Ireland and felt her feminine energy.

On one trip to Ireland, I went to the Holy Well at Liscannor in County Clare near the Cliffs of Moher. There is a statute of St. Brigid (or St. Brigit or Brighid) next to the entrance of the grotto that contains the well. The statute is enclosed in a glass box that resembles a telephone booth. I knew then I could call upon her and so I did deiseal, which is an Irish word meaning to ambulate in a circle around a sacred center, moving in the direction of the sun’s passage. I prayed and laughed at the same time, for I was in an ancient place made holy by saturated prayers and the melding of the goddess and the saint. When I entered the grotto where the sound of water dripped in the well, I felt a presence so palpable that I had to kneel. The grotto was filled with yearnings, sorrow, and devotion in the form of rosaries, handwritten pleas for help, feathers, bits of yarn, a doll, and even a crutch. Ancient history, transformation, myths, and healing are associated with holy wells, but again, Ireland is full of sacred places whereby time and space grow thin and the Other world becomes real.

Later, there was a Mass and a ceili (Irish gathering with music and dance) at an American friend’s house near Ennis. It was a dedication, a sort of baptism, for against all odds she had bought an old cottage in Ireland on land of her ancestors. Today it is renovated and a lovely home for her to visit (and for me to visit, as well). It was a joyous celebration altogether. And it was there that I believe for the second time in my life, Mother Mary or maybe it was St. Brigid blinked at me. I looked up at the wall during the ceili and she was blinking to the beat of the music! It was a plaque of the saint with electric lights. Although it made me giggle, it was for joy and not for derision.

There is the Celtic year with seasons and festivals. I met Dolores Whelan at iBAM in Chicago in November and she is the author of, Ever Ancient, Ever New, Celtic Spirituality in the 21st Century. She quotes D.H. Lawrence, “Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.” Dolores says, “Acknowledging the rhythm of life as it unfolds gives a dynamism and vibrancy to living and creates a sense of freshness and belonging.” The season of Imbolc begins on February 1st and thus begins new life and the murmurings of springtime being released from tight-fisted winter. Dolores Whelan writes, “Imbolc is synonymous with Brigid, Celtic goddess and saint, who embodies the energy of new life and of new beginnings.”

Norah McCabe in my book, Norah, The Making of an Irish-American Woman in 19th-Century New York, prays in front of a coal stove in Five Points, New York, a poor substitute for the hearth in Ireland,

“Brighid of the mantle encompass us, Lady of the Lambs protect us, Keeper of the Hearth, kindle us, Beneath your mantle, gather us. And restore us to memory…She wept for Sean, for the hearth in her home in Ireland, for the loss of St. Brighid who was only Mother Mary of Sorrows here in New York; but mostly she wept over ambitions that had become mired, and for the peeling back of the skin of her innocence, exposing her to the quagmires of herself.”

I carried holy water in a small bottle in my purse taken from the holy well at Liscannor and boarded the plane to return home from Ireland (pre-9/11) and this Wednesday as I honor St. Brigid and the season of Imbolc, I’ll refresh myself with a few drops and drop down to the earth to listen to the murmurings of springtime.

Loop Head, Ireland

Saving Words (My New Year’s Resolution)

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven (Ecclesiastes) 

Although it behooves me to not further denigrate my gender, I look back into the past and see myself as a strutting Rhode Island Red hen clucking her head off. Rhode Island Reds are a hearty breed that lay eggs every day, even throughout winter in New England. And they cluck before they lay their eggs, cluck after they lay their eggs, and then they cluck over their food. They are very social and need other hens to talk to. I’m no breeder, but let’s just say that my egg laying is a metaphor for the projects, events, and baking craze I get into. And I love to cluck and tell the world as I do this egg laying. I have clucked so much that I forget what time it is. Once, it had only been 5:00 p.m. when I started clucking to a friend in a restaurant and then it was 10 p.m., and all the while, a major snowstorm was occurring that I never noticed. My husband called hospitals that night to try and find me (there were no cell phones then). I’ve clucked my selective life stories to strangers on the phone (it has helped to have automation), Fed Ex and pizza delivery people, cashiers, nurses, and anyone who is interested or is interesting. I’ve clucked until I could cluck no more.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every word under heaven is my New Year’s resolution for 2012.

The gift of gab for a writer is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, if people listen to me, I want to listen to them. And so I’ve listened and learned, gathering inspiration and tidbits for stories. I’ve also listened to my own clucking and learned so much about myself I never knew. And perhaps I didn’t want to really know. Friends throughout the years, especially women friends, listened so perfectly that they became my priests. Holy conversation that brought forgiveness and absolution. Friends, even strangers, have listened and become oracles that divinely directed my next steps in life. And I, too, have been a priestess and counselor to others through my words. And I have also had clucking taken to a higher form, perhaps a higher pitched form, in my life over the past few years. I’ve been a speaker at festivals, libraries, bookstores, and conferences, becoming the mouthpiece, a channeler of sorts, for stories I listened to from people of the past. All good. And then recently, I was driving down the street and saw an inflatable Santa Claus lawn ornament lying flat on his face, deflated. And I felt the same. No, not discouraged or depressed, but all the words I have been speaking (or clucking) have taken the air right out of me. I need time to breathe, deep cleansing breaths, deep quiet breaths, and time to breathe in new words (for speaking and writing).

I’ve also been feeling like the nursery rhyme song, “I’m a Little Teapot” and when I was five years old, I danced to this song in a recital and bowed the wrong way, my fanny facing the audience. Hmmm, maybe it set the tone for a gift of gab, the boiling me who gets all steamed up with words and has to pour them out!

I am also older and aware that the hour glass figure I once had has changed, and although the bottom half has expanded slightly, the sands of time haven’t increased. I need to save words like saving money in the bank. I need to save them and use them after I listen carefully to my characters for my next novel. I need to save words and listen to my friends and family more sincerely, pulling the words out of my bank for them. I need to save words to speak truth and speak for justice. And I also need to save words to circle within me like a quiet, peaceful prayer to my Creator.

Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you’ve got to say, and say it hot ~ D.H. Lawrence

The Morning Show

I woke early and watched the show outside my kitchen window on this December morning. Silver frosting glistened on the lawn as the moon winked goodbye and the sun peeked at the day, one ray at a time. The sun was taking its time, pushing clouds from its eyes and stepping slowly upon the icy moon spell of the earth. And then it happened fast, this changing of the celestial guard. I sat with my first cup of coffee and not only saw the veil of night lift, but felt it. There is a certain moment, “Ta Da!” and the new day is gently and powerfully revealed. Of course, I feel as if I’m the only one in the audience. This display is just for me, I think, as I watch the morning dress for the day. Light combs through the bare birch, maple, and poplar trees, pastel pink blush sweeps over the now pale silver lawn, and a baby powder blue colors the sky. There is a choir of chickadees, nuthatches, and titmice singing and eating at the feeder, their tiny heads haloed with the dawn. And suddenly, there is a sprinkling of gold dust cast over all. It is the finale of the morning extravaganza and I want to capture it. “The sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold,” Edna St. Vincent Millay said in a poem. I quickly climb the stairs to find my camera, but when I return, it’s over, this morning show. The light has scattered to bless the day, in and out of clouds, climbing steep hills and mountains, and assuring the earth of renewal.

After this, I am both reluctant to take myself too seriously and not too seriously.

“Have you ever given orders to the morning, or shown the dawn its place…” (Job 38:12); “What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside? Can you take them to their places? Do you know the paths to their dwellings?” (Job 38:19-20)

I was traveling 80 to 85 miles per hour on the New York State Thruway a few days ago. Since March when my novel, Norah, was released, I’ve been speeding through the days in cars, planes, shuttles, buses, and trains. She has a story to tell and I am the vehicle. It’s been a long journey, and it continues. And there is another woman who also has a story to tell. And when the car stops, the plane lands, and I get off the train or bus, I will listen to her story.

But in the meantime, these morning shows are all mine. No voices, but the voice of morning taking me through the day into the night.

“I arise today through the strength of heaven, Light of sun, radiance of moon…” (Breastplate of St. Patrick)

Stormy Weather

I seek to organize my life and rely on datebooks, appointment books, calendars, timetables, planners, and lists. It even helps to purchase note pads with my name at the top found in card shops. Sort of like pinching myself to make sure I’m real. I like to view my name in flowery script and then write my list underneath it. I also prefer to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner at specific times and want to know what is going to happen tomorrow so I can prepare for it. I don’t want chaos. I want certain order. Order so I can live creatively. And here where I live on the East Coast, I expect autumn to perform with a dazzling dance of vibrant colors. I turn away in disappointment when her act is cancelled and trees shake their heads and the mere stain of brown, earth toned leaves crumple to the ground in death, or jaundiced-looking trees try to wave at me alongside a gray highway. It is worse for me when summer refuses to leave even when the song birds have packed up and left. She is like the last guest to leave my party and it is 3:00 a.m. Summer in this condition is green with envy and pushes autumn back stage, and then ole man winter is announced and thuds around in heavy boots for nearly six months. I like winter, but if autumn doesn’t perform well, I have to squint to see the sparkling silver lining in winter’s dark days.

After winter trudged on stage before being announced properly, I drove from my childhood hometown in the Finger Lakes region of New York back to my home in New Hampshire. My eighty-four year old mother was with me and we were relieved to have a sunny day and dry roads. At first, I refused to look right or left, and kept my eyes on the road. I had to get home before the next unseasonable storm! I didn’t like this early snow show and wished I could get my money back. I felt out of sorts and impatient, and had forgotten I just had two weeks of walking amongst a riot of glorious color in New York. It had only been the opening act before the real show, I mused.

And then at a rest stop, I noticed the backdrop of a lilac/lavender streaked sky, and when we got back on the thruway, my mother and I began to cheer and clap for the spectacular show. An unlikely wedding, the marriage of two very different seasons, had taken place in the night when no-one was looking. Autumn and winter had eloped and when they came on stage together, they harmonized and sang beautifully. The stunning and heart-felt splendor will be in my memory always.

Today, my mother and I went to the salon for major pampering (we must be ready for more shows). We were there quite awhile and met a woman who was getting a pedicure. She had been given a gift certificate and it was her first time in this particular salon. She was cheerful, friendly, and very talkative. She was telling my mother how glamorous she looked and I proudly stated that Mom had been a jazz and blues singer. The woman asked my mother to sing and although Mom still plays the piano and sings, she doesn’t like to be put on the spot. To my surprise, however, she started singing, Stormy Weather, beautifully. Afterwards, the woman began to weep uncontrollably. She told us that her special friend had suddenly died two weeks ago and my mother’s singing had unlocked her grief. I watched as my mother hugged this woman, touch her hand, and say to her, “Terrible loss and grief feels so wrong and out of place, but you’ll have a new season in your life and there will be other seasons.” My mother knows this well, too.

What of chaos and out of order life? Do grief and beauty become compatible? I’ve experienced suffering in my own life that warmed in my heart because I clutched it so tightly there, as if I held a precious stone in my sweaty hand. It was mine and only mine, no other person’s. For that, it became bearable, even sweet. Sweet suffering? Is this an oxymoron? I can’t tell you what it is for you. But I saw it in the hills and mountains when nature wasn’t acting normal. And I saw it on the woman’s face in the salon when her grief spilled over onto all of us.

Next weekend, I’m attending iBAM! in Chicago and I’ll be with lots of Irish writers, artists, and musicians. I’m so looking forward to it, and interestingly, just this day I realized that one of the writers, Patricia Monaghan, will be attending, as well. I’ve been intrigued with her work since reading her book, The Red-Haired Girl From the Bog. And thus I found one of her poems that is titled, The Poised Edge of Chaos:

Sand sifts down, one grain at a time,
forming a small hill. When it grows high
enough, a tiny avalanche begins. Let
sand continue to sift down, and avalanches
will occur irregularly, in no predictable order,
until there is a tiny mountain range of sand.
Peaks will appear, and valleys, and as
sand continues to descend, the relentless
sand, piling up and slipping down, piling
up and slipping down, piling up – eventually
a single grain will cause a catastrophe, all
the hills and valleys erased, the whole face
of the landscape changed in an instant.

Walking yesterday, my heels crushed chamomile
and released intoxicating memories of home.
Earlier this week, I wrote an old love, flooded
with need and desire. Last month I planted
new flowers in an old garden bed -

one grain at a time, a pattern is formed,
one grain at a time, a pattern is destroyed,
and there is no way to know which grain
will build the tiny mountain higher, which
grain will tilt the mountain into avalanche,
whether the avalanche will be small or
catastrophic, enormous or inconsequential.

We are always dancing with chaos, even when
we think we move too gracefully to disrupt
anything in the careful order of our lives,
even when we deny the choreography of passion,
hoping to avoid earthquakes and avalanches,
turbulence and elemental violence and pain.
We are always dancing with chaos, for the grains
sift down upon the landscape of our lives, one,
then another, one, then another, one then another.

Today I rose early and walked by the sea,
watching the changing patterns of the light
and the otters rising and the gulls descending,

and the boats steaming off into the dawn,
and the smoke drifting up into the sky,
and the waves drumming on the dock,

and I sang. An old song came upon me,
>one with no harbour nor dawn nor dock,
no woman walking in the mist, no gulls,
no boats departing for the salmon shoals.

I sang, but not to make order of the sea
nor of the dawn, nor of my life. Not to make
order at all. Only to sing, clear notes over sand.
Only to walk, footsteps in sand. Only to live.

How Do I Quiet Myself and Listen?

Massabesic Audubon Center

“Yep, that’s my red hair in the blue bird box!”

The hummingbirds have left our backyard and I sadly miss them. I stand at my kitchen window staring at the feeder remembering being thrilled each time, nearly daily, viewing these tiny ruby necklaced birds with hearts beating up to 1260 beats per minute. Suddenly my heart quickens because I think I spy my ruby-throated male diving from the lilac bush to protect his feeder. But I’m wrong. It’s only a few leaves fleeing summer’s end just as the hummingbirds have done. Will I recognize this hummingbird next spring? Will I be standing at this window next spring? I turn away from the window, put on a sweater, and go to the woods. It’s a banner year for mushrooms and when I walk in the woods, I marvel over their texture,  patterns, and colors. I have never seen a purple or blue mushroom and wish I had a child with me to share this magic. Large glowing, milk white, tea-cupped ones surrounding silver birch trees in the gloaming causes me to pause and wonder. As chipmunks, squirrels, and birds skitter in the leaves and in the birch tree, it reminds me of the flurry of activity at a restaurant just before it opens for dinner. And so I imagine that as soon as the sun sets, there will be a wild animal dinner party.

Alas, I wish I had my camera, but I know that when I glimpse these other worlds in the woods, I hardly ever capture them in a photograph the way I see them.  The air is honey crisp and there is a scent of apples, wood-stoves, pine, and pungent decay. Oh my, I check my watch. I have spent so much time at the kitchen window and in the woods and although I have stepped away from the hectic pace of my speaking engagements, caring for an antique house, volunteering in my neighborhood, researching for my next novel, and a myriad of other necessities, my mind has not been quiet. Sometimes, I go to the woods and my mind and body relaxes as if I’ve taken off my uncomfortable go-to-meeting business clothes and donned my pajamas. But mostly, although I am easily entertained and delighted to be in the woods, my mind doesn’t relax, thus my body doesn’t do so, either. My mind creates conversations between birds and animals amidst the background of my Gossip Mongers, the voices that come out of the closets in my mind. When I was a bluebird monitor for our local Audubon Center, I heard two bluebirds chatting one day, along with the Gossip Mongers:

How’s your nest? (Gossip Monger: You haven’t mopped the floors in a month!)

Fine…how’s yours? (GM: No-one will ever buy this old house and we’ll be falling apart together)

Shabby…too many babies spoiled my feathers and straw…and now the mites have taken over. (GM: My cat has so much matted hair and I know it’s going to cost me $200 to get him sedated and groomed!)

Well, to be honest…I threw out two chickadee eggs and felt like a murderer (GM: The authors on the panel had 10 minutes to speak and I was the last one. The author who spoke before me took 20 minutes and I didn’t have any time. I gave him hell afterwards!)

I had a fight with a tree swallow as soon as my chicks were born. I had lovely bluejay feathers and lots of gorgeous red hair from the woman who monitors our nests. This sassy low-life swallow dove right in, grabbed a few feathers, and nearly took all the red hair out of my nest! (GM: I want to be non-judgmental, open hearted, open minded, but some of these women are mean-spirited and I CAN’T STAND THEM! Okay, the hate word came up, but really, the older I get, the less it does…)

Look at the sunset! Just in time for our party! Which mushroom are you sitting at? Let’s sit together. Is it time? Is the mushroom set? Oh, look, acorn hats for cups and bass leaves for plates. I’m pleased to be your friend in these woods. (a good Gossip Monger: My friend, Joanna Rush, comes to practice in my dance room. She is a writer and actor and is currently practicing for her play, ‘Asking For It.’ I say to her, “Look at my sunflowers. They’re hanging their heads, but they’re still beautiful. Let’s not give up! And even if we’re rejected, we can still glow.” And this is so true for us, anyway, because we are both redheads and have enough hair to donate to the bluebird nests.

This is a fairly tame conversation between my animal friends with my mind’s Gossipers hanging in the background. Sometimes the Gossipers can really yell and throw major insults at me, such as, “You’re a mediocre writer!” “Something’s missing!” “Who the hell is going to read a book about that?” And then the Gossipers go away and the Fears gather into a gang and shout that it is the end of the world and such things like that (too personal to relay here).

I visited a healing arts practitioner for the pain in my hip (I thought it was from stomping in Irish set dancing) that I haven’t been able to heal from. She says there is energy blocked and I need balance and although she knows nothing about my books, she is suddenly describing the characters. All the Gossipers and Fears scramble behind closed doors when she says, “You need to be quiet and listen.”

I haven’t said a confounded word! Never opened my mouth! It happened all silently, but noisily in my head. I have managed to distill all those voices over the years into keen listening to Norah and others for my stories. But it’s taken its toll. It’s been fun staying up all night, going to all night parties, dancing all night, and having lots of parties in my head, but I want less activity there now in my older years. I’ll settle for a walk in the woods with just the wild animals from now on. I’ll leave the others at home, or better yet, just get rid of them altogether, except for the good ones. Whew, I feel better already writing this blog.

How public, like a frog to tell your name the livelong day to a un-admiring blog! (paraphrased from an Emily Dickinson poem)

Get away with that phrase! I ban you from staying in my mind! I know I have a few admiring blog readers, at least!

Irish Festival Fatigue

I don’t want to be Irish for a long time. I don’t want to see another sparkling green shamrock stamped on the fat cheeks of five year old kids. No more “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” pins, Irish dudes playing orange and green striped guitars singing “The Wild Rover,” or “Tied up With a Black Velvet Band.” At a recent festival, I heard one fellow telling crude jokes and making fart and burping noises. Not funny. And I especially don’t want to see young girls with florescent pink and green $500.00 Irish dancing dresses bobbing up and down with curly doll wigs, wearing loads of make-up resembling JonBenet Ramsey, and performing to Techno Irish dance music. God Save the Irish in America!

At most Irish festivals, there is a corner designated specifically for authors and lectures, but at some festivals there is not enough space and the authors have to hawk their books with the other vendors in one big tent. At the end of Irish festival season, I feel like a Carney running my joint at the amusement park. Yes, I sell loads of books and try to speak to each person with genuine interest. However, after two or three days of talking about historical fiction and being drowned out by Irish drinking and rebel songs, techno Irish music, and bagpipes, I swear I will never sell at a festival again! Nevertheless, I must, because outside of libraries and writing groups, Irish festivals are the best venue to sell my books because of their Irish themes. I do meet interesting people and make important connections. There’s really no time to dance or listen to the music that I do like, but if I have a fellow author friend to sit and sell with, there can be good craic watching the parade of people and commenting on the human condition, Irish-American style, like. Eoighan Hamilton, author of A Celtic Darkness, and I laughed so hard that I nearly didn’t make it to the port-a-potty (another festival experience, especially after the beer drinkers have visited a few times). He is Irish-born and has that vitriolic and non-stop wit. And then once, I exited a port-a-potty and had only taken a few steps when a woman stopped to tell me my sun dress was stuck inside my under pants. If I had walked all the way from the port-a-potty with my dress tucked in my old lady underpants, right by the bagpipers on stage and all the people sitting in the audience and back to my booth, I would have left right then and definitely would never have sold at a festival again.

All criticism aside, there is something for everyone at these festivals, and it is a festival, by golly, a carnival, an amusement, and not necessarily a purist, cultural, traditional Irish experience. One can find amidst the glaring green – lectures, trad music, brown bread, Guinness, and good books.  And at my last festival, I listened to  The Screaming Orphans, chatted with them, and exchanged wares (two CDs for one soft copy of Norah is a good deal). Yes, even the authors are entertainers! We have all winter been secluded with our over-sized imaginations (and egos) and then come out of hiding in summer to strut our characters on our festival booth stages. We create our own schpeel and jingles, and after two days, we nearly hate our characters as much as we hate Irish festivals. Eoighan turned to me and said, “Do ye know how many fecking times I’ve said that I grew up next to a castle in Ireland?” And what about the beer splashing on the books and the large cigar set down on Norah! And then there was the wolfhound, the size of a pony, standing in front of our booth getting all the attention.

But I came home, played my new Orphans’ CD, and made plans for the next festival. It didn’t last long, this not wanting to be Irish.

Cynthia and Eoighan. Note the "pony" (Irish Wolfhound)