I will buy the turkey early this week, presuming, all things being equal, that the Irish grocery stores will stock them. Turkey graces Christmas tables here, you see. This Thursday is just another day in Ireland. I will make the mashed potatoes from good Irish spuds, the stuffing, too. I was lucky enough to score some cranberries, too, no mean feat. And on Thanksgiving Day, my friends will bring the vegetable dishes and desserts to round out the feast. We will be three Irishwomen, two Americans and one Brit, breaking bread together as we celebrate this most American of repasts. I do this, for the second year, because I would otherwise just bemoan the feast and the camaraderie I am missing back home with my enormous family. I do this too to enjoy the company of my new(ish) friends here. But I also do it because it is right and proper to count my blessings on this one particular day at least, and give thanks to the year just passed.

And so I share with you, my intrepid readers, my Thanksgiving thoughts.

This year of all years, I am thankful for love. Because this year, of all years, my daughter, my only child, married. Bridget and Tom, an American and a Brit, have been committed to each other for 10 years, although they have spent relatively little of that time together. Both working for international nongovernmental organizations, she was in Syria, or South Sudan, or Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria; he in Yemen or South Sudan (not, much to their chagrin, at the same time) or Sierra Leone. They’ve only been in the same place at the same time since 2018 and now live in Rwanda. I tell you this because they come to this marriage at 32 and 35 with such a deep well of love – for each other, surely, but also for so many others who have come to know them during their lives. And that was everywhere in evidence at their wedding.

They chose to have it at a girls’ camp in Maine, over an entire weekend so that friends and family had the time to spend in good, rich conversation with each other. Two women Bridget met at 3 years old and other hometown schoolmates joined all of her close college friends and those women and men she’s met during her working life whom she’s come to cherish. Fully a third of all the guests were members of our (aforementioned enormous) family. Tom’s extended family came from England, as did his buddies. Tom and Bridget met in Malawi, and most of the entire crew of friends they made there came from Australia, Malawi, Texas, Iowa and probably someplace I’m forgetting. It was an amazing gathering of people from all over the globe come to meet in a small corner of Maine, and the love that poured from every person was palpable.

I was honored, frankly, to be a part of it all. Sure, as B’s mother, I had a role to play. But something more profound was taking place inside me that weekend. I have let friendships slip away during my lifetime – through inertia, probably, maybe because I didn’t try hard enough. But, hallelujah, that is not going to be Bridget’s path. She matters to so many people and will matter to so many more in the years to come. And that makes me a very, very happy woman. No matter what life throws at her, she will be lifted up not only by her husband but by her dear friends. It’s a deep comfort for me to know that.

***

I am also thankful that this year, I am beginning to truly feel at home in Ireland. As you may know from past posts, life conspired somewhat against me during the first couple of years I was here. COVID, of course, was the chief culprit, and the restrictions imposed here felt insurmountable at times. Hard to believe my Irish dreams could come true when I couldn’t meet anyone, listen to any music or do much of anything, really, but go for walks.

And I won’t lie. The weather here on the Wild Atlantic Way has almost been a deal-breaker. Some folks, and I’ve met them, feel naturally at peace with lowering gray skies. And those who are native to this part of the island are home. This is where life feels right. I, however, have felt neither naturally at peace nor right with shades of gray day after day. If this sounds like a bit of grousing, I suppose it is. But as summer failed to materialize this past June, and then July, I realized it was time for me to take stock. I was tired of hearing myself complain to myself. The weather was not going to change, so could I? Realistically, could I stay in such a place?  Was I going to be defeated? – a very real possibility. Where would I go? (Parenthetically, Portugal or Spain had/have merit…)

Or would I be able to find a place to put it, and exalt in everything else that Ireland has offered me? And those offerings are not inconsiderable: the daffodils in February, the tiny Burren orchids in May, the ancient tombs and monuments that scatter the land, a sane government. Then too, there is the laugh of Irish people who say things like “Bye, byebyebye, bye” at the end of a phone call, who sometimes say ‘ye’ for you, who go for messages instead of going grocery shopping, who wonder if it suits, instead of asking if it’s convenient. Some of those Irish people are friends now, along with a mongrel assortment from other countries who, like me, are “blow-ins.” Harkening back to my reflections on Bridget’s wedding, and my own shortcomings in friendship longevity, I am most amazed that I find myself these days with (to me) an abundance of friends. I credit these elder years for that. We are wiser, I think, less likely to take offense, less drama, more equanimity and patience. More interest in meaningful conversation.

But there was one moment that really tipped the scales in my deliberations. I feel deeply connected to the lore and mythology of Ireland. I am totally at home in a place where ancient beliefs are still to be reckoned with, where the old tales still are told. I don’t have to suspend my disbelief. There is no disbelief. A few weeks ago, I was among a group volunteering with the Burrenbeo Trust, the local land trust, clearing brush from in and around a court tomb that probably dates to 3,000BC. This work mostly involved cutting down the hazelwood bushes that are ubiquitous here.

It so happens that the tomb entrance faces an “erratic” – a massive bolder strewn on the landscape during the Ice Age. But between the two, a thick copse of hazelwood had grown up. One group of volunteers cleared a path, on the logic that the tomb was not placed by happenstance, and it and the erratic should be in sight of each other again. As one person readied to fell a small tree, another cautioned him to stop.

              “Don’t cut that down,” he said. “It’s a whitethorn tree. We don’t want the fairies after us!”

              “No, we certainly don’t need to be disturbing the fairies,” said the archaeologist who was overseeing the work. “Best just leave that alone.”

I tell you, where but in Ireland would this conversation have taken place? A conversation between mature, intelligent people who had no disbelief to suspend, either. The whitethorn (see the image above) is a fairy tree; fairies are known to bring bad luck to those who disturb their homes; ergo, don’t cut down the whitethorn. How could I leave such a place?

***

Of course my decision to stay, at least until life blows me in another direction, means by extension that I will likely not be returning to the States for at least a while. And I am working to find peace with that, because so much of me is in Maine – most particularly my family and friends. And I am so very thankful this year and all years for those beloved people. My sister Diane and husband Mike housed Bridget and Tom, then Tom’s parents, then the wedding party, then me last summer. All my sisters and my brother cooked up mountains of food for a pre-wedding cookout at Diane and Mike’s so that Tom’s family could meet Bridget’s and mine beforehand. My dear friend Rozanna gave me a roof over my head and a quiet listening ear, even though she barely saw me from day to day.  Through all the frazzle and insanity that is wedding preparation, I really did feel enveloped in a love that lifted me up. That I had been away for two years simply melted away in an instant. This is not to be taken lightly, and I do not – not for a moment. I am so thankful that my siblings and I have remained close during our long lifetimes – we range in age now from 69 to 80 – with no end in sight. I am thankful that I have nieces and nephews who really care about me and tell me so. I am thankful that I have an old friend with whom I can be completely and totally myself. And I miss them – miss the conversations and the meals and the camaraderie. But I know they are there for me, and this is such a comfort.

***

I think, too, about that family longevity. My mother lived until 97, her mother until 93 – both with their faculties firmly in place. Diane and my oldest sister Darrah visited me last May, and Darrah was game for any walk, any length, any time. She had to wrap her head around the family finances not long ago when my brother-in-law had some health setbacks. Sister Doreen and husband John are still working in their late 70s, and glad to do so. My brother TJ is such a talented artisan, and like many of his ilk will probably die at 100 with a chisel in his hand. I just turned 71, and I have no aches and pains, take no medication and am generally pretty fit. Our children are healthy, their grandchildren are healthy, life is pretty good. I am thankful, really thankful, for our collective constitutions. The circle of life, for us, is drawing toward its close, but it looks as if we will have each other for at least a while longer.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, wherever you are.

***

PS: my apologies for the length of time since my last blogpost. I have not been idle, though. I had a busy autumn. I started a diploma program at the University of Galway in Irish archaeology last September (more about this in the next blog), which has consumed whatever spare brain cells I have. And at the same time, I began to volunteer at a local cat rescue. Felines and arrowheads mark my days… Anyway, I will endeavor to be a more consistent correspondent going forward.

PHOTOS: Clockwise from top left: Bridget and Tom; proud mom and bride; the aforementioned court tomb in the Burren; the siblings (although this is probably 7 or 8 years old); my local lake, Lake Atedaun; Thanksgiving 2021