'Turning Darkness into Light' — A visit to the Book of Kells

A hedge of trees surrounds me
A blackbird sings sweetly
Above my well-ruled book
The birds sing far and wide.

In a green cloak of leafy branches
The cuckoo sings her lovely chant
Protect me Lord on Judgement Day!
Happily I write beneath the trees.

—Irish monk at St. Gallen, Switzerland, mid 9th century.

It almost seems that this monk might have penned his thoughts right beneath this ancient tree on the campus of Trinity College where the Book of Kells is on exhibit in the Library there. No photos are allowed inside, but the "lavishly decorated" manuscripts of the four Gospels are truly remarkable, not to mention the lives of the monks who labored in devotion to their mission to scribe and illustrate the Christological message. The monks weren't without humor. One writes about his cat, Pangur Bán, who seems to have kept him company. "Hunting mice is his delight, / Hunting words I sit all night. / … / Practice every day has made / Pangur perfect in his trade; / I get wisdom day and night / Turning darkness into light."

The pigments are rich: brownish iron-gall ink from crushed oak apples and sulphate of iron or black carbon ink made from lamp black and soot. Lapis Lazuli from Afghanistan, indigo, woad (love that word!), white lead, orpiment (a kind of yellow), organic mauves, maroons, purples, red lead, malachite, azurite, chalk. Heavenly vellum—the skins of 185 calves— folded into bifolias made into gatherings with single leaves for decorated pages. Pocket books of individual gospels so chunky that they must only have been able to fit in the voluminous pockets hidden among the folds of a monk's robe. All of it reminds me that there is an art in communicating, in putting forth ideas, no matter it be sublime or mundane. We would do well by slowing down. Crafting our thoughts, grinding the pigments with which to paint our vision of the world.

We are staying north of the River Liffey that flows through the center of Dublin. We walked across the Half Penny Bridge and wandered as far as our tired legs could take us today. Tomorrow is another day. As darkness turns into light, my camera is already sensing an infinity to trees, doorways, and ancient faces.

Gifts

The garden has been offering up lettuce and herbs for weeks now, but Friday I was able to harvest the first radishes and a few peppers as I tried to put the raised beds in order for a two-week lapse in serious attention. Pulling out bolted lettuce, thinning and rearranging over-crowded and over-shaded broccoli and pepper plants to give the tomato plants the free reign they demand, I was overwhelmed with the bounty not only of the garden, but of friendships. Friends will be looking out for the garden —watering, pinching, harvesting gifts— both at school and at home on our garage roof; friends will be tending to the mail and looking after the cat; friends have offered all kinds of gifts, from exchanging currency, providing us with guide books and maps, penlights, a ride to the airport, handcrafted jewelry, and treasures brought back from travels just concluded. Mainly, we've received well wishes and excitement, bon voyage, buen viaje, adieu, god speed, be safe, no worries—be happy, as we frantically packed and readied to depart. We feel loved. A good way to leave home for a sojourn, bearing the bounty of the world.

Leprechauns, Fairy Rings, and Family Under the Umbrella of Serendipity

When I was a child and my mother was in a rare playful mood, she would feign her own hybrid strain of a Scots/Irish brogue and talk of the magic of leprechauns and flower fairies. At some point in my elementary years, a lanky leprechaun with bendable limbs began appearing in random sightings around the house. Sometimes propped on the bookshelves, other times lounging on a bed pillow or tucked into the crook of a living room wing chair, the green felted fellow with a silly grin and mischievous twinkle in his eye would bear a fortune or a sweet, something to keep us on the look out for his next magical appearance around the house.

I'm sure this clandestine endeavor, being the magic engine of the wee world, gave my mother great pleasure for the brief time that it lasted. When pulling the puppet strings of magic grew tiresome, however, the leprechaun was retired, and I was left to find my own serendipitous signs. Magic in the natural world and in the realms that rise up from the pages of books have kept me company from an early age when much of my time was spent in solitary play out and about exploring the circumference of a small village. I grew up along the Ohio River in the rolling hills of southwestern Pennsylvania. I am a country girl at the core despite living my last three decades in an outer borough of New York City. I grew up hearing my mother's feigned brogue lilt in flirtatious riffs when her mercurial mania prompted her proud declarations of Scotch-Irish blood.

As it turns out, my mother's family (Tryon) hails from Bilbury, England as far back as 1645. It is my father's family that is more firmly rooted in the Emerald Isle although my father had no need to boast his heritage during my mother's lilting litanies. He simply passed along the detailed genealogy research an odd distant cousin of his had spent years tracking down. All of it is neatly contained in a manila file folder tagged in my father's purposeful hand: Welch Genealogy. Point of origin: Derry County, Ireland, 1700's.

On Saturday, my daughter and I are off to Ireland for two weeks to explore the land of leprechauns, fairies, brogues and family heritage, not to mention beauty and the secrets only the wind can tell. I've got my rain gear and a shamrock umbrella gifted to me from the Land of Lost Not Found. I'm all set!

Right Foot Forward

A Thirty Year Old Red Canvas Shoe with leather sole, handmade for a son curious about the world, gleefully learning to step into it, right foot forward. Whereabouts of left shoe: unknown. In five thousand years or so, what will scientists determine from such a specimen, should they unearth it? Will they recognize the love sewn into the sole? Will they be able to analyze particles of dust and dirt and determine where the small feet had roamed? Will they know the young explorer had put his best foot forward?
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Apparently, archaeologists have recently discovered the oldest leather shoe in a pit in Armenia. Researchers reported the news in the Journal of the Library of Science, and NPR carried the story today (http://n.pr/b9EBOB ). The shoe is estimated to be over 5,500 years old, sewn of one piece of leather, laced up the heel and from the toe to the ankle along the top of the shoe. The photos show the shoe stuffed with grasses. Had the wearer of this shoe gotten caught in the rain? Had he or she been puddle jumping? Had the shoe been stuffed with grass to keep its form as the leather dried near the fire in the cave all those years ago? And where is the other shoe? The one found is for the right foot.

The archaeologist quoted in the story is associated with University College Cork of Cork, Ireland. He compares the leather shoe to Irish "pampooties," a similar version of the same shoe design that was worn through the mid Twentieth Century by folks living on the Aran Islands just off the west coast of Ireland and by peoples across Europe in all kinds of climes. "Pampooties." What a great word! My daughter and I leave for an Ireland exploration in just a few days. We've packed our brand new Keen pampooties for hill walking and cliff hugging jaunts along the coastline.

Entrance to the Rachel Carson Preserve, Ogunquit, ME acrylic on paper 5"x7" 2009

"…wherever you are and whatever your resources, you can still look up at the sky—its dawn and twilight beauties, its moving clouds, its stars by night. You can listen to the wind, whether it blows with majestic voice through a forest or sings a many-voiced chorus around the eaves of your house or the corners of your apartment building, and in the listening, you can gain magical release for your thoughts." —Rachel Carson, The Sense of Wonder