Waiting for an Irish Faerie...

I have no sword: I make absence of self my sword.

It's snowing today. I started this raw food thing, which has been great (day 11), hoping to get more clarity while I'm on hiatus here on the Coast. The raw food is grand - I feel good, look good ;) and most importantly - my head is clear.
That's what I was really hoping for. I remembered when I fasted in 1997, how I felt like I could see for miles - into my past and future, and how I set my life course for the decade to follow. Not that I followed it, but it lead me where I was meant to go.
Now I'm enjoying the poetry of peace - it's winter, and I seem to making a life here on the Sunshine Coast. Chatting about Ireland and travel the other day, I recalled how I left there in '95, and thought about what that means to me now.
I figured I'd be taking a trip that summer; I had the previous three, since I was 19. But I hadn't decided where yet. I had been to Europe the year before and loved it, but wanted to go farther afield. One morning my friend Mike called from Germany at six am - "Patman, you gotta come be my best man, I'm getting married.." "uhhnn, when?" "Three weeks from now." "What, that's impossible, I'm not ready, no money.." "You gotta, I know you will, call me later." Click.
Called him later, "Of course I'll be there." And I was. I worked my balls off for three weeks and cobbled together about 600 bucks.
Went to Mike's, was best man, ate and drank a lot, had fun. Then I realized I had about a week left and could make it to Ireland if I wanted to. I had always wanted to, and I wanted to at that moment, so I went.
Three days straight hitchhiking, hardly any sleep, no bathing, wet from the rain, little food, sleeping outside or in strange places, strip-searched in France, and I made it. I could spend two nights in Ireland and then had to boot it back to London for my flight home.
I was raised Irish, in my house St. Patricks day was 'my day'. But none of my immediate family had ever been there, and not for many generations. It was 'a sort of homecoming.' I felt like it was the promised land in a way.
I got there in the afternoon and decided to hitch south to try to get to Cork. A few people picked me up, not fast hitching, contemplative waits between rides, I watched the green. It is a green green place, factories in fields and babbling brooks and you could smell the green everywhere.
A dude picked me up coming into New Ross, he was then about my age now. It was suppertime. He said "why don't you drop into the pub and have a bite, maybe you'll meet some people.." I said "no, no, I gotta keep moving, can't stop here - places to go!" We chatted about other things. He said it again. I replied with my line, but wondering if some greater force was at work. What did he know that I didn't?
He was going the other way, and despite the fact that I was continuing on because I had very important places to be - he told me there was a hostel in the hills above town, and gave me directions. The town center was small, with a road going straight on along our side of the river (his road) and one crossing a little bridge to go my way - to my planned destiny.
He, being my divine guide for the moment, let me off exactly in front of the pub he had recommended I go into. I stood there with my backpack, readying my gear for the next charge, looked at the pub, which seemed friendly and warm, and thought, "Jeez Canning, are you ever uptight today." So I went in. I never thought of this before, but I hope he saw that in his rear-view mirror. Or maybe he got the news from the small-town-Irish-gossip-pipeline...
I walked in past the only patron - an absolutley stunning young woman, a little older than me though, and got a Guinness at the bar. I walked back and pulled out a chair at her table, asking if I could join her while I did so. May as well give in to destiny completely, I figured.
She was Welsh, and had what I have come to see as a classic Welsh beauty - very white skin, black hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, a big smile with perfect strong teeth. I forget her name. She was 25, a wanderer like me, and put me onto the book called Autobiography of a Supertramp, about a young Englishman who travelled all over the states in the 20's and 30's.  A great book, I later tracked down two copies and mailed one to her, but never heard from her. I still have mine, in storage back in Halifax. She also foreshadowed my future wife (now ex), who looked very similar to her and is also a lovely human being.
Welsh girl and I hit it off, had a drink or two, and made plans to meet later. I walked up the hill to the hostel, which was in a 900 year old farm-house, and got a bed for the night. Went back to the pub later and it was a perfect Irish experience - we met up with her cousin, who was a schoolteacher, and some of his friends. It was all ages: 5 - 500(;) and they locked the doors at 11pm with the only two town cops inside, sauced.
They broke out the instruments and passed around a big cup like a Stanley cup on top, full of whiskey, and everyone in the place sipped from it. We said our goodnights and I stumbled home.
The next day we met for a late lunch, her cousin gave us a lift to Dublin, and I got a room at the hostel there while she stayed with her Aunt. We went out for supper, had a beer or two, told more stories and laughed our heads off, and then I walked her to her train station. I wanted to kiss her goodnight, but was too shy and still flabbergatsed by her utter beauty and coolness.
Before that however, she had been encouraging me to stay in Ireland, she'd be there a while yet, and then Wales, which was not far off. So I stopped to make a phonecall. My earned-on-a-week-or-two-of-work plane ticket was non-negotiable. Either be on it, or forget it. It's a no-brainer, any young man in my position would have stayed, stayed in Ireland, made friends, found a job under the table, spent time with the beautiful Welsh girl.
But I was a young man who's Mother was dying of cancer. In Canada.
I called her from a payphone on our walk to the station in the rain. She could half hear what I said to my Mom, "I met this girl - she's so beautiful, and super-cool, and I'm meeting people, and I might stay here, how would you feel about that?.."
I didn't know how I felt about it. To my Mom - I was not just her son sounding happy and like she always wants me to sound - I was in the homeland - sacred Ireland, and I could tell she'd almost prefer I stay and miss her last days, and be there. And in retrospect she must have been considering the kind of life I would have after her death, and how she had come to know me and how much more I thrived away from home, and what my future might be if I was there when she died, if I made a life there.
She said, "well Paddy, you have to do what's right for you, don't worry about it, if you stay we'll sort out some way to get you back later, have fun, I love you."
Melanie? Was that her name? I went back to her, she was smiling, having heard her good review, and having some idea of the import of the conversation.
I wasn't clear - what should I do?
I walked her to the station, I'd been released from duty imposed by another, but not by me. I didn't want to miss my Mom's last days, I wanted to spend time with her before that. I also wanted to stay here.
God would decide. I slept. I hadn't thought of this - I just knew - I'd get up in the morning and go to the ferry and I'd know if I wanted to get it or not, or I'd know something, or I'd figure it out somehow.
I went to the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghair, which I had first pronounced "Dun Log-hair" to the amusment of the natives. Dun Leary. I bought my ticket around 10:30 am, the Ferry was due to leave at 2.
I walked up the hill to the square and spotted an older Irish guy who looked like he'd know where to get the best Guinness in town. You see, it's all about the pour, how you clean the taps and pipes, etc. It's not simple to make the best Guinness. That's part of the beauty.
He knew alright - and seemed pretty flattered I asked. "John Walter's Pub, it's a bit of a hike, but it's worth it." Thanks, old-timer. :)
I made my way to John Walter's Pub, walked in about 11, and got a Guinness. Chatted with John, a fine older fellow. He said, "I got a guy out back, a Canadian, he hates it when I do this with Canadian customers, but this is different.." I heard him go out back - "mumble, mumble," "AW JESUS JOHN, I TOLD YA NOT TA DO THAT... curse, curse.." I shrugged. I was already "into the shorts" as John commented, meaning I was already having a "Paddy's Irish Whiskey".
The Canadian guy came out with his best unfriendly expression on, to chat for a minute and get back to work. He was from Calgary, Irish family, and went there for a trip when he was 19, twelve years before, and didn't get back to Canada until recently. He did his obligatory chat, then a little more. Next thing you know, he's pulling up a stool and ordering a Guinness too.
They bring out some old labels from the basement, from when every pub bottled their own Guinness, and gave me a few. They didn't know what year they were from, but they were old. And a black John Walters lighter, my only souvenirs from that trip.
We chatted, he asked John for the day off, and we went to another pub. Then another. You see, my plan was - I'd leave it up to God. To go home or not. I'd be late for the ferry, or whatever, get loaded and see if the ferry was still there, or if I even made it.
At four thirty or so we were at a dual bookie-pub, drinking and betting on stuff, stuff on tv, whatever we could find. One of his friends offered me a job, another a place to stay, he was gone home, loaded and with a pissed off wife, but wishing me well and hoping I'd stick around.
About then one of the guys, who was a little more sober-minded, if not bodied, said, knowing my story - "shouldn't you go get your ferry??" I slurred - "when I finsh my drink..."
I went.
The ferry was still there, almost three hours late. I got on it and went home.

That's how I've resolved my little quandary about what to do next - since I have to work it depends on where I work, so I'm just applying for a bunch of jobs all over the world, in my current backyard, and anywhere else that might interest me. We'll see what God has to say about it.
I was surprised by all the feelings writing this brought up about my Mom and her passing - I miss her deeply, and still hear her laughter and lessons. I'm glad I went home to spend that time with her before she left. She is my Irish Faerie, or Queen among them. You are one of the reasons I live my dreams.

And you know it's time to go
Through the sleet and driving snow
Across the fields of mourning
Lights in the distance

Their deaths have been a light to me - in the distance - a constant reminder to live my life fully, to be human, to follow my dreams and my passions, for how short it is. And how full of wonder.

The intellect of man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark,

And when the story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the nights remorse.