This last year has been a year of travel, some for pleasure, simple curiosity as well as for family events. The fantastic thing about traveling is the sense of discovery. Since starting to do photography several years ago, it has only heightened my pleasure of the travel experience. But often times it’s the smallest of things that have a lasting impact. I’ve been to Ireland twice in the last year, the second time to take my nephew to see where his ancestors came from. I do know that there are some places on this planet that just feel right, comfortable, somehow familiar. It’s easy to romanticize a place through a visitor’s eyes but I’m old enough now, have traveled a bit and had lived in a European city for brief time in the 1980’s so I’m not so prone to idealizing a place. But Ireland felt different. Maybe it’s the cool overcast weather, the vast empty spaces, the history that continues to inform, the music that I’ve always been attracted to, or even more a sense of melancholy that has always been just below the surface for me in my daily life.
In Ireland I met a man in a Dublin Pub who had recently returned from living in New Zealand for 12 years. He asked why I had come to Ireland in the unlikely month of February. I explained that I was a Callaghan on my mother’s side, that I was curious about where my great-great grandmother, Catherine, had come from. Bear in mind that I grew up with a houseful of brothers so being self -deprecating is the best defense (in regard to anything that really matters to you), easier to make fun of yourself than to have a brother throw in his often times caustic (albeit mostly droll) commentary. As I’m telling him this, I’m rolling my eyes (before he can), self-conscience about being perceived as just another pseudo wanna-be Irish American looking for my roots. But here’s the amazing thing, he looks me straight in the eyes and says in a gentle voice, “Welcome home.” I‘m startled, trying to figure out is he making fun of me? But nope, he’s dead serious, and I stop for a moment before saying “Thank you” in a quiet voice filled with gratitude.
In Ireland I met a man in a Dublin Pub who had recently returned from living in New Zealand for 12 years. He asked why I had come to Ireland in the unlikely month of February. I explained that I was a Callaghan on my mother’s side, that I was curious about where my great-great grandmother, Catherine, had come from. Bear in mind that I grew up with a houseful of brothers so being self -deprecating is the best defense (in regard to anything that really matters to you), easier to make fun of yourself than to have a brother throw in his often times caustic (albeit mostly droll) commentary. As I’m telling him this, I’m rolling my eyes (before he can), self-conscience about being perceived as just another pseudo wanna-be Irish American looking for my roots. But here’s the amazing thing, he looks me straight in the eyes and says in a gentle voice, “Welcome home.” I‘m startled, trying to figure out is he making fun of me? But nope, he’s dead serious, and I stop for a moment before saying “Thank you” in a quiet voice filled with gratitude.
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