Feeling the Beauty

Today I went to the Cliffs of Moher for the second time. Since my friend Dani, who I know from dance, is here on her Spring Break, we've been exploring quite a bit.

On Monday, we went to Connemara to see Kylemore Abbey. It was amazing! We got on the wrong bus, because nothing seems to go quite as planned, but we still made it to the Abbey, and its picturesque beauty was well worth the three hour ride in the back of a van. Yes, a van. We were supposed to go with Galway Tour Company because I had a student discount card, but in our frantic haste to get on a bus on time, we just agreed to go with the First Lady holding a sign that said "Connemara." So, we bumped along in the back of the Healy van - at one point, the road was so bad, we were actually flying with every divet - until we finally rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of the dream. Growing up as a little girl who often referred to herself as Princess Ali (who are we kidding, i still do) I can honestly say that Kylemore Abbey is what I pictured as my dream home. In fact, Kylemore Abbey may be more breathtaking than my imagination's idea of a proper castle.

The story of the Abbey is an equally beautiful and heartbreaking tale of a man's love for his wife. In 1867 Mitchell Henry built a castle for his wife of 32 years, the mother of their 9 children. It was a grand estate, fit for a hundred people, resting at the base if the Connemara mountains. Sadly, only four years after its completion, mrs. Henry died. Distraught over his wife's death, Henry moved his family away, and the estate was eventually sold to a group of Benedictine nuns. It is still owned by the nuns, who now, rather than using the facilities as a girls' school, display it for tourists like me.

After Mrs. Henry died, her husband had a gothic church built on the property in her memory. Even in it's small stature, the church was just as incredible as the castle. It has all the flying buttresses and intricate piping details of your average gothic cathedral, but it's personal size. If this church were a pizza, it would be a personal sized shitaki mushroom and red onions - earthy ingredients with an element of class placed atop a mini-pie. The whole experience was great.

Then on Tuesday, I had a productive day, going to class and working on my looming psych paper, while Dani explored the Aran Islands. And today, we went to the Cliffs.

In my last post about the Cliffs of Moher, I talked about how infinite they seemed, how full of possibilities I felt they were. Today, was a totally different experience. Again, I felt the vastness of the infinite, but today, on a perfectly clear, sunny day, I couldn't help but feel the presence of God. When I see things like this, in their indescribable, natural beauty, I can't help but feel the love of God. How could I doubt the awesomeness of God (awesome of course in the original sense of the word, the awe inspiring witness of the sublime) while I'm sitting with my feet dangling over the edge of a 15 mile drop, looking out at the ocean that connects us with the US? How could I not feel the beauty of a God who loves me unconditionally as I look out at a bright blue ocean, resting under cliffs of immeasurable green? Of course I've seen beautiful things, but I swear I could feel the beauty of Ireland.

Like a Rose

Last night, I had a heart to heart with my roommate, who opened up about being sad about leaving Ireland. She's recently come to the realization that after she returns from her trip around Europe? Which she leaves for on Friday, we'll only have three weeks together. As she lives on the other side of the country (and both of us are pretty adamant about our coated pride) it is fairly safe to say that we will never again live together.

As we talked about our impending separation, I couldn't help but think about the idea, which a friend of mine shared about this time last year: people come into your life when they're meant to, for as long as they're meant to. Everyone you meet has a significance. Of course there are some people who I hope are meant to be in my life for a long, long time, but I do believe that - as hard as it may be - relationships end. With every end, there is hope for growth. It's like a rose, when you prune back a branch, it grows back healthier. While I hope that my roommate and I do stay in contact, which I really think we will, I know that because she has come into my life at all, I have grown.

Like losing my dad. Of course I wish it hadn't happened, but it did. And because it happened, when it happened, I have grown. I have grown into a person who seeks happiness, a person who pushes for adventure, a person who holds onto love.

Passion Sunday

One of the really nice things about belonging to the universal church is that, as a Catholic it's generally pretty easy to find a local Sunday service. Coming to Ireland, I must admit that I had this dream of meeting a kind, Irish priest, who would take me under his wing and reignite my connection to the church. So far, no such luck. In fact, the few masses I have been to, I really haven't liked. Of course the churches are beautiful, and the history is rich, but the masses themselves are cold.
Last night I went to a Palm Sunday Service, and I was wildly disappointed. You have to understand, I love Palm Sunday. Sure, it's the longest mass of the year, but it's worth it. The children in the church excitedly playing with their palms, the dramatic affect of participating in the gospel, and the overall feeling that someone loves you so unconditionally they are willing to die for you. Sunday night, I didn't feel the love, the joy, the celebration. Sunday night, I felt cold.

I went to St. Augustine's Church just around the corner from my apartment. I'd never been there before, so it was quite a shock when I walked in the main doors and saw that the Alter was in the middle of the aisle, and all of the seats faced the middle if the church rather than the crucifix. Speaking of the crucifix, it was this weird, silver modern adaptation. It was really beautiful on its own, but in a church that looks to have been designed hundreds of years ago, something was wrong. I suppose it looks much like I felt - simply out of place.

Anyway, the mass began with little warning, as the priest walked up to the lectern and said, "We will now begin our celebration of the Passion Sunday mass. This day marks the beginning of the holiest week in Christianity." After rushing through the opening prayer, a young woman took her place behind a second lectern, which was facing the first. She read the first reading, then led us through a spoken hymn, and finally through the second reading. It was rushed and impersonal, but I thought maybe she was told to speed through because we would be focusing on the Passion. Nope. We sped through the Passion too, sometimes the congregation slurred so quickly through the audience participation sections that I couldn't even catch up. And then, the priest didn't give a homily!

You may be thinking, why would I be upset that the longest mass of the year was only 45 minutes? The answer is that I love Passion Sunday. It makes me feel loved, it makes me feel impassioned about my faith, and this mass was just cold. The stark white walls of the church, the monotone Asland voice of the priest, and the coat-necessary temperature made for a not-so-life-affirming experience. Let's hope that Easter at Galway Cathedral is better than last week.

What Life is About

Yet again, I've let myself go two weeks without posting anything new. A lot has happened in the past two weeks, so this may take a couple posts, but for now, I'll start with my trip to the Cliffs of Moher.

On Monday, March 4th, I woke up bright and early to board a bus and begin an adventure ending at the famous Cliffs of Moher. I've had several friends go on this trip before, and it came with rave reviews, so I can easily say that I was excited to see Ireland's most breathtaking natural landmark. And let me tell you, they were not kidding. Standing at the Cliff of Moher (aka the cliff of insanity for any fellow Princess Bride fans), looking out at the ocean, I couldn't help but feel little. Here I was, one person out of the hundred there, looking at the end of the world. It was really incredible. I'm not sure if the fog was preferable to a clear day, but it added to the endlessness of the cliffs. Hidden under a bank of clouds, the end of the rock formation seemed completely intangible. I imagine that it would be like standing at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, surrounded by the endlessness nature created. To some this may seem intimidating, terrifying even, but for me, on that Monday afternoon, it felt like an opportunity. Like infinite possibilities.

Maybe I felt that way because our bus driver had prepped us with such an optimistic personality. Before we even left Galway, I could tell it was going to be an interesting adventure because our bus driver was so excited to share Irish history, political tensions, and even personal anecdotes. When we first set off, he instructed the bus that we must "think positively to move these clouds." As I said, it was a pretty foggy day, so throughout the entire bus ride, our driver kept telling us that we had to stop thinking about water - "best not to say the r-word" - and start thinking of sunshine. He continued sharing this optimism by saying things like, "You think it's cold? Nah, it's just fresh. It's a nice, fresh morning." What struck me the most, I think, was that throughout the journey, he had to have said, "That's what life's about: enjoying yourself," at least six times.

What a novelty. Life is about enjoying yourself. That's such an Irish mentality. "Sure," he continued, "Irish is in a pretty bad place financially, but I think it'll get better and Ireland will come out of this in the next year or two better than ever before." It seems to me that in the US, people use the recession as an excuse. He's fallen on hard times since the recession. He used to be a very hard worker, but since the recession there just isn't work. We are the 99%. Don't get me wrong, as a college student, facing tens of thousands of dollars of student loans, I know the feeling of being the little guy. I know the feeling of bitterness at the fat cats on wall street getting bailouts, while I am faced with a future of financial struggle. But I think that the difference between the US and Ireland is that here in Ireland, kids work. Everyone works. Maybe our bus driver used to have a career in marketing, and now has to drive a bus. But you know what, he drives that bus like it's his favorite thing in the world.

Of course I'm worried about what I will do to bring in an actual pay check, but at the end of the day, I know that I will work. If I have to be a waitress or a barista or a nanny for a while, at least I'll be working. Because life is about enjoying yourself. So I won't stress myself into an early grave by worrying about that which I cannot control. I will do what I need to do to be successful in my own eyes. I feel confident saying that I will figure out a way to support myself, so that I can enjoy myself. I'd say I've done a pretty good job of that up to this point. I mean, I figured out how to get to Ireland. I've budgeted my money here so I can afford a trip to Spain, Morocco, France, Amsterdam, Poland, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. (Yes, this is actually happening!!!!!!)

Right now, I am happy saying that I am simply enjoying myself.

Locked Out

Today, after spending the majority of the last 48 hours in bed with a bad cold, my roommate Erin and I decided we'd take a walk around shop street. As we left out apartment, I made sure to ask, "do you have your key?" When she said yes, I didn't think any more about it.

We walked over to shop street, where I got my eyebrows threaded at The Body Shop - some much needed pampering. Then we went to the post office, and I mailed my many postcards. We then ventured over to EuroGiant, which is the Irish equivalent of a Dollar Tree, and we stalked up on some St. Patrick's Day decorations. (If I'm being totally honest, I'm a little scared for the upcoming St. Party's Day festivities. I mean, it will be an incredible experience, I'm sure, but the fact that the day after is a national work holiday is a little bit frightening.) After that, we looked in at Brown Thomas, and dreamed about the bags we'll never afford. We went to the Pandora store, so Erin could get her Ireland charm, and we went to a souvenir shop so I could buy more post cards! We went to a bookstore, and a church, and a bookshop in a church.

Overall, it was a really nice day, just walking around. But as we parted, Erin went off to school, and I headed back home, where I am now sitting outside of my apartment waiting for someone with a key to let me in.

My Long Lowdown of London

I was just reading my friend's blog, and I couldn't help but smile at her positive words. I know, from her writing, that she is in a good place. It's as if you can feel the warmth of her heart through the computer. In reading her blog, I realized that I don't always take time to talk about the times that I have been incredibly happy while on this amazing journey. Especially in the last couple of weeks, I fear I've been giving the impression that I'm just miserable.
I'm not.
In fact, I'm really happy. Of course I have bad days, but I'm making changes, and I'm working on embracing the happiness in my life, rather than the negativity. I think that I live out my happiness, and then reflect on my sadness, which is why I tend to write when I'm sad, and not when I'm happy.
So, here I am, writing about my weekend in London; a great weekend!

About a month ago, Chelsea and I decided we were going to go to London. Just like that. Our roommate Erin had planned a weekend trip with some of her other friends, so we thought, why not? We may as well go that weekend too, so we could all be on the same bus to and from the airport and the same flights to and from London. Shortly after we booked our tickets, we convinced our friends Anna and Carolyn to come that weekend too. So, on a Thursday afternoon, we all made our way to the Galway bus station, and began our long journey to London. Theoretically, the trip to London is a short hop, the flight is just about the same distance as between San Francisco and Los Angeles. For us, though, it was about a 7 hour experience. We had to catch a 3:30 bus, so we could get to the airport around 5. Then we checked in (which let me tell you, Irish security compared to American security is like comparing a pocket knife to an AK47. Everything here is just so much more relaxed) and waited for our 6:20 flight. By the time we landed, and figured out where our bus was, it was nearly 9, so we didn't make it to my cousin's flat in Zone 2 until like 10:45.

It was well worth the travel time, though. Upon arriving to my cousin Laura's flat, we set our bags down and ventured out for a great Afghani dinner. I'd never eaten Afghani food before, but it was great! Laura tried to tell us that she never knew how to describe it to people, and after eating it, I find that I have much the same issue. It's kind of like Indian food, but with more of the sweetness found in some Thai food. We had naan with hummus and samosas to start, and even though, I thought I knew what I was eating because of the familiar names, it was different from anything I'd eaten before. It was really good! With food in our bellies, and sleep in our eyes, we made it back to the flat to pass out for the night, knowing an exciting day of being tourists was ahead.

Chelsea and I haven't had much tourist time yet, as we've been taking our time getting to know Galway. We don't really sightsee because we live here, so I was really excited to wake up (relatively) early and explore the city. Much like the Afghani food the night before, Chelsea and I dove in head first, not really knowing what we were in for. We just hopped on a tube and got off at Westminster. We knew that if we walked around Westminster long enough, we'd stumble into all of the must-sees. As soon as we left the underground station, we saw a building to our right that seemed familiar.

"What is that?" we asked.

"Is it the House of Parliament," I suggested.

"I don't know," Chelsea responded, "but I know that that's the river David Beckham road in on at the Olympics."

What embarrassing Americans we were, as we turned around and realized we were standing right in front of Big Ben.

"It IS the House of Parliament!" I said. "...Isn't Big Ben attached to the House of Parliament building?"

Eventually, we got it all figured out that the Palace of Westminster is, in fact, where the Houses of Parliament meet. We took our cheesy tourist pics, and then made our way across the street to get a couple shots of the London Eye. We never made in the London Eye (partly because of time constraints, mostly because of budgetary constraints), but we did get some great pictures of it. In fact, we got pictures of the London Eye from at least five different locations. After getting a little bit lost, while trying to decide which way to walk down the River Thames, we decided that instead of focusing on a destination, we would appreciate the journey, and take the standard red phone booth pics, double decker bus pics, sitting on a bench contemplating life pics. You know, the usual.

Eventually we made our way to Westminster Abbey (again, entrance to the church is quite pricey, so we enjoyed the outside) and the adjoining St. Margaret's. St. Margaret's Church is really cool on the inside. All of the kneeling cushions are handmade, and nearly every inch of the church is dedicated to someone. Also, the stained glass was not just dedicated to biblical stories, but also to English history. It was really interesting.

After that, we decided it was time for food. As we made our way to an old pub that we had passed on our way to the Abbey, we passed through what I believe is called Parliament Square. In the square, we recognized only two statues: Churchill and Nelson Mandela. I don't really know why Mandela is in the square, other than that he is a great man, but I liked it. But then, just as we were headed away from the park, my Ameri-senses began tingling "LINCOLN!" I yelled. I don't know what it is about leaving the States, but almost as soon as I left the country, I became very proud of us. I don't think I've ever been as patriotic in the United States as I am in Europe. The point is, we took our Lincoln pictures, and then made our way to lunch.

Again, it was delicious. We opted to eat English, in honor of our surroundings. I got what they called an open pie; mashed potatoes, carrots, chicken, and gravy with a little flakey pastry on top. It was pretty much a chicken pot pie, only with no side crust. Yum.
After that, we kind of lost steam. We made our way over to Buckingham Palace, which we were very disappointed in, since we didn't get to try to make the palace guards laugh (I guess that's just in the movies...and Fergie's music videos). Then we tried to find the Tate Modern, which promised a great view, but instead we found the Tate Britain. The art was nice, and the coffee was good, but there was no view.
Then, in our tired delirium, we thought it would be a good idea to just hop in a cab to get back to flat. Big Mistake. In London, there are a lot of one way streets and roundabouts, and well, 25Euros later, we made it back to the flat for a nap. Yes, we took a nap. I know what you're thinking...but you were in London! You should have taken advantage of every second. Believe me, we needed a nap.
When we woke up from our nap, we got dressed up, and headed out to experience the London nightlife. Turns out, we were not prepared for London nightlife. We got to the pubs too late, and the clubs too early. We did manage to have a good time, though. We went to one of the oldest pubs in London (turns out there a quite a few "Oldest Pub in London"....I think it's kind of like "Best Coffee in New York"), called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. It was a really cool building, and not a bad atmosphere, but it was kind of empty. It turns out, the guys getting off work head to the pubs straight from work, around 5 or 6, and then pretty much head home by 9. We got there at 9. So, after one drink, we moved on to check out Picadily Circus. It was described to me as being like Time Square, but I got a much more Vegas Strip vibe. There are a lot of 24hour restaurants and fast food places (including a McDonald's that we ate at - not good) and neon signs. There are more clubs than pubs, and a lot of street performers - bad street performers, but street performers, nonetheless.

Eventually, we stumbled upon a promoter for a club that promised three floors worth of dancing, each with its own style, the best view in the area, and up to 800 people. Well, there were three floors worth of dancing, and there was a great view, but there were probably 8 of us. Including staff. I didn't care. With just me and Chelsea sitting in a booth, I danced by myself! I love to dance, and no amount of awkwardness is going to stop me. I had a great time there on the 8th floor, for about an hour. After that, we went home. We are so lame that by the time my cousin, who had gone out with some work friends, got home that night, we were already in bed. What can I say? All that touristing really wiped us out.
The next day, Saturday, we spent the whole day with my cousin, and I am so glad that we did. She showed us the South Bank, which is a cool kind of hipster area, and we got lunch at this really cool, really yummy place called Wahaca. It's a pop up, which I guess is really popular in London. Rather than food trucks, (since it's a city and can you imagine driving a food truck through crowded streets?) they have popup restaurants, where eateries just insert themselves into places that wouldn't normally be a restaurant. Wahaca, one of these such popups, was incredible! It was almost Mexican food, but like Mexican food meets hipster tapas. So good.

What I have learned about my trip to London was that I really just liked the food in London.
After that, we made our way to the Tate Modern, and finally found that view we'd heard about. Then we found The Globe theater, the London Bridge, and the Tower Bridge. Let me just say, the London Bridge is a disappointment. Why wouldn't they just call the Tower Bridge, the London Bridge? I mean, that's the bridge that is featured in Fergie's "London Bridge" video. That's the bridge that Becks drove his little boat through during the Olympics. Honestly, I don't think anyone would really care if the London Bridge were falling down. But I guess I don't make the rules. And I can now say that I've walked across the famous Tower Bridge, and I've had Starbucks from under the Tower Bridge. (Starbucks in three countries, I don't know if I should be proud of my self or saddened by that reality).
Our final stop of the day was at Harrods, where we held jewels worth more than my car, and pretended we were far fancier than we ever have been. I mean, please, your watch only cost $10,000? I got mine at Harrods for $207,998.

That Saturday may have been one of the best I've had. It was really nice to be able to spend the whole day with my cousin. As she does live in London, I don't get to see her very often, and it was really nice to just have one-on-one time. I love my loud, crazy, Italian family, but when there are 40+ in the family, it can be hard to really know each other.

Becoming Grateful

Warning: The following post is written from the heart and reflects some truths that may be considered sad, dramatic, intimate, etc. Proceed with caution into my psyche.

Recently I have been getting in fights. Not physical brawls, but emotionally fueled altercations with people who love me. Why? Why am I fighting lately against that which I should be embracing? Why won't I allow myself to be open to advice...especially when I have gone out seeking it?

Tonight a friend of mine was standing across the street from Coyotes waiting for me to escape past the security guards, who were acting as a human wall between a man inside the club and a man outside the club trying to hit inside-the-club guy. While we were still within the barriers of the brawny security guards, my friend across the street overheard a girl say, "Look. It's red pants again." Tonight I was wearing my bright red pants. I love them. They are one of the most flattering pair of pants that I own, and I always feel top notch when I wear them out. Anyway, my friend heard the girls clearly taking about me, in the catty "oh, remember when we're talking shit about this girl earlier?" kind of way. I know the statement, I'm familiar with the intent.
Instead of just letting me live in ignorant bliss, my friend told me about it, so I did what any reasonable young woman dues, and I marched after the alleged offenders. (Sorry mom). Unfortunately, I was in heels, and couldn't catch up to them before they ducked into the Charcoal Grill. We did end up having a nice little chat with their friends outside, who supposedly were oblivious to the snarky girls, and calmed down.
When we got home, though, and were running through the events of the nights, I couldn't help but reflect on myself. Why had I allowed a comment, which I hadn't even heard, and which wasn't actually a direct attack on me, affect me so much?
The answer, I realized, is tied up in the fact that I still (after a years worth of therapy working on the issue) think first of the bad.
I have always struggled with being grateful. Not in the Veruca-Salt-more-more-more way. I wouldn't say that I'm particularly ungrateful for the physical things that I have. I'm more ungrateful for myself. When I think of myself, I don't think about the fact that, after years of dental work, I have a great smile. I don't think about the fact that if a friend were in need, I would drop everything to be a support to them. I don't think about the fact that I have been blessed with the ability to bullshit; that I have never really had to work hard to be successful at school. I don't think about the fact that I must be a pretty good human since I have managed to surround myself with an incredible group of friends.
Instead, I think about the fact that I am quick to tears, and quicker to anger. I think about the fact that I wish I had the calm demeanor of my father. I wish I lacked the ability to burn bridges like my mother. I wish I weighed less. I wish I felt better about myself. I wish I didn't turn red when I drink. I wish I didn't over think alcohol. I wish I didn't over think everything. I wish I wasn't as sensitive about criticism. Hell, I wish I wasn't as sensitive about advice. I wish, I wish, I wish. I could quite literally go on for pages about the things that I wish were different about myself. But most of all, I wish I could figure out how to take action. I wish I knew how to change the things I don't like about myself, instead of dwelling on them.
I mean, even the start of this idea was a criticism. I was criticizing the fact that I am not grateful for that which I have been blessed with.
I'm not trying to make excuses (which you know means I'm about to) but how am I supposed to start loving myself when for 19 years, I've told myself, "You're not good enough"?
It's like I have the devil and the angel on my shoulders. The devil always tells me how subpar I am. What a mess I am. What a disappointment I am.
For me, the devil is a voice in the back of my head. When I picture this voice, I picture it residing in the furthest depths of my skull, in a dark place. It whispers my greatest fears, and screams my smallest mistakes. It overpowers the other voice in my head. The one struggling to make it to the front. The one that says, "Everything is going to be ok. You are not irrational. You're allowed to feel the way you feel." This second voice is very buried. It is hidden behind the dark, looming cloud of failures, and I just don't know how to help it escape.
I want so badly to be the kind of person that others look to and think, "Wow. She is a great human." Mostly, though, I want to think that way. I want the voice that is now so hidden, so locked away, to be at the forefront. I want to feel good about myself. I want to truly love myself. I just really don't know how to make that happen.
For the next week, I am going to write down in my special pink journal - meant for only good things, fun things - one thing that I would like to improve about myself, one idea for how to improve it, and one thing that I love about myself everyday. Hopefully, I'll eventually see some of the things in the to-be-improved list move to the things-I-love list. Because at the end of the day, I do know that I'm worth loving. I know that I have good intentions, and I love with an open heart. I know that I am beautiful, and that my warmth lights my smile. I know that I am good human. I just can't let my brain get in the way of what my heart knows.