celtic_writer

Where the Words Are Said

The Celts believed that our heads, our minds, are part of our souls.

And that stories connect.

The journey stories, my favorites, told to me in childhood, felt nourishing, odd and brave.

Brendan the Navigator went on pilgrimages to unknown lands in a tiny leather boat. He said Mass on a whale's back on Easter Sunday. When the Devil showed him the pain of hell, Brendan was serene. He encountered a heathen giant whom he baptized, though did not civilize.

When he reached the island of his vision, Brendan found a hermit clothed in feathers.

Brendan was Leonard Cohen, centuries before.

They proclaimed him a saint. But I don't know any of those. I think he was just a guy on a trip who kept his eyes wide, wide open.

My friend Vicky Johnsen sent me a quote the other day. And it sums up the importance of stories told, the ones we remember, the ones we always knew. It is from a man named Michael Meade:

"There is this old Celtic thing, that there is very little difference between a song and a poem, between a poem and a story, between a story and a prayer, so that anytime someone is singing a song, or telling a story or reading poetry to a child, they are also inviting the child into a prayer. There's never a need to talk down to a child at all…because something in the child already knows all this and is waiting to hear it again.

So that parents and teachers who give great stories or poems to children are feeding this old soul that is in the child and are reassuring the child that they have come to the right world, that, yes, the world may be confusing and increasingly chaotic, but this is the world where the words are said."

-- Michael Meade

The Words of Men

When you visit Key West, there is a story you will hear.

It is a place in Florida...at the southern-most point...before you reach Castro.

If you are listening, you will be told that the writer, Ernest Hemingway, built a wall.

One around his house, down on Whitehead Street.

It is the most crooked wall you will ever see.

Story goes that Hemingway bought the bricks for a penny apiece, then engaged a couple of cases of beer, and one of his good friends, to help him construct the barrier to keep out the world while he wrote.

The buddy's name: Tennessee Williams.

Ernest Hemingway has always been a hero of words to me. And to visit his home in the January humidity, has been like a trip to Mecca.

As an Irish-American child, I learned how to tell a story from listening to the words of men. My father, Frank J., and Uncle John. They knew how to weave them. As a child I was allowed to sit in the kitchen of grown-ups, so way past my bedtime, resting my head on the table, listening.

In high school, I discovered For Whom the Bell Tolls.

And The Sun Also Rises.

A beginning. The middle. Then the end.

Everything is as it should be...as the story goes.

In middle age, I read A Moveable Feast. I continue to live it. So long after the author silenced himself, way up in Idaho, via a gunshot to the head.

When Hemingway was a child of nine, he wrote: "My favorite authors are Kipling, O. Henry and Steauart Edward White. My favorite flowers are Lady Slipper and Tiger Lily. My favorite sports are trout fishing, hiking, shooting, football and boxing. My favorite studies are English, Zoology, and Chemistry. I intend to travel and write."

Hemingway was a man of so many appetites. You see, and feel them, when you tour his southern home. The woman he loved, then left, there. The photos of safaris and fishing in far-off places. The ancestors of cats called Frank Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe, who still sleep on his bed.

And what amazes me most is how such a man of intense pleasure wrote so true, and so carefully.

How he got so much emotion, intention, and life, into such sparse sentences.

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places," he wrote.

It is true.

And forever possible.

Remarkable Things

A trip into nature taught me I could love something new.

I was six years of age, on a carefully-planned, permission-slip-OK'd excursion to a local farm.

Once off the bus, we were taken to a barn where there was a big iron circle that held lots of yellow things that moved.

Chicks.

The place where they huddled was golden. A tall man, wearing jeans, picked up a chick and taught me how to hold it gently in my hand, its belly supported by my small palm, tiny legs extended through the cracks between my fingers.

The chick looked up at me, chirped and chatted. I looked closely at its small face, its round, black eyes, studied how my breath softly rustled the yellow down on its head.

I knew then that this was a remarkable thing. I understood I could love something foreign to my current realm of knowing. That I could embrace a creature, or place, outside my family.

I sat there holding the chick while the others petted goats and stared at cows, climbed on hay bales, and laughed at the mud of pigs.

I simply listened and watched the tiny bird, cupping it like a gift. I imagined raising both hands to the sky, like the priest did at Mass, holding the chick up towards forever.

When it was time to go, a teacher was summoned to help convince me to release the chick, to let the man in jeans put it back where it belonged, with its kind, with the others.

I cried into the warmth of my teacher's coat as she patiently held me, waiting for the end of my upset before mixing me with the other kids for the trip back to school.

I stared out the window of the bus on the road back, leaned my face against the hard, soon-to-be-winter-cold window. I had held something unique in my young hands, a lesson that was warm, yet raw.

It was the first time I realized that life was about discovery, and also, became aware of its dichotomy. That if I wanted to get at life, I couldn't let any of it hold me back.

So, as time continues on, there are still remarkable things.

* My friend Phyll paints beautiful portraits of people. We have known each other over thirty years, and I never knew she loved to paint. Last year I stood in The Getty Center in Los Angeles and looked for a very long time at a painting called Portrait of Jeanne Kefer by Belgian artist Fernand Khnopff. It reminded me of a lovely, simple painting Phyll created of her granddaughter Claire.

* My mother had a beautifully-shaped head. I did not discover this until she was diagnosed with brain cancer, and lost her hair due to radiation treatments. My mother became a child again in the last days of her life, eating small green grapes from a white bowl held for her, turning her beautiful head to look at the remainder of her world with the utmost wonder.

* My old Labbie Margaret slipped and fell into a quick-rushing river in the western mountains of Virginia. Doug, without a thought, without considering that Margaret was old and past her time, that he had just spent $300 on a new pair of hiking boots, simply jumped in the water, and dove, and dove again until he found the old black dog who was struggling for air in the dark, swirling water, and hauled her safely to shore.

* In Burgdorf, Idaho, I heard an elk cry out, to "trumpet" some message into the cold, clear night. I thought it was a train, the sound so powerful. We were camped on top of a mountain that evening, with a glorious view of the curved sky, a spiral arm of the Milky Way, with stars so big and bright and numerous. Seeing our breath as we sat in the center of the globe of the world.

from the book Driving Mystic by Mary Gillen
Excerpt of chapter "Remarkable Things"
Publication Date: June 2011
© 2011 Mary Gillen

Images:
The Proud Mother Hen and Chicks 1852, by John Frederick Herring. Found at 1st-art-gallery.com

Portrait of Jeanne Kefer, 1885. Fernand Khnopff, Belgian, 1858-1921. The Getty Center, Los Angeles, CA

Walden

Am re-reading Thoreau's Walden these days. The edition I have is small and compact, just like his philosophy. I came upon this passage:

"The Mexicans also practiced a similar purification at the end of every fifty-two years, in the belief that it was time for the world to come to an end. I have scarcely heard of a truer sacrament, that is, as the dictionary defines it, 'outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace'..."

Today I am 53 years of age. And I am thankful.

Ichabod Crane, McCarthy's Bar, and Life's Enduring Mysteries

When you wish, or need, to laugh these days, pick up Pete McCarthy's book McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery In Ireland.

He's a hoot and three-quarters. You know you are in for some fun while perusing the book's cover: McCarthy tipping his hat, an affable smart ass standing in the doorway of a pub, accompanied by a pug dog and a nun drinking Guinness.

What makes McCarthy a great storyteller is he writes about everyday inexplicable things, like two Americans he meets:

"They looked in reasonable shape; yet the blanket refusal of most Americans to walk anywhere that has a purpose, like a shop or a bar or a castle, remains one of life's enduring mysteries. Put them in expensive jogging clothes, though, with headphones on and silly little weights in their hands, and they are happy to strut up and down main roads in toxic fumes for hours without going anywhere, because it's Exercise. But walk to the shop? 'No way. Not me.'"

That got me thinking about the mysterious things one experiences in life, so I thought of some:

1) Why do people take stuffed animals for rides in their cars? You see them: hundreds of Beanie Babies and little tigers and curly poodles and fuzzy creatures, stuck on the shelf near the back window of a sedan whose driver is talking on a cellphone while driving his or her stuffed animals in his or her car in the fast lane going almost 30 miles an hour, backing up traffic to kingdom come. They should be pulled over and charged with DWI: Driving While Imbecilic.

2) Why do so many people who shop in health food stores look ill? My mother Dottie M. had a saying when she passed a person on the street who looked poorly: "That guy needs a good shot of vitamins." That phrase swims through my head when I shop at a local organic food store for vegetables. Half of the people look grey, washed up, worn out, unable to pick up a stalk of celery without calling for shopper assistance. It's probably because they haven't consumed a decent piece of protein since the Eisenhower Administration.

3) Why was the bow tie ever invented?

4) Why do people think spandex makes them look good? Ichabod Crane would look fat in spandex.

5) Why do people drink diet soda with their french fries? Ichabod Crane would drink a real Coke with his french fries.

And not wear a bow tie.

What's on your list of Life's Enduring Mysteries? Comment, please.

Chatwin's Folded Pages

Saturday night, soon to be Sunday. Adjusted a Web app for a client today, then ate a steak with salad. Labbie Walt and I went for a walk. Leaves have finally fallen from trees, and the wind in Mason Neck blows them about.

Before I fall asleep these nights, I pick up a book, as always. And lately it's been the re-reading of nomad Bruce Chatwin, a Brit who left the society of Sotheby's so he could wander around the world to see what was really going on.

I originally found Bruce Chatwin in a bookstore, his tome on a table marked "for $2.00 or less." It was a book about Welsh brothers called On the Black Hill. It was his only work officially marked "fiction." I didn't want it to end.

There may be better writers in this world, but this man tells great stories. When he was a child, he discovered "a piece of brontosaurus" on display in his grandmother's "glass-fronted dining room cabinet." This treasure was "thick and leathery, with strands of course, reddish hair." It was a creature that "lived in Patagonia." His grandmother's cousin, "Charley Milward the Sailor, found it." Eventually the experience sparked a book called In Patagonia. I hope some day you get the chance to read it.

What I like about Chatwin is that he makes me fold the page corners of his books. An action spawned by a phrase I want to remember, wish I had written, a few words I can return to that make me think. While reading "Among the Ruins" last night, he wrote about a man named Axel Munthe, a Swedish physician descended from Scandinavian "bishops and burgomasters" who made an escape to the island of Capri. There he bought a villa, and made it into his own. Chatwin quotes Munthe:

"The place is small. It was built by me on the principle that the soul needs more room than the body..."

The soul needs more room than the body. When taking that sentence to heart, how can anyone on this planet need to be kept hostage, in business, or in life?

Slacker Squirrel

In 1903 Beatrix Potter wrote a story about a squirrel named Nutkin. The story starts: "This is a Tale about a tail—a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin."

And one of his clan is now living somewhere in my home.

Aunt Pittypat Hamilton had a great statement in the movie Gone With the Wind about Yankees in Georgia. She declared, Southern-belle hand placed melodramatically upon her forehead: "However did they get in?" It works for squirrels too. How did he get in? Perhaps through the front door, left open when I was out on the drive, gathering grocery bags from the Bug to restock the pantry. Or maybe he came down through the chimney. Perhaps Santa showed him the way.

The Black Labbies are very concerned about this intruder. I walked through the living room the other day to find the little varmint sitting right next to Marg's head as she lay snoozing on the couch. I was surprised he didn't have his little squirrelly feet up on the coffee table, using the cable remote to catch the latest doings on Animal Planet. Just my luck. A slacker squirrel. Get a job!

This isn't the first time Mason Neck's wild creatures have paid a visit to this humble abode. A few springs ago I was cleaning up the kitchen, and had some sundries to add to the infamous junk drawer. As I put the stuff in, I noticed a snake, and closed the drawer.

SNAKE!

It was a small black snake, slithering among the coupons and rubber bands, matchboxes and emergency candles. I slowly pulled the drawer out of the cabinet and, grimacing the whole time, straight arms holding the drawer as far away from me as possible, walked down the back wooden stairs to place the container on the ground so the little snake could twirl its way out of the drawer to go eat some bugs or something else FAR AWAY.

This squirrel is a juvenile (delinquent...probably tries my clothes on when I am not home) and is quick, not willing to be caught. Have been researching tips on how to catch him so I can release him out where he belongs. I have read that squirrels don't like mothballs. My mother tried that with a skunk in the garage, and the skunk slept through the whole undignified ordeal. So it looks like it has to be a safe trap cage with some peanuts in it. Or maybe the lure is a year's subscription to Ranger Rick. I wonder if they have gift certificates.

PHOTO: Squirrel Nutley, illustration from the book by Beatrix Potter, from Gutenberg.org

Rough Pastel

Big storm tonight in northern VA. Need the rain. Have been purging this dry house of paper and nonsense lately, and re-reading Hemingway before falling asleep.

From The Sun Also Rises:

"Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, you have to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on."

I think women should read Hemingway. He tells us about men who fight bulls and other males, the ones who want women who are happy, not pure; women who are content in their puzzle, if that is who they are. He describes the men we know, detest, treasure, seek, lose, meet again at a different time, another place. And he lets us know about himself, how he feels about things behind the shield of masculinity, remorse, rememberance.

Fiction writers from way back were the first psychologists, using the rough pastels of words to scrape some lesson across the page, to tell the story of another human, to give us a glimpse of who we are. It delivers more meaning than being spoon-fed while laying upon some couch.

An acquaintance of mine told me something the other day: she went through thirty (30) years of therapy -- countless hours and dollars -- to only realize that if she had just been honest with herself from the get-go, she would have been all right.

PHOTO: Ernest Hemingway, from FingerLakesPhoto, filtered in Photoshop with -- you guessed it -- the Rough Pastel filter.

Otherworld of the Eternal Hobo

Am in rebel country, writing a book.

Came down this way two weeks ago, in a rented van carrying two Black Labs, Celtic music, a computer, some books and the excitement, as always, of getting gone.

Am in a wooden home with my friend Doug once more, near a South Carolina lake, where the geese are laying eggs and ducks waddle away from their nests in the woods, to cross quiet roads in pairs, down the bank, to freshen themselves in water.

The Celts believed in the Otherworld. The place you don't belong, but that is special and silent enough to awaken the antennae of the spirit.

About an hour away is another house, called Connemara Farms, in a place called Flat Rock, NC. It was the last home of American writer Carl Sandburg. His last location surprised me. How did that Illinois lad end up in the South?

Carl Sandburg was married to a woman who raised goats, and needed lots of land to do so. By the point in his life when he settled in North Carolina, Sandburg had the Pulitzer for his many words about Lincoln, so he wrote about honey and salt, and even more about breathing tokens, some of his best work. And he penned poems for children, and played his guitar for anyone who would listen, and would shake your hand, so one is told, no matter your nationality or color. And he was one of the first poets I ever read as a child. And I liked visiting his home, as his words helped inspire me so many years ago, as he suggested was his lot in life, to "dirty paper:"

Give me a quiet garret alone
Where I may sit for a few casual callers
And tell them ceaselessly, offhandedly,
'This is where I dirty paper.'
Thus each poet prays and dreams.
The eternal hobo asks for a quiet room
with a little paper he can dirty,
with birds who sit where he tells 'em.

Carl Sandburg, Breathing Tokens, 1978

Creed

Back before many of us were born, there was a radio show hosted by Edward R. Murrow called This, I Believe.

The show featured both famous and common people reading essays about the principles that have guided their lives.

If you tuned in then, you would have heard Albert Einstein, or a woman from the hollers of Kentucky, recite their original thoughts into air, delivered to the eager ears of millions of radio listeners. The show has since been revitalized by National Public Radio. It is worth tuning in. There's a great essay by a fellow who believes life can be described by the marbling in a pastrami sandwich.

The last few days, I have been thinking about belief, and what it means to have a creed in one's life. What are the things I still believe at the age of 51? I've come up with a list.

I believe in dogs. These creatures are our teachers. They love us unconditionally. They are always happy to see us, no matter what. They do not judge us. They listen, and act like you are the most interesting person on the planet. They simply treat us the way we should all treat each other.

I believe in misfits. They are the hope for our society. They think for themselves, have loads of creativity, yet have never been told they are smart. They are unafraid to discover. And they don't like being told what to do. They are my students. Who they really are: my teachers.

I believe in something much bigger than I can ever be, and it is called nature. If we peer through the microscope, nothing is calm. All is chaos. And that's what fosters creativity. And that's what contributes to flow.

I believe in not knowing. Life can be a surprise, if we let it.

I believe in silence. We all need it. The unencumbered hour spent simply listening is food for the soul.

I believe in books written a very long time ago. It reminds me that many people who lived centuries back had it right in the first place.

I believe time is the most important thing we've got. It's not things and big houses and fame and all that petty nonsense. It is time, 'cause we can't get it back. Yeah, we can make more money next week, but we can't get back one millisecond of yesterday.

I believe our characters are set in stone at a very early age, and that we don't change very much. We physically grow bigger, and hopefully, we mature enough to understand that remembering childhood innocence helps us live a long time.   

I believe there are people in this life we outgrow, and it has nothing to do with loyalty. There is nothing more they can teach us or we can teach them, so we have to let each other go.

I believe you should only hang around with people who make your life better. Otherwise, it is a deplorable waste of time. You don't have to put up with the bossiness and guilt, judgement and ignorance, pride and dishonesty. You can simply say "good bye" with your silence. No other explanation is needed.

I believe in coffee. Caffeine fuels creativity.

I believe you can support yourself...emotionally, physically and financially if you just keep learning.

I believe you should live unafraid. It is never anyone else's call. It is up to you.

I believe in life...as well as death. I have held both in my arms, and know we cannot have one without the other. And one teaches us about the other.

And I know belief is tested, every day. So when that happens, I try to remember a time when I was around seven or so, sitting at the kitchen table after dinner, drawing horses on a clean, white sketch pad. My father came into the room, and sat in a chair beside me. He asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up, Mary?"

I continued to draw, and thought about the question. After a few minutes, I looked up at him, and replied, "I want to be a good person."

I did not understand then why his eyes watered up, and the reason he got up and left the room.

But now, I believe I do.