I have wanted to write, truly, but my groove is buried somewhere between Los Angeles and Ireland and that is a lot of fucking space to cover. I have four projects in stasis, sitting in folders that mock me every time I switch on the computer, but instead of waking them, I go online and shop for things I don’t need. My imposter syndrome is in hyper-drive and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to find any ground beneath my feet. Clearly, ghosts travel.
When we first got to Ireland, I only allowed myself to see the positive sides of the move, of which there are many, rather than acknowledging that it was a big deal to leave a place I called home for most of my life. I never loved Los Angeles, never felt that it fit me, but my stories are there, my roots and my blood, and we didn’t get to say goodbye, not properly. The pandemic and an evil landlord prevented us from stepping into this new chapter of our lives fully, with eyes open and hands steady.
It took me a year to finally feel the gravity of moving, in my 50’s, from a home we were being chased out of to a country I had never visited, all during a pandemic. It sounds insane, and perhaps it was a bit, but it also felt exciting and brave, like a dream. I have wanted to come to Ireland for as long as I can remember, to see where my Mom’s ancestors lived and loved, struggled and triumphed. I have wanted a quieter life for years, a life away from the knife edge that Los Angeles has become. I have wanted to see where Joe’s heart has always truly lived. Ireland doesn’t disappoint; it offers a quieter way of life and scenery that takes your breath away each time you step outside, people who see each other rather than just look through each other while reaching for unattainable pedestals, and a sky that is filled with stars, rather than helicopters that shine spotlights on the desperate, the hungry and the violent. We made the right choice when we moved to Clonmel, but the problem is that I have never learned how to travel light.
I dreamed that I left pieces of myself behind, pieces that I have been trying to stitch back together for so long, but in the dream, I believed I could be whole without them. I convinced myself that I had a chance to find a voice, to climb out of the waves and stand on solid ground. I believed I could be who I imagine myself to be when the world rests in darkness. I woke to the familiar sensation of drowning, realising that I must have closed my eyes and stuffed my demons into a suitcase, hoping it would stay closed, but it was too full and the latch broke.
I find myself in a new landscape, but I am still covered in shadows, still facing the same ghosts that have traveled with me my whole life. Maybe this time I can learn to see them differently, to put them back into the suitcase with care and welcome them when they break open the latch, knowing that they aren’t to be feared, that they are the darkness in me, and darkness can be just as beautiful as light.