(Photo from Dick Mack’s Pub in Dingle Town)
There are certain pop culture rituals that I enjoy about St. Patrick’s Day that have nothing to do with my pride of Irish lineage (mixed with other European roots). The rituals garnish my American need for anything that feels “Celtic”. Having visited Ireland with my best friend five or so years ago, I gained a deeper spiritual connection to myself, to God, and to my ancestry. As I learned about Celtic Spirituality, which was later customized to represent Christian Spirituality, I realized that many of the concepts—really, ways of life—fit into the natural connection to the Divine that I had as a child. One of the early Celtic Christian concepts included a belief that every child is born with the face of God upon her. The newborn child is never flawed, with much to regret before even figuring out how to say “ma-ma” or “da-da”. The freedom of playing with God without any hiding—without any agenda—is possible when I drink in the energy that dances through the green lands.
When I muse upon St. Patrick’s Day in America, I think about people in funny green outfits drinking Guinness, or Harp that has been transformed into a green punch by the miracle of food coloring. I think about the silliness of all of it, and it makes me smile. I think about people in plastic green necklaces or shamrock hats hanging out in pubs, talking, having a good drink and some food, and most importantly, havin’ a laugh. Even within the plastic-ness of the Americanized holiday, there is good old fashioned communion taking place among friends and a willingness to let down our guards for an hour or two.
My best friend and I ate 90% of our meals in pubs when we visited Ireland, and we found an authentic “you are in my kitchen and living room” kind of atmosphere everywhere we went. Even though we stuck out like sore thumbs as non-Irish visitors, we were welcomed by the people we met and the conversation was always easy. Being in those pubs or those green lands that are infused with Spirit, I was reminded of the connection I have with my own family and community and that I can be Irish in it with great authenticity any time I please.
I wrote the following poem on that trip to Ireland, during time spent in Dingle Town. The poem is also included in Chapter 11 of my new book, God Is Not a Bully, which focuses on my own Celtic Spirituality. Enjoy!
The Pub
banjo speaks robust triplets
crimson old buckets
dangle from Dingle ceilings
older than any relatives yet to be known.
musicians in sync
like a heartbeat
and cordial harmonic jazzercise
letting a yee haw
carry its connective tissue
to our honorary local status
quickly fizzing like grape poprocks
musicians in duet
whistle of anything that is yours
now and tomorrow
or even in a dream
of grass skirts
in a warmer climate
love of a wooden
mahogany bar
of toffee crunch
with wear-and-tear
that makes beauty
seem one syllable less
of its worth
silver masculine curls
under western brimmed
black velvet unbeckoning
a rumbly strummer
perfect like punctuality
in a creative way
beer bubbles inspire
heavy pen-glazed pages
a vacant extreme gratitude
like sheep sheered
from a heavy dandruff
in skin cell relief
carrot and dill
on brown bread
with cod and friendship
as the music begins again
white vinegar and pepper
ground like baby powder
among burnt orange walls
and a reel at the fireplace
humorous accounts
embellish gratitude
embossed by free-trade coffee beans
arriving off the harbor
a not instant-powder form
with the same magnitude
as a pint of stout
and the killer sheep of Ireland
remember their true loves
while a tried-true tune is gutturally placed
in the resonating mask
of heartful, calm waters
and a reminder of home
a Christmas to come
and a family still
making the same warmth
among their own tunes
and humor of
our changing lines
and ageless ceremony
that brings the great melodic chant
back into the aural soul
night into night