Míle Míle - A Thousand Thousands

This morning I opened the windows to let the cool morning air circulate through the house.  With every raised sash came cool breezes filled with bird songs.  As I traced my route back through each room, the avian melodies flooded into the house as readily as the deliciously cool air.  

Gone was the incessant groan and hum of the fans and the air conditioners trying to rid us of the heat and humidity.  What beautiful replacements!  I stood in each room for a few moments trying to absorb the wondrous temperature and sound, saving them both for a much needed time later.

With coffee started, I sat at my desk to check on some news and correspondence.  As part of the morning computer ritual, I stop by the blog to poke at some new / old ideas.  That's when I noticed it.

1000

It's just a number.  No it's not!  It is a huge number!  A significant number to me.

A thousand of you, friends, family, coworkers, and people I have never met, have stopped for a moment at this site.  I am amazed by that.  Thank you for taking time to read these things.  We are all very busy people.  Who has extra time these days to give away?  So I appreciate you giving my stories your time. I hope, in some way, they give back to you, so your time has not been wasted.

That's me with bent knee

To be honest, for most of my life, the idea of writing anything was anathema to me.  I would rather stand in front of a 1000 people in a platinum blonde wig with bright yellow tights on and talk, than to sit and write a paragraph about my experiences.  Yes, I have done the former and the later.  I have heard from one of high school English teachers, Mrs. Eltscher.  She stated emphatically, she believes in miracles because of this blog. Not exactly, but she was pretty surprised that nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions, and conjunctions were used correctly... "most of the time". 

As much as I have loathed writing, I felt strangely compelled to share stories of our trip to Ireland. In the midst of those stories, I have found thoughts, feelings, and ideas that seem to want to come out.  So they have, some more eloquently than others.  Thanks for reading my out-loud-thinking.  Actually, thank you for watching me learn how to "put on paper" those thoughts and feelings.  It may be rough at times, like one midterm exam in college.

I took a Major Authors course which focused on the playwrights Eugene O'Neill and Arthur Miller.  I busted my hind-end getting ready for that "blue book" exam.  When I got the test, I almost shouted out loud!  I knew every question, cold.  I wrote my brains out for over an hour.  Two weeks later, when we got our blue books back, I quickly opened mine.  I carefully thumbed through each page.  There was not a corrective mark anywhere to be found.  On the last page there where three words and a letter written in blood red ink.  "Clear, Precise, Illiterate, D"

Hopefully, this blog is better than that test.  But thank you not marking me down a grade when you find some glaring errors.  Please never shy away from sending corrections or suggestions.  I welcome them all.

So, for the 1000 of you, there are a thousand thank you's each.  I am truly grateful for your time and attention.

In Irish, I think it goes something like this... Go raibh míle míle maith agaibh!

I will let one my Irish friends, maybe, the teacher from Dalkey, correct my Gaelic grammar.

Who needs a Shillelagh?

Why is this blog called "Walking with a Shillelagh"?  Well, on the surface, it is mostly about about our trip to Ireland.  But, it is also about the inner journey I took while in Ireland.  And about getting a shillelagh.  Being in Ireland would give me the opportunity I have longed for, acquiring a real Irish shillelagh. Shillelaghs have been around for a long time and are peculiarly Irish.  Seeing that I am rather peculiar, it was the number one item on my "To Get While In Ireland List". So, I was on the lookout for the right Irish piece to add to my walking stick collection.

I didn't find it, actually, it found me. I was selected on the second day of our trip.  The first day was too hectic and tiring to find something of such importance.  One must be quiet and unhurried.  It was quite a "Potterian" experience.  Just as J.K. Rowling suggested the "wand chooses the wizard", so it is with shillelaghs.  I was chosen in a town called Recess.

We were on our way to the Kylemore area of Connemara when I missed a turn in the road.  If you have read about my other "driving experiences" then you understand.  We had just gone through a town that wasn't really a town.  There was a gas station and a craft shop with a lake view.  As we had to turn around, we thought we would stop and stretch our legs in Recess; seemed appropriate for the name.

There was a parking area in front of the store and a larger one across the road.  This wonderful shop had everything a traveler would want. Whiskey infused caramels, an excellent selection of books, variety of woolen apparel, and, believe it or not, craft supplies of all sorts.  While my wife was cruising the Connemara marble and jewelry sections I was wondering about.

In a room away from the main area, I was drawn to a wooden model of a sailing ship that sat in a window. I walked directly toward it as if I was going to climb over the table in front of me instead of going around.  So, I literally ran into the display of shillelaghs, which I had not seen.  They were all jostled about and only one remained in the corner directly before me.  Its curved handle pointing straight at me.  As I moved my arm forward, it shot out of the display into my waiting hand.  Wrapping my fingers around it, I thrust it over my head, parallel to the floor as lightning came out of both ends.  I was startled by the display of power but no one else seem to see it.  Well, it wasn't actually like that, but it felt like it!  I made up everything, except the lightning. No, really, lightning.  Seriously!

It was very nearly perfect.  Made of hawthorn, it had just the right number of "numbs" running down the length of the shaft.  Coated with butter and placed in the chimney to cure, it had a shiny black finish.  It was just the right height, so I didn't have to bend over to use it.  The tip was weighted for stream crossing.  The handle was smooth and bent at a comfortable angle for walking.  The head had a larger diameter than the shaft which made it perfect for warding off Normans bent on conquest.  It would also be useful in Dublin for fending off any "splashing" Vikings.

Holding my new found treasure with both hands, it was positioned vertically before my face.  I walked slowly toward my wife, as if part of a coronation processional.  As I drew nearer to her, my hands slowly raised to their full extension.  "This is the one!" I shouted, forgetting about the other people in the store.  "What 'one'?" my wife asked incredulously.  "This is my shillelagh!", I stated, still gazing upward at my prize.  "What are you going to do with another walking stick?"  The mystical and magical air of the moment burst forth out of the store as if a large hatpin had pierced the entire building.  This was not just "another walking stick".

Honestly, I needed this shillelagh.  You see, I walk with a limp.  If you saw me going down the street you wouldn't notice a thing.  It's not a physical limp.  It's an inner limp, something that I have had my whole life.  Everyone has one.  It comes in areas of our invisible life; mental, emotional, or spiritual.  There is something about us as human beings.  As wonderful and magnificently crafted as we are, we are not perfect.  There are somethings about us that aren't quite up to speed with the rest of us.  It's a weakness that has a hard time keeping up with our strengths.  We try not to paid attention to it.  But it has the uncanny ability at times to hinder our strengths from being as effective.

In other words, we are all flawed.  So, we spend much our our time and money (usually in therapy) trying to be rid of this "weakness".  Now please hear me on this.  I am not talking about the pain that comes from the tragedies of life, or that comes from the intentional infliction by others.  I am talking about what is there from the beginning of our lives.  We can trace it back to our first remembrances.  These unique idiosyncrasies seem to have always been there.

For years, I have tried to outrun them.  It is tough running with a limp, unless you're Forrest Gump.  Every time you look over your shoulder, they are always the exact same distance behind you.  Trying to ignore them, trying to out run them is rather pointless.  They are always there.  So, recently, I just stopped running, turned around and embraced them as they caught up with me.  I discovered they are a part of who I am, not a cancerous growth to be excised out of my body.  If I consciously integrate them, I will start to live out the whole of my being and not just my supposed strengths.

Not every square inch of a painting is "perfect".  The artist can see aberrant strokes, or un-blended colors.  But for the rest of us, we see the whole, we take in the entirety of the painting; artist's flaws and all.  The whole becomes a thing of beauty.  The paintings uniqueness's add to the essence of the whole picture.  So it is with us, I think.

That's why my shillelagh is so important.  It reminds me I have a limp.  My unique idiosyncrasies are a part of the whole me.  My weakness contributes to me being me.  That is why my shillelagh is so powerful.  It reminds me this journey is for the whole of me, not just the parts of me I like.  It  tells me to be an integrated person, a whole being.  I am a complete work of art, flaws and all.  It's also great for whacking Vikings

Now tell me, what "walking stick" could do all that?

Walking, Climbing, Falling - Going to the Gap

One of the goals I set for myself in our itinerary for Ireland was going hiking, or hill walking as my friend Nicky McBride calls it.  I selected two rather aggressive hikes, Croagh Patrick and the Purple Tomies Trail in the Gap of Donloe.

We were staying near the Gap in a lovely self catering apartment called Bugler's Cottage.  One morning, two days before my scheduled hike, I woke up early.  So, I thought I would walk up the Gap a little way to take a peek.  My wife was sleeping as I slipped out the door and headed toward the Gap.

Within 100 meters or so I came to an old stone bridge with a gurgling stream flowing beneath it.  I paused a few moments to let the sound flow over me.  It was a such a peaceful morning, with the gurgling stream and the singing birds.  I didn't recognize any of the songs, despite their distinct differences.  They must have been singing in Irish.

Continuing on, I walked pass the famous (also infamous) Kate Kearney's Cottage.  I imagined this was as quiet as it ever gets.  This is the starting point, the hub for everyone who comes to see the Gap.  The parking lot was empty.  The horses and the Jaunting Carts nowhere in sight.  No movement, no lights, no people.  There was just the road, the Gap, the mountains and the clouds.

The peaks on either sight of the Gap were shrouded in a heavy blanket of fog.  I'd rather call them clouds.  But I guess when clouds touch the earth they are technically fog.  I paused for a moment to consider them.  While they seemed to be suspended by strings giving them a weightless appearance,  their thickness, the density of the clouds gave them an apparent weight they did not have.  They looked like they were trying to push the mountains back into the earth from where they came.  But the strength  and the stubbornness of the mountain stood firm, not to be moved.

I'm not sure how long I was standing there, silently considering the clouds and the hills when my ears caught a sound.  It was not the birds or a small stream.  but it was the sound of water, the sound of water falling.  Looking towards the sound, I saw nothing but dense thicket.  Hawthorn, I think.  No water of any kind was visible from the road with no obvious means of getting to the sound.  There was a fence along the side of the road barring my way from seeking the stream.  Finding a place to get through or over of the fence was proving to be a challenge.

Finally, I found where I could get through the fence without disturbing it.  I started walking down the slope toward the sound of rushing waters.  The ground was soggy, with standing water in old animal tracks.  The trees / bushes were close together with branches reaching the ground in many places.  It was hard to determine which was more difficult to maneuver around, the wet turf or pokey branches.

I had been picking my way along, parallel to an ancient stone fence, which ran down the slope as if pointing to my watery quest.  I thought is was worth a try to walk on the top of the stone wall, at least my feet would be dry.  The stones were almost four feet off the ground, a little over a meter.  The top was nearly a meter wide.  At first I thought the stones would be loose and shifty under my feet.  However, the wall was as firm as the road I had walked on earlier.  As I walked along the top of the stone wall I marveled at the sturdiness of the construction that had stood for hundreds of years. Now, all that was left was getting through the branches.

After many minutes, the fence took an abrupt right hand turn.  The sound was louder and dead ahead.  I couldn't see anything due to the interwoven branches of the trees. So, it was time to find my way again, over the boggy ground.  As I made my way down off the wall, I got the eerie feeling I was not alone.  I thought I was being watched.  Was this to be my encounter with ancient fairies?  Was there a leprechaun near by?  There was a mossy primal feel to my surroundings.  Maybe, it was a Hobbit.  I stood as still as I could, listening and looking.  I slowly turned my head as far as I could without moving my body.  I saw nothing.  As I slowly moved my body back to the left, I was startled by the face the peered at me through a small hole in the thick underbrush.  It was the snort that made me jump a little as it came as quickly as the face appeared.  A horse, no two horses, had been watching my progress for who knows how long.

I addressed the horses politely not knowing if they were "attack" or "watch" horses.  As I spoke to them their ears darted forward and back.  They were trying to figure out if they should be upset with this intruder or ignore the idiot bushwhacking through their backyard. They sauntered off in a direction away from the falling water.  The sound was loud now.  I was close.

My first glimpse was the large black boulders appearing as hulking giants.  Smooth and shiny like polished gems they were everywhere, to the right and to the left.  As the water crashed into them, pushing around them and fell off them, its sound harmoniously blended with the water's source.  To my right was a a sheet of water, some 20 feet high falling into the concourse of shiny black rocks.  I stood with my eyes closed for a while listening to all the different water sounds blending into a wondrous symphony.  I wondered, what if I became the conductor for this cascading cantata, as I lead this concert with my waving arms.  I realized this "performance" would continue with or without me.  What a silly man I am, I thought.  Little did I realize then, just how silly I would be in just a few short minutes.

As I looked at the waterfall more intently, it seemed to break over an unusually straight line.  This "line" seemed to be connected to another straight line about 10 meters above the boulders.  On top of this straight line was a square wire fence with metal poles - definitely something man-made going on up there.

My infinite wisdom and lighting quick decision making skills concluded it would be easier to cross the water and the boulders, climb the nearly vertical 10 meter wall of rocks and trees, hop the fence and take whatever the path was there back toward Kate Kearney's Cottage.  Seriously?  Yup!

Finding the place to cross was almost as difficult as finding an opening in the fence up at the road. Each possible traverse point contain injurious and deadly possibilities, to say nothing of a fully clothed bath.  The one track chosen would include certain wetness, slight to moderate potential injury and a generous side dish of discomfort.  In mid-crossing, my mind counted some details that heretofore had been kept from me: 1. My wife has no idea where I am, 2. I have no signal on my cell phone, 3. The horses would be of absolutely no help.  Going back nearly doubled the statistical possibilities for disaster, so I forged ahead.

Completing the crossing with just one damp foot made the crossing an unmitigated success.  Now all I needed to do was scale the 10 meter vertical.  Fortunately, there were significantly sized trees growing out of this rocky wall.  They would provide the necessary equipment needed to scale the "Mt. Everest" before me.  Summoning my inner "Tarzan", I began my tree climbing ascent.

All was going quite well as I got within 3 meters of the fence.  The vertical wall changed into a slight grade with some small shale-like stones mixed in with some football sized rocks. As I stood erect and made my way across this open space my first step revealed that this stony material was very loose, quite unlike the stone wall earlier or boulders 10 meters below. I leaned into the slope slightly so as not to pitch over backward.  As I made my second step, just one meter shy of the goal, the ground under my foot gave way. I went straight to the ground with the ribs on my left side passionately embracing one of the "football" boulders.  In a single instant, I realized I could not breath as I began to slide on my belly, feet first toward the vertical drop off.  Like a cat not willing to take a bath, every appendage worked in overdrive to claw my way to the fence.  If I could just grab the fence, I could then find the oxygen my body was screaming for.  With one last lunge, my fingers caught the bottom wire with a vise-like grip.

Once over the fence, I went to the ground dizzy and gasping for air.  The knife-like pain in my left side kept me from taking the deep breath I needed.  Slowly, the world stopped spinning and air began to seep back into my lungs.  A quick glance at the cell phone confirmed that signal was less available than the oxygen in my chest.  As I worked at trying to stand I looked to remove whatever was embedded in my side.  But further examination revealed nothing protruding.  My eyes were clearing, breathing was moving slowly toward normal but in very small painful doses. I needed to get back to the cottage.

I took some small consolation in being right about what was beyond the fence.  There was a a wide path for some type of vehicle.  It was an easy walk as it paralleled the stream.  Eventually, both were on the same level and a foot bridge was there to cross the stream.  The path lead my into a field right behind Kate Kearney's where my two equine friends greeted me with laughing whinnies.  Well, it was difficult to argue with them.  A quick view of my current state; mud-caked trousers, mud and dirt on the front and back of my jacket, and shoes that looked more like horses hooves than feet.  I imagine I would be laughing too.

But I couldn't; it hurt too much to breathe, let alone laugh.

Final Score:  Gap of Donloe - 1  Mike McGlynn - 0

7 Circles of Hell* - Dante's View of Irish Roundabouts

My biggest concern, my only concern, while planning our trip to Ireland was driving.  Steering from the right hand side of the car while driving on the left hand-side of the road, kept me up a few nights.  I woke up a couple of times in a full body sweat but that may have been more menopause than fear.

As a rule, I avoid traffic circles like the plague.  They just seem to defy logic.  Well at least my logic anyway. In a large metropolitan area near our home, two traffic circles were put into a road we frequently use.  These circles were put in for purely "aesthetic" reasons, not functional ones.  Seriously!  The real dilemma comes when large groups of people try to use them at the same time, who have absolutely zero experience with such an endeavor.

Clearly, this is not the case in Ireland.  Traffic circles or roundabouts have been in use since the early 1500's.  My friend +Neil Jackman , an archaeologist of some repute, has unearthed some early examples of roundabouts.  Specific carbon dating is still pending.  Confirmation is beginning to trickle in from various sources including noted English historian Dr. Monty Python.  Dr. Python states, "Roundabouts are the Holy Grail of the Irish transportation system." Tradition has it that most Irish babies are born in or near roundabouts.  I personally take this as fact, after our trip.  My point is this, every Irish driver has extensive knowledge and experience in the function and use of roundabouts.  I have neither.  I am in trouble!

It really only took me a couple of hours to get comfortable driving.  It took a couple of days to get used to the size of the roads.  It took a couple of Valium with a chaser of Jameson to get to the place of, what I like to call, "roundabout recovery".  For the first week in Ireland, this was an almost daily occurrence.

One of the quaint things about Irish roundabouts is that every one of them is named.  Some farmers do this with their cows or sheep, which seems silly to me as they all look the same.  So too, I found it equally interesting that these circular intersections are named.  The roundabouts are not just "named" by the locals, but actually have a rather significant sign which faces the oncoming traffic (more on Irish road signage another time).  This is excellent for out-of-towners, except the sign is less than a meter off the ground.  This means unless you are the first car at the circle, you don't know which circle it is until you enter it.  This has the undesirable effect of having to make quick decisions and lane selections especially if you are taking the first exit out of the circle.

Our first night in Ireland was going to be spent near Galway.  We landed in Dublin by 8 am local time and were on the road by 10 am.  With a quick stop in Clonmacnoise on the way, we anticipated being in Galway by mid to late afternoon.  A good friend of ours from Dalkey told us it would take a couples of hours to get to Galway and almost that much time to get through Galway due to traffic.  So we were somewhat prepped for traffic difficulty.  But nothing could have prepared us for the Galway Gauntlet.

The Marless House is a lovely B&B in Salthill just west of Galway. Their web site provided excellent verbal and pictorial directions for those who are coming in on the M-6 from Dublin. Once exiting the motorway, we would have to navigate 7 roundabouts to get to our destination.  As my wife read the directions out loud, each named roundabout hit me like a pillowcase filled with rocks.  Though my outer demeanor was stoic and steady, my inner pilot was screaming NOOOOOOOOOOO! Seven?  What is wrong with these people? I steeled myself for the mythological quest which lay before me.  I quickly conjured up the spirit of Jason and his Argonauts to face the 7 sirens that lie ahead in the turbulent roadway waters of Galway roundabouts.  In just two kilometers, the trial would commence.

I entered the Coolough roundabout in the left lane, quite by accident, but was saved by the fact I had to get out at the first exit.  My confidence was artificially buoyed by this "success".  For in short order, I was going to enter the Martin roundabout and would need to take the 3rd exit.  As I entered Martin I got into the inner lane to get to the third exit.  Another car came in alongside me which prevented me from getting to my exit.  Panic flooded my entire being as our revolutions began.  With our third trip around the circle, I thought we had been caught in a swirling vortex like being flushed down a toilet south of the equator.  There was no way out.

It was then that I noticed a group of pedestrians sitting on folding chairs in the grassy center of the roundabout.  I noticed one of the older gentlemen standing up as he pointed in my direction, his finger following my path round the grassy circle.  Others began to rise and look as we circled them yet again.  With each subsequent revolution, I began to feel like I was in a Sartre play as their shouts turned into cheers and applauds. I found out later it is the habit of many of the locals to sit and wait for the appearance of a driver from the States.  When a foreign driver is caught in a roundabout it is an entertainment event which rivals local soccer matches.  It was then that I rolled down the window waved to my adoring fans, turned sharply and made it out the third exit.

Five more roundabouts lie ahead and each requiring that I take the second exit. Skeritt and Joyce were slightly easier to traverse as traffic eased a bit.  Bodkin and Browne had heavy traffic coming from the first and third exits.  My entry would be a death-defying feat requiring NASCAR-like skill, timing, and shear dumb luck.  It would be on this occasion I would hear my wife cry out to a heavenly deity.  With one last roundabout, Deane, I will have completed my journey of the 7 Circles of Hell.  I snugged my seat belt, adjusted my glasses, flex my fingers for a firmer grip on the wheel and prepared for the worst.

It was as if something mystical happened.  As we got to the roundabout, traffic seemed to vanished from sight.  All pedestrians, all cars must have been caught up in some apocalyptic rapture, for they were no more.  The car was suddenly moving in slow motion.  I heard each bead of perspiration as it came out of my pours and clung to my skin.  My breathing slowed and deepened.  My lips pursed to allow the oxygen to escape my lungs in one long slow breath.  It was like a movie dream sequence which is shattered by a violent crash, as the unseen truck to appears and crushes the car to pieces.  My vision started to slowly darken from the outer edges towards the middle until all went black.

I remember my wife calling my name as light began to stream back into my eyes.  My first sight was my hands still clinging to the wheel.  As I became more conscious of my wife's words, She kept saying we're here.  We made it. Come on let's get out of the car.  As I looked around, we were safely in the parking area of the Marless House.  My hands released the wheel and my arms fell limp to the sides of my legs.  My head drooped forward as my shoulders slumped.  It was then that I issued a silent thank you.

I had been baptized by fire.  I had been christened by adversity.  I had gotten past the Sirens. I had made it through the 7 circles.  I had conquered the Gauntlet.  I was Lord of the Roundabout!

*To all you Dante aficionados, I know it was actually 9 circles of hell but 7 has better numeric symbolism and it fit the story better as there were 7 roundabouts.  My deepest apologies, Mr. Dante.

Waiting and Mulling: Godot and The Book of Kells

One of the top five things on our list to see in Ireland was the Book of Kells at Trinity College in Dublin.  We sauntered over about 10:30 on a Monday morning.  The line (or queue) was wrapped three quarters the way around the grassy quad which is in front of the Old Library.  Nope, not standing in line 2+ hours.  We needed a plan.  Two days later at 9 am, we were first in line with a mere thirty minute wait for the doors to open.  At 9:30 when the doors opened, the queue was almost half way around the quad.

Once inside, we found ourselves passing through a corner of the gift/book store into the "outer room".  This room contained large photographs of various pages of the books, as well as numerous explanations of the origin and history of the books which make up the "Kells".  The displays were beautiful and informative.  This room also serves as a "holding" room until the group is of sufficient size to go into the actual book viewing room.

When we entered the viewing room, there was a large table case over to the right hand side of the room.  It was glass covered and slightly illuminated.  In the case were some of the books which make up the "Kell collection".  They were carefully held open to various pages.  The books were a range of sizes.  The smaller the book, the smaller the calligraphy or printing on the page.  How could anyone do that without an ink-jet printer, let alone a quill, ink and sheep-skin?!? Only my bifocals allowed me to be impressed by the beautiful precision of these tiny letters.

But, overall, I have to admit I was slightly underwhelmed.  With apologies to all my history-loving-pals and my new Ireland friends, I am so glad I didn't wait two plus hours to see them.  I was more astonished by the stone carvings of Loughcrew and Newgrange.  I was awestruck by the clerical robes at the Waterford Museum of Treasures.  However, my feelings do not in any way diminish the significance of the Kells.  Their preservation and place in history is significant.  I guess I really didn't know what to expect.  All I know is my reaction was not what I thought it would be. I was more jazzed by the 1953 prompt copy of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot in the Long Room upstairs.

In a review of the 1956 New York production of Waiting for Godot, Brooks Atkinson writes,

"Since 'Waiting for Godot' is an allegory written in a heartless modern tone, a theatre-goer naturally rummages through the performance in search of a meaning. It seems fairly certain that Godot stands for God. Those who are loitering by the withered tree are waiting for salvation, which never comes.The rest of the symbolism is more elusive. But it is not a pose. For Mr. Beckett's drama adumbrates--rather than expresses--an attitude toward man's experience on earth; the pathos, cruelty, comradeship, hope, corruption, filthiness and wonder of human existence. Faith in God has almost vanished. But there is still an illusion of faith flickering around the edges of the drama. It is as though Mr. Beckett sees very little reason for clutching at faith, but is unable to relinquish it entirely."

While I gazed upon the copy of Waiting for Godot... waiting... I started to think of something I saw in the outer room of the Kells display. Over in the corner, not is a very prominent place, and not in a way that would draw attention to itself, was a picture display of a small book the Gospels.  It was very small, that in and of itself is a wonder, easily carried in one hand.  But it was the title that captured my eye.  A quick glance might lead someone to think it was a recipe book for mixing wine and spices.  But the full title cleared that up quickly, "The Mulling Book - A pocket version of the Gospels".

Maybe the monks had it right.  Just maybe, these ancient texts are for mulling.  Mulling is a process in which one slowly heats up wine or cider and slowly adds spices or sweetener to the heated liquid to create something new and different.  One can see how the word for this process became a figurative term in literature meaning to think deeply and at length about a matter.  If these sacred books were "mulled", is it possible they might take on a sweeter taste?  Is it possible if we "mull" these texts that the "spices" might make for a more diverse, interesting, and savory flavors?

The difficulty is not the text itself but what we bring to the mulling of the text.  I'm afraid that the Gospels have become just books of doctrine, or just books of law or just books of pseudo-sacred-science.  Are they prescriptive or descriptive?  Or maybe the better question is, as individuals, which do we need them to be?  They seem to have become the object of scientific deliberation and less about faith stimulating consideration.  And is not faith the very spice the Gospels seek to mix into the life of the reader?  The science of hermeneutics becomes a chief end rather than any "culinary" considerations of life flavoring, a dash of St. Mark, a cup of St. John.  There are too many examples in recent memory in which sacred writings have become a  more like a egg whip or potato masher to be used on those you do not comply to the "truths" contained; rather than, a simmering pan of delicious aromas filling the entire house.

Is it possible that like in Beckett's play, the Gospels have become the barren / withered tree which has no fruit for the hungry?  Has faith been pushed to the edges of life because the tree has been effectively denuded by making dogmatic what was made to be considered and re-considered, mulled if you will with the spices of each ensuing generation?  Like Atkinson observed of Beckett, somehow it doesn't seem right to let faith escape the scene altogether, but the forces that seem to be pushing it to the edges have lost the wonderment of the text that the monks sought to preserve.

Maybe we should mull that over a little bit more.  Could someone pass the wine?

The Sacred and the Scared - Part 3

Two very different places, Croagh Patrick and Kylemore Abbey Cathedral.  Two very different experiences, minutes of quiet peace and hours of torturous danger.  Two different words, sacred and scared.  How do these things related to each other?  Do they have anything in common?  Are they nothing more than two places, two thoughts and two words arbitrarily thrown together by a raving cathedral-visiting-hill-climbing-lunatic?  We'll see. You can decide.

In my recent trip to Ireland, I was struck by the deep spirituality which is an integral part of Irish history and culture.  When visiting places like Loughcrew, Knowth, or Newgrange, one cannot help but see indicators of  some type of neolithic belief in life after death.  The Hill of Tara gives evidence of a strong connection between the invisible and visible worlds.  St. Patrick comes onto the scene with his Roman view of spirituality which impacts both secular and religious spheres, while Clonmacnoise reveals the further formalization of a  systematic understanding of things eternal.

A small caveat here: when I use the term "spiritual" I am speaking about things eternal and super-natural.  By super-natural, I mean, outside or "above" the natural order of things, what we see, hear, taste, smell, and touch.  I guess "metaphysical" fits here but it is a $10.00 word. I am much more comfortable with most words under $5.00.  They fit my budget better.  When I use the term "religious" or "religion", I am referring to humanity's systematization (thought) and rituals (practice) of trying to understand or interact with the spiritual realm or metaphysical plane.

What does this have to do with two very popular tourist sites?  I think these sites represent people's approach to connecting with what some might call the "divine" or "spiritual".

Sometimes it seems more "natural" for some to seek the spiritual in a place like cathedral.  This seems to be the normal response to a "Religiously" trained mind, which says this is the place to seek what is "other" or "eternal".  Like the Jews of ancient time, the "temple" is the "dwelling place of the Name".  This concept  of "temple-dwelling-deity" has carried over figuratively, and in some cases literally, into other religions.

While others believe it is more "natural" to seek the spiritual in nature.  Thus making places like Croagh Patrick the focus of pilgrimage no matter how daunting or difficult.  In some cases, the more difficult it is the more "holy" or sacred it seems to become.  This connection with nature has caused some to espouse the notion "nature is my religion".  This is a  quote I discovered while hiking on an a remote island in the Great Lakes area of the States.  If I am reading the ancient texts of Christianity correctly, this idea is affirmed by the Apostle Paul when he declares what may be known about the character and qualities of God is apparent and obvious from nature.

Irish philosopher and writer, John O'Donohue says, "The Celtic mind was neither discursive nor systematic.  Yet in their lyrical speculation, the Celts brought the sublime unity of life and experience to expression.  The Celtic mind was not burdened by dualism.  It did not separate what belongs together.  The Celtic imagination articulates the inner friendship that embraces Nature, divinity, underworld, and human world as one. The dualism that separates the visible from invisible, time from eternity, the human from the divine was totally alien to them.  Their sense of ontological friendship yielded a world of experience imbued with a rich texture of otherness, ambivalence, symbolism, and imagination.  For our sore and tormented separation, the possibility of this imaginative and unifying friendship is the Celtic gift."                                 From, Anam Cara - A Book of Celtic Wisdom

I believe that the sacred and the scared, the Kylemore and the Croagh, the cathedral and the mountain must be struck as two different sides of the same coin.  There may seem to be a tension between these apparently polar opposites.  However, a more holistic, fuller life may be lived by joining together the very things our modern mind and culture have labored to separated.

The raw unfiltered demands of scaling a mountain seems appropriate to experience the divine.  The roaring wind and pounding hail, endless rocks and bone-wearying exertion seem to fit a Moses-like experience of an audience with the Eternal Other.  The herculean effort makes sense to achieve entrance into another plane of experience.  However, there are no barriers.  There are no controls.  There are no safety zones.  There is no shelter.  This is what makes one scared.  One must deal with one's fears on the mountain.  It is that fear that keeps us away from the mountain.  It is that fear that makes it "Other".  It is what it is.  You must take it as it is.  You must take it as it comes.  The only thing between you and the divine, in this scenario, is your clothing.  Very clearly, you are not in-charge here.

To enter the cathedral one merely opens the door.  Be the door large or small, the effort is virtually the same.  The effort to enter the presence of the divine in this venue is a walk, a twist, and a push.  So simple, so easy, a child could do it.  No special training or preparation is required.  All of the effort came centuries before in the chiseling and the carrying, in the measuring and the mortaring,  in the sweat and the blood.  It was other's efforts that made this approach so easy.  We enter this human made sanctuary which provides the shelter from nature's upheavals and extremes.  It holds back the hail and the rain.  It stops the cold of the wind and the heat of the sun.  It pushes back the pain, for it is a house deigned and built by love.  And love makes an audience with the eternal easier and more palatable for the masses.  Some might say, it was a better marketing strategy than the mountain.  For love clothes the eternal in a beauty that reverberates in our souls.

The barriers are in place.  The safety zone wide. Security is at a premium here. And yet to enter this sacred place, to step into this type of quiet is, in fact, disquieting to our souls.  The fear on the mountain has been replace by discomfort.  One is unsettled first before one comes to peace.  The beauty and dignity of this human construction seems appropriate somehow to clothe the presence of the Other.  It seems when everything is held at bay, one's soul is exposed.  When the distractions are stripped away, the nakedness of our soul, and possibly the poverty of our spirits, seem evident to the world as well as to us.  As if we were an Emperor, whose wondrous fashions have been declared null and void by a small child.

Both places, both extremes, help us, maybe even compel us towards the starting line of understanding.  The search for the eternal, the divine must begin somewhere.  The soul is the great resonator of all things super-natural, for the soul itself is eternal. The soul also helps us to see what is behind or "under" the natural as well.  Rightly held together, we discover a much larger world in which to live.  It is this fuller, richer life that Celtic Wisdom understood long ago.

So I would encourage us, me really, to climb the mountain (done that), enter the cathedral (done that), and discover the unfathomable riches that all of life, both natural and super-natural has for us (working on that).

The Sacred and the Scared - Part 2

Croagh Patrick

As I pulled into the parking lot, there were no other cars.  Is it possible?  Do I have Croagh Patrick to myself?  Is it just me and the mountain?  Wow!

I got my backpack and walking stick out of the car and made my way to the beginning of the trail behind the Welcome Center.  Little did I realize, the parking lot was the last patch of level ground I would see until the summit. (Note: parking lot has slight slope toward the road, so even that is up hill.)  The weather was grey and overcast with small openings in the canopy.  At least the clouds were high enough today so I could see the summit.

St. Patrick in front of his mountain

There are 4 distinct stages to get to the top of Croagh Patrick, the field, the approach, the pass, and the ascent.  After passing the statue of St. Patrick, you enter the field portion of the trail.  You must make sure to close the gate behind you so the sheep don't get out.  The trail follows a picturesque stream on the right hand side of the trail.  It is beautiful, if you stop to look.  One cannot readily look about as one walks, surety of step is important to staying upright on the trail.  The view ahead is daunting, it just keeps going up and up and up...

As one enters the approach, you get a taste, just a taste, of what is to come.  Rocks of every size and shape imaginable.  There are little glimpses of "trail-like" spaces here and there.  However, the the trail's upward angle ranges from 30 to 45 degrees at various points.  It was on the "approach" that I caught a glimpse of a person coming down the upper section.  First disappointment, I was not alone. I was not the first today.

Looking down the approach

It was at that moment I looked back towards Clew Bay and noticed some menacing clouds coming fast.  I was on the steep part of the approach when the wind hit. There was no place to take cover.  I thought at times the wind would tear my clothes off as it grew in intensity.  Then, the hail came.  Small flecks at first which melted quickly on my pants and coat. Larger hail, the size of BBs soon followed.  The back of my legs and hands stung with each pellet as it landed, like thousands of bees attacking at once.  It felt as thought the wind was driving the hail through the layers of my clothes and penetrating the skin beneath.  The melting hail on my pants became a small stream of water running down my legs into my boots where is slowly began to collect. There was no choice but to continue, for there was no shelter from the assault.

Hail on the mountain

As I reached the pass, the hail began to subsided.  However, the deep crevasse to my right between the two peaks acted as a funnel, gathering the wind and focusing its might at the low point of the pass.  The wind had been at my back.  But, turning to right to cross the pass put me perpendicular to it.  With one gust, my feet started to slide as the wind pushed me across the trail.  The only thing to do was to drop down and reduce my sail area.  Keeping low, I made my way behind a large outcropping of rock.  This was my first respite from the wind.

At this point, the conversation in my head went something like this... "Are you out of your mind??  What are doing up here??  As beautiful as the valley is behind the peak, I would rather not land in it after being blown off the mountain."  As I looked at the ascent, this was decision time.  Do I go on?  Can I go on?  I have to.  I must complete this journey. The wind was easing a bit, so I set out for the ascent. It's ironic that as you cross the pass you actually go down a bit in order to go up the ascent.  It is almost like a cruel joke.

The ascent is a trail of rocks; rocks upon rocks  It is as if a monstrous dump truck of gravel emptied its load from the summit on what was a trail. However, the gravel is generally the size of your head or fist.  It is very difficult to find a flat or even level place for your feet.  Couple the layers of rocks with the angle of incline (40 to 50 degrees) and you have a torturous climb.  The one plus of the ascent is a raised ridge which creates a wind block.

St. Patrick's Bed

As you crest onto the summit, there are various make shift shelters to your left.  The chapel is straight ahead. Patrick's sleeping place to your right.  As well as various memorial cairns to the far right.  The sun was beginning to break through the clouds, but the wind was still formidable.  At one point, albeit momentarily, the summit was completely encased in cloud. This vaporous shroud lifted more slowly than it came.

Eastern end of Clew Bay

I sought shelter from the wind on the back side of the chapel.  I was able to remove my backpack and coat and sit on a flat surface while I ate my lunch. The view from the summit is quite spectacular.  Clew bay with its 365 islands lays at your feet like beautiful Persian rug.  Each island meticulously, stitched into the azure blue background.  Behind me, on the leeward side of the summit, was an inviting valley.  It's patchwork of luscious green fields illuminated by growing areas of sunshine gave it more varieties of green than Crayola has yet to imagine for their crayons.  Houses and barns are sprinkled about, but it is the ever changing patterns of small white dots on the green background which captures one's attention.  Like miniature Rorschach tests, arrangements ebb and flow one into the next as the different flocks of sheep move about.

My original goal was to spend one minute for every day St. Patrick spent on the summit.  Tradition has it, he spent 40 days and 40 nights at the peak.  I was there about an hour, a much needed recovery time.  It was then I had the mountain to myself.

People headed for the ascent

Climbing up Croagh Patrick is a challenge.  Climbing down is even more demanding.  My biggest problem going up was oxygen.  More specifically the lack of oxygen required by out of shape, over-weight, 57 year old males.  Climbing down required less oxygen as gravity is working with you. Nevertheless, the fear of falling forward down the mountain requires more of your legs and less of your lungs.  Half way down the ascent, I noticed the uncontrollable shaking of my legs.  This required frequent stops and the massaging of my leg spasms. This would be a oft repeated ritual all the way down the mountain.

As I reached the parking lot, I sat for what seemed to be an hour and stared at the mountain.  Never before in my life have I attempted something as physically demanding and mentally challenging.  It is something I will remember forever.

The Sacred and the Scared - Part 1

Have you ever noticed in the English language that there are some words, with a transposition of 2 letters, can give you an entirely different word?  Like "tarp" and "trap".  These words might be related in some way; you could use a tarp to make a trap, for example.  Or you "tried" and got "tired".

While things like that fascinate me, I want to focus on an another pair of these words, sacred and scared.  Many of the sites we have visited here in Ireland have been associated with the "sacredness" of many different peoples.  There are two which readily come to mind, Kylemore Abbey and Croagh Patrick.

Many of you are aware of the vast differences between these two places, some of you are not.  Kylemore is located on a lovey lake in the Connemara region of County Galway of the western coast of Ireland.  Croagh Patrick over looks Clew Bay and it's 365 islands near Murrisk in County Mayo, the northwest corner of the Island.  Kylemore is a series of picturesque buildings and gardens built and planted about 200 years ago.  Croagh Patrick is a cone-shaped mountain which has stood tall at 764 meters for millennia.  Kylemore fashioned by the creativity and ingenuity of man and money.  Croagh Patrick formed by God and the forces of nature.

When one arrives at Kylemore from the east, the first glimpse is of an ethereal castle across a glass-like lake. It seems almost paper-like in it's construction from this distance; a place that seems more at home in the mind of author J.R.R. Tolkien   It is inviting and welcoming as was it's builder, Mitchell Henry.  From the beginning, it was a labor of love for his wife, Margaret.  You are completely engulfed by the beauty of the surroundings and the structures.  However, I was not prepared for what awaited me in the "Miniature Cathedral" on the property.

Margaret died quite suddenly at a young age while on a trip to Egypt.  Overcome by his grief for his "anam cara", Mitchell built a small version of a Neo-Gothic cathedral adjacent to the house.  This was to be his memorial for her.  They were married to each other and to the place that is Kylemore.  It was a magnificent edificial monument to they undying love.

As you enter the cathedral, it feels smallish by human standards.  However, as the serenity of this place washes over you, the structure takes on the vastness of the universe.  The presence of peace which fills the sanctuary is so thick, you cannot help but drink it in.  There are those who attempt, albeit unconsciously, to hold their breath until they can exit for fear of drinking in this elixir of well being.  While others, apparently numb to unseen things in life, trudge through the living waters like an inconvenient mud puddle.  But for those who sense the difference of the place, there are no words to be spoken.  Grace and tenderness flow from every curved and cut stone with a warmth that penetrates the clothes and skin to the very soul.  One must sit for fear of falling under the weight of this "loving peace".  The only thing appropriate which can flow out of one's human-ness is tears; for words or even sounds would dis-grace the place.

How does one leave such a place?  Slowly, with a silent thanks, a humbled heart and a nourished soul.

A Place of Extremes

As my wife and I spent the day driving about Cleggan, Clifden, and Roundstone I was struck by the extremes of the day.  It the midst of this beautiful sunny day, there is a wind like no other. A wind which possesses a fierceness of a viking raider looking for a village to ransack.  It would rip the very clothes off of you if given half a chance.  It reminded me of on of the Hebrew words for wind or spirit, ruache.  It is pronounced roo-achhhh, almost sounds German.  But it sounds powerful and fierce.  It was that kind of wind I faced today as I looked at Inishturk Island.  The ocean could not resist the strength of this marauding force.  So wave after wave raced forward as if pushed by a locomotive toward the land,  only to explode into a mountain of white foam as it meet with the immovable rocks.

Rocks, now there is a concept.  Rocks and rocks and more rocks.  From lush green meadows beautiful to behold and marvelous to photograph,  to a place between Clifden and Roundstone which had more rock than grass.  How would, what would these sheep eat?  For every square meter of grass there were at least 10 square meters of rock.  And there wasn't a square meter of grass to be found.  Even the mountains were more rock than foliage.  It was a harsh and stark landscape.  It made we winch inside as if I was falling on to it.  There was a savage brutality to it, like the gods had pummeled the earth and grassy flesh had been beaten away only to expose the broken bones of the rocky structure beneath.

While the sun and the blue sky were in abundance, a large chunk of cloud would come our way and remind us it will rain when it pleases.  Weather never bothers me when I travel, so I was almost glad to see the rain when it popped in for a surprise visit.  It's like one of those relatives you haven't seen for a while and you are not sure if you're glad they stopped.  And you are glad when they leave.  But when the hail showed up, I was surprised! Didn't see that coming! Almost like the mother-in-law coming for a visit... I said almost.

As we rounded a curve, I saw the distinct silhouette of some crosses. So off we went to find this cemetery.  When we finally found the cemetery, it was over looking a beautiful bay.  There was no one famous buried there that we knew of. This was a multi-level cemetery, like a giant stairway leading to the water.  I think it was so the folks in front didn't obscure the view for the folks in the back.  This was on the leeward side of the hill facing away from the wind.  Finally at rest with a beautiful view and the wind at their back.  And such a beautiful view of the water that teems with life.  The tides mirroring the ebb and flow of life.

But I think that's the way Ireland likes it.  The constant reminder of these extremes, that humanity is not in charge here.  And is allowed to remain only through sheer grit, power of will and only for a short time.  This place, this island is not for the faint of heart.  Life and death, harshness and beautiful, sun and hail, wind and surf, such a whirlwind of images today.  But one seems to speak to me the most of Ireland and it's people.

These small flowers, I don't know their name but they seem readily abundant.  They are growing out of the rock, buffeted by the wind and sprayed by the salt water.  Why do you stay?  How do you hold on? Wouldn't you bloom better and brighter in someone's sheltered garden?

The colors are not flashy or gaudy like some flowers.  However, there is a subdued beauty to them.  There is a warmth that is contrasted by the coldness of the rock it grows on.  You won't see them from far away.  They just seem to blend in, but when you move closer there they are; tough, lovely and holding on to the rock in the face of a harsh wind.

I think the best beauty comes out of adversity.  I think toughness comes from standing against an opposing force for a while.  For people who think life would be better, or life would be lovelier if it were easier, I would say, "Look to these flowers, look to the Irish."

But to see them, you have to take the time and you have to get real close.

Driving in Ireland and other near disasters

Almost missing our domestic connection to our international flight was bad enough.  But add to that not sleeping for the entire flight to Dublin, you can just imagine my physical and emotional state (we are not even talking psychological - currently still in therapy).  Now, I find myself throwing our bags in a car and hopping into the passenger's seat.  My wife calmly said, "Wrong side of the car, honey."  She uses "honey" when she has discovered something I have done wrong but I,as of that point, are unaware of my miscue.

After finding my place on the "right" side of the car, I spend a full 15 minutes familiarizing myself with the controls.  After starting the car, and pulling out of the parking slot, I am triumphant as I am on the left hand side of the road.  My wife reminds me, "Honey, we are still in the parking lot."  Now I must take my talents on to a road with other moving vehicles.  My prayer life hit new heights at that very moment.  Pulling into traffic I repeat to myself, "stay to the left".  For the next hour, I ask my wife 742 times, "Am I in the correct lane?"

I soon discover my two new best friends are Mary, the GPS voice (sorry +Diane Bilyeu) and Dodi.  Dodi is doing her best Sigourney Weaver impersonation from Galaxy Quest.  She carefully repeats and interprets the voice from the GPS.  While these two women are speaking to one another, I have found a new meditative mantra   "The center of the road is on my right.  I hold the center of the road in my right hand.  Left is right."  While this is all well and good on M-50 and M-4 (for those of you in the states, these are median divided 4 lanes),  the moment one leaves the the motorway is another matter altogether.  No amount of chanting, mantras or prayers can prepare you for the "regular" roads.

Imagine, if you will, the white line on the outside edge of your lane, the one right next to the "shoulder" of the road.  In the states, there is usually enough room to get half a car on the shoulder.  In many places, the entire car can be gotten off the road and onto the shoulder.  Not so much here. Fences, hedges, barns, and stone walls use the white strip as a building guide.  So while Dodi is yelling, "Get over, GET OVER!" I am yelling at the car coming from the opposite direction, "Get over, GET OVER!"  Even Mary the GPS voice has joined in, "In 3 miles...get over, GET OVER!" This trio of shrieking voices rivals Anuna for composition and harmony.  After a while, we stopped screaming altogether and merely scrunched up our shoulders, closed our eyes and hoped for the best with each passing car.

Traffic circles are no longer the terror they once were. I take them in stride like a Grand Prix master.  They seem to make sense to me now.  I even enjoy city driving.  Want to know why?  Every one is in their own lane.  I don't have to think which one is mine.  Follow the tails lights, not the headlights is the principle I live by now.  No, I don't usually do that anyway!  I'm too creative to just follow the crowd.

What still is a difficulty for me...country intersections with no other cars for reference.  That is when I start chanting again, "The center of the road is on my right.  I hold the center of the road in my right hand.  Left is right."  All the while my eyes are tightly closed.

Following The Inuksuk

My great, great, grandfather, Peter McGlyn(n) was born in County Sligo, Ireland.  Sometime early in his life, Peter emigrated to England.  He met and married Margaret Barron and had 5 sons.   One of the sons, Alphonsus, my great grandfather, emigrated to Canada when he was a young man.  He married Mary Jane Kelly and had 7 children.  One of the sons, Peter, my grandfather, was the only one of his siblings who emigrated to the States.

I have had a wonderful time tracing my ancestral heritage back to Ireland.  Searching for dates and hints here and there has been an adventure to be sure.  During the search, I began to wonder about the impact of those who have gone before me.  What traits had they left for me to follow?  How much of what I am today has been impacted by the generations before me?

One of my friends, +Clao Wue told me about the Inuksuk. She built one in the Scottish Highlands at a fantastic place she had fallen in love with.

Wikipedia explains, “An inuksuk (plural inuksuit) ^[1] (from the Inuktitut: ᐃᓄᒃᓱᒃ, plural ᐃᓄᒃᓱᐃᑦ) is a stone landmark or cairn built by humans, used by the Inuit, Inupiat, Kalaallit, Yupik, and other peoples of the Arctic region of North America.

The inuksuk may have been used for navigation, as a point of reference, a marker for travel routes, fishing places, camps, hunting grounds, places of veneration, drift fences used in hunting ^[4] or to mark a food cache.^[5] The Inupiat in northern Alaska used inuksuit to assist in the herding of caribou into contained areas for slaughter.^[6] Varying in shape and size, the inuksuit have longtime roots in the Inuit culture.

Historically, the most common type of inuksuk is a single stone positioned in an upright manner.^[7] There is some debate as to whether the appearance of human- or cross-shaped cairns developed in the Inuit culture before the arrival of European missionaries and explorers. ^[7] The size of some innaguait suggest that the construction was often a communal effort.^[4]”

The Inuksuk is a type of cairn. A cairn helps travelers keep heading in the right direction.  It is unlike a road map or GPS which prescribes a specific route.  Cairns allow for variation in the path on the way to the next cairn.  Sometime, when a view, or interesting plant, or animal has caused me to deviate from the path for a closer look, I have had to back track to the last cairn to regain my bearings.  The beauty of this is getting to experience the same path twice,  but from two different perspectives.

What I find fascinating about the Inuksuk is its tendency to be human in its shape.  Unlike an amorphous pile of rocks, it’s like having someone there pointing the way, encouraging you to keep moving forward.

I think the generations of our families point us to things.  They are our Inuksuk.  They point to things within ourselves and things around us.  When I look into the face of my father, I see some of the characteristics of my grandfather.  When I look at my father’s life, I see bits and pieces of my grandfather’s life, and so on.

In a time when we were less mobile as a society, each generation were impacted by the previous one or two possibly three generations which preceded it, because they lived next door or even upstairs.  Now days, it is a different story.  My parents are in New York.  I am in Michigan. While some of my kids are in Colorado and California. Thousands of miles separate our daily lives and significant life events.  While we might catch these events in flickering pixels, they are better seen in the flesh and blood of family faces.

I think we need inuksuit throughout our lives.  We need a “human form” reminding us about where we came from and at the same time, pointing us forward to the future.  Maybe your family hasn’t been so connected.  But there are inuksuit, people who are willing to guide, to friend, to experience life and be the witness to your journey.