Ireland: Part 2 (Limerick and The Burren)

Ummm, I know it’s a BIT late to post about Ireland, but better late than never….

Welcome to the gate of ancestral memory. The city of Limerick where my great-great grandmother Elizabeth Duffy lived until she was 10 years old and then emigrated to the United States. That’s all I know about her, except that she was quiet, small and drank a lot, and had a shock of bright red hair, not unlike the paint on this gate.

Limerick is a mysterious twist of turns and alleys, and everyone seems to be keeping a historical secret. After reading Frank McCourt’s Angelas Ashes, I can guess that this might be the suffering endured by growing up Irish Catholic up until about 20 years ago, but then again maybe it’s all in the name, Limerick: a riddle, a lyric trick.

I really think Ireland is a poetic place, and Limerick must have gotten it’s name somehow. Nature and the past seem to intertwine into a picture-perfect postcard image of your own sentimentality. At least I felt that way as an Irish-American stepping foot for the first time on Irish soil.

And so to the backdrop of limericks and faeries and folktales we set off on a journey to the Burren, a famous Irish lunar-like landscape.

Just perfect for playing and building stone people.

From there, the Cliffs of Moher, a powerful gust of wind, crashing waves and at the height of 200 meters the inevitable question of life and death right at your feet….

And taking it all in, reflecting on the root of origins, the meaning of place, if there really is a home, and if the heart lies there, what it means to be an American divided genetically into 7 or 8 different cultures, if cultural identity is essential or if being an individual is enough. I just keep rocking, back and forth, back and forth, present.

~ by Amy and Luca on April 28, 2009.