September 6, 2009

This is Sunday morning. On Tuesday, I'm winging my way across the Atlantic to England and Ireland for seventeen days. How I happened to be a part of this odyssey is still a mystery to me. A long time ago, I must have said, "I've always wanted to see Ireland," and been overheard by my Significant Other and friend. Life hasn't been the same since.

Over the last eighteen months, we've met to swap our "must-see" lists, plan the itenerary, watch videos on the Celts, and then plan again. We've discussed the amount of money we'll access and take, and the amount we'll spend. We've lamented the requirements of WeightWatchers juxtaposed against pub meals. We've fretted over packing for a different climate and the whims of nature. But mostly we've worried about the limitations of our bodies as we shlep suitcases from cars through train depots, airports, and up staircases.

So has a knee replacement that is on the brink of collapse, our friend has come down with some sort of hip-knee-and ankle malady, and I have a temporary crown that will likely fall off when the glue gives out. This is why you don't see too many old people on serious trips.

Truly, I want to go because I need to be on the trail of the Celts once more. I'll see traces of St. Hilda in York, Saint Aiden at Holy Island, the pre-Christian establishment of New Grange, about 30 miles north of Dublin, the Book of Kells at Trinity University. All this will remind me that there was once a very different way of looking at the world, and that I might share in it now as I did before.

I think there is something to the notion of reincarnation. Long ago, I was there. Part of me is still there, so I feel the tuggings of home. The newer part of me will return and I'll be sitting here, once again, thinking and writing about what I learned, this trip, of my home and my family. Blog, I'll be thinking of you til then.

PW