Traveling seeker in British Isles

Hello friends-

Long time no hear!  So much has happened and I am sorry for not keeping things up to date.  I will soon be able to give you all the events that get me current but it is really hard to write them out at this point.  I am still processing the turn of events that have been handed to me, but one of the positive ones is that my dear sweet cousin Anthony has challenged me to take my writing into another direction.  I confessed to him that I was feeling weighted down by writing in the blog.  It is not as creative as I would like it to be – because I am not creating the events of my life (well, I am REALLY on the higher spiritual way- but that’s is not what I’m refereeing to here) – but I am RECOUNTING events to you.  It is a whole different thing because I have to be a fair as I possibly can – to describing and reliving the events to write up and post to the blog.  So to get me once again inspired to write he said that I should do some fiction short stories.  I said that I never before felt “inspired” to write fiction- but I really needed some creative outlet to just let my mind just go and maybe fiction could get me up and feeling more excited the writing experience.

So we set a time limit, I took this new assignment on with a renewed excitement that feels like I haven’t had in a long time.

The challenge was to write 6 short stories and I was to just “do it” and not worry about it or do too much planning.  So that’s what I did.  I picked 6 different male names (I wanted to give a voice to the male side of me) and 6 parts of the world and 6 occupations. I put them all into a hat and picked them out- One name, one location and one occupation.

Now remember I have NO FORMAL training in doing Creative writing- so I was just winging it.  I was SO excited!  I started writing that very afternoon and it just flowed out of me like I had done this type of writing for years. I thought my first story was pretty good – for my first time! And it inspired me to start to do some research into the “rules” of short stories writing.  I could not print any of this new researched material (no printer and LONG story) so I took notes and looked up “research” for the locations that came to me.  It was really fun!  And this is so much different from the limiting writing in “real life” blogging.

I realized that I started to “look” at people differently and events differently. I started to look at these things like characters and details that I had never seen before.  I saw that my writing style also was very different from my “blog” writing and I was free to just let what ever came out- come out!

My sister Traci asked me if I would put these short stories in my blog and I said NO – but as time has been going on, I see that my audience might enjoy some of them.  I don’t want to bore you to death with fiction –but I also saw that I could take ‘reality” to a different direction too.  I started to try and write some of the things that really happened to me and put the twist of my FEELINGS in a more creative way. That’s what happened with the following bit of info.  It is NOT a short story format.  It was just a logging of a little event that happened and I kind of liked it.  It might explain my different writing style to you – and I really did go there and have these feelings, but I would have written it completely different for a blog entry.

So I hope you enjoy this new little glimpse. I will give you some samples of my “fiction short story” but that seems to be a bit more ‘exposing” for me at this time.

I hope you enjoy it – and write me if you do –

(But DEBBY- don’t write me if you DON’T) haha

Love you all – Kym

Murrisk Abby, Ireland

The remnant of the Abby darts to the sky with strength and purpose.  Even with its roof long gone and the harsh elements of Ireland descending down upon its remaining steps, walls, and windows, it still has the power to transform me.  I can feel the faith of the people buried inside its walls and outside it’s foundation.  As I walk upon grave makers that seem to be scattered here and there but have a feeling of purpose, I wonder why was it designed in this way.  Some of the headstones are no longer readable but many still are. The new and the old mixed together in this stately location are mystifying.

The hidden doorways and dark dank tiny corridors insisted that I put my hands on the stonewalls to descend, give way to thoughts flooding of the people so many centuries before that touched these same stones.  I feel the coldness that is trapped in these stonewalls and steps.  I place my feet into the same divots of worn stone trails and feel the mix of anticipation and anxiety as to where these corridors lead.

 I am in awe at the opening of the lower chamber that grips me like two hands with its sense of violence and I see the headstones strewn about from vandals from long ago.  If it was vandals: why did they break them? Where they making a statements or looking for something?  Did they do it as an act of torment to get information from the friars that protected the Abby?  The questions come flooding into my mind – all the old movie mysteries and TV shows that I have been exposed to is twisting my mind to think about these things.  Or – are the stones talking to me? Is it the events that these stonewalls have been a witness to that is being transferred to me? I don’t know, I just feel them and experience them; it’s a mystery to me.

Walking into the main structure with its roof gone and graves underfoot, my eyes are drawn to the pointy pitch of the end wall with its openings that are the windows to this holy place.  The stone that was etched out to make an ornamental design that allowed the light of day to stream into the large cavernous space are still intact.  The side windows of a different design are more vertical and allow a silted light to wash against the opposite wall- but they grab you and hold you as if to suspend you in time – not your time but another’s.  I could hear the low base of the monks singing prayers to their God.  Not in an excited lively way, but in a low intimate moan.  A personal vow of loyalty and adoration- it was moving and loving and titillated my senses like a voyeur witnessing a private moment. 

Adjacent to the arched door that I entered, was a vertical stone in the mist of horizontal ones.  The stone resembled a face in an odd yet natural way from how the stone was quarried, it was as if the large mouth of a face had a drop of its lower lip, which made a bowl that once held holy water.  I reached into the dark small mouth opening to mimic the action that is so ingrained in my Catholic background – and I felt a jolt of energy even though the basin was empty of its contents. I was now a part of this place, I was a participant of its energy and power, I was no longer a visitor- we were one.

I scanned the contents of this main building with the sprinkle of Irelands rains descending on me.  I didn’t feel alone, or depressed with the rain, I felt it was a baptismal of sorts and appropriate for this event in my life.  I looked around and wondered how the space was used- in a practical sense.  There were no pews or visible alter.  It had many large and small flat grave markers on the floor with the bones of a world of people that walked this sight, some not in life, but in death.  But they were there and I was too, but what was there before them?  What an unusual place to be buried, under a roof of a wonderful temple – was it always like this, was this its purpose when it was made, to be an elaborate cover to the final resting place of important or holy people?  I didn’t know the history of this place, its still a mystery to me.

As I walked around and photographed walls, windows and openings I wanted to captured not only the loveliness of this place, but capture a part of its essence and bring it with me. 

I was pulled back to the stone corridor that I had entered, even though there we other doorways that I had yet to explore.  I turned left to go through a small opening that I could see beyond before I walked through it.  It was a very small stone walled courtyard that held a single upright headstone of white.  It was the grave of Michael O’Toole and his son, also Michael.  The junior died in 1918 and his father lived to 1927.  Why were they placed here all alone?  The stone of white was not really white at all.  It seemed to be painted white and the original gray of the stone was showing through like the face paint melting off of a clown caught in the rain.  It was carved and of the usual Irish insignia of a cross on top and the room was no more then 3ft from one side of the headstone to 3 ft. from the other.  It stood just over 4 feet high but it felt like it was cloaked in a feeling of loneliness.  I wasn’t sure if it was my own feelings or that of the father and son team.  At first I hadn’t noticed, that there was a very low and narrow opening in the room that took me outside the Abby walls. What an unusual place to be buried – it kind of felt like a punishment to me – other’s may of seen it as more of a place of honor, but I didn’t.  It was like they were buried inside this holy place and yet they weren’t quite an insider. The feeling of loneliness hung onto me till I left this small space.

Outside and all around the Abby and its buildings there were lots of upright and ground level headstones.  I wasn’t in my usual mood to walk around and visit the people buried there- I usually say hello and read their names and see the dates of their birth and death.  It’s an act of my respect for them.  They lived and died in this world and for that alone, I feel respect- for they have already experienced one of the hardest things that face humans – death – for we all must die. It’s still a mystery to me.

I am not a very experienced visitor of Abby ruins, but this one makes me question the hows and whys of its long existence.  It has rooms or to be more exact, it has ruins of walls that don’t make sense to me.  Outside I see more rooms that have still more graves inside them.  Flat, large stones that announces and protects the bones of people – but why are they located in odd places that looks like small animal stalls?  Why would a family want to place the remains of loved ones in these small odd spaces?  What was the significance? It’s a mystery to me.

As my time was coming to an end and the Irish rains were falling harder, I had to leave this special place.  I enjoyed the loving energy and generous hug of this Abby and it’s rugged beauty, but I mostly enjoyed the questions and feeling that it brought out in me.  We were connected for a short time- these walls and me. It left me wanting more; more time, more photos and mostly more information.  I was consumed to know all that I could – for it was now a dear friend that I can’t wait to visit again. It’s no longer a mystery to me.

Kym McBride

Tags: Ireland, Travel, Travel

This entry was posted on Friday, June 2nd, 2006 at 9:12 pm and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.