"Ireland," She Said

The idea awakened me at 3 a.m.

It has happened before, many times actually. Ideas for blogs, books, a title of an article, and a couple of years ago over the course of two weeks – I was awakened with part of my story that woke me up, demanding that I stop everything and write.

It’s one thing to have a poem or idea surface when I’m awake but when I’m tucked into my bed, with Gracie sleeping at my feet, it can be a bit annoying. Yet, no part of me has ever ignored that creative awakening. I realize it’s a gift and I’m grateful to be the recipient.

It was late fall – the flannel sheets were already on the bed and I was sound asleep. In all candor, my body has always loved sleep. You will never hear me brag about how little sleep I get or require (we’ve all met the performative types who do). This gift of being awakened in the middle of the night may appeal to musicians writing hit songs at that magical hour, but for me, it robs me of something I cherish.

The messages always seem to come out of the blue but this time, the dream, the idea, the message seemed to come from a deeper part of that blue.

“Ireland,” it said. “You need to go to Ireland to write.”

I had started what became Part I of my memoir two years ago – also at 3 a.m. I didn’t know at the time it was the beginning of my memoir. I just knew the story about the boy I helped to raise, the story about how he lived, how we lived, how we loved and laughed, and how he died surfaced in such a way that when I was awakened, I listened. For nearly 10 consecutive nights, the wake-up call would come and I would get up, walk downstairs, switch on my laptop and let the stories pour out of me. There wasn’t a lot of thought and there was no strategy. I was simply channeling raw truth that needed to surface – the story needed to breathe.

After those 10 stories came out, things settled down. The stories touched a lot of people and surprised many who weren’t privy to that part of my life. I felt exposed sharing such a deep part of my heart that had never fully been told outside of those who were there.

I also felt empowered from embracing my grief and letting it move through me to touch others.

Life went on. Two years passed and true enough, every few weeks I would receive my 3 a.m. wake-up call with a title idea, a turn of phrase, a poem, a story to pitch – all routine writer stuff. But then last fall cuddled in my cozy flannel sheets with a warm dog whose paws smelled like Fritos lying beside me, the message came repeatedly. Night after night. “You need to go to Ireland to write.”

It had only been three months since I had returned from France. I had been in France for more than two weeks and didn’t have plans to take a long-haul flight again for quite some time. I wasn’t itchy for travel.

Still, I would awaken in the morning to see my journal lying open on my bedside table, barely legible subconscious scribbles, “Ireland” “Memoir” “Go to Ireland to write” “Must go” “Go to Ireland.”

It didn’t make sense. I had been to Ireland a couple of times. I don’t “do” Bucket Lists. I knew this wasn’t about ticking some touristy Irish thing off of a checklist. Other than seeing the Giants Causeway, I had experienced Ireland in all of its wonder. Twice.

My subconscious mind persisted with her 3 a.m. messages about Ireland. I may not be someone with a Bucket List of things I want but I am someone who trusts things I can’t see or explain. I’m quizzical and curious about some things while other things – like this – I knew there was reason. I didn’t need to know why. Freedom often comes from not knowing. The wake-up calls continued until I bought the plane ticket. And just like that, I was back to sleeping through the night. I suppose my subconscious relaxed knowing I had heeded her message.

I found a cottage on the sea to rent. I would go at a time when the tourists had not yet descended on the island. If I was going to return to Ireland to write then I wanted to go when the weather was moody and part of the story.

So that’s what I did.

I don’t know much about the subconscious mind but I do know mine comes with a large helping of levity. She has a sense of humor. I thought I was going to Ireland to write.

Little did I know there was something much bigger waiting for me.

Forgive me for skipping over a lot of the karmic kismet that fell into place. In my experience, if the Universe wants something for you, she’s gonna make it happen. And she did. I arrived at the quintessential, cozy cottage with the red door and the lush green squishy grass mere yards from the ocean as the sun was fading on the horizon.

I was tired but not exhausted. Everything felt right. Like, oddly familiar. I walked into the cottage after navigating laughable, adorable narrow roads. Acres and acres of sheep. Even the Ring of Kerry was dusted in snow. I wasn’t jet-lagged (thank you FlyKitt) but I was peckish. When I had booked the cottage the caretaker asked if I would like any food waiting for me when I arrived. Katherine’s lasagna came highly recommended and I said yes. I would have been traveling nearly 24 hours and it seemed logical to have something to heat up to eat - just in case.

That just in case decision was one of the best decisions of my life. As simple as it sounds, it makes the Top 10 list. It’s one of the things I most love about travel. Small seemingly insignificant decisions often have long-standing, rewarding ripple effects. Like the time I decided to pop a tuna salad sandwich in my backpack before a hike down the Grand Canyon which turned out to be one of the best meals of my life. Or the time I plopped down between two strangers on a Southwest airlines flight departing Belize because it was the front row and there was leg room not realizing the flight wasn’t full and passengers had been encouraged to spread out. Today, those two strangers, Sue and Doug, are friends who stay in touch and who mean the world to me.

I reasoned that having Katherine’s lasagna waiting in the fridge would be a nice backup plan. And then the reality of a long travel day happened. I chose not to stop for food because I wanted to find the remote cottage near the tiny village before it got dark. I walked in, switched on the heat, started a fire, and felt my stomach growl. I sat on the hearth, the fire warming the cottage and my heart while the warm, homemade meal fed my soul.

Despite the fact that all of this felt “normal,” I was aware that I had just traveled halfway across the world to a remote cottage in the off-season, with my laptop to write. How absurdly indulgent. Who did I think I was? Yes, I make my living as a writer. I write healthcare blogs and white papers. I write for travel magazines and arts and culture magazines. I’m an author of two books and have edited others for burgeoning authors.

Writing is so much more than a job. I don’t just write for a paycheck; I write for fun. I come up with goofy poems in my head walking Gracie. I think about stories on bike rides. I stop on hiking trails when words surface. I’ll be soaking in my bathtub and if something comes to mind, I grab my “bathtub journal” (and no, I’ve never dropped the pen in the water!). I’m never without a pen and a journal.

A lot of women don’t leave their house without lipstick. I don’t leave mine without a journal.

My point is, I was aware of the pressure. I had stepped away from a life I love to sit and write my story. Would the words come? What was I doing? What if nothing happened?

As I sat on the hearth eating Katherine’s lasagna, I wondered where I actually was in relation to the store. I would need groceries. And firewood. I wondered what the next seven days would bring.

As soon as my mind tiptoed toward worrying about whether or not the words would surface, I remembered wise words I learned long ago from Billie Jean King: “Pressure is a privilege.” I allowed my mind to go back to my competitive tennis days, when I learned how to compartmentalize pressure and focus on the privilege of where I was. I decided to trust whatever it was my subconscious mind had in store.

I didn’t write a word the first day. I couldn’t have if I wanted to. The adaptor that has traveled the world with me failed. It died on the spot. Yet something about that felt okay too. I charged my phone on the back of the smart TV (travel hack) but I would need an adaptor for the computer which likely meant driving nearly two hours to Kilarney.

And then there was a knock on the door. Katherine had stopped by to make sure I made it in and was settled. Within hours I had not one but two adapters, some fresh farm eggs, and instructions that I must to go to the pub that night – the only night there would be live music.

I found the small grocery store that was part grocer, part gas station, part community gathering place. I bought fireplace fuel and groceries, and began noticing the seals that would come and go with the tide.

That night I went to the pub as Katherine instructed. I got a kick out of my ability to parallel park my standard transmission rental car on the opposite side of the road in the dark, pouring the rain. I was there for hours and made fast friends. The music didn’t happen quite as planned due to Ireland losing a football match, but the conversations were rich and lively. I drove back in the pitch dark, missing my turn twice before finding the cottage.

I slept that night like I had invented sleep.

And then around 6 a.m. it happened. The words woke me up. My subconscious mind had not let me down. I rolled over and looked at the slanted window above my bed. The sun was rising. I heard seagulls. I was itchy to write.

So, I scratched the itch.

For six days and nights, I wrote. The words flowed without effort. I took breaks to walk by the water and watch the seals, only to be called back inside. Words. Memories. Experiences. Laughter. Tears. Dancing.

I wasn’t sure what was happening, yet at the same time I did. My wake-up call had demanded Ireland and now I was there, simply typing words that flowed through me with ease. I was merely the vessel as I uncovered dusty memories that had been locked away in the corners of my mind.

Was there a strategy? No. Was there an outline? No. There was only raw, open-hearted trust. I wrote nearly 18,000 words.

I learned that Pandora wasn’t available in Ireland. Another gift. I switched to Spotify and created new music channels, listening to the music of the era I was writing about. I was in damp, cool, addictive 2026 Ireland, yet thanks to the music piping through the cottage, reconnecting with my decades younger self at the same time.

I wrote about a dysfunctional childhood that looked one way from the outside in and the opposite from the inside out. Narcissism. Alcoholism. Jesus. Basketball. Eggshells. Coping mechanisms.

And two grandparents who loved me unconditionally.

On my last morning at the cottage, I drove to the store, bought firewood and a bottle of wine from the rack I had been walking by all week. I sipped on the French reserve throughout the day as I finished the final chapter. I walked outside, sat on the grass, and watched the seals. I raised my glass to the sky. I toasted everyone who had ever loved me, who had inevitably hurt me. I toasted me too – for the love I gave, the hurt I caused.

I toasted to love. I toasted to forgiveness. I raised my glass to my life’s journey and everyone who had been a part of it. I even toasted to my subconscious mind.

I have long recognized that if it weren’t for my life experiences I wouldn’t be who I am today. Sitting in the cottage on that wooden chair that needed a blanket for padding, the wobbly table that I was never able to stop from wobbling, the fireplace that barely got a break, the tea kettle who worked overtime on my behalf - something shifted inside me. Perhaps I will never fully understand it. But I don’t need to. Because I felt it.

I still do.

I raised my nearly empty glass one last time - letting something go so something new could move in. I had traveled to Ireland for me. An all-new version was emerging. I felt a deeper sense of gratitude founded in love and acceptance. But this time not for others. For me.

On that day I understood that my self-care, of which I’m an expert, was just the first step. I’d been stuck on that step for decades. Ireland showed me the whole staircase.

Self-love.

Self-acceptance.

Self-forgiveness.

I don’t know why I needed to travel so far from everything I love to find the deepest love I’ve ever known, but that’s okay. I’m now nearly 50,000 words into a memoir that may or may not ever see the light of day.

And that’s okay, too.

I write for a living. I write for fun. I write for healing. I’m not sure I realized until then that I write for me. That I write for love.

And that love that was waiting for me in a remote, cozy cottage by the sea near a tiny village in southwest Ireland, traveled home with me. It’s still here and it’s not going anywhere.

As I sat watching the seals on that last afternoon, more words surfaced. I walked back into the cottage, stoked the fire, and wrote them down:

Thank You, Ireland

Thank you, Ireland,
for showing me who you are,
beyond the Ireland of Guinness tours
and crowded pubs,

but the Ireland that holds memories in its stones,
that carries the mist and rain deep in your soul,
and in return seeped into mine.

Thank you for your quiet coast that listens,
for the fires I built
that warmed more than my hands,
for the seals who watched me
as I watched them.

Thank you for showing me
the love I had harbored away,
the forgiveness I had been avoiding,
and the softness
I sometimes forget I carry.

In your rain and mist,
I wrote into the night
and woke to words
rising to meet me in the morning.

I remembered the laughter
of an innocent, tender-hearted little girl.
I welcomed the grief I once resisted,
and unwrapped more
of the gift that it is.

Thank you for reminding me
to surround my heart with love
soft, tender,
and unquestionably deserved.

Thank you for seeing me,
for holding me fully,
so that in turn
I could find the courage to hold myself
and open to something
I never knew resided in me.

Thank you for helping me remember,
and for the words
that met those memories
with tears and laughter
and a depth
I now know is mine.

And thank you, Ireland,
for this truth:

I will never again
compete for love
based on conditions
or performance.

Thank you, Ireland
for showing me who you are
so that I could see
who I am.

~ ~ ~

Have you ever followed something you couldn’t explain?

Do you think freedom comes from certainty, or from not knowing?