April, 2026
I suppose it’s only natural since we’ve been spending so much time in Ireland that my intermittent obsession with ancestry research would kick back into gear.
It’s big news here that they have recently released the 1926 census records. There are only 2 sets of pre-independence census records available. The other 19th century records were destroyed, some to protect confidentiality, some by fire during the rising, and others pulped during the paper shortages of World War I. Church records, land records, and court records fill in a lot of the gaps.
Ancestry isn’t just about the records, though. My mother is almost 90, the last one of her generation. When I go through old papers and photos with her, it sparks some of our best conversations. I’ve shown her a photo of her second grade class, and she remembers almost all of the names, something I certainly can’t do. We talked about the time she and my dad were stationed at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, just before I was born. Between her memories and my search engine skills, we were able to find out what happened to that cute couple they were friends with.
We’re staying away from the cheek swab DNA tests – too many friends have found out more than they wanted to know. I have found the photo of my grandfathers’ childhood home and the advertisement for my grandmother’s first beauty shop.
My brothers’ children ask me the questions now, apparently I’m the keeper of the history for our generation. At the moment they are most interested in whether we are related to someone famous (you know, McEnroe). I guess I’m more interested to find out if they were interesting. If I run out of facts, maybe what I do know can serve as the bones for an imagined history – I’ll just have to carefully label it as fiction. One thing I’ve found for sure, family histories are riddled whitewash, with rose colored glasses, and with rumor and innuendo remembered as fact.
April, 2026
This is the southerly view from my new nest, where the River Liffey meets the River Dodder at Grand Canal Docks in Dublin. In this direction there are historic bridges, and in the other, a bustling port. There is a rhythm to the day, with low tides morning and night that reveal sandy (a romantic view) or mucky bottoms. I expected the sea birds, but the swans that visit daily were a surprise.
All the furniture basics were here waiting for us, but beyond that we are starting from scratch. What do you need on the very first day? Some sheets and pillows, for sure. A bowl and spoon for middle of the night cereal cravings, some cereal too. A towel by the next day, or the day after that at the latest.
Make no mistake, we didn’t arrive empty handed. We have clothes (maybe too many, we’ll see), I have art material, we have journals to fill, and of course our electronics.
I would say it feels like being a newlywed, but I wed in my mid-thirties, so we certainly had the basics.
This situation sparks a lot of questions. It it a virtue to live with as little as possible? Can a color lover like me, used to living surrounded by my own handmade curtains, quilts, paintings live happily with perfectly nice neutral furnishing and bare walls? How clean should we leave this clean slate?
I suppose there is a return on investment answer to that question, depending on how long this stay turns out to be. Then again, isn’t that always true?
April, 2026
I’ve recently had some interesting conversations on the topic of self care.
We are exposed to a myriad of ideas about what self care should look like, why we should do it, where we can buy it.
Here’s what I’ve been thinking, though. What if WHAT I do isn’t the important thing? Maybe the important thing is consistency. I’m not thinking about people who run miles every day with the sun. I’m thinking about the older women I’ve seen in Italian villages who walk up and down steep hills doing their daily chores. I imagine them not monitoring their steps or their speed, but sticking with their ritual week after week, year after year.
Perhaps consistency is on my mind because I’ve just turned my day-to-day upside down. I’m in a different country, different home, different time zone, less square footage so less privacy.
The first week is a particularly vulnerable time. Jet lag, unpacking, newness everywhere. To be honest, the disruption started in the weeks before travel too.
So, this is my promise to myself. Remember the things that were working well and adapt the circumstances to those things. Find a new corner and meditate. Write the morning pages. Move the body. Do it in the morning.
February, 2026
I’ve mentioned this before – I have studied Qi Gong a bit, like I do many things, to satisfy my curiosity rather than to become a dedicated master.
There is a basic practice in Qi Gong called standing meditation. There are some nuances to the posture, but basically it’s about standing still. If you do it for a bit, your body will start to settle itself in a way that feels outside of your control, but exactly right,
When I was searching for quotes about standing still to accompany this post, most of what came up was about the dangers of standing still, how stillness will inevitably lead to falling behind.
Based on my limited experience, I’m going with Lao Tzu on this one.
February, 2026
Last week, Holly Ringland was a guest teacher inside Ink and Flame, a writing intensive hosted by Beth Kempton. She is the author of “The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart”. I’m late to the party because it’s already an Amazon mini-series with Sigourney Weaver.
What a pleasure – it actually returned me to the time I could site and read for an extended period without “just checking” on some app or another to see what I might be missing.
To be clear, I don’t help myself. My reading often consists of the literary equivalent of empty calories, so I’m feeling pretty proud and satisfied.
