branches-chapter 1

8/3/2019 Branches-chapter 1

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To my family,

I love you all and its a complete amazement

to me everyday that I even exist. When I

think of how many generations of marriages

and births (which is its own miracle and

amazement in and of itself) had to occur for

these specific set of genes to come together,

it boggles my mind. The fact that I got such

great genes and such a great environment to

support and encourage these genes to form

what they are today is even more sublime.

That note aside, I wish to express an apology

for any bits in this piece where I have filled in

my own reality where things may not have

happened exactly the way they are

represented, and I have also filled in my own

version where research has left gaps so I


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dont mean to mislead, rather to entertain

and hopefully, ultimately, find that meaning

that I have struggled so hard to wring from

something not entirely tangible.

Do you think there is anything not attached

by its unbreakable cord to everything else?

Teach the children. We dont matter so

much, but the children do. Show them

daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach

them the taste of sassafras and

wintergreen. The lives of the blue

sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the

moccasin-flowers. And the frisky ones-

inkberry, lambs quarters, blueberries.

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And the aromatic ones- rosemary,

oregano. Give them peppermint to put

in their pockets as they go to school.

Give them the fields and the woods and

the possibility of the world salvaged

from the lords of profit. Stand them in

this stream, head them upstream,

rejoice as they learn to love this green

space they live in, its sticks and leaves

and then the silent, beautiful blossoms.

-From Mary Olivers Upstream in Blue Iris

Grace

If someone

shattered

your

world,

could you,

would you

stoop

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to collect

allthe pieces?

What would

you

drag

to ash and fire?

Making instead

an Earthly pyre?

What wouldyou

mend,

finding

worthy of saving?

What would that be?

Would it be the irises

drooping under the weight-

their own beauty

no match for the rain?

Would it be

the moment

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Im sure there is a girl not too unlike

myself that lives in Ireland right now. She

likes to drink Guinness, stuff herself with soda

bread and potatoes and could be described as

smart, but stubborn: head-strong, maybe

even to a fault sometimes, with brown eyes

and brown hair that has that lingering hint of

a red highlight when the sun shines full on it.

Maybe its of no concern where she

lives and she wakes from a nap anywhere to

find the sun filtering down through the gently

shaking leaves of the tree overhead and

alternately highlighting bits of her with the

rays of a fading day. Grown from the ground

up, sown from very circumstantial seeds,

years, branches, bloodlines, twisted, twining,

grace running through and connecting all. In

this she hopes to find her ghost-a whisper of

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something that once was-the ghosts of her

ancestors and the people there in her blood,

because there is a part of her being that is so

thoroughly connected to nature that you

would swear she blooms in spring and dies a

little in winter. She breathes in the smell of

the dirt and runs her hands through it. Its in

her blood-from dirt to dirt she will return.

And, maybe shes praying something will flit

through her mind, ethereally, just barely

enough to form an idea from.

Then it starts to rain, and the Earth

exhales the long breath its been holding.

The scent of warm soil fills her nostrils, her

mind, her soul, and she finds her connection.

The soil-that soil that is haunted by her

ancestors. The soil that grew those potatoes,

that grows her potatoes, and zucchini and

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peppers now. How much of her will remain on

the Earth? Have the places shes walked on

or by, or brushed lightly with the back of her

hand, remain impressed with her-her

essence? If so, for how long? How long does

the fragrance of the lilac linger in the air after

her cheek brushes the blossoms?

Maybe from now on shes giving her

first-person account of that moment, all the

little bits of experience that came together to

form this-this part of her life that she is utterly

stupefied by every time she thinks of it. Will

that part of her life remain in the soil after

shes gone? Will it grow the potatoes for the

next five generations? Ten? Or more?

She is Brennan -this blood that runs

through her veins was always there, the yarn

has just been picked up by each generation

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like some great relay race. Its like an

invisible string-the veins of her father,

grandmother, great grandfather, great great

grandfatherIndividual yarn knit together by

time and circumstance unfurling like a very

long tapestry, quilting the landscape, and

quilted by the landscape. Veins, branches,

blood and dirt, light, life, climbing out to that

edge to pluck from the marrow a meaning.

Extracting the very marrow of her bones may

take some time. Her palms are up-why is she

here?

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When someone plants a seed, either

metaphorically or physically, that person

hopes something will come of it. We, as

people, are hopeful for that fruition; we watch

for it; we wait for something, anything to

prove that the planting wasnt in vain.

***

Brennan-the name is as common in

Ireland as trees in a forest. Tracing down any

direct roots to my ancestors and the town

they came from-a ghost hunt in and of itself-

proved to be near impossible when coupled

with the fact that my grandma and I were

over there during not only a bank holiday

weekend, but also the high holiday season

when anyone who could have been of help,

say a genealogical librarian, was on vacation.

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***

When the seed we originally plant,

however, blooms to something else entirely:

the peppers are jalapeos, not anaheims; the

roses are white, not red; the hero turns into

the villain; the knowledge originally sought is

replaced with an experience irreplaceable

with any form of research-we must embrace

the outcome. At the very least, the seed bore

fruit, and in most cases, a fruit we couldnt

have been aware of that we wanted or

needed in the first place.

***

If there is a backwoods Ireland,

Kilmison, Kilmissan, on modern maps, is it.

Our hosts in Carlow, one of the smallest

counties in Ireland, hadnt even heard of this

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tiny of tiny townships nestled within said

county. Finding this township was my quest;

it was my motive for flying thousands of miles

from home. I needed to know what this land

looked like now 150 years from the time my

ancestors left it in the hope of a better future.

***

Planting a new crop from the same old

seeds destined to fail is horrifying, but

planting a new crop from seeds unknown is

even more terrifying. How are these seeds to

be taken care of, will they thrive in the given

climate, what, finally, will be the outcome of

this completely new endeavor? Venturing

into the unknown is really against human

nature at its core-we like what we know,

whats safe, even if it is destined to crash and

burn eventually. Striking out on a completely

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new path is, in most cases, a more terrifying

reality than that which we may be familiar

with in spite of impending doom. All we can

pray for in this sloughing off of everything we

know is some kind of grace-to close our eyes

and jump.

***

In 1850 my paternal grandmothers

earliest researchable ancestors-Patrick

Brennan, wife Ann, and 5 children left

Kilmison-more than likely due to the tragic

potato blight that left much of Irelands rural

population in dire straights-facing disease and

starvation. To see crop after crop of their

beloved potatoes, brought forth from the

Earth so carefully, rot and wither shortly

thereafter must have been heartbreaking. The

grace and hope they had most likely come to

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believe in in their native soil had to be traded

for grace and hope in a very long boat ride

and subsequent foreign land, thankfully

capable of producing corn.

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The Harvest

Soil swollen,nurturing womb

of Mother Earth

harvested by hand

with finger tines-

primitive potato fork.

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Touch

Dirt settling-creases of the hands

boldened

the one

working so hard

to deliver

the fragile

potato

so carefully

to the sunlight.

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Smell

Like the Earthinhaled

the first scent

of warmth

in spring-

the very green

of grass-

and exhaled

the scent of its soil

into the potato.

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Taste

The essence of dirtremains in the skin

even after boiling.

Seasoned with salt

from the farmers brow

and filling bellies

by the pound.

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Sound

Earth sighs,child cries,

Potato-

Noiselessly

brought

forth from dirt.

Silence

Of defeat.

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Sight

Tanned skinbrowned

by sun

and soil-

beloved potatoes

beheld

wasting away.

Heading west

with a prayer

and findingcorn there.

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A record of the ship Shannon departing

from Liverpool, England, and arriving in the

port of New York on June 7th, 1850 bears the

names of 3 of the Brennan children: Bridget,

Thomas, and Matthew.

So they left; they left all they knew

behind to make the arduous journey to the

United States because, perhaps, they had no

hope left in their land. My clan of the

Brennans landed in New York and eventually

made their way to Illinois to farm corn in the

tiny town of Elkhart, outside of Springfield.

One hundred and fifty-nine years later I

had to go back. I had to go to Ireland to fill in

research, to see this beautiful land and

experience it, to try to find any bit of evidence

of the great puzzle that is my existence. And,

I had to take my grandma with me. She

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needed to see it too, to live it and breathe it,

and reinforce that pride in her heritage that

had always been a part of her.

That land and the impressions that were

made on us filled in the parts of my research

that were not to be found in the library or

historical documents.

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The Cliffs

Utter insignificance

my fears

of existence

Awe-swept

wind-sweptLife

at the worlds edge

possibility

with a sheer face.

Blue meeting blue

and facing it head on.

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The Cliffs of Moher is where a person

goes to experience Gods grace on this Earth.

Breath at that worlds edge is like Fall

exhaled. Cool, crisp, Irelands climate is like

perpetual fall. I wanted to push myself to that

dangerous, extraordinary and sublime edge

and peek over and send myself reeling with

possibility. How many shades of blue can the

sky be? What is one to do with herself in such

a place of extreme beauty-such magnificent

beauty painted across such a small canvas.

On Thursday, August 30th, 2009, the

late afternoon sun was blessing the Cliffs with

its presence. The endless azure of the

Atlantic met the sky and formed a seam that

girded the middle of my reality. The intense

green of that Irish grass ran right up to the

chiseled cliffs. I imagined God himself pried

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this chunk of land away from the adjacent

land and sent it drifting. No wonder people

used to think the world was flat; what could

possibly be beyond this?

The dragon head in the clouds would

burst forth gusts of cold air blowing my hair

away from my face and with it any rational

thoughts I might have had. Anything but awe

seeped out of my mind and brushed out

through my hair with the wind. I was

reminded for the first time since our plane

landed in Shannon that we were on an island.

I had to grab a rock, something

tangible, proof I was really there-like the glass

slipper of my existence. I might not have

believed it because my pictures look like

postcards that someone else could have sent.

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The Cliffs have certainly been there long

enough to warrant respect. There they have

existed and continue to exist even without

humanity present as they did hundreds,

thousands of years before perhaps anyone set

eyes on them. They are there for themselves-

imposing but expecting nothing. They

assume nothing but their own existence

before us, with us, after us, unchanging save

the beating from wind and water until we

meet again.

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The Dolmen

Ethereal presence

hanging in the air

my ancestors ancestors

whisper through the wheat.

Startling blood red

poppies and holly

in the grey/green

of the intense verdure

of perpetual fall.

Deep down,

deep below

the surface,

in the veins of the Earth,

dirt runs-

the mystery of nights subsiding for day.

Sunsets for ages

and now

Im here.

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We walked the path bordering the

outskirts of a wheat field-ancient holly walling

us in to our left. Then turning to the right, we

walked snaking through the surreal sounds of

the wind-swept wheat until the field gave

clearance to an imposing grouping of ancient

stones, boulders, gigantic examples of time-

beaten, weather-worn, and mysterious rocks.

The very soil seemed to exhale the

presence of perhaps my ancestors ancestors,

farmers too with an intimate enough

knowledge of the land that their bodies turned

themselves back into the soil that I was

standing on.

I was sure they were the ones pushing

up those poppies-

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St. Mullins

Records kept

in the landscape

crumbling ruins

next to gleaming

white stones.

Marriages,

baptisms,

enveloped

in this church-locked now.

Presided over by this

High Cross for centuries-

the voices of monks

whisper out

from the trees.

Centuries of stones

turned pebbles

by the passage

of many feet.

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St. Mullins was the civil parish for the

earliest-known of our Brennan ancestors. St.

Mullins monastery and the surrounding area

paints the perfect picture of the Irish

landscape as a whole. Modernity has creeped

its way into the setting in a way that seems

respectful. The new kind of frames the old

and makes its presence known without

obliterating what was already there.

We walked through the cemetery

looking at gleaming white headstones

interspersed throughout the lichen-covered,

weather-beaten stones looking for a

discernable Brennan name when the only one

we found was for a Brennan deceased in

1922-perhaps some descendant of a more

fortunate relative that had some crops survive

the potato blight?

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I snuck behind some of the ruins and

encountered the High Cross-a remnant of the

9th or 10th century. I walked around the cross

and looked at it from various angles, and the

crunching of the rubble beneath my feet was

amplified by space and time. My feet joined

with the sounds of multiple feet walking

slowly, simply across this space-monks

chanting in the yew trees from a time long

past and I realized I would never be alone in a

place like this.

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Kilmissan Road

A passagewaytucked into a pocket

of the patchwork

quilt that is the Irish countryside-

The road leads out,

etched through the million

shades of green

and leading to the expanse

of blue beyond.

The ruined familiar behind,

the hopeful unknown ahead.

Grace will be found

when you choose

to look for it.

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Traversing Ireland is a destination in

itself. The countryside is incredible-thatched

huts peek out between the ancient stone

walls interspersed with that flora so amazingly

intense from all the rain. The air is heady

with the scent of grazers-horses and sheep-

descendants of a hundred-years stock.

Driving such narrow roads is both a thrill and

an excitement. Its a chance to really get to

know a place. Finding the town of our

ancestors took a bit of seeking, but finally we

found a spot that overlooked an amazing view

of hill and valley, expanse and possibility.

A hundred years ago the village may

have been spelled Kilmison and the road was

not paved, but a Kilmison farmer could have

stood and pondered that narrow perspective

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that opens into the lush green expanse

beyond.

Flanked on the right, the road gently

slopes upward to a grassy embankment

alternately shadowed and brilliantly lit by the

early morning sun-a patterned negative of the

old stony embankment to the left.

Bushes peek out in between and over

the top of crumbling stones. Where the chink

of sunshine crosses the road lies, perhaps, the

driveway of the farmer. The roof of his home

peeps just above the tall bushes. The trees

are full; the air, although mild, promises of a

cool rain. Theres just a hint of landscape

beyond this road, just a hint of a new or

different life for one who travels down it. The

sun warms the grass, the trees, the plants,

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the animals just enough to make the air smell

like life.

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