r review]k under review]rried, and frenetic, with an overload of information and demands. I miss the mountains and the sea. I miss, oddly, the winds of Old Ireland.聽
How do I deal with it?
A mixture of ways.聽 Realism, for one. The knowledge that the Ireland of old has changed a lot. The world is transforming even as we reflect. Even while we ponder the good, and the not-so-good, the realization that 'only Change is constant' is maybe not the equivalent of a warm and comforting embrace. But it does, in some ways, provide us with an encouraging pat on the back. This IS 'the New World', and I am privileged to be here.聽 Carpe Diem. Live each day. Absorb the sights and sounds of America. I am a US Citizen now, after many years, and I'm proud to fly the flag outside my door.
In quieter moments, maybe early in the morning, after a dream tossed night, my thoughts wander back to favorite haunts of old. I remember the place I loved, where I wrote, in all its honest fragility, a short story I called "The Little Bird off Slea Head". It was an honest piece, challenged, as all my writing is, but it did capture for me some element of wistful longing, that has stayed with me. Despite the wars of life, the rough and tumble of flying airplanes and helicopters, shots fired in the night, lovers faithful and disappointing trysts, I have -in my own way- probably (dare I say it) retained a unique Irishness. An element that will never change. It only takes a few seconds of Celtic music to trigger a flood of memories. A quiet emotion. A longing for something that is most likely gone forever.
I have thought - seriously- of buying a holiday cottage on the West Coast of Ireland.聽 There to read and write, and listen to the wind red-lining past my chimney. There are days and weeks I am totally serious in that endeavor, and I have spent much time researching price and availability of such retreats. At other times, the sheer logistical complexity associated with tearing up roots here, which include ten rent houses, mostly occupied, baffles my tiny mind. It's not easy going back. And would I miss Texas?
And here I smile, even as I ponder the quiet background hum of some distant, persistent vision. Sometimes it is better to travel hopefully. Maybe that was the point of 'Starry, starry night' as I lay on my back, lying on the float of my helicopter, staring up at the stars of the Milky Way. Alone up on the helideck, whilst my ship lay anchored a thousand miles offshore. Somewhere North East of Papua New Guinea, and far, far away from County Kerry. I was homesick, many a night. But gazing up at the enormity of the Universe, strangely, I was also at home. I was where I was, oddly, meant to be.
In similar vein, maybe that too was the point I labored to make in a poem I wrote, called 'My Dance in the Clouds'. My life has been far from dull. Not only has it been varied and colorful, filled with laughter and hilarity, and stupidity-on-steroids. My little life has also seen its fair share of quiet reflection, and every man's lot of heartbreak and bewilderment. As much as Man has been kind to me, and understanding of my nature, he has also deeply disappointed me.
And this then, curiously, is how I deal with homesickness. I live my life. I am determined to drink the cup dry. To get my ticket's worth. To never, ever quit. To fly on. To ride on. To think on.
To dream on.
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