Well, perhaps I'm "religious" when it's mildly convenient. For example, I think of my recently deceased grandmother and pray to God her soul is in Heaven (if there is one). Yet, if you asked me to recite the rosary we buried her with...well, cue the crickets.
I don't go to church. I couldn't tell you much about the Bible. I don't remember which hand goes over the other when you're taking communion. In fact, the last time I received the host was at a funeral. I believe I muttered "thanks" to the priest upon accepting the wafer. I was pretty dehydrated and it sat at the roof of my mouth for over an hour.
To clarify: while I do not practice religion, I'm not against those who do. One of my closest friends is a devout Catholic, and I just moved to a country chock-full of Catholics. Irish Catholics, I might add, whose faith is waning in the midst of corruption and abuse of power. More to come on that. Anyway, I quite admire those who believe in something totally unknown. I would never judge a person for believing in a power greater than himself. I think the idea of surrendering to God, or at the very least, pledging oneself to Him, is ennobling. Humbling.
However: for me personally, believing in God simply feels like exercise. And I'm not one who enjoys the gym.
Similarly, the jury is still out on a "higher power." Nevertheless, I generally call upon a "higher power" with greater frequency than the likes of "God," especially when I'm down on my luck and have no answers. A higher power is a little more viable to me than God. An omnipresent, (yet perpetually absent, wouldn't you agree?) higher power could potentially explain why I quit my job and moved to Ireland on a whim. I don't have to read the Bible for that. I can simply write it off that my higher power is "at play," right? My higher power knows what it's doing, even if I don't. That way, there are no mistakes or coincidences or second thoughts.
I silently wept for a higher power yesterday at Dublin International Airport. All I wanted was to caress mother's cheek for just one more second, but she was already through security and behind a plexiglass wall. She was only about six feet away from me, but it was just as easily 4,000 miles. I called out for her, but quickly gave up. I watched, rapt, as she removed her jacket and shoes. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She tucked a tuft of curly hair behind her right ear. My thoughts drifted back to what one of our tour guides said in the lush fields of Wicklow: when an ewe is separated from her lamb, the lamb is taken to a place where the mother can't hear it bleating.
And that's how they both survive.
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| If you ever find yourself in the midst of an existential crisis, find yourself a lamb to cuddle. |
The anxieties my mom helped assuage over the last ten days of our trip came flooding back. Why did I quit my steady job? Why did I move to Europe completely and totally alone? Did I bring enough travel adapters? What will I do without my chiropractor? Does anyone besides mom know where my comfy socks are packed? You know, the ones with treads at the bottom?
I'm in Dublin to start graduate school. That's all I know. My loans haven't been allocated; my dormitory isn't ready for move-in. A little over a month ago, I sat rather comfortably in my studio apartment. I went to my steady job each morning and loved it. I had a boyfriend of three years; we were planning on moving in together. Everything was dandy. Fast forward and forget what happened in-between. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm a free agent at this point, and the last thing in the world I want is to guide myself around town after a month of chaos, confusion, and well... cognitive dissonance. Whether it be to that gorgeous, collegiate campus or straight to my hotel bed, I've never been much of a decision-maker and I'm not going to start today. Sure, I feel liberated. But I also feel lonely. Sad. Tired. Negativity tends to get the better of me.
I followed a throng of people and their suitcases onto to a bus bound for the city. Alas, for better or for worse I've landed here-- literally and figuratively-- and I have no choice but to move forward...or at least inch away from where I was before.
Basically, upon saying goodbye to my mother, I understood with some reluctance that I had to let the universe guide me for a while. In the days that followed, it most certainly would.
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| My best friend. |
My mother's departure coincided with the Pope's arrival to Dublin (yes...THAT Pope, the one and only... His Holiness, supreme pontiff, etc., etc.) Needless to say, Francis made for a rather challenging commute from airport to hotel and vice versa. To start, I had no idea where I was. ALL transportation to and from the City Centre was rerouted. Street closures are maddening to begin with (I'm from New York City) but that type of stress is compounded when you factor in cobblestoned roads and the fact that you're standing in what was once a medieval settlement and not the easy-to-read grid you grew up in. Who ever thought I'd miss the subway?*
*I actually knew 100% that I'd miss the subway. Stink, grime, and all.
So, while mom was back in Terminal Two, I stood around with nothing to do. I couldn't get back to my hotel, and it was almost as if I had no choice but to inch toward silver barricades lining Dublin's famous O'Connell Street. Folks were already queuing up for the man in white. Meanwhile, my mom, who spent an exorbitant amount of money on airplane WiFi "just to say hello," writes that I ought to see him. She finds the thought of the Pope blessing me "comforting." I decide to stick around because:
1) I'd walk out into oncoming traffic without so much as a passing thought if my mom gave me the directive
2) I've always been curious about the Pope Mobile. Is it a Cleopatra-style litter throne?
As I communicated with my mom, who was at that point 25,000 feet over the Atlantic, I also wanted to believe, desperately, in everything she told me in the days prior about having faith. My mom always has faith. I envy her that. A lot of people envy her that. She always has faith, no matter what happens, and she's been dealt some pretty severe blows. Yesterday, with my head on her lap, she reminded me that I am on a journey and I need to allow myself to live in it fully. Now that she's gone, I wondered whether a papal wave would solidify that. Would seeing a guy in white regalia give me what I need to have faith?
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| The New Yorker in me cringed as I paid for an overpriced flag. |
As the crowd swelled, I got caught up in conversation with a man who traveled down to the city from County Clare with his wife and daughter. The latter were out at Penney's getting their nails done while he saved them a spot along the barrier. His hands were rough and hardened. Fingernails caked with dirt. He was a farmer and took great pride in telling me about his trade. Thirteen years retired from a milk factory, the man spoke of the technology that rendered his life's work obsolete, and mourned the younger generations who have decided that going to school for business and politics is far more important than the upkeep of Ireland's agricultural life, which has been a source of sustenance for generations.
A bumblebee came between us and I tensed.
"Tell me," he said after the bee flew away, "Would you ever eat fruit off the ground?"
I hesitated, knowing this was a trick question. I didn't want to disappoint him.
"Sure."
"Good on you, girl. On my farm, out in the ditch, we grow berries and grapes and you can eat them straight from the earth. The rain washes them. No need for anything fancy."
As the man (whom I came to learn is named Ryan) validated my reasons for coming to this new country and whetted my thirst for adventure, he also explained that the bees serve a very important purpose on his farm. Without their pollen, his farm wouldn't exist. He spoke with fervor of the rare, white Buddleja bushes that grow with profusion outside his front door. When you lift the stems, butterflies stream out. Not going to lie: it sounded heavenly.
After some time, we heard cheering down the street. Then, the motorcade. Then, the man himself. My cheek was pressed to the barricade. I waved my little flag, but I heard nothing. My mind processed nothing. I simply watched the figure waving, blessing the crowd. It was magnificent. Something about the collective experience moved me. The mob began to dissipate and I found myself swimming in a sea of well-wishers. Over the course of the last hour, Ryan had told them my story (you know, the one about hopping on a plane and moving to Ireland)? Apparently, this is something that makes me brave. It is a privilege to be referred to as "brave," and I often think the shoes don't fit me. Since announcing my plan to attend Trinity back in April, I've received a tremendous amount of commendation for what is considered a "brave" act. Honestly, it wasn't until that very moment as I watched the Pope grow smaller and smaller, ultimately fading into the distance, that I truly felt brave. Simultaneously, for the first time since my mom left, I felt unafraid. Unafraid in a mess of strangers, and in a foreign land.
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| Ryan's weathered hands relaxed and waiting for the Pope on O'Connell Street. |
After bidding Ryan and his family goodbye (and promising them that I would indeed visit them on the farm someday) I headed back to my hotel, satisfied, feeling whole again.
...but my time with the Pope wasn't over.
I woke up to darkness, before my alarm, which I'd set for no reason except to forge ahead with a vague sense of normalcy. Sunday. My one plan on the agenda was to buy a proper brassiere and in so doing, avoid papal fever at all costs. I had my fill yesterday and that was plenty. I reached the shopping centre determined to slide back into my old lifestyle routines as easily as possible. I was hellbent on getting a smoothie so I could stop eating french fries, but the smoothie joint operated on Irish time. Despite being slated to open at 9am, a tired barista informed me I'd have to wait another hour or two. Without so much as another word, she disappeared behind a pack of chia seeds, never to be seen again.
Hungry and tired, I couldn't escape the pope, not even in the Jervis Centre. Closing mass was at 3pm and you'd think getting a ticket was like being invited to see Willy Wonka. There's no other way to describe it. I took refuge in a pharmacy and began chatting with a clerk about vitamins. We went from vitamins to New York to Trinity to mothers, and suddenly, she was dragging me by the arm to meet her former colleague upstairs.
"I found her," she told a man with kind eyes. He seemed to be in a hurry, but smiled at me with a sense of warmth that I've learned is unique to Irish people. They're a friendly bunch.
"Would you like tickets to see the Pope tonight? I have to work. We all have to work, and we want to give them to a kind person. Someone who deserves them."
Well, that was a tall order.
Believe it or not, at first I politely declined. I told them I had some things planned; errands to run.
Then, thankfully, I thought, "You idiot! Errands? Errands to run when you can go see the Pope?!"
I graciously accepted the ticket.
"I have no money to offer you," I stammered.
"Not to worry. I just wanted them to go to someone good."
Out of nowhere, the entire pharmacy staff was lined up asking me to pray for them, their siblings, their parents, their loved ones, their dental hygienists, and so on. I walked out of the store not only with a ticket to mass, but with a long piece of paper filled with names of people to pray for. I wound up buying a canvas and painting all the names on it. Go big or go home, you know? Plus, I always keep my promises.
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| Me and my sign, featuring the pharmacy logo in the corner. |
Side Note: This was not unlike my foray into cat-sitting. Back at NYU, where I worked as an Academic Support Services Assistant, despite my loathing of cats I cat-sat for everyone on staff at least once (if not twice). How that came to pass, I'll never know. I earned the reputation of being a fantastic cat-sitter and at the end of the day, people were sad to lose me as their primary feline caregiver. What're the odds?
In similar fashion, I'd been assigned a mission to see the Pope. I called my mom, who promptly began to flip out. I, on the other hand, tried to stay calm.
"Calm down, Mom. You're acting like I'm meeting God or something."
"Brianna, this is the closest thing to God you're gonna get."
I really didn't want to go, though admittedly it was pretty neat to be one of the lucky few to have a ticket. I weighed my options and thought about giving the ticket away, but that didn't sit right with me. I made an oath to the folks at the pharmacy. I'd be praying for them, even though I don't pray. I couldn't not go. I had to go.
Problem was, it was an hour before the mass was due to begin. All public transportation was down and the park entrance was ten miles away.
I glanced down at my ticket, upon which the following was written: "All pilgrims must proceed to entry point at 2pm."
Pilgrims. Just hours before, my mom and I had a conversation about the Canterbury Tales. We've always adored Chaucer. When it came time to say farewell, we smiled and assigned ourselves roles. She was Chaucer's crusading Knight...brave, chivalric, and full of courtly love. I took on our favorite character: Alyson, the loathly lady... Chaucer's Wife of Bath. I laughed out loud at the prospect of making a literal pilgrimage. I couldn't believe this was happening. I spoke with the GARDA once I-- at long last-- hit the park entrance. Another ten miles to go. What?! Disembodied voices echoed on loudspeakers: "please proceed straight with your ticket." There was nowhere to go but ahead, with everyone else. I walked for nearly two hours in a crowd of thousands. I had to use the facilities, I was hungry, I was wearing the worst possible shoes, and I hadn't thought to bring water. This really was a pilgrimage. My own little fragment of Canterbury.
To Ireland's credit, they really had this whole shebang organized perfectly. Even though I was in a crowd of 500,000 ticket holders, we were all very neatly organized into our little sections and no one was pushing or shoving or Instagramming. My section was right in the middle, and I stood in the muddy grass and listened to Pope Francis deliver his sermon. I shared a sign of peace with all the people around me; we embraced and cried together. My mom watched on TV in New York.
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| A small piece of the crowd. 500,000 attendees. |
A cynic might say that such is the brainwashing power of organized religion, but today, there was no room for a skeptic. Just universal love and hope...and faith! There it was! All of a sudden, I had it! Faith in my pocket. (Had it been there all along?) Maybe the faith was what got me there in the first place?
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| Sisters take turn waving their flag for Pope Francis at the conclusion of mass. |
Mass was over as soon as it started. I prayed for the people I promised to pray for, and then I was one of the lucky few to receive the Eucharist from one of the priests. Yep. That happened.
I then walked three hours in nonstop, relentless rain back to my hotel. I helped an elderly woman named Evelyn cross the street. She asked if I'd seen the Pope, and when I gave her the affirmative, she asked me to kiss her. I obliged. We hugged. She said I had nice skin. I guess she couldn't see what I saw in the mirror, which until today had been ugliness. Acne. Weight gain. She caressed my cheek in the same manner as I did my mother before we parted. The world was starting to make sense.
I left Evelyn safely at her bus stop. Shortly thereafter I found a Burger King, ordered myself some fries and a milkshake. I soaked my blistered feet in epsom salt, and sat down to think about the events of my whirlwhind day.
It was, as the Irish are keen to say...quite grand.
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| An Irish soldier eases the burden of two older women, both of whom have walked at least eight miles to see Pope Francis. |