I Pick You

My front garden turned from drab to fab, with these giant purple irises.

They're beautiful, but it's difficult to compare when I have a history with flowers loved on and planted by David: see here . 

When I pulled open my door, though, I saw this one, and a memory with David sprang back to life. 

 It was a damp, sunny spring morning in Belfast, and I was running late to school about to miss the bus. Running through the kitchen, I saw a beautiful tulip on the counter waiting for me. 

I lived alone, so it wasn't as though someone had picked a tulip for themselves. 

It was a present for me. From a man who knows I love flowers, a man so proud of his flowers (but so British he would never have been able to say it) that he wanted to give one to somebody he knew would appreciate its beauty as much as he did. 

The flower was lovely, but it was the man that made it precious to me. 

David, my man, hardly spoke at all, pleasantries at most, but there were many days where I felt as though David was my very most dear friend. He took care of me in such a practically compassionate way. 

At Christmas, he brought me out of my darkness to decorate. 

In the spring, he wanted to show me the flowers. 

He put up a shelf in my room. 

He teased me when I would make my entrance to the world at noon or past (and always made sure to be extra quiet if he thought I was asleep). 

He took me to uni when the bus didn't come that late day in April. 

He made pleasantries with me. 

He showed me the golden finches. He loves the golden finches, "First time in ten years they come back here, them". Even said "you're welcome" when I thanked him. Yeah, it was a huge deal to him to share the finches. 

David is gentle and kind, without a bad word to say about anyone. The one who gardens in his pleated trousers with button-down shirt, sweater vest, and loafers. 

Tireless. 

Humble. 

A big fan of tea. 

I ran out of the house to catch my bus that day, and David was hard at work edging the garden. When I called out a thanks, he told me he had found the tulip downed in the garden: "Musta been a nail or somethin' break it...Thought you could talk to it."

An american would have been making fun of me, but not David. 

He had entrusted one of his broken baby flowers into my care. And since I know David's love for his flowers, I felt the love of the gesture. 

One Last Day, But It's Not the Same

It's different, very different.
And I love that when I will get to say, "Last December in Belfast" it will not be followed with tears. It will be followed with joy.

David (you absolutely remember David, my sweet, wonderful houseman and groundskeeper)  had stopped by the house twice yesterday to see me, but I'd been away at uni all day.

8am it was! And my reserved, British friend kissed me right on the face. Ha!

I hate that the picture is blurry, but I do enjoy having him in photo form. David will never know or be able to understand the depth to which his practical mercy on me touched my life.
Like the time I came in to see a tulip on the counter and, when I thanked him on my way out the door (he was in the garden), he told me, "Musta been a nail or somethin' break it. Found it on the ground. Thought you could talk to it."

Or the time just after the team left, my boyfriend left, and my nephew entered the world (it was a big three days) and I was alone and sad, he came and found me and asked if I would like to put up the Christmas decorations. David does not ask anyone to do anything. He does things. You would understand if you knew David, but that was his way of taking care of, giving me something to do, something to feel a part of. David is a very good man.

Another very good man collected me for tea just after--Hadden. :)
He was my boss over in Belfast, coordinating JBU activities there. We talked over programme information and life stuff.
Getting back into his car after dropping me off (not even facing me), he said, "Let that young man of yours know that if he doesn't treat you right...I'll kill him". Then drove off.
And he's from Belfast, so you know he ain't lyin'.

Next came Amy and Matt.
We hung out at Lakeside, went to city centre, went out for lunch at a fun little pub, shopped a bit, roamed the Christmas market, took the party back home again, watched Everything is Illuminated, and just had a really good time.

When Amy left, Lauren appeared. :)

Last cuddles all around.

Home is a place you fight for. Home is a place that knows you, that you feel known in. Home is a place you feel wanted and loved. When I left for Oklahoma last December, Belfast was not my home. What a blessing, what a treasure, that it was when I stepped off the plane just one year later.

Lakeside, Belfast, my friends (and a lot of Starbucks goers) saw my soul stripped naked, saw me broken, and saw the Lord rise me up again.
And for that, for seeing, for staying, for speaking out truth, they became my home.

Flower Power

Do you ever have one of those ideas that you think is really good at the time...and then stops being good the second you start in on it?

I'm having one of those moments.
However, I am having one of those moments while drinking a really delicious, nutritious smoothie involving greek yogurt, milk, vanilla, honey, and a frozen half banana/can of pineapple combo. So that part is encouraging.

No, I decided to write a paper for poetry class about Derek Mahon's excessive use of weather terms in his poetry. No big deal, I think. I'll just give a skim through the poems and jot down the references.

Five double-column single-spaced color-coded word document pages later and 9 hours later...I have made it through 152 pages of 387. I'm gonna need more smoothie.

Spring is officially here in Belfast! My allergies told me so this morning. But take a gander at these flowers. The sniffles are totally worth it. Keep in mind, there are no edits to these pictures.

Okay so these ones aren't from my yard, but double-bell daffodils? Come on. Gorgeous. 

From this enormous Rhododendron (pronounced road-ee-den-dron by David) out back.  

David made me a bouquet 

 Do not I live in the most magical place? Seriously, those blooms!!!

David I guess saw me outside from a window and walked behind me (trying to seem like he was minding his own business and just happened to be going the same direction as me) and casually asked if I had already noticed/photographed various flowers.

He told me how the squirrels last year had eaten all the bulbs and it had killed so many of the tulips but they were all back again. New bulbs, you see. I will mention, 300 new bulbs that he planted, though he would not tell you so. :)

He came back into the house a few minutes after I did and found me in the kitchen (my haunting [and hunting] grounds) with blossoms in hand and arranged them into a jar I pulled down.

I did a wee slideshow of "flowers in review" after taking a shot of the vase, and I think he was pleased. And that pleases me. David is kind. And has dang good taste in flowers.

Flowers and Flags

Lakeside’s very own wonderful Renaissance man David planted this swan (our emblem), and it has juts bloomed this week.

David, as I’ve mentioned before, is very British. Proper, reserved, and wears a sweater vest and loafers to mulch, chainsaw, and plumb.Being American and very…not any of those things, it’s sometimes difficult for me to understand what it is David is trying to communicate to me or how to communicate well with him.  He’s a gem, though. So kind and helpful.

A charming thing happened with him yesterday in the kitchen. Adam and I were ladling up soup for ourselves when David walked in, said something to me about the laundry, and then asked if I’d happened to notice the flower arrangement outside.

As he told me how it may be difficult to take a picture of it because of its placement in the yard, but aaaalll the different places that one might try to, he got this impish smile like a little kid trying not to get overly excited about the macaroni necklace he just gave his mom because what if she doesn’t like it but I mean really, how could she not like it, it’s freakin’ necklace made of macaroni! Say how much you love it, mom!!!  

According to David’s counting yesterday, there are planted currently around the manner grounds (which means, my man planted them himself) 300 flower bulbs. Come full spring, our estate is going to be bursting with blooms thanks to him.

His obvious pride and excitement (buried by Britishness) was such a pleasure to see.

Belfast, too, is blooming. Crocus flowers are all along the embankments of the roadways.

It’s also a week for holidays, as yesterday was Pancake Tuesday. Yes. Real holiday.

Here, instead of calling it Fat Tuesday, it is Pancake Tuesday, the day when you cook and serve up as many pancakes with as many sugary toppings as your fridge and bodies can handle.

Adam and I took advantage of this and while he made the pancakes (my attempt at flipping one and turning it into a panwad got me banned), I put together the topping bar. We ate so many pancakes we almost burst. 

*everything minus the cinnamon

We did not, however, and instead finished our puzzle of St. Patrick.

St. Paddy may have cast all the snakes and devils out of Ireland, but we are both certain he cast them into that puzzle. We FINALLY completed it, but discovered 5 whole missing pieces. Evil, evil puzzle.

Local piece of news is the current visit of former U.S. President Bill Clinton or, here, Wee Billy Clinton. It’s the only thing they know when I say I’m from Arkansas (if I say Oklahoma, they burst into song.).

Personally, I have no taste for the man. I find him slimy. However, since living here and hearing the depths of the troubles during The Troubles and how he was imperative in the navigation out of those times, I have gained some respect for him as a diplomat on behalf of my adopted people.

What’s most fascinating to me—thoughts coming from both the Lent season (traditionally Catholic) and his arrival—is how The Troubles really aren’t about religion at all but they are most often described as that. It’s easiest.

You see, Ireland is not comprised mainly of Irish really. The British really screwed them over.

There are the Ulster Scots (sent from Scotland to come live here) and the Anglo-Irish (sent from England to come live here) and, finally, the Irish. The first two categories are now what is known as the United Kingdom and are Protestant.

They settled the land on behalf of the crown to dominate the homepeople and extort them for cash money (pft. As if they had any…). The Irish were Catholic and the lowest of the lowest classes. They just want their country back and their oppressors out.

I could give you a whole history lesson even farther back and forward, but that’s the gist of it.

The Protestant are the Unionists (those who wish to stay with the UK and raise the Union Jack) and the Republicans are the Catholic (Use of the TriColor Flag [pronounced here trick-ulur]give me my republic or give me death. Literally).

The fight isn’t on whose religion is more right; it’s a good deal political, with sides who happen to have opposing religious sects.

It’s all very fascinating, really, and maybe even a bit ironic, especially considering how very non-religious Ireland has become. Religion isn’t something you live here. It’s something you are.

They would say “I’m Catholic,” like one would say, “I’m Jewish,” or “I’m Native American.” It’s an identity factor. Even if you yourself are atheist, if someone asked you "what you were," you would respond, "My family is Catholic" or "My family is protestant." 

In some ways, I believe strongly that it is this very quality which numbs the people from having eyes to see or ears to hear Jesus in their country or friends.

In their minds, there’s nothing to see, nothing to hear that would surprise them.

Like my friend from class, their experience with the church has been so abusive and political and non-relational that they could very nicely go for always without hearing of it all again.

God has nothing to do with it. 

My Man

If this doesn't say, "Good morning, Belfast!" then I just don't know what does.

Good morning, Belfast. Jamie here. Sitting in Starbucks because the phone repair store is neither open nor has posted when it does indeed open. Good thing I didn't end up in City Centre when I'd actually intended to this morning.

According to my countdown calendar, I've only got 99 days left in the land of the greenies, and that doesn't seem like nearly the correct number. I remember looking at the prospect of 10 months and thinking nothing could be shorter. Then, I remember looking at the prospect of 9.5 months and thinking I had never experienced anything longer in my whole life.

Funny how time works that way.

Also funny how things that seem like yesterday were forever ago and things that seem like forever ago were really yesterday.

Today's NI lesson is the concept of "your man."

Now, in The States, if someone asked after "your man," you'd either talk about your husband, fiancé, boyfriend, child, or scream, "WHAT MAN?! FOREVER ALONE!"

Here, though, "your man" could refer to whatever man is in question.

So, when David (our keeper of the house fixings) told me today that he'd call up my man for the laundry, he simply meant that he was to call the laundry man on my behalf.

My coursemate Johanna was recently asked about her man in the context of prison:
"What did your man do?"

During The Troubles, the families, friends, and acquaintances of political inmates would sneak notes and radios and other small such things into and out of the prisons.

Because of this, visit days were extremely important.

When Jo was near about 19, she was chosen by her neighbourhood to serve as the visitor for the son of a neighbour, as the mum was sick.

It was all an uproarious experience, actually, as she had no choice but to go, didn't tell her mother (who wouldn't have let her), and her brother was in the army (enemy of the prisoners and ensuring that he would be informed the moment she entered the prison and questioned as to his sister/family's politics).

Jo had never met the man she was to visit and described to us how very awkward indeed small talk was with a prisoner you've never met: "So...how are things...?"

When their time was through, she got up to left, and as she did, he pulled her in and kissed her on the mouth, shoving something in as he did (no, it was not a tongue).

Freaking out a bit, but not able to show it for fear of being imprisoned herself, Jo made it back to her car, drove off, and drove a mile before risking a spit out.

Inside her mouth was a very tiny note wrapped in cellophane from son to mother.

Genius, her man.

I like this principle of "your man." It's endearing and gives me a sense of community, as though I were actually friends with my house launderer. If he's anything like David, that's something I would like very much indeed.

Merry Happy

December, Day 3. The students are gone. 

The cooks leave tomorrow night. 

That leaves Lainey and me. We chat about once a day around 22:30. Okay so maybe I wait up for her a little bit...

But everything is going to be OK! I have a plan (ha! I don't feel like finding the link to it, but that does remind me of John Kerry's presidential campaign. Never did find out what his "very good plan" was.) My plan is called, "Loneliness and Solitude are Two Things Not to Get Confused." 

Mostly it involves a self-structured schedule, crafts, projects, cleaning, homework, writing, and old people. And Puzzles. lots and lots of puzzling. 

This is my first day of self-scheduling. So far, it's going rather well. I got up an hour after I intended (which I had also accounted for in my schedule. Know thyself...), made tea, got dressed and ready for the day, then headed off to research. However, David (house fix-it extraordinaire) asked me to Christmas the house. We brought in all the boxes of Christmas supplies, and I set about organising. 

 The result is a disastrous foyer (yay! saving that cleaning project for a rainy day!), a garlanded bannister, some random wee trinkets here and there, and  three trees in silver, red, and gold. They're nothing like my ma's Christmas tree whisperer skills could have produced, but they are cheery and I like them.

Next up on my agenda is scavenging for food and then actually doing a bit of research before I head out to a church event tonight.

This is good.

My survival plot just experienced a minor setback in that I've just gotten word that my friend Adam (visiting the UK) is no longer coming to Belfast, so there's that. But...no. yeah. There's that. ha.

Challenges. But challenges are also opportunities. And this could be my opportunity to finally, you know, do something like memorise the encyclopaedia or something.

It's amusing, really, this obscene amount of free and alone time, especially in comparison to my senior year of college. I was literally scheduled every single day from 9 am (ain't nobody talk to me before 9 unless you've got coffee in your hands for me) until 10:30 pm. To get in my planner, you had to ask for a slot a week ahead of time.

This did mean that I missed out on a lot of the random "being there" stuff, eating food other than nachos, pb &j, and cucumbers, and spending time with the people I actually wanted to spend time with in a time slot other than "post 10:30", but I liked it. If I could go back, I'd probably end up doing it really similarly.

Except that last part. I fell asleep during many a night hangout. That doesn't make people feel very valued. ha. It was good for me, that very structured business. I wonder if my friends would have chosen my living ways differently, though. Was it as good for them as it was for me? Or did they feel that I didn't care for them because I just wasn't around or made them into a task of the day?

What were my priorities? What were my motivations? Are they the same now as they were then?
Guess I've got a lot of uninterrupted time to think about it.