Wisdom From An Oatmeal Box

If any of you know me, know where my heart lies, understand that writing is as much a part of me as my left hand. I haven't had much time or opportunity to do so, and I sorely miss it.

With the change back to what is now called "standard time," I find myself still tossing and turning at 4 a.m., with the inability to turn off my brain and the driving desire to write and create. I figure it's an hour of time I didn't "normally" have, so here I am, using that hour to work. As usual.

But this work is gratifying to me, even if no-one on the planet knows this blog still exists. It helps me to clear the brain of things I would normally go off on a rant about, and prevent me from possibly being dragged off to some rest home somewhere for alternative therapy.

This morning, it was cold down here in the South. Well, at least cold by our standards. I was a little gnarly from not enough sleep and a sore throat knocking at the door, so warm oatmeal with milk, butter and a healthy dosing of brown sugar was in order. I got out my trusty box of steel-cut Irish oatmeal and fixed a bowl, popped it in the microwave (which, up until now, was only good for popping corn and warming up coffee). As I waited the infinitely long two minutes, I read the box, which had an Irish blessing quoted on the side.

It read, "May you have warm words on a cold evening. A full moon on a dark night. And the road downhill all the way to your door."

Now, I know that sounds sappy at first glance. I know it's the old, typical Irish blessing. But, When you break it all down, and, if you've ever been to Ireland (in October, as I have), it rings so true.

The words invoked memories I had buried for a bit, until I could wrestle with them in proper context. I went to Ireland in October of 2003, when I was newly married to my Mr. Flynn, and we were exploring the southern coast of the country in a small rental car the size of my scooter.

We were sitting in a pub on Halloween, in a very small country village, and we listened to the conversations of the people in the town who had come in for a beverage and some social activity. They hugged and laughed and joked around, some danced a bit after a few pints. I was sitting on a bench by the front window and glanced out at the dusky rock fences, and noticed it was a full moon, and the light was an eerie blue shining off the centuries-old stones. When we finished our own pints, and given several Euro to the little children who came in for "begged treats," we walked back out to the car and saw that the moon lit up the road back to the bed and breakfast, and that it was all downhill. It really was one of the most pleasant, and most relaxing and emotionally fulfilling nights of my life.

I suppose I was meant to see those words reenacted when Mr. Flynn and I moved to Kentucky the following year, into a little town founded by Scots-Irish in the early 1700s. No pubs of course (dry county, of all the horrible realizations), but full moons so bright they took your breath away, centuries-old rock fences and lots of steep hills, one of which was routinely walked by this flatlander on trips to the courthouse. The people of the town, Flemingsburg, were warm and welcoming, and I felt very much at home after a couple of years.

At the end of six years, Mr. Flynn was no longer my husband, and the downhill trek back to my home was gone. I miss the brightness of the stars and the moon, although the harvest moons over the Atlantic ocean are certainly a close second. There were no more warm welcomes from strangers on the street, and the world took on an unfamiliar coldness for a while. But, Florida has once again become my home, and I'm now comfortable in my time and space.

I'm a little distant. A lot more aloof. Almost uncaring.

The last ten years have been the most trying ones of my life. Yet, I am reconnected to my soul, and have learned to say no to the things that are harmful to me, to be more considerate of those that have not experienced the reawakening of this woman's spirit and know my path and where I need to go (and not go). And, those words read from a box of oatmeal have more meaning to me now than they ever would have. They embody all that is pleasant and wonderful in life: Warmness in word and deed, light in the darkness to calm you and an easy walk to an inviting home, wherever that may be.