View from the Pier

Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled
among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good.
His life has much difficulty…
were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, 1875-1926

Waterville, Ireland

This image was taken in the tiny seaside village of Waterville, on Ireland’s west coast.   The town is nestled above the sweeping Balinskelligs Bay, with a green swath of park between its rocky “strand,” as beaches there are called, and the main street, which is lined with buildings painted in sherbet shades of lemon, tangerine and lime.  Beyond the small settlement, rolling high hills are blanketed in velvety emerald and dappled with shadows from the low-lying clouds gliding by.

Known as An CoireÁn in Gaelic, or “The Little Whirlpool,” Waterville is located at the tip of the Iveragh Peninsula, halfway around the Ring of Kerry.  I arrived here after a day’s drive from Dingle Town on the peninsula to the north.  The distance from door-to-door was a mere 23 miles but the stream of captivating vistas called for a leisurely journey.

The Waterville area and Ballinskelligs Bay play an important part in the mythology of ancient Ireland.  According to the Book of Invasions, a pseudo-historical piece of ancient Irish literature supposedly compiled in the 11^th century, Noah’s granddaughter Cessair fled here to escape the flood and became the first in a wave of Celtic invaders who shaped the Irish race. These rich legends combine with the spectacular scenery to create a magical aura.

Despite the fact that today’s image is of a land with lilting Irish names like McGillycuddy Reeks, Portmagee, and Cahersiveen, the captioning quote is from Bohemian-Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke.  It has been said of Rilke’s work that his “haunting images focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety.”

Rilke’s young life was not a happy one. His mother dressed him in girl’s clothing during his early years—an act of mourning for the death of Rilke’s sister who died at the age of one week, before he was born. His parents’ marriage dissolved when he was nine years old.  The poetic and sensitive youth entered a military academy when he was 11, which he attended for five years before leaving due to illness.  As a young man, Rilke had a four-year affair with a married woman—who had trained as a psychoanalyst with Sigmund Freud.

My only complaint upon arriving in Waterville was the need to stretch my legs after a long spell in the car.  I tromped the length of the strand in the late afternoon, passing a couple of old salts surf casting.   The shoreline was layered with rings of hard-packed sand, heavy grey stones and bright green algae below ruddy dried seaweed.  Long fingers of breakwater pilings reached out into the water.  Doubling back, I headed to higher ground and crossed a lush manicured lawn blessed with a sculpture of a large white cross.  I came upon a stone bench with an inscription dedicated to “Mo Lear:”  So there you go, for good, smiling, Swearing, eyes thrown to heaven, with never a drop of bad blood between you and the wide, wide world.

I paused at Peter’s Place, a homey parlor that was actually the front room of his house, where he proffered tea and baked goods.  While enjoying a steaming mug at one of the picnic tables parked outside, I took this photograph from my perch just a few feet away.  The remnants of someone else’s shared refreshments seemed to radiate a sense of intimacy and coziness.   I envisioned cookies and comfort being passed from a serene modern-day druidess in a white tunic with a knowing half-smile on her lips.  Wisps of wistful nostalgia wafted by, for a scene I’m pretty sure never happened.

Mystical Donna Reed delusions aside, I have been blessed with a seemingly endless procession of assorted angels of all sizes and shapes, who appear with words of wisdom when I am able to receive them.   They are disguised as Average Everyday People, and, quite often, are grappling with their own demons.  I am reminded of the catchy but nonsensical name of a salon on Lynn Shore Drive in a nearby town:  Incognito Revealed.

Not all that long ago, I had one of my most powerful Incognito Angel experiences.  I had arrived at Abermarle Airport in Charlottesville, Virgina, where my 78-year old mother lives.  Mom had been in and out of the hospital for some time, battling severe illness, often returning home for only 24 or 48 hours before an ambulance made the long drive to deposit her into medical care for another month.  She was exhausted and worried, and so was I.

A new friend of hers picked me up at the airport to make the 45-minute drive out into the country, to Lake Monticello, where my mother lived.  The woman was perky and gracious, making small talk in a thick southern drawl.  From her perfectly-manicured nails to her smart strappy sandals, she embodied the Southern Belle antithesis of my gawky pre-teen self. Dredges of my adolescent angst surfaced, residual resentment at having been moved from New England to below the Mason-Dixon Line at that age.

A week later, back at the airport curb for my departure, this woman held me in her arms as I cried like a baby, a torrent of hot tears of grief, frustration and powerlessness streaming down my face.  She smoothed my hair and soothed my soul, telling me in a low voice about her own mother.  My sobs subsided into hiccups and managing a weak smile, I saw that she, too, had tears in her eyes.  I continue to feel immense gratitude for this angel I had been ready to dislike because of insecurities dating back four decades.

I recently had that coffee date with another angel.  Meeting this friend of a friend for the first time, I found a compact, mustachioed man with a bald head, clad in a well-worn leather jacket.  We talked about our families and our past jobs, our shared interest in art.  He seemed to have had nine lives, with each one involving overcoming obstacles more challenging than the last.  When I expressed some trepidation about whether the future I hoped for would materialize, he looked at me very directly with the same intense hazel eyes my father had and said, “Doors will open for you—they can’t not.”

My eyes were opened while in Mexico a couple of weeks ago, when visiting the ancient Maya ruin of Chichen Itza.  In an extraordinary coincidence, my guide Julian and I discovered we shared a similar stretch of painful personal history.  In parting company, he said to me “Now it is time for joy.”

And so in answering the phone last week when a former colleague called, I slowly realized why she sought me out.  It was not because I handled a situation she now faced with perfection, but rather simply that I had spent time in the particularly uncomfortable shoes she now wore herself.  She had seen me hobble my way out of them and into something better-fitting—not by clicking my heels and repeating incantations, but through a process much more human. I was gratified to put to good use some of the misconceptions and missteps I had walked through.

Now, when I find myself in life’s whirlpools, little or big, I try to keep my eyes and heart open for the angels incognito swimming alongside me, and remember to reach out my hand.

For more images from Ireland, see Travel Photos.

http://www.timelessmyths.com/celtic/invasions.html#Lebo r

http://www.unc.edu/celtic/catalogue/femdruids/

http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/rmrilke.htm