Changing Perspectives

I could not let today go by without a shout out to all of you to wish you a Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

For the first year ever, I am looking forward to St. Patrick’s Day.  To an American it may seem strange that for me, born and raised in Ireland, our national holiday was my least favorite day of the year.  But when I think of St. Patrick’s Day, green is not the color that comes to mind.  It’s blue!  I still remember the blue in my frozen little legs after walking for an hour in a parade, dressed in a flimsy Irish dance costume, through the bitter cold of a March day, and the blue in my hands and face after shivering in the rain waiting for my turn to dance on the makeshift, and now that I think of it, probably not too sturdy stage erected for this auspicious occasion.

When I moved to Chicago, I avoided the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations like the plague, not because of the blue this time (though I know a cold Chicago day could rival a Spring day in Ireland anytime), but because of the green!  Green was everywhere… even the river.  Crazy Americans, I used to think.  How hokey!  And those red wigs and Kelly green scarves and the green beer!  These people don’t know what it is to be Irish!

I was so wrong.

Eight years later, I look back on my perceptions of a Chicago St. Patrick’s Day and realize just how much my perspective has changed.  This year I want to seek out Irish music, watch my two-year-old daughter bopping to an Irish jig, with her African curls bouncing up and down, rivaling the most professional wigs!  I want to eat a traditional Irish breakfast.  I even want to see the river turn green.

Living away from Ireland has made me appreciate how much others have done throughout the centuries to keep that unique heritage alive and, because of them, I can find Irish music and an Irish breakfast, not just on St. Patrick’s Day, but any day of the year.  Okay, in Ireland we never drank green beer, and I think our rivers are mostly brown (with the rain at this time of year), but Americans are celebrating.  They are not just celebrating the Irish.  They are celebrating how people came here in droves in a not-so-fortunate era and rebuilt their lives.  They are celebrating how people survived and adapted and thrived.  They are celebrating that no matter how far away from home, a heritage and culture cannot be forgotten.  Americans have taught me that where you come from matters, no matter how long ago you came.

Eight years ago, I didn’t appreciate that.  But eight years of surviving, adapting, and thriving has made me appreciate not only who I am, but from where we all have come.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Bless you, Mama!

I have been seriously negligent in writing for my blog these past two months and I had been feeling really guilty. In fact I had been feeling guilty a lot recently – about what I wasn’t getting done, lists getting longer, tasks not done. It seemed like those months when supposedly nothing happens and we all hibernate, were in fact months when everything happened, and I was feeling tired, crotchety and unproductive. I last wrote about family visiting from Ireland, which was followed by an intense workshop for my coaching accreditation, followed by intense preparations in organizing the Silent Auction for the Ireland Network event, followed by a bout of bronchitis which knocked me for six!

Then I remembered, this is what I do every winter. I try to plough through these winter months, packing them with activities to try to forget that it’s bitterly cold outside and that the sun hasn’t broken through the clouds in fifteen days, which is my absolute limit for lack of sunshine. I get irritable and tired, and wonder why I am not accomplishing anything.

Then I inevitably get sick, the sick where I can’t do what I want to do. I feel wasteful and unproductive. I can’t sleep because I’m coughing so much. I can’t speak because it hurts. I have to cancel appointments and I realize that I’m hitting a wall.

I hit that wall last Friday, when after a week without sleep, without my voice and apparently without sufficient oxygen, I gave up and went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor because I always feel like such a hypochondriac. It’s February and I have a cold, well whoopdedoo! But apparently it was more than a cold, and it was time for antibiotics. I went home Friday annoyed with myself, wondering how long it would take to get better and how I could be any less productive.

Complaining later that day to my coach, he suggested that maybe this would be a good time to relax. He even assigned me fun and relaxation for my homework. I had to sit down and watch a funny movie with my husband. So I did (because you don’t say no to your coach)! I relaxed, I laughed, and I spent time with my husband, doing nothing. I finally read a beautifully written book I had bought some time ago and put at the bottom of the pile because it wasn’t on my coaching reading list. I flicked through some magazines piling up on the coffee table, begging to be read. It all felt good, but I still felt guilty.

Later that day, I was reading to my two year old daughter when I started into one of my coughing episodes. When I stopped, my beautiful little girl looked up at me with her big brown eyes and said in the sweetest little voice, “Bless you, Mama”.

I’ll never forget the look of love on her face and her obvious pride in knowing what to say. It was then that I realized how blessed I really was. I may not have ticked anything off the “To Do” list, but I had achieved so much more. I had spent time with my husband, I had enjoyed getting lost in a beautifully written book, and I had a moment with my daughter that taught me that not only is she now really communicating with me, but she also really cares about me. What wonderful, unforgettable moments. And I had been feeling guilty about what I wasn’t doing!