Forward
Over the last few weeks, I’ve released this work in three separate installments. I realize that most of you have already read this, but I wanted to have the full version up on the site for posterity purposes (it’s also much easier to share as one link). If you’ve read everything so far, you won’t find anything new here (except you’ll notice I removed a few videos strictly for email size considerations). If you’re new, take a read at what was simply the most beautiful, transformational journey of my life. I know there are errors riddled throughout, but I’ve kept each segment intact - I think it’s more genuine that way. Writing this was a somewhat of a struggle for me, and I think it’s only right to let that reflect in the work itself.
Starting tomorrow, I will be writing every day for the next one hundred days. If you’ve been following my journey for the last year, you’ll know I did something similar last winter. Ive decided that instead of writing about whatever topic comes to mind on any given day, I’m going to focus on one topic that has many different parts. I will intro that tomorrow, so be sure to check your inbox.
As always, thank you all for your support!
Intro
When I first attempted to write about my experience in Ireland, I started by writing down as much as I could. Thousands of words later, I realized that the stream-of-consciousness style probably wasn’t going to be the best approach to this. I couldn’t find a way to blend all of my experiences into a cohesive storyline, so I’ve decided to take a different approach. I’m going to write about it in several parts, which I will release over the course of the next few weeks. This method suits my brain and my writing style, and it makes the task much less daunting.
I don’t expect everything I write to make sense. Some parts will read like a spiritual quest, other parts like a traditional travel blog. The most important thing to me is that I include everything - everything I was thinking and feeling and everything I experienced. It’s the only way to approximate the truth of the experience I had, which at the end of the day is near-impossible.
I have a ton of photos from the trip, so I’m going to include them throughout my writing, whether they contextually fit or not. Most of the photos came from one specific week which I’ll write about in a later segment, but it doesn’t make much sense to put them all in one part. I’ll just include them as breaks in texts or wherever I see fit.
Without further ado, let’s begin.
Part I: Life In Backwards Motion
It makes the most sense to start from the very beginning, which was almost a year before the trip took place. I was in a corporate job I couldn’t stand, and I was trying desperately to make it work with my on-again, off-again girlfriend. For reasons that are too complicated to get into here, that relationship brought me to the most pain I have ever experienced. It brought me straight to the darkest parts of myself and introduced me to the darkest parts that exist in other people. Up until that relationship, I was generally sheltered - mostly from alcoholic isolation - and never really had to wrestle with evil and darkness outside of philosophical pondering. In what I now see as one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given, that relationship brought it all out to surface, front and center.
I spent four years of my life trying to make sense of it all, trying to make it work, trying to fit it all into a manageable framework of life. Time and time again, I failed. I spent countless nights in the fetal position, consumed by terror and fear. It was as if a burning hot knife was pressing into my gut at all times. I knew that much of these experiences were trauma responses, and I did everything I could to address them psychologically, but I was met with an impenetrable wall in my soul that could not be moved. The more knowledge I gained, the more healing I did, the more it seemed to just get worse. I clung to the hope that maybe one day it would all just magically go away, but deep down I knew it never would. I was in love and saw a future I always wanted, and I’m a stubborn person, so I fought and fought and fought some more. That line from Batman comes to mind: “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain.”
“I was burned out in the race to become something I never even wanted to be.”
Over the course of those four years, I did indeed become the villain. I watched myself devolve from having the most noble intentions to becoming the exact thing I hated most. I became a liar and a cheater. I was in so much pain and didn’t have the option to numb myself with drugs and alcohol, so that’s how I did it. For a long time, I couldn’t even admit to myself that anything that I was doing was wrong. It was like my brain went into some numb, autopilot state, fixed on temporary soothing.
Needless to say, it never worked.
That knife in my gut never went away. I was anxious and stressed out 24/7. I was unwilling to give up the fight, so I sank into a pseudo-acceptance of my fate. I was miserable, and I was fated for a future of misery (or so I thought). Then, in what I can only describe as my darkest hour, I saw a light. It came in the form of a calling, one of which words can’t fully describe. It was a calling to go home, to go back to my roots, to go back to simplicity. I spent my entire life striving for more, trying to fit in with modernity, trying to gain things and recognition (neither of which I ever honestly cared about). I spent my entire life wrestling with desire, with the need for acceptance and validation, with these burning emotions I could not handle. I was always moving in seven different directions and unable to make much progress in any one way. I was burned out in the race to become something I never even wanted to be.
At first, I fought this calling tooth-and-nail. I kept trying to fit my life into what I thought it should be, I kept trying to make myself think thoughts I thought I should think. If you’ve ever tried that, you’d know it’s an impossible task. I felt like I was going insane, because, to some extent, I was. What’s the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I tried that for months - I tried to make myself “happier” at my job, in my relationship, in my social status. I tried to practice surrender and acceptance. I tried to look with gratitude at everything I was given and everything I had. All the while, the calling got stronger and stronger. Eventually, I was left with two choices: to task a risk and change everything or to continue down that path and fall further into oblivion. By the grace of God, I chose the former. I knew that if I decided to change I could never go back, but, despite the guilt and the shame, I knew I had no other choice. I decided to stop trying to move forward and set my life in backwards motion.
It was at this point that I had a vision. It was me as a child, somewhere around the age of ten years old. It was before drugs and alcohol, before nicotine and caffeine addiction. It was before I watched porn for the first time, before I ever kissed a girl or had sex. It was before I had a job and before my first heartbreak, before desire, lust and greed entered my mind like slow poisons. In this vision, I was happy. In this vision, I was free. Twenty years of life had stripped me of all that, no matter how pleasant I may have come across to friends and acquaintances. Something essential to my being, something like innocence or purity, was spirited away. I knew that the calling I was getting was tied directly to this vision, and it became the guide of every action I’ve taken since. Everything has been centered around finding that happy and free little boy once again.
With much trepidation, I began to act. I started with what seemed like the most glaring problem at the time - my job and my “career”. I loved the company I worked for and the people I worked with, but I felt completely useless. I wasn’t doing anything significant, I wasn’t helping anyone, and I always found myself doing the bare minimum. I knew that I was a man capable of so much, yet I couldn’t even succeed at a relatively simple job. I felt incompetent, like someone forgot to give me the instruction manual for becoming an adult. I knew that I would not be able to bear a lifetime of that, but I was too trapped by comfort and luxury to do anything drastic. I was getting by, after all, and I wasn’t performing badly enough to get fired. Then by chance, my boss scheduled a meeting with me, the point of which I did not know.I hopped on the zoom call, and he asked me a question that took me by surprise.
“Do you even want to be here?” he asked.
By all accounts I should have said what you’re “supposed” to say. I should have said “of course I do” and been willing to do whatever he asked. He obviously picked up on the fact that I was disconnected, and he was looking out for me by asking this question so bluntly.
“No,” I blurted out. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“I told myself that no matter what happened, I couldn’t go back, and I was willing to endure whatever necessary to make it work.”
I was shocked by the words that came out of my mouth. For context, I had developed a strong relationship with my boss, a truly great and honest man, and he knew that I had other endeavors in my life. I was comfortable speaking to him plainly, but this seemed like crossing the line. He could have fired me on the spot. In yet another surprise, he didn’t. He actually agreed with me that I shouldn’t be there. He wanted me to do bigger and better things. Needless to say, it was the strangest (and most beautiful) conversation with a boss I ever had.
This man was willing to work with me over the course of a few months in an act of kindness that I will never be able to repay. I had some cushion to figure out what I was going to do next. Maybe I’d become personal trainer, maybe I’d become a fitness influencer, maybe I’d finally put everything I had into music and try that again. Turns out I didn’t have to do much before the path became clear…
Throughout my life I gained experience in construction at different stages, at one point working for a large corporate construction company in Manhattan and at another point apprenticing for my uncle, a master carpenter (whom I’ve written about before) in residential building. I certainly didn’t have enough experience to justify starting my own company, but I knew someone who did - my cousin, who I might as well call my brother. He happened to to be looking to do the same, so we partnered up and started our own residential construction company. I eventually quit my job, and I left my bougie Brooklyn apartment and moved back home with my mother - a move that was tough on my 30+ year old ego. I told myself that no matter what happened, I couldn’t go back, and I was willing to endure whatever necessary to make it work.
Step one, complete. I started to get a tiny glimpse of the freedom I had envisioned. There was (and still is) so much more to figure out, but I knew I was finally on the right path. Life became simpler, and with that simplicity came some relief. Somehow, work was profitable and steady right off the bat, and has been ever since (I like to think I’m somewhat of a quick learner). I felt useful, and I felt like I was actually helping people. Little flickers of my vision began to shine through my spirit, but despite that, the pain and sorrow I tried so desperately to run from continued to get worse. I tried desperately to make it work with my girlfriend, whom I was sure I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I still fought, still spent nights in cold sweats, still tried to hold on hoping. I still acted out and played the villain. I didn’t know what to do next - all I could do was hold on and trust that the next steps would become clear.
“This pain, this sorrow, this thing that had consumed me for years - I finally found others who felt it exactly like I did. “
I’ll never forget the night when my ex brought up the concept of “WWOOFing”. We were at an Air BnB at a weekend-long training session in upstate New York, laying in bed and talking about life and the future. I had never heard of it before, and the name made me laugh. For those of you that don’t know, WWOOF stands for Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. It’s an organization that operates globally, where volunteers, known as “WWOOFers,” travel to different organic farms to learn and work in exchange for room and board. It is a wonderful organization, and if that’s something that interests you I highly recommend it.
I don’t quite remember if the idea of traveling to Ireland came before or after that night, but I know that soon enough, the calling once again burned within me. This time it told me to go back to where it all began, to the place my name originated. I didn’t really know how that would help me - I just knew I had to trust it. I decided to plan the trip, and with my new knowledge of WWOOFing, I knew exactly how I wanted to do it. I have a life and a business to run, so I didn’t want to spend too much money, but I wanted to spend a few weeks in Ireland to really immerse myself in the culture. WWOOFing was the perfect medium. I could go to Ireland, work the days, get free room and board, and spend my free time exploring. Organic farming was very aligned with my lifestyle, but I’d be lying if I said it was my primary interest at first. Little did I know, WWOOFing itself would become the most beautiful and life-changing part of my experience, but we’ll get to that later on.
In the spirit of getting back to my roots, I dove into my history - both of my family and my Irish heritage. I watched every documentary I could get my hands on, and I read everything I could read. I read the Irish poets - Yeats, Russell, Plunkett (my personal favorite) to name a few - and found that they resonated with me more than anything else I had ever read in my life. This pain, this sorrow, this thing that had consumed me for years - I finally found others who felt it exactly like I did. I started to see that the door that was opened for me was much greater than I ever imagined - the Irish people, my people, have seen the worst of the human experience - calamity, tragedy, heartbreak. You name it, they’ve experienced it, and they’ve written about it.
It was at this point that a shift began to occur within me. For the first time in my life, I felt understood in the deepest parts of myself, even if that understanding came mostly from dead Irishmen. The calling that was vague at first started to get clearer and clearer. I wanted to walk the land that these men walked, to breathe the air that they breathed. I wanted to converse with their spirits. The darkness that I had felt my entire life, and especially over the last few years, led me to a point of feeling incurably alone. I finally found a place that I felt like I belonged, even if it was a place lost in time. I knew that the wind and the land would be enough to connect me to that. I now understood why I was being so called to Ireland, to my ancestors. Now I just had to figure out exactly where I was going.
“I thought about that ten year old boy, how he got swallowed up by the world, how he reacted by keeping his heart locked up and defended.”
Inspired by the vigor of the Irish poets, I looked deeper into my own ancestry and family name - “O’Leary” or “O’Laoghaire” in Gaelic. I traced my lineage back several generations in an experience which felt like meeting old family members for the first time. Eventually, I uncovered that my name originated from a little village in West Cork called Inchigeelagh, also known as Iveleary. Once I uncovered this crucial piece of information, I hopped online and looked up the WOOFing locations in Ireland. Sure enough, there was a smallholding (a.k.a. small organic farm) a mere 10 minute drive from Inchigeelagh. I applied to work on the farm and was accepted. The journey was now set - all I had to do was make sure I made it on the plane.
Over the course of a few months, there were many victories and many defeats. I was excited for what this new adventure had in store for me, but I still had to live my life. The pain that set set the stage for my journey would not cease, and in time I finally found the strength to let go of the love that I held on to for so long. It was the last bastion of my old life, and I had to say goodbye. I knew I had to make my journey alone - that’s how it was always meant to be. Truth be told, after I looked long enough into the mirror, I realized that I was not capable of being in a relationship. I didn’t know how to trust anyone - something that plagued me my entire life. I thought about that ten year old boy, how he got swallowed up by the world, how he reacted by keeping his heart locked up and defended. The only way I was going to have any semblance of a healthy relationship was to get him back, to recover those things we both lost along the way. The backwards motion - that’s what this journey was all about.
Only in retrospect am I able to see how every minute detail of my experience leading up to my journey played a part in its inception. If I didn’t meet the girl, I would never have felt the pain that pushed me to change, and I would never had learned about WWOOFing. If I didn’t quit my job, I would never have had the freedom to travel for the time that I did. If I didn’t listen to my heart, I would not have heard the call to go back to my roots, to go back to that child. If I didn’t lose the love, I would never have been able to see the purpose behind all of it.
I look back now with tremendous gratitude towards all those who played a part in setting the stage for what would become the most transformational journey of my life. This is already one of the longest pieces I’ve ever written on this site, and I haven’t even begun to tell the story yet. I think that says something. Keep an eye out for next week’s installment, where I’ll cover the serendipitous start to my journey, Irish farm-life, the Irish Tao and, eventually…
How I met the Buddha in West Cork.
Part II: Family, Old and New
Before I knew it, my journey was upon me. The night before my flight, I packed my things as my mind buzzed with thoughts of the past and wonder at what was to come. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little maroon book that I had forgotten about. It was “The Secret of The Golden Flower,” a translation of an old Chinese sacred text by Richard Wilhelm and Carl Jung. Without thinking, I threw it in my bag. Looking back now, I didn’t realize how serendipitous that almost unconscious action would become, or how it would set the context of my entire trip.
I’ll never forget the feeling of relief as I boarded that plane. See, to me this wasn’t some sort of vacation or getaway. This was redemption. I had previously tried to get to Ireland twice before and both times failed. The first because I was too much of an alcoholic to get my shit together; the second because the wake of the financial damage of my addiction made it impossible to go. Now I was over five years sober with financial security, and I was actually doing it. I sat down in my seat and as we lifted off, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I finally made it.
The flight to Ireland was one of reflection. My mind continued to race with painful thoughts of my ex, the things that went wrong, the things that tore us apart - the really awful things. At the same time, my heart was heavy over a love that came into my life shortly before I left and vanished just as quickly. I was feeling sorry for myself, and wondering why I never seemed to be able to get it right, to hold onto this thing that I so longed for. These and other perceived failures weighed heavily on me. I’ve tried so hard at so many things in my life - love and music are at the top of the list - and failed. Time and time again, I was left with nothing but suffering. I couldn’t understand it, and the worst part of it all was that I knew these feelings casted a shadow. I knew these experiences and thoughts about myself nested in my subconscious and dictated so much of my life. Over the course of my life I’ve tried everything I could - sobriety, spirituality, therapy, trauma work - none of which could touch the things that were buried in the deepest parts of my psyche. I was restless and irritated, so I picked up that little maroon book and started reading it.
That meant that everything I thought I was - my ego, my identity - was an illusion as well. If I wasn’t myself, who was I?
I had read the book once before, but this time it was different. The words leapt off the pages, and I understood them in a way I couldn’t before. Given everything on my mind and all of the unanswered questions I had, that book came at the exact moment I needed it. I’m not going to spend time going through it line by line, but there’s one word that succinctly sums it up: suffering. The book and the philosophy it espoused were all about suffering (and freeing oneself from it). I had experienced plenty of that in my life, and as the plane flew over the Atlantic Ocean, a new way of looking at my reality started to emerge. Maybe I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was, maybe everything didn’t work the way I thought it did. This came as a relief, because the way I saw and experienced things always seemed to end up in suffering.
I experienced something like this once before in my life - over five years earlier in the weeks leading up to getting sober. I was convinced that life was meaningless, that there was nothing beyond the material world, that nothing mattered. Then by chance, I started reading C.S. Lewis’ “Mere Christianity”. I’ll never forget that moment on the Long Island Railroad when I realized that maybe I didn’t know anything. Maybe there was more to this life than anything I could think and perceive. It was the first time in my life I felt complete freedom, and on that flight to Ireland I felt the same thing - the only difference being that the experience in Ireland was less of a “white light” moment and more like a snowball that grew over the course of three weeks.
On that flight some things started to become clear. So much of my life was built around desire - of things, of people, of position - and every time I had a desire, I would experience suffering…whether I got what I wanted or not. Either I got my expectations up and I was let down when they didn’t come to fruition, or I got what I wanted only to realize I then wanted more. All of these things - all of these little desires that threaded through my life - were an illusion. The dreams of wealth and women weren’t ever going to quiet this restlessness in my heart. I meditated on this some more, and came to a scary conclusion - my entire self was concocted based on these desires. That meant that everything I thought I was - my ego, my identity - was an illusion as well. If I wasn’t myself, who was I?
I didn’t have an answer. Maybe Ireland had the answers I was looking for.
I landed at the Dublin airport in the middle of a rainy day, not uncommon in Ireland. I was tired and jet-lagged but also filled with gratitude that I finally touched down on Irish soil. I pressed on, beyond excited that my adventure had begun. I took a train from Dublin to Cork City, where I was staying for the night, and immediately the Irish landscape took my breath away. This would be a common theme in the weeks to come. I’ve seen some beautiful places in my life - from the countryside of Italy to the mountains of Arizona - but I never saw anything like that. Those vast stretches of vibrant green hills, seemingly untouched by modern society, combined with the archaic and antiquated architecture, spoke to me with a presence I had not yet felt. It truly felt like home, in more ways than I’m able to explain. It was beautiful.
After a few hours, I finally made it to Cork City, which was also breathtaking but in a different way. It felt old and dilapidated, lined with cold limestone buildings. It wasn’t particularly beautiful, but there was just something about the place - the dirt, the decay, the history - that struck me. I settled into my hotel and hit the town, completely drained but determined to make the most of the time I had. As I walked along the stone sidewalk I couldn’t help but think of my trip to Italy the year before, filled with romance, excitement and late nights. I started to get excited at the prospect that Cork could be the same, and my ego puffed up while my eyes started to wander. There she was - desire - back again in no time at all. I wasn’t even thinking about that little book I read on the plane; I was too consumed at the possibility of what could be.
It was at this point that something strange happened, something that would set the tone for my experience over the next few weeks. Despite what I thought I wanted, I couldn’t do it. That thing inside me that blossomed in Italy refused to come out. I saw beautiful women and tried to talk to them, but I was hit with an overbearing resistance and found myself anxious and stumbling over my words. Before I left, friends joked that I would find my wife in Ireland. To my dismay (at the time), I quickly realized that this wasn’t going to be what this trip was about. I went to bed defeated, set to take a bus to the farm the following day. I arose early, went to the gym and a recovery meeting, and made my way to the countryside via coach bus.
That’s when everything changed.
The house Barry lived in looked like something straight out of the Hobbit. I felt like I was walking into a Tolkien wonderland.
It’s difficult for me to talk about what happened over the course of the next two weeks. I’ve found that no matter how I try to explain it, no matter how I try to articulate it, nothing does it justice. I was transported to a world vastly different from the one I come from, and, quite simply, I fell in love with it. The land, the people, the animals - everything. I knew that Ireland would be an adventure, but I had no idea it would bring me to people and places that would challenge everything I believed in (in the best of ways). It all began when I met Barry at the bus station in Macroom, West Cork.
As the bus pulled in, I saw an intriguing looking man - tall and with a beard like Gandalf - sitting on the bus station bench. I had never seen photos of the couple I was planning to stay with, so the first thought I had was, “there’s no way this could be him…” Sure enough, I got off the bus, looked around for a minute and walked up to him. It was Barry.
We hopped in the car and Barry started telling me stories of WWOOFers of the past. I was quiet and reserved at first, as I usually am in new situations, and I was a bit taken aback by how immediately comfortable he was with a complete stranger. It rubbed off on me, and by the time we got back to the farm, I felt like I knew him for much longer than twenty minutes. Barry would go on to explain his life story to me - how he moved to Ireland from England and Wales over 30 years prior with his wife Jackie, how he spent his early twenties backpacking through India, how he travelled the world and spent winters driving down to Morocco, how he ended up with a “small” organic farm in Cork. It wasn’t long before I realized that fate had led me to some extraordinary people.
We pulled into the boreen, and I saw the farm for the first time. My jaw dropped. It wasn’t the type of farm you’d see in the movies or textbooks, which were the only image of farms I had in my head. It was smaller but somehow fuller, filled with beautiful, rustic buildings, lined with gardens and tunnels and surrounded by forestry and majestic Irish hills. The house Barry lived in looked like something straight out of the Hobbit. I felt like I was walking into a Tolkien wonderland.
The first “person” I met on the farm was Lizzie. She is a shaggy little 17 year old mutt who quickly became my dear friend. Lizzie spends her days shuffling around the farm, occasionally bumping into things and people (perhaps she lost a step or two in her old age), but at times being more spirited than a young pup. She loves to sleep and cuddle, two things we have in common, and we got along splendidly from the start. After meeting Lizzie for the first time, Barry brought me into the house, where I met his wife Jackie. We introduced ourselves over dinner and I was shown to my sleeping accommodations. It was a warm, cozy second floor bedroom lined with all types of strange, antique artifacts from around the world. I remember I slept like a baby that night. I felt right at home.
I don’t know how to accurately describe Barry and Jackie, or how I grew to so adore them both over the course of two weeks. So much of it was in the nuance, in the spaces that words can’t get to. I spent my days doing all types of work on the farm - from spud (potato) digging to gardening to chopping wood (my personal favorite). I spent my nights eating delicious meals prepared by Jackie and watching cycling (Barry’s favorite) and Ricky Gervais shows. Barry and Jackie worked hard to keep the ecosystem working properly, but they lived at a different pace than I was used to. As an American, I came to the farm with a ruthless, “get-it-done” attitude that I didn’t even realize I had. I’d often skip breakfast and lunch and just work. That’s not how it went on the farm. There was ample time for breakfast, ample time for lunch, ample time for tea and coffee. Every moment was appreciated, and every moment had its place. I technically worked less hours per day than I do in America, but somehow everything always got done - perfectly. It was hard work, but it felt effortless.
Barry taught me more in two weeks than I learned in four years at college, and I mean that. He taught me about crops, about sheep, about seasonal cycles and rain. He taught me about building, showing me all the things he built in his 30 years on the farm (including two full houses). He taught me how to rake properly, how to chop wood properly, how to feed chickens and how to weed a garden. Most of all, he taught me in ways he didn’t actually teach me. He taught me by just existing, by telling stories about his life and his adventures, by being a constant beacon of joy and always having a laugh (or as he would say, a “crack”). He taught me that it’s possible to slow down and still build a beautiful life. I’d been running my entire life - from one thing to the next, from one idea to another, always burning out and reaching a breaking point. By watching Barry move through life, I understood the folly in all of that. I felt like I was finally able to breathe.
Jackie, on the other hand, was the rock, the core that kept the ship sailing. She spent four days of the week preparing for the country market, where she sells all types of food grown on the farm. Every night she spent a few hours preparing delicious, home-cooked meals including smoked mackerel, lasagna, braised lamb and lamb curry. I ate like a king, and each meal was better then the next. Like Barry, Jackie was always working, just instead of outdoor work it was indoor work. She was (and is) the strongest woman I’ve ever met, in a completely different way than Western society claims women should be strong. She doesn’t workout, she isn’t a CEO, she isn’t “independent” in that skewed sense. She is a wife and a mother and adorns her role on the farm with pride and grace. She is equally as joyous as Barry, and I did not hear a complaint out of either of them for the entire two weeks. They both knew what they had to do, did it, and enjoyed it. They must have considering they’d been doing it in various forms for over 30 years.
The two weeks I spent with Barry and Jackie were the two most beautiful and peaceful weeks of my life. Before I knew it they felt like family to me (and still do). I never expected to get so close to them and to have so much in common with them. We come from different generations and different worlds, but we see the world in strikingly similar ways (in many ways I never expected). The irony of it all is that Ireland’s greatest gift to me was an English couple!
In the midst of the joy of farm life, I still had my mission. I had to find my family, my ancestors - anything I could. I explained my story to Barry and Jackie and why I had chosen their farm in the first place, and they were more than willing to help out. Jackie mentioned a man by the name of Joe Creedon who frequented the country market. She said he was they type of man who knew everything about everything, and she decided to tell him my story and see if he could help us find what I was looking for. Within a few days a meeting was set to join him at his pub, aptly named “Creedon’s”. Remember that town - Inchigeelagh - I had found in my ancestry research? Creedon’s Pub happened to be located in the heart of Inchigeelagh’s town square…
Barry, Jackie and I headed to Creedon’s on a Friday night in what would become one of the most magical nights of my life. Joe was there, and he proceeded to reveal himself as Ireland’s foremost authority on O’Learys. He told me tales of our heritage in the military and the arts, taught me that the greatest love poem in Irish history was written about an O’Leary (Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire or Lament for Art O’Leary), and told me where my family came from (we literally have a castle in Inchigeelagh) and how we originated in the very town his pub sat. He sang me an old Irish tune dedicated to my ancestors, and he gave me a special medallion with my crest on it. I mean, are you kidding me? I came to Ireland and found exactly what I was looking for. As it turns out, Creedon’s Pub is the central meeting place for O’Learys all across the world. Joe explained how every week he meets a few O’Learys doing exactly what I was doing, looking for exactly what I was looking for, and that there’s even a yearly clan gathering (I had missed it by two weeks unfortunately). I spent the rest of the evening in the pub with Barry and Jackie, buzzing with excitement about the events that just took place. I couldn’t make it up if I tried.
There’s much more to tell, but I think I’ll leave it here for this installment. I’m sure at this point you’re wondering why the hell I named this piece “I Met the Buddha in West Cork”. I promise, it will all become clear by the final segment. I came to Ireland and found my people, both literally and figuratively. I found my old family in Creedon’s Pub, and I found my new family in Barry, Jackie and Lizzie. What I haven’t talked about yet were my nights alone, spent with myself and God in the quiet of the Cork countryside. It was during these nights that strange “coincidences” took place, and all of these different storylines were brought together in a way I would never expect.
Part III: The Eternal Buddha
Throughout my two weeks on the farm, a different storyline emerged - one that took place after dark. I spent my days working and laughing with Barry and Jackie, but my nights I spent alone. I slept in a second floor loft adorned with all kinds of trinkets from around the world (many I presume from Morocco) and a bookshelf with hundreds of different volumes. The part of the house I slept in had it’s own door, and it felt completely shut off from the outside world - in a good way.
I’ll never forget that first night. I was filled with excitement and awe, proud of myself that I had actually done the thing I said I was going to do. I couldn’t wait for what the upcoming weeks had in store for me. I dropped my luggage and jumped into bed, then it hit me…
I didn’t have anything to distract myself.
I got rid of social media before my trip and didn’t have a significant other to talk to, so I had to find other things to do. Plus, the cell service where I was staying was practically non-existent. I actually had to sit with myself, and this would turn out to be more difficult than I had hoped. This little loft in Ireland was dark and quiet - the kind of quiet where I could almost hear my own thoughts. After five years of sobriety and all that self-improvement, I quickly realized that something in me still feared silence. Back home, steeped in a world of endless stimulation, I liked to think of myself as “different” and not controlled by digital dopamine like everyone around me. I was sorely mistaken.
There I was, an American in the Irish countryside reading books about Eastern spirituality.
As subtle feelings of anxiety and dread crept in, I began to peruse the bookshelf to see if I could find a solution. Amidst the vast catalogue before me there were books about traveling, books about cooking, books about Ireland, books about spirituality. I combed through all of them and saw one that piqued my interest - “Siddhartha” by Herman Hesse. Over dinner, Barry had mentioned it was one of his favorite books, so I threw the book on the bed. I kept looking, curious if I would find anything else that intrigued me. At the base of the bookshelf was a small closet, so I opened it and looked around. I noticed a large wooden box on one of the shelves and picked it up; to my surprise, the inscription carved on the box read “I-Ching”.
For those of you that don’t know, the I-Ching is an ancient Chinese book of divination. I won’t go into its history here, but it’s worth noting that I’d previously had significant experience with the book (one of my tattoos is in fact a hexagram from the I-Ching). This was the most impressive version of the book I’d ever seen, so I took it out of its case to continue examining it. On the cover I saw its translators - Richard Wilhelm and Carl Jung. Remember that little maroon book I randomly took on the plane? It was translated by the same two men. I felt a light chill run down my spine at the realization of this strange “coincidence”.
Siddhartha and the I-Ching would become my nightly reading material. There I was, an American in the Irish countryside reading books about Eastern spirituality. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Those fleeting thoughts about suffering and illusion that popped up on my flight began to take more of a concrete form, reinforced heavily by Hesse’s ingenious take on Buddhism. Up until this point in my life, I hadn’t taken an honest look at Buddhism. Sure, I knew what it was about generally, but in comparison to other systems of thought/belief I knew very little. As a westerner who grew up in the Roman Catholic tradition, I was always very weary to make Eastern spiritual lineage a part of my own. It was actually my reading of Carl Jung that birthed this hesitancy - Jung was not in agreement with the Western, bastardized version of Eastern spiritual spirituality, going so far as to call it harmful. I mean, just think about it - from tight spandex yoga instructors to tantric sex practitioners to ecstatic dance festivals, we’ve done what the West does best - turn the seeds of something profound into something overtly sexual. Sitting alone in my room in the middle of nowhere Ireland, I finally felt safe to dive into the teachings of the Buddha and see what they were really about.
Oddly enough, I found nothing sexual or ecstatic. What I did find was a man who had experienced the true definition of freedom - freedom from desire, freedom from illusion, freedom from self. It resonated so much with me because these were all the things that weighed so heavily on me, that kept me in what I perceived as an endless cycle of suffering. Not unlike Christ, he was a man who experienced a beautiful state of existence and taught others both what he did to get there and the knowledge he gained from being there. I didn’t find any of the spiritual bypassing mumbo-jumbo I’ve come to associate with Buddhism in the West. I did find a rather wild text on tantra and Buddhism, but that was after a long rabbit hole and felt far too cult-y to take seriously.
These things that were in my head - these thoughts that floated around making me feel this way or that way - they weren’t real. They weren’t even me. They were merely vestiges of past experiences that lingered to appease my ego.
Perhaps the most interesting concept I came across was the idea of the Eternal Buddha. Not all sects of Buddhism believe in this concept (I don’t think?), but many do. The Eternal Buddha is the idea that each and every one of us has a buddha within, lurking underneath all of our suffering and misconceptions. In this line of thinking, Siddhartha Gautama (the person we all think of when we say “Buddha”) was not a god of any type, but a man who had come into union with his Eternal Buddha. This puts the Buddha as a state of being rather than some unachievable, religious ideal. I really liked the idea of that, as it made the concept of freedom feel attainable. All I had to do now was the thing I was most afraid to do…meditate. By meditate I don’t mean sitting with my knees crossed and chanting “OM”. I mean sitting with myself in complete darkness and complete silence and just letting myself exist there.
To my dismay, I was only able to get myself to do this on one evening. Sure, I meditated a bunch and did breathing exercises every night, but I only allowed myself to go to that particular place once - and I wasn’t able to stay there for long. It was over the course of those two weeks that I realized that I wasn’t as “spiritually advanced” as I thought I was, and I also realized that viewing spirituality as a game with ascending levels wasn’t doing me any favors. At the end of the day, I was okay. I was okay with the information I learned, okay with my limitations, okay with myself where I was at. Ireland seemed to have a way of allowing me to be that way. In the back of my mind I also knew that one day I would return to the farm and to the silence, and I would have more time to face whatever this resistance was.
I don’t know exactly when, but it was the day after one of these deeply contemplative nights when it happened. I was walking from the farmhouse to the garden, yet again caught up in resentful thoughts of the past. Then, in a moment, a realization came upon me. These things that were in my head - these thoughts that floated around making me feel this way or that way - they weren’t real. They weren’t even me. They were merely vestiges of past experiences that lingered to appease my ego. In that moment, the thoughts vanished. My knees nearly buckled as I caught the slightest glimpse of what was underneath…nothing. Absolute silence, absolute darkness, absolute peace. For a split second I could actually “see” the illusion of my own mind. By the next moment everything returned to normal, and I was left in confusion. What did I just experience??
In hindsight, I now call it a moment of enlightenment. I am by no means enlightened, nor did I experience enlightenment as we think of that word. What I did experience was a brief glimpse into what that enlightenment could be, a moment of complete loss of self. To put it in Buddhist terms, in that moment I became one with the Eternal Buddha that exists within me. The experience vanished just as quickly as it came, but it opened my mind to the possibility of how things - my self, my reality - might actually work. Although this brief moment didn’t mark any significant outward change, it shifted something inside me permanently.
I saw in them the peak of goodness and selflessness, and I felt real hope - for myself and everyone else - for the first time in a long time. I wanted what they had, and I felt like it was actually possible.
After this subtle, powerful experience, life continued as it always does, and my two weeks on the farm passed quickly. Before I knew it it was time to say goodbye to Barry and Jackie and the adventure we had together. I was set to meet my cousin P.J. to travel the southern coast of Ireland for my final week. The goodbyes were tough, but I knew without doubt I would see Barry, Jackie, Lizzie and the farm again. This was just the next inevitable phase of the journey. I said my goodbyes and hopped on a four hour bus ride to Galway, and noticed how all of my desires slowly crept back in. Would I have some wild nights? Would I meet new lovers? The same theme replayed, with transcendent experiences followed almost immediately by a return to more basic impulses. I would soon learn that again my selfish expectations would not be met.
My week of traveling in Ireland was magical, but not because of any love stories or passionate nights. Given the experience I just had on the farm, my heart was just not open to flirting or partying or running around. What I was open to was the land and the beautiful landscape that stretched before me each day. I walked in hidden caverns, swam in secret lakes and drove on vast beaches. I stoop atop breathtaking cliffs, climbed ancient ruins and spoke to horses. We spent each night in a different city at different pubs, but after the days’ events I just wasn’t all that up for being social. After two weeks spent in wonderland, it was strange to come back to the “normal” world, and I was not on the same footing as I once was.
I’m not much of a travel blogger, so I’ll let the following pictures describe the rest of my Irish travels:
After a week of travel, I ended up driving to Wexford (on the east coast) to stay with my friends JackTim and Alice and their newborn son Taj. I stayed with them for two days and nights, in what was yet another surprise of the trip. Like Barry and Jackie, JackTim and Alice live what I can only describe as an enchanted life - they’re just a few generations younger. Alice’s parents own an enormous farm and Alice is (quite literally) building their new house, and JackTim runs his own surf school. They spend winters in the Northwest of Ireland and seek the surf. They are two of the kindest, most gentle-hearted people I’ve ever met - so strikingly reminiscent of Barry and Jackie. We had two days of a good ol’ crack, and most of the time we spent entertaining their little bundle of joy.
I’ve always thought I wanted kids, but my two days with JackTim, Alice and Taj solidified it for me. This kid had the most infectious smile I had ever seen. JackTim and Alice surrounded him with laughter, love and music - things everyone deserves to have a child. There was just so much joy in the air, both coming from and given to this little boy. I got to hold him, watch him “play” the piano and have that particular type of peculiar conversation adults have with babies. I got to see how much happiness he brought JackTim and Alice, and how much they genuinely loved taking care of him (despite their many sleepless nights). I saw in them the peak of goodness and selflessness, and I felt real hope - for myself and everyone else - for the first time in a long time. I wanted what they had, and I felt like it was actually possible.
When the time came, I again found myself saying goodbye, unable to give back what I had received. It was the same feeling I felt when saying goodbye to Barry and Jackie. These people had taken me in and showed me parts of myself that I didn’t know existed. They did it all by simply being themselves, moving in the world as they normally do. I’ll never forget how I felt in the two-hour car ride from Wexford to the Dublin Airport. It was three in the morning, pitch-black, not a soul on the road. It was me, myself and the Irish night. I knew that the previous three weeks had changed my life, but not yet able to make any concrete forms of thought. I remember a sweet calm, a feeling of hope and a tremendous sense of gratitude. I put Gaslight Anthem on the radio and burned into the night in what now has crystallized in my memory as an idyllic scene.
I journeyed to Ireland without knowing what to expect, and I got so much more than I ever bargained for. I learned about a new way of life and saw that people can truly be kind. I saw the importance of hard work, laughter, family and community. I met the Buddha within me and saw the folly in my own pride and vanity. After a such a powerful experience, only one question remained:
What the fuck do I do now?
To my dismay, the answer to that question has not come easy. I’ve found it difficult to reintegrate myself into my former way of life. Everything just seems…dull. I understand that there’s a certain level of culture shock when returning from overseas, but this somehow seems different. I’ve now seen first-hand the type of life I’ve always dreamed of. I’ve also seen all the desires within me that prevent me from making that dream become a reality. I’ve found it difficult to write, difficult to move, difficult to just be okay with myself. Everything feels all jumbled up and without any clear answers. I gained all this knowledge and insight about myself and the world without any instructions on what to do with it. At the end of the day, I think I’m just afraid. I’m afraid that Ireland was just a dream. I’m afraid that by being back here I will slowly lose the freedom and joy I felt for those three weeks. I’m afraid that I’ll never conquer these desires which so clearly run my life. I’m afraid I won’t have what it takes and life will just drag me along.
Every flow has an ebb. Every light has a shadow. The internal battle I now struggle with was born from the most beautiful experience of my life, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I can’t help but think it’s all a part of process that’s greater than me - I would never have seen these things otherwise. What I do now - well, that’s up to me. I’m going to spend a few months living alone by the beach this winter. I’m also going to spend some time alone in the woods. I don’t have any answers other than a strong desire to return to the silence and the darkness; perhaps I can find what I’m looking for there. There’s also this faint little voice in the back of my mind telling me to return to where it all began for me - to Christianity, to Christ, to the Bible. I don’t know what that means yet, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
The final realization I’ve had is that I need to write more. A lot more. There is so much creative energy and thought that is trapped inside me - all overflowing from the trip - and I’ve just let despair and lethargy string me along these last few weeks. Starting next week, I’m going back to another hundred days of consistent writing. One hundred days, one hundred published pieces - no matter what they look like. Judging by my experience last winter, I’m sure there is much more to be revealed over the course of the next few months. At the very least, I’m sure I’ll learn a lot more about myself.
Thank you to all of you who took the time to read about my journey to West Cork. I seek neither praise nor pity, neither admiration nor admonition. I simply seek to relay my experience and hope that maybe you can relate to the feelings I’ve felt and to the the thoughts I’ve had. Maybe some of you will be inspired to make journeys of your own or think about your own internal battles with desire, pleasure and suffering. I’ve come to the conclusion that at the end of the day, all I can do is live and write. My words are the only way I can communicate my message, which is ironically still unclear to me.
Thank you all for joining me on this journey. Until next time…
-D