I Met The Buddha In West Cork
Part II: Family, Old and New
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.
Look out for Part III next week!
-D
Great story....thanks for sharing.... Looking forward to the next installment. :)