As I settled into my sweatpants and tee shirt tonight, the smell of wood fire from my weekend away filled my nostrils, and the memory of this delightful overnighter in the Kerry countryside flooded my thoughts and thanks...
I sat on the soft brown leather couch, snuggled next to my friends as we listened to the Clan play their instruments with such chemistry and excellence, our very own private living-room concert. Such joy filled that room. Mom and dad watched their adult children and smiled with pride and love, their hearts practically swelling out of them. I felt as though I was listening to a perfectly orchestrated exchange of musical voices conversing with one another. Some friends tapped their feet and clapped their hands. Others sat contently with their eyes closed, taking in the audible sensation that filled the home. The toasty wood fire blazed behind them- permeating the air with its familiar and comforting scent, as the tunes crescendoed and fell, dancing on the rhythms of tradition. I scratched this into my notebook: "Everybody is absolutely engrossed in the music, which is building in intensity and volume like an army training for war. Is this what it means to be Irish, to live in an Irish home? If so, I choose this life."
Even from the first time that I heard traditional music, I was convinced that this is the kind of music that will be played in heaven. No other sounds make me come alive like these. An Irish friend once explained the energy of the trad music to me: "It's because it's in your blood, Michelle". Even if my lineage has only a fraction of Irish blood in it, the love for this kind of music is absolutely alive in these veins.
