the germinating game
patience is metal 🤘 and family is everywhere.
“Oh! This one’s mine!” whoops Dobhrán, with the slightly muted—yet sweetly unguarded—enthusiasm of a pre-teen. I peer over the cards in my hand to catch his eyes, and with a slight furrow of my brows, silently ask who we’re hearing. “Metallica. ‘Blackened.’ From …And Justice For All,” he explains. I smile and nod, a Metallica newbie, and allow myself to really listen.
We’re playing two concurrent games on a Friday (pizza night) at the farm: “UNO No Mercy” at the kitchen table, and a game we’ll call “Top 5 Favorite Rock/Metal Songs” on the speakers. The former is a sadistic iteration of the original UNO that involves more draws than you could fathom; the latter is a jointly-constructed playlist we’re building and playing on shuffle, in real time.
Both games require patience, as we each await our own songs (while politely feigning interest in everyone else’s…) and strategize our discards to the pile.
This family is one that understands patience. Dan, the farmer, has built his whole life around it. “Some seeds will wait for decades before germinating. Then the perfect combination of factors will align, and it just happens,” he muses to me one day in the polytunnel as we smooth down the compost.
He and his partner Sharon are further proof of concept. Lovers in their late teens, they then lost touch for nearly 30+ years, until literally running into each other in town one day. They are to marry this spring—lives lived, paths aligned, endless growth potential ahead. A cotyledon poking through the soil.
Witnessing their shared joy for each other, for Dan’s son, and for the winding road that united them all, is a salve. I don’t hear them speak of time wasted, time lost. They are together, now, and that’s all there is.
— — —
Way back when, over late-night, dive-bar beers, a man I liked asked what I was “looking for.” His question (and the High Life) had gotten the best of me, and I surprised myself with a public-cry, an NYC rite of passage.
I recounted to him last Thanksgiving, and the delight of my brother’s kids jostling me awake at 7am, jumping on my childhood twin bed as cooking commotion began downstairs. The warmth and fullness of that simple interaction, the purpose found in just experiencing life with others: that’s what I was looking for.
My tears were grateful, melodramatic—rooted in fear that I wouldn’t get to recreate that warmth one day for myself, with someone. In waiting for my turn, however that looked, I had formed a panicked, exhausting relationship to time.
I drew a deep breath, wiped my face, forced a grin, and took a swig of my drink, hoping the feeling would pass.
— — —
Back at pizza night, an ethereal, hopeful, luminous intro flows over the speaker, and I smile wide. “I Am the Highway,” by Audioslave. Technically Dan’s song, but could just as much be mine. The drums roll in, and I see him mouthing the words in my peripheral. I’m mouthing along, too.
It’s a song I didn’t know I was waiting for, and the impatient itch to hear my own cools and subsides. The one playing now, in the glow of the kitchen, with this family, the only one requiring attention.
In the meantime—the only time—my lucky task is to bob my head, hum along, draw another card, and see what comes next. No skipping ahead.
field work
My first farm shift is over! And I’ve been enjoying civilian life until I head to my next gig. Here’s what I’ve been up to now that I’m off the clock:
Sleeping: On a log at the National Botanic Gardens, Kilmacurragh; till 10am in my country cabin; on the bus from Wicklow to Dublin.
Packing: Three jeans? Four sweaters? Three bras? Dead weight in the suitcase for this self-described minimalist (but apparent material girl). 😒
Walking: I pilgrimaged (if the bus is an hour late, it’s on time!) to Glendalough for an eery, joyful hike. Winds were fierce, rain was constant.
Reading: I’m talking the kind of “structured reading time” my bestie and I were required to complete before our playdates as kids. Thanks, mom!
reverence
in which I share a quote, prayer, or meditation.
Take, if you want a slice / If you want a piece / If it feels alright
Break, if you like the sound / If it gets you up / If it brings you down
Share, if it makes you sleep / If it sets you free / If it helps to breath
Don't come over here / Piss on my gate / Save it just keep it off my waveCry, if you want to cry / If it helps you see / If it clears your eyes
Hate, if you want to hate / If it keeps you safe / If it makes you brave
Pray, if you want to pray / If you like to kneel / If you like to lay
Don't come over here / Piss on my gate / Save it just keep it off my wave— the inimitable Chris Cornell, Soundgarden, “My Wave”
A swaggy, boisterous, earth-first anthem for self-expression and coexistence that I should have nominated as “Best Song” on pizza night. Ah, to live boldly, feel deeply, experiment fearlessly—but avoid doing harm in the process.
devotion
in which I share lifestyle suggestions to better honor this earth.
🥂 Carry a reusable mug and bottle: Speaking of keep it off my wave, by 2050, there will be more plastic in the ocean than fish. Refuse to partake by carrying your own gear: keys, wallet, phone, Nalgene.
📣 Call in (or out!) venues serving plastics: We can’t keep normalizing single-use plastics. Leave comments or send emails to demand sustainable vendor behavior (hell yeah I reviewed Glendalough). If it keeps you safe…
the craic
now listening: Ben Folds Five’s “Your Redneck Past.” the line Désolé, je suis americain! Please cook my steak again! makes me laugh aloud every time.
now podcasting: The newest episode of Dissect, focusing on Kendrick’s “We Cry Together” and the ways we inflict, project, and perpetuate pain.
now reading: Lincoln in the Bardo (weird!); guerilla Gaeilge (see below)
now eating: (well, partially eating then serving the rest to the dog) an Irish breakfast that was a bold choice before a 10 mile hike.
now wearing: these damn going-out-tops I wasted precious backpack space on, before I leave the city and get back to farming.
now missing: compost options (none in my current Airbnb); being greeted 4x a day by enthusiastic farm dogs; crying in public.
not missing: crying in public; wondering what “that noise” was, as I lay in the twin bed in my little farmhouse cabin. 😅
thank you // go raibh maith agat
Each of us comes from a culture or lineage rooted in reverence for the earth, proven through our collective ancestors’ lifestyles, ceremonies, and world views. For many, that divine connection to the land was severed—by force, by choice, by both.
Confronting and mitigating the climate crisis will depend on a great remembering of that connection, and a reestablishment of traditions, practices, and spiritualities we can employ to honor it.
I appreciate you working to remember. If anything in this newsletter resonates with you, let me know in the comments, and share with someone you love.
Sheila
PS: 🎶 I’m making an ongoing Spotify playlist in reference to this newsletter, listen if you’d like. Okay, that’s it! Slán!
You're such a beautiful writer, Sheila!!!
I was transported once again by your beautiful and touching prose!