Where's Yer Local?

"Praising God is thirsty business."  This bit of wisdom has been known to escape my lips from time to time, actually on both sides of the Atlantic.  So a critical part of our living in Dublin from 2016-2021 was determining where our local would be.  O'Donoghue's on Merrion Row?  Too touristy.  Temple Bar?  Too crowded with Yanks.  Cobblestone?  Well, now yer talking the real deal (I think the folks there were extras in The Lord of the Rings), but for the love of Mike, it's on the other side of the Liffey...  ya might as well walk to Malahide.  But The Hairy Lemon seemed just right.  It was right around the corner from the Gaiety Theatre, so an easy stroll through St. Stephen's Green – which was important on those frequent nights when you were thirsty but the heavens were unleashing their worst on the streets of Dublin 2.

Yer local was (and is) an important part of the culture.  Here you can ruminate about the state of politics (no matter what country you're from or what condition it's in; they're all in the trash heap).  You can have a heart to heart about how stupid American football is compared to the true genius – and utter danger – of Irish hurling.  Or you can just shut up and listen to music, or the banter of others, ninety-nine percent of which might just be pure gobshite.  

During our time in Dublin, following our Tuesday night services at Newman Church, a few respectful souls and myself, accompanied by my good woman herself, would make our way down to The Hairy Lemon.  Libations, wisdom, camaraderie, and sometimes even great cultural and historical achievements were shared.  The genius and the woes of the world were laid bare, all fortified by the mandatory pint.  

Tonight, for the first time in years, a few of our fellow parishioners gathered at this august watering hole, talked of years gone by, the beautiful regeneration of Newman University Church, the expansion of the sacred music choral program, the condition of the Irish Catholic Church (are you listening, Pope Leo?), and who might win the next All-Ireland.  The craic, as they say around here, was ninety.

The ministerial part of me (which is a big part) takes comfort in the fact that Jesus blessed both libations and such gatherings.  I never went to a pub alone – therefore, when two or three were gathered, the Savior of the world, I was assured, was in our midst.  

And that is a comforting thought, indeed.

Ceatharlach agus an Cór

... which is the Irish for "Carlow and the Choir."  The Folk Choir, that is, that marvelous community with whom I spent more than thirty-five years of my professional and spiritual journey on the campus of Notre Dame.

The year was 1988; the Folk Choir had been around less than a decade, and yours truly decided it would be a marvelous idea to take the growing ensemble (eighteen members) on tour.  We had never toured before – not even across town or, going for the big trip, over to Mishawaka....

So the first tour of the Notre Dame Folk Choir was to Ireland.

It was a demanding itinerary, building on parochial and monastic contacts I had made the year before, when I spent a couple of weeks hitchhiking (yes, that's correct) around the nation, trying to figure out if we could string together such a trip on a limited budget.  That first pilgrimage included stops at both Kylemore and Glenstal Abbeys; we also had a wonderful collaboration with Dublin's Catholic Youth Council.

And for three days on this trip, we holed up in Carlow.  At the time, it was the home of the National Liturgy Centre (later moved to Maynooth University in 1996).  As a choir, their staff treated us to a treasury of sacred music compositions, not the least of which was an entire three-year psalter by the renowned Irish composer Fintan O'Carroll. 

Somewhere in the middle of that stay, we were introduced to another hymn, a simple four-part arrangement of the Lorica of Saint Patrick, entitled Christ Be Near At Either Hand.  It had been scored by the renowned Irish organist, Gerard Gillen – a dedicated church musician whom I finally had the privilege of meeting, and becoming great friends with, upon moving to Dublin in 2016.  

Carlow Cathedral

Hearing Christ Be Near, I immediately knew that the piece would work for our ensemble, because Dr. Gillen's arrangement was readily complemented by guitar chords (from the start, organ and guitar were joint partners in our ensemble).  All that was needed was a flute part, which I provided.

Then came a published octavo by World Library Publications, followed by the first St. Patrick's Day liturgy on the campus of Notre Dame University (March 17th, 1989, which coincided with a parade in downtown South Bend for the ND football team, who had just won the national championship).  And this was followed by other churches and cathedrals (most notably, St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City) that included the hymn in their own celebrations the following year.  

All because a rowdy group of college singers landed on the doorstep of this remarkable center for liturgy and song in the heart of County Carlow.  We were like worker bees, having visited the blooming fields of Ireland, carrying gifts that would soon become honey for the church's robust song around the world.

40 Shades of Green on the Other Side of the Road

So, what's so cool about Irish international airports?  Well, two things to begin with.  Even though we're landing at Dublin International Airport (DUB), the real legacy begins with Shannon airport (SNN), on the opposite, western coast of the island.  For decades, Shannon was the portal, the gateway into the Emerald Isle.  (They had to relinquish this privilege when planes could fly nonstop to Dublin).  And the two cool things about Shannon? 1) It was the first airport to come up with the idea of a "duty free" shop; and 2) it's where Irish coffee was invented.  

But as I said, we landed in Dublin – which is a beautiful airport as well!  From there to the car hire (not car rental; in Ireland, there are always other names for things – this is a theme I will speak of later).  Just to make sure you've got your wits about you after that all-night crossing of the Atlantic, the very next thing you face after picking up your car is the M50 Motorway (no, it's not an Interstate).  And then you begin your journey on the other side of the road.  And note this well: it is NOT the wrong side of the road, as most American tourists will put forward with opinionated disdain.

Driving in Ireland, and specifically Dublin, is an art form in and of itself.  The city is medieval, hence bus routes, bike routes, and the LUAS (trolley; it's the Irish word for speed) all seem to pulse and sometimes merge in mysterious ways.  You just gotta know the territory.  Our destination is, as the Irish would say, "beyond the pale" – not necessarily lawless, but outside the city walls of Dublin.  We're driving into the heart of Forty Shades of Green, to County Carlow.

So here's another thing.  In this beloved land, names for things usually begin with what they are (river, county, mountain), followed by where they are.  So, it's "County Galway," the "River Slaney," "County Wexford," the "River Shannon," "Croagh Patrick" and not the other way around.  There are a few exceptions, just to mess up the tourist, but you're usually safe to stick with this formula.  

We're deep in the green fields now, for a couple of restful days before we head back to Dublin's fair city, where reunions will continue to take place.  Yours truly has already driven the two-hour jaunt in a six-speed manual transmission jalopy. The other side of the road AND a stick shift!  Now that's entertainment!

Home Is: (fill in the blank)

Those of you who know a bit about the travels of this writer also know that for more than thirty-five years home was called the University of Notre Dame, in South Bend, Indiana.  But before that, home was in the Green Mountains of Vermont: we lived in a small farming community outside of the Queen City, Burlington, and just a few miles down the road from where the legendary Snowflake Bentley did his work in Underhill.  

In 2016, my wife and I packed up our "home" – that is, what little we hung onto after selling our house, our cars, and having an estate sale – and moved to a place I never would've considered years before: a small rectory attached to a small church in the teeming capital city of Ireland.  Dublin 2, on St. Stephen's Green.  That little pocket, tucked between Iveagh Gardens and the Green, became our home for the next five years.  

And in 2021, I retired from Our Lady's University, and we moved to yet another place to call home: Black Mountain, North Carolina.  That is where this meditation is now being written.

Under the mantle of each of our homes is a piece that has been with us throughout our married journey together.  The plaque says, as Gaelige (in Irish): "N'il aon teintéan mar do theintéan fein."  The translation: "There is no fireside (turf fire) like your own fireside."  

It's an important saying to keep close to the heart. The comfort of a fireside can exist in many places, and they are not necessarily wedded to the locale that we originally called "home."  We take our firesides with us: those places of room-comfort, of nesting, of looking out at the world from within a four-walled womb.  

All of this is present to me now, because in 24 hours, we will travel back to the Republic of Ireland after four years away. Two weddings a month apart, two colleagues getting married at the same church in Dublin (Newman University Church, where we were stationed), and in between the chance to say hello (and good-bye) to friends we hadn't seen since the dawn of the pandemic.

Ireland was home for us, for five years.  But even beyond that, there were dozens upon dozens of host towns and families that opened the door to us.  What kind of a reunion will we encounter?  Will the cobblestones, our beautiful little church, the shops and pubs, still feel like "home"?  

Stay tuned as I turn to these questions over the coming weeks!  

Slow Down, You Move too Fast

So, you say, the world is out of control.  We're addicted to our little screens (get on a plane or a bus, and what kind of behavior do you see?); we move from one frenetic activity or set of demands to another; we can't talk to one another without entering into the dysfunctional dualism that has become part and parcel of our contemporary society.

When I've surveyed this, it's been necessary to stop and ask challenging questions.  Foremost in my mind: what can I do, within my own craft and discipline, to help heal this landscape?  

For years at the University of Notre Dame, we always began our liturgies with mantras. We incorporated this circular, meditative practice so that, as we began our prayer, we weren't simply "flipping the switch" and mechanically jumping into the Opening Hymn.  Rather, we prepared.  Repetitive choral music was the tool we used to soften and open our hearts to receive.

That aspect – of repetitive mantras that aided both in focus and calming – became the seed of a much more expansive project: The Contemplative Classroom.  Here are some of the guiding principles:

- Create a repertoire of Scripture-based mantras, easily learned and harmonized, that would appeal to both young and old age groups;

- Record the collection using an actual high school choir (hence, teenagers would become the evangelizers);

- Create a platform where the listening experience and the catechetical aids would be free, the printed music and downloadable MP3s available for a minimal expense.

Last May, a grand convergence took place in Mobile, Alabama.  Assisted by the McGill-Toolan Catholic Chamber Singers (all high schoolers), and prepared by their marvelous choral director Beth Haley, we recorded 16 new pieces of music, all mantra-based in their compositional format.  The website became operational just before the beginning of the past school year.

The idea here is to slow down.  As none other than Richard Rohr has advocated, we need to teach contemplation.  We are moving too fast; we need to slow down.  And music – especially sacred music – is a vital tool to reach down into the heart of this pulsing world, creating oases of calm and focus.  In a tangible, sonic way, it allows us to rest our spiritual compass.

We are now at the end of a school year, and a handful of schools have begun to integrate this repertoire into their daily routines.  Five minutes or so a day, creating a prayer circle, changing the lighting a bit, staying in the classroom but starting (or ending) the school day by slowing down, breathing, praying, becoming more intentional.  All building on the wisdom of the Scriptures.

If you're a teacher (or a parent, because the repertoire has no boundaries – it can be used just as effectively at home), consider adding this free resource to your toolbox.  Classrooms, Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, retreats, (and yes, for retreat centers) – it's an adaptable collection of songs.  

And if you're using this site already, please post a comment!  We're eager to hear how all our labors are being put to good use.

Forty Eight and Seventy One

On May 29th, 1977 (which was the marking of my twenty third birthday), one of the most astounding presents was placed before me: the birth of my first son, whom we named Nathan Paul.  

Almost from the start, Nathan displayed an aptitude for music that was uncanny.  He started out on violin, but quickly switched from Suzuki to something that, in his estimation, was much "cooler."  He chose the trumpet, and from grade school on that hunk of plumbing was his constant companion.  

It accompanied him every morning to zero hour, when he would wait for the school bus on a cold northern Indiana street corner (note: at an ungodly time, before the winter sun came up). It accompanied him to summer band camps across the midwest.  It accompanied him when he won the Thompson Scholarship to Interlochen Arts camp (and a subsequent helping hand to IU Bloomington for a Bachelor's performance degree).  Eventually, it accompanied him to New York City, where my eldest earned both a Master's in Music (at Manhattan School of Music) and a Doctorate in Performance (at Stony Brook, Long Island).  

But also along the way, it also accompanied him to St. Mark's Catholic Church, way up in Harlem, where my son decided to "give back" to an exceptional educational and musical environment, locked in one of the more challenging parts of New York City (the parish and school were founded at the dawn of the twentieth century by St. Katharine Drexel).  The pay had nothing to do with it.  And it was about forty blocks from where he lived.  

This past week, on our shared birthday, family members gathered in Knoxville, Tennessee:  Nathan was the sole brass player for the broadway musical Back to the Future.  Watching him navigate a highly technical show (with less than a dozen in the pit orchestra) made this father incredibly proud.  And while the show was completely absorbing (yes, and a ton of fun – thank you Michael J. Fox, Christopher Lloyd and Lea Thompson, for the original movie!), before the curtain was raised I found myself looking back, in my mind, through the pages of all those years, all those road trips, all those band camps, all that music, all those performances.

Years earlier, Nathan and I had the chance to offer a duet for Christmas Eve at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart at Notre Dame.  We played O Holy Night;  I was on the Celtic harp; my son played next to me in the sanctuary.  This past Christmas, we recorded that piece, for old time's sake, as a Yuletide gift for his wife, Jaclyn.  It was one of several meaningful collaborations through the years.  

Parents, don't let anyone tell you that music lessons, band camps, or degrees in music are a waste of time, an ordeal that leads to membership in the starving artist's club.  Of course it takes dedication – years and years of it.  But to see the remarkable gift that musicians give to the world: such a gift is beyond price.  

So Nathan, here's to you, my son. For all those winter mornings, all those endless miles on the way to lessons, all those years in New York City putting one foot in front of the next, one step away from busking on the streets.  You know how much I admire all you have done for the betterment of this world.  This little testimonial is but a fraction of what could be said about how you are walking and working and playing your way through life.  

Roads?  Where you are going, my dear eldest, you don't need roads.  You just keep that trumpet close to your heart.  

And Now, Four Years Later....

Two weeks from now, my wife Michele and I will be heading back to a land we knew so well: the green fields of Ireland.  Four years ago, in the summer of 2021, it was time to start another chapter – close the book on so many memorable years with the University of Notre Dame, choose a new community in the United States, and make the journey westward across the Atlantic.  

Five years earlier, in 2016, we likewise closed another chapter: more than thirty-five years on the campus of Our Lady. But that time, we were headed eastward: we had sold most of our earthly goods in order to accept the University's invitation to move to Dublin.

One of the great theologians on our campus, the late John Dunne, c.s.c., gave a lecture years ago on the meaning of Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken.  Father Dunne's point was that, in contrast to the poem's message (that perhaps roads will never join up again), mysticism teaches that oftentimes the roads do converge, leading us back once again to places that still live on in our heart.

Dublin's Newman University Church does, indeed, live on in our hearts, as do the people whose nuptials we'll be witnessing.  Dominique Cunningham, who took over my position as Associate Director of Music and Liturgy, and Katherine Dunn, who is in Director of Information Technology and Communication (both of whom are doing outstanding jobs!) will be married a month apart at the beloved church that we called home for five years.  

Paths will converge again.  Voices joined in song will be raised again.  Stories of endurance through a global pandemic, a journey to Rome (John Henry Newman was canonized while we were there), and musical and liturgical moments through the years will be flowing like wedding wine.  

When we concluded our chapter in Ireland in 2021, the pandemic was still a reality in Ireland.  Churches were just barely beginning to host people for public prayer again.  But saying good-bye to many of our friends, particularly those in places like Connemara, Kylemore Abbey, Galway, and Kilkenny – all of these had to be saved for a later day.  And soon, that day will be upon us!  Part of this blog will be devoted to a travelogue of our journey back to Ireland, reconnecting with friends – some of whom we've known since 1987.  

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.  And yes, we took the one less traveled by.  But roads (and friendships) do converge again.  Hands and hearts and voices rejoin, just a bit around the bend....

Return of the Pilgrim

It has been a good few years since the ND Guitar Pilgrim has been added to.  Transitioning from Ireland back to the United States, settling into a new hometown, recovering from a global pandemic and facing the worst storm in recorded history of Western North Carolina has proved to be something of an endeavor.

But we have a new home in the mountains.  Our Irish friends would ask "Are ye settled?"  And now, unequivocally, we can say "Yes."

Much has taken place, personally and professionally, since our move to the Appalachian Mountains.  I continue to write for GIA/WLP (I just had a new piece accepted by GIA, a new anthem setting of the traditional hymn Abide With Me); Michele and I have contributed to The Liturgical Press, and right now I'm crafting musical commentary for Liturgy Training Publications.  

Most of you know that I'm now the Director of Music for St. James Episcopal Church in Black Mountain, North Carolina.  (I'll write more about this in the future).  But as I did back in 2012, Michele and I will be headed over to Europe for five weeks (Weddings! Connemara! River cruise! Notre Dame de Paris!).  So a travelogue is about to begin again.

Stay tuned.... this site is back in business!