What You See When You Look Up

Bloemgracht, The Jordaan District, Amsterdam

Amsterdam (the city that grew up around the dike of the Amstel River) is reported to have about 900,000 people in it.  It is also estimated to have about 800,000 bicycles as well.  Which means that, if you're walking throughout this city, you'd be very wise to keep your eyes to the right and to the left of you: cars, bicycles, trams, motorcycles, vespas, quadracycles (more on this tomorrow), vehicles that look like an afterthought from the set of Star Wars –  they all move around this city at a dizzying pace.

But if you have the courage to look up, if only for a moment, you'll see some curious things gazing down on you. Whales, references to the Bible, Latin inscriptions – they are all here just begging for you to notice them.

However, in order to do this, you need to look up – which means taking your life in your hands when wheels are flying all around you.

In the Jordaan section of Amsterdam, where we are staying, the majority of the homes are hundreds of years old.  And the vast majority of these are crowned with gables as unique as the buildings are ancient.  At the top of one, I saw a huge, half-story statement: "AMOR VINCIT!" it proclaimed – "Love Conquers!"  

At yet another home, perched on a street corner, was a Biblical reference looking down on us, something that would've totally been missed had I not stopped and taken in my surroundings.  There, emblazoned in Dutch, was a huge tile labelled "Noah's Ark;" above the craft sat a huge dove, holding an olive branch.  I wondered: Who decided to interrupt the brickwork of this building to make such a proclamation?  Why this Bible reference?  Did it have anything to do with flooding (and the fact that where we were standing was below sea level?)

Every building tells a story.  You just have to slow down and listen to what they're saying.

And watch out for the bicycles.

A Teenager vs. the Reich

Anne Frank Huis, Westermarkt 20, Amsterdam

Of course I read her diary in high school.  Didn't you?  But there is the aspect of being here, walking through (and under) the doorjamb behind the fake bookcase that led to the Secret Annex: the three story bungalow that served as the hiding place for the Frank family for more than two years. 

When you arrive, you can choose between two handheld audio guides.  The first choice is a sort of professional documentary, dispensing facts as you move through the old house and Annex, given in a professorial manner.  But the second audio guide is perhaps the more powerful, because it is narrated by a young girl, a voice that would've been the same age as the adolescent who endured living through the reality of a Nazi invasion.

Her young voice sets the stage early on: you hear her cheerfulness as she describes her classmates; you comprehend her love of socializing with her young school friends; you participate in her cautious dread as she begins to understand (especially after Kristallnacht) the kind of societal evil that was headed toward the Netherlands. 

This child's voice takes you through the ground and first floors of the Frank business and home.  But when the threshold is crossed into the Annex, her voice becomes silent, just as Anne's own voice had to be silenced throughout the day, in order not to be heard by the workers below.  The effect is both ominous and reverential at one and the same time.

Kristallnacht, the November pogrom, took place in 1938.  Anne was nine years old at that time, and by then Jews in Germany began to leave the country en masse.  The Frank family was no different, choosing Amsterdam as their city of relocation.

To hear an innocent voice narrate the litany of restrictions placed upon their faith and culture was chilling in its own right: shopping at restricted times; no provision for transportation (bicycle or automobile); Jews fired from their jobs, both artistic, professional, and administrative; no athletic facilities or parks to be used; curfews were set; and, of course, there was the accursed yellow star.

For more than two years, with the assistance of a handful of highly trusted friends, the Frank family hid under the noses of the Gestapo.  Food stamps and necessary goods were purchased by their secretive supporters on the black market.  But in early August, 1944, the Annex was raided.  The family was sent first to Auschwitz, where they were then separated from one another.  Only Otto Frank, the father, survived the concentration camps. (His own odyssey back to the Netherlands after being liberated, and discovery of the deaths of his wife and daughters, is its own heartbreaking tale).

Anne's notes, her diaries and her short stories, were miraculously saved by one of those confidantes – Mrs. Miep Gies.  The courageous salvaging of a teenager's journal served to inform the world of atrocities from a completely different perspective than those reported by the liberators of the concentration camps.

Just how much money, GDP, propaganda, paper and ink, matériel and pure bloodshed was let loose by the Third Reich?  None of it endured.  But a simple, naive and thoroughly honest journal by a young teenager has now been translated into 70 different languages; the Secret Annex that they once called home for more than two years has become a place of international pilgrimage, drawing more than a million people annually.

This teenager did, indeed, make her voice heard around the world.  Though she lost her life in Bergen-Belsen, her writings have, indeed, gone out into the world.  There, they continue to witness and to work for all humankind.

Through the Eyes of the Artist

The Van Gogh Museum, Museumplein 6, Amsterdam

When one embraces the labors and identity of being an artist, there is much that comes from such a decision.  In the early unfolding of such a choice – dare I say vocation? –  there are all the carrots that might seem alluring: the admiration of others, the chorus of praise, the attempted contributions to an ever-evolving landscape of beauty.

But not long into the journey, one finds that there are many other truths, perhaps even shadows, that lurk around the bend.  Artistry is a lonely place, a desert place.  Your ideas, even if they need a group of people to carry them out (e.g., with a theatre or musical work), can haunt you constantly, waking you up in the middle of the night, pulling the rug out from underneath whatever security your psyche has managed to cobble together.  You begin to hear not just from the admirers, but from the critics.  In the realm of sacred music, you also begin to hear from the hierarchy, some of whom most definitely have agendas that perhaps do not match your own.  

But you accept this, because in the end, the only goal is the sacred pursuit of beauty.  "Find beautiful things as much as you can; most people find too little that is beautiful."  These are the words of Vincent van Gogh.  Or, in the simple words of Dostoyevsky: "The world will be saved by beauty."  The desert is indeed tolerable, even needed, when the goal is to bring more beauty into the world.

We have just spent half a day in the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. For reasons that I think can be legitimately blamed on Don McLean (Vincent: Starry, Starry Night), I have always been drawn to this artist, to his work, to his story, and to his singular, artistic vision.  But today, partly as a result of the superb presentation of this world-renowned museum, I was drawn all the deeper into the vision of an artist. Which meant partly that I was also exposed to the crosses he had to bear.

Van Gogh did many self-portraits.  And part of the reason for this was because he was so broke that he couldn't afford models to sit.  

He was also deeply enamored of peasants and their own labor intensive lives.  He often did works on the backside of these self-portraits, because he couldn't afford canvasses upon which to work.  

In the end, depression took him from the world – he was just thirty-seven when he took his own life.  Of the more than 850 oil paintings he created (the majority of which were done in the last few years of his life), only one was sold during his lifetime.  Recognition came only after his death, a reputation stewarded by his sister-in-law and nephew (whose name was also Vincent).  The museum we visited today is the living legacy of these two people.

Those of us who work in a community of artists – mine would be with composers of sacred music – we would know something of these crosses that must be borne.  To have music rejected.  To work very long hours in solitude.  To put forward ideas that ultimately are deemed inappropriate by people who are not musicians.  To be placed at the heart of both praise and blame, and to be sought out by strangers at conferences, especially when blessed with an introverted soul.  

For they could not love you, but still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night,
You took your life as lovers often do.
But I could've told you Vincent, 
this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you....

                                      - Don McLean

The world is saved by beauty.  

Ireland: One Last Look (for now)....

Giant's Causeway, near Bushmills, County Antrim

For now, one last post from Ireland (actually, from Northern Ireland, to be more precise).... 

The picture you see was taken at Giant's Causeway, one of the more stunning geological formations found on the northern coast of Ulster.  This was a longed-for destination for my wife, which had to be scuttled a few years back because of this little thing called a global pandemic.

The mythic stories of the Causeway abound: of Fionn MacCumhaill (Finn McCool), the giant who thought he'd bully his Scottish counterpart, Benandonner.  As with many male myths, there's a lot of chest thumping and bravado – which eventually disappears like fog in the hot summer sun once McCool sees exactly who he's up against.  Wit, as always, wins the day (and saves his Irish hide).

But apart from the tall tales, what's mostly compelling about this National Trust site (along with an ingenious welcoming center that blends in perfectly with the landscape) is the presentation of the tectonic plates that shifted, collided, and drifted apart – over the course of 500 million years.  There was something incredibly humbling about looking at those timelines, when viewed from our ridiculously brief stay on this worldly sphere.

For we are but a nanosecond in Mother Earth's scheme of things.  And if, as we profess and sing, God is the Author of All Time, then taking in these basalt formations as a sort of time capsule gives a vivid illustration of just how vast that creative hand must be.  

We humans build things, write books, try to conquer the air and space, continue to try to unravel the puzzles of our universe.  I wonder, though – are we any less barbaric now than we were when giants were picking fights across the waters? Solve that one for me, if you can.  That would be the true shifting of a tectonic plate, in my humble opinion.

We'll be back in Ireland in a couple of weeks, for yet another wedding at Newman University Church!  In the meantime, our travels take us tomorrow to Amsterdam, to the ingenious people of the Netherlands – the culture that figured out how to raise a nation from the sea.... 

Ain't Diversity Great?

One of the truly delightful things about the Irish culture is their ability to put a bit of amusement into a potentially divisive issue.  Or, when the world turns to an unholy mess, to find a way to spin a yarn and make it into a hilarious story.

Now, a couple of days ago, we were in Portstewart, in Northern Ireland. This lovely town, with a picture perfect beach, was a welcome stop in the midst of a particularly long driving day.  

But what goes along with particularly long driving days?  The inevitable search for the loo (trust me, over here, that can be an adventure).  As soon as we made landfall (beachfall?), the search began.

After a bit of exploration, we came across the Facilities, back behind the chipper (translation: french fries stand).  And lo and behold, there at the entrance to said Head was this SIGN.

Back where we come from, everyone is freaking out about your gender (and, if truth be told, a whole lot of other things, too).  But how delightful to be confronted with this bit of whimsy when in need of the Necessary Room.  

It served as a lesson we might learn from this land where humor is held in much higher esteem: smile, do your business, and get on with life.  

We leave Ireland soon, for our next leg: the Netherlands.  But make no mistake about it – the humor, the welcome, the tongue-in-cheek, wreck-your-head dry wit of this land continues to beckon us back.  And back we will come.

One Step and Two: Let go, let go!

Carrick-A-Rede, Ballintoy, County Antrim, Northern lreland

Everyone still has the stuff that emerges from underneath our childhood beds, the monsters (large or small) that, if successful, can keep us up in the night.  These fears can paralyze us, but they can also make us humble, provide insight into parts of our lives that are more fragile, more in need of holding and encouragements.

One of those, for me, is heights. Even though I grew up in the mountains, I learned quickly that my psyche didn't manage well – read: tended to shut down – when I was near a precipice.  Which is odd, considering the terrain that surrounded my younger years.

Continuing our journey clockwise around the Four Green Fields, we now ventured into Ulster, the northeastern corner of the island.  A treasure trove of destinations awaited us, but in my mind, the more cataclysmic of them was a place called "Carrick-A-Rede"  (Irish for "Rock of the Casting"). What is it?  It's a rope bridge, about 70 feet long and 100 feet above the North Atlantic Ocean, connecting the mainland to a small island that served as a fishing post years ago.  But it's the bridge itself that lures people to its gates.

I had known of this chasm and rope contraption for years.  In part, because of a playful song by the singer Cathie Ryan.  You can listen to the song here.  It's the refrain that's so compelling:

    One step and two, hold tight, let go

    Twenty and four, hold tight, let go

    I'm nearly there let go, let go – I'm nearly there let go, let go!

Sometimes, you just have to step out, trust to the rope bridge, look straight ahead (and not down), and steel yourself.  You can take these steps.  You can complete the journey.  You can hang out there in the wind, your creative self flapping in the breeze for all to see.  You can accomplish what it is you set out to do.

    I'll walk the miles from Ballintoy,
    No shining moon to light my way,
    Across the fields of Larrybane,
    And the rope bridge where my love waits....

I crossed the threshold of seventy this past year, and there are still a few dark things hiding under the bed.  As well, there a few bridges left to cross – things left to accomplish, love-goals left to strive towards.  More will be written about these things later, when the timing is right (as a musician, it's always important to be aware of the timing).  But for now, it's good to know that I can face a chasm and a rope bridge, make the crossing, let go of fear, move ahead – one step, and two, and more....

Sticky Toffee Pudding: Time Out!

Okay.  I don't usually post stuff about food.  What I eat (and especially what's for dessert) is my own %&$#!  business.  On most days.

But today we left Kylemore Abbey, and headed way, way north to County Donegal, staying at a "Country Manor" wisely chosen by my wife.  It's a good thing, too, because the closest town (Letterkenny) was busy being invaded by car enthusiasts, which meant that if you owned a car you could go absolutely nowhere.  

So tonight we stayed at this beautiful manor, that served award-winning food (one of the specialities, believe it or not, was their homemade brown bread).  Over dinner, my wife and I had a chance to review the last ten days – friends in Carlow, Dublin, Spideál, and Kylemore (our first day seemed like a month ago!).  

And then, in the midst of our reverie, came dessert.  

It is called "sticky toffee pudding," and the first time we ever tasted it was outside of Edinburgh, Scotland, in 2012 (yeah, it's kind of scary that I can report when this happened).  

Since then, this particular dessert has been rather like a holy grail of delicacies following a wonderful meal.  So the combination of wine, reverie, successful driving (on Ireland's N-59, which I must say is a real accomplishment when you live to tell the tale), and dessert at the end of the day – it made for a perfect set of memories for our first ten days on the road.

Tomorrow we head into Northern Ireland.  Beautiful places abound there as well!  More to follow; but for tonight, for all you wanderers who have never explored the gastronomical landscape of sticky toffee pudding – it's time to get out and explore!  Get beyond that cheesecake and apple pie, broaden those horizons, and make every calorie count....

Here, and Back Again

Kylemore Abbey, Connemara, County Galway

"Kylemore" is the Anglicized word for "Coill Mór" – the "Big Woods."  And if there was ever a place in Ireland that screamed "photo op!", it would be Kylemore Abbey, home to the Benedictine nuns since 1920.  

I first visited Kylemore in 1987, following an engaging encounter with one of their nuns at the Irish Church Music Association's annual gathering.  Her name was Sr. Noreen Peter Gallagher (that's pronounced "GAL-a-her" for all us Americans, I am reminded).  Noreen, herself a creative photographer and musician, welcomed me heartily into the joy of this remarkable women's community of faith.

Back then, there were no tour buses, no amazing craft shop or refectory, no restored walled gardens, no hiking paths through the woods.  The nuns supported themselves by running a boarding school, and it was an educational facility mostly for young girls whose parents were either significantly powerful heads of state or financial magnates.  It made sense – the place is so out of the way that no one knew where the kids went off to.  The boarding school closed down about a generation ago, but by then, the Abbey had become a significant tourist destination point.  And the rest, as they might say, is history.  Both spiritual and fiscal as well.

I stayed in the gardener's cottage with a priest from Glenstal Abbey, Fr. Bonaventure, who was on loan to celebrate the Eucharistic celebrations here.  In addition to being in the presence of an Irish scholar of folklore, I also received nightly instruction (following Vespers, of course) on the game of hurling.  (See?  It's not just the Americans that combine sports and spiritual journeys, you Notre Dame people....)

Kylemore is now not only one of the top-rated touring destinations in Ireland.  It is also the home of yet another center for overseas studies – the Notre Dame Kylemore Centre, under the wonderful leadership of Lisa Caulfield.  It's actually quite astounding to have witnessed the growth of all these programs through the years: first the Keough Centre, then expanded into the Keough-Naughton Institute for Irish Studies in Dublin; the Teach Bhríde (House of Brigid) program of volunteer ministerial service, the Notre Dame-Newman Centre for Faith and Reason.  All of these have come into being over the past two generations, bringing a depth and richness to the tradition we call the "Notre Dame Irish."

I am here, back again, tracing former steps of years gone by, with friends and colleagues who are walking an incredible journey of reinventing spirituality for a modern age....

It began with a "Yes"

What are the consequences of an open door, a gesture of hospitality, so many years ago?  What follows is a very short story of such a Yes.

In the spring of 1987, this weary traveler washed up on the shores of Edenmore Crescent, Raheny, Dublin 5, to the household of one Tony Murphy and Anne Marie Horan.  I had met Tony the year before, at the University of Notre Dame; he was part of a contingent of Irish Catholic Youth Conference representatives, on a fact-finding mission for his own programs.

Tony and I hit it off right away (it might've been because of my slightly irreverent, unabridged tour I gave of our campus). We stayed in touch for a year, and foolishly he offered the hospitality of his home the following spring, when I was slated to begin my first exploratory journey through Ireland.  

The welcome given by him and his wife, in many ways, changed the trajectory of my life.  The two of them agreed to let this American stranger use their home as a base of operations.  I traveled to see the Benedictines at Kylemore and Glenstal Abbeys; participated in a weeklong conference of Irish church musicians; visited with liturgical and parochial centres throughout the land.  But always I had the open door of Tony and Anne Marie, making sure that I had a place to lay my head.

Their "Yes" led to years and years of touring Ireland, England and Scotland by the Notre Dame Folk Choir, which exposed hundreds of students to the richness of Irish life, which led to our bringing Irish repertoire back to the United States, which led to the publication of said repertoire by World Library Publications/GIA over the years, which led to the founding of Teach Bhríde, the House of Brigid lay community in 2008....

....Which led to my wife and I moving to Dublin, Ireland, in 2016, well prepared after more than a generation's worth of travel with college students to many corners of this compelling land.  

And it all began with a Yes, with two people who offered the front room and futon of their home to an inquisitive soul, eager to know more about the unique history of a people who had contributed so much to America's own spiritual landscape.

I wonder, sometimes, if we take the time to think back on such Magnificats in our own lives.  Of how one simple invitation will change who we are and what we do with the rest of our lives. 

Today, hundreds of kilometers from Raheny, we are out in Connemara, just west of An Spidéal, where Tony and Anne Marie now live. From their kitchen table you can look across Galway Bay, and through the mist you can just make out Inis Mór, Inís Meáin, and Inís Oirr – An Oileáin Árann, the Aran Islands.  We drove up to their home, and knocked on the front door.  The door opened, and there was Tony Murphy.  "Ye knock, and then ye just come in," he said. "Because here, family need not wait for the door to be opened."

To these two amazing, generous souls: thank you for the Yes.  Your Yes changed our lives.

Where the Soul Meets the Sea

Indreabhán, County Galway, on the way to Connemara

It is rare that this part of Ireland is without the strong presence of the wind.  Walking out past the stone walls, the brambles, the reeds and marshes, one comes across the meeting place of land and sea.  And even in its quietude, the signature of the wind can be seen in the whitecaps on Galway Bay, by the wisps of fog dancing around the Aran Islands, by the straining wings of gulls as they try to make headway through this mighty breath.

Walking along the shore of Loughaunbeg, there is this overwhelming sense of yearning, of stretching, of solitude, and yet of comfort, too.  "From the sea we came, and to the sea we shall return."  A truer phrase was never spoken by a politician (the man who uttered it was the slain American president, John F. Kennedy).  Looking out upon that vastness heading into the western, sinking sun, you get a sense of how the worldly and the beyond-the-worldly intersect.

Perhaps it is because of this landscaped coexistence of yearning and consolation that memorials have been erected along the shoreline, testimonials to people whose lives were lost in incomprehensible ways.  There is a marker for men and women who were blown up by a leftover mine from World War I; another – surrounded by a sanctuary of beach sand – commemorating all the lives of the men, women and children who died of starvation from the Great Famine.  

And there is also a poignant, now-consecrated site where lie the remains of unwed mothers and their children from the agonies of ages past. 

This long strand of shoreline is where the soul meets the sea, where the infinite continues to beckon, where the restless, relentless search for sacred sanctuary is illustrated before our very eyes.  

Years ago, I was on the Burren (which can be seen from the place of these memorials, beyond the southern shores of Galway Bay).  I was there with a Catholic priest, and dusk was approaching.  The wind was moaning around us.  "Can you hear, Steven," he said, "can you hear the souls of the dead, those that died starving in this land?"  I will never forget that conversation, the notion that the wind carries our sorrows, our lamentations, out to the sea.  

It is not for nothing that the very start of our Scriptures begin with the image of the Spirit hovering above the waters.  It is to that breath of the Author Life, please God, that we shall return.

When Home Is a Nuptial Liturgy

I had been watching this relationship unfold for years: James, a brilliant, talented, thoughtful, God-centered Irishman; and Katherine, equally brilliant and creative, sensitive, deeply committed to the Church.  I'm no Yenta, but back when they met at Newman University Church in Dublin, there was a voice inside my head that said "Surely these two would be an amazing couple, if their paths converged...."

Well.  Yesterday, at the very church where they first met, their individual paths merged and became one, and what an amazing day it was to behold: years of familial ties and friendships remembered and celebrated once more.  Toasts and speeches were made deep into the night.  Colleagues had a chance to compare notes on where life had taken them.  And as the capstone of it all, there took place a breathtaking wedding liturgy, assisted by a choir of fabulously talented voices, including a dear friend (now medical doctor), who was an exceptional Irish fiddle and violin player.

James & Katherine

The church where they met was also my home for years.  When we arrived in 2016 paint was peeling off the walls in footlong swaths; the heating system hadn't worked for more than a year (professional violinists refused to play there in the winter, complaining that the building was too cold for their instruments); the choir gallery hadn't been cleaned in years.  But from the start we knew the old bones of this church would spring back to life once more.

Over the next five years, lighting was improved, surfaces were cleaned, sound systems and video cameras were modernized, and the gallery became a place to store and catalogue precious scores. A much needed library of sacred music began to unfold, one that might befit any cathedral.  

Much more than this, the church had become a beehive of activity, welcoming back wedded couples through the ages, creating a community around prayerful gatherings in the spirit of the Taizé community, and offering both lectures and concerts to inform and inspire Dubliners of all walks of life.

And yesterday, all of it came together to help celebrate the union of two exceptional people.

There is something quite breathtaking when, sitting in the midst of a congregation full of strangers, you become aware of how sacred music washes over every single soul, melding voices and hearts together.  You become cognizant of the power of song as a unifying foundation for communal prayer.  And you see, from your pew, the almost hidden moments of a man or woman, whose name you do not know, wiping tears from their cheeks and eyes, the result of some stony part of their hearts being made sensitive and caring once more.

While we were serving at Newman Church, John Cardinal Newman became Saint John Henry Newman, and we traveled to Rome to celebrate the man who had sacrificed so much of his own life, leaving the land and people he knew, moving from one faith family to another, tasked to build a Catholic University for a people who had been suppressed for three centuries.  I couldn't help but think of how joyful this priest, philosopher, poet, and visionary would've been, seeing what has become of his dream.

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.