Mitchell Scholar Blogs

Things are starting to get quiet. Classes are winding down, more and more of my days is spent in solitude reading and writing. I’ve taken some trips — Dublin, Sligo, Belfast, Cork — but these are few and far between. My routine is as follows: wake up, go to my favorite coffee shop, afternoon walk, more coffee, dinner, relax, sleep.

I’m a chronic perfectionist, and that’s something that’s taken a long time for me to come to terms with. It’s difficult for me to take things slow. I once told my partner, just three scant weeks into summer break, that it felt strange not working, and I was desperate to get back into school.

But now, that work is nonexistent. I can’t manifest schoolwork. Things are just quiet. And that’s okay. It’s hard for me to come to terms with, but empirically, I know it’s okay.

I’ve been appreciating this time for meditation. Since my schedule is so free, I’ve been able to spend days at a time simply reading for fun, and that’s been so refreshing.

As this year begins to slowly draw to a close, I’m squeezing what I can out of each moment left. Rather than filling my mind with madness and expectations I can never meet, I’m going to relax. Live life slow like folks do back home and here.

My flat faces out toward the Shannon. I always sleep with my windows open, not just to let in the cold air, but to let in the white noise made from the river waves belting the rocks and shore. I’ll try to take in that nature melody instead, something far from cacophony and closer to peaceful, oblivion silence.

Mostly what I do in Ireland is stay up until 2 a.m. playing board games with my flatmates. I met Ellen, who lives four doors down from me, and Ben, who lives one floor below, on my first day in Dublin, when I ran into Ellen in the hall and she invited me to come with them for a sea swim. We took the DART to Clontarf, where the mist had come so far in from the bay that Ben, who is from Clontarf and paddles there on his kayak often, deemed it too dangerous for a dip. Instead, we walked along a skinny path with water on both sides until the Marian Shrine emerged from the fog, three sea-scoured posts with Jesus’ mom sitting on top. “I like this shrine,” I told Ben. “This is a great shrine!” “Thanks, Gen,” he laughed. 

Later that week, I met the rest of the girls I’d live with throughout the year: Saskia from London, Aisling from Dublin, Ashling from Dalkey, Lily from China. Rachel, who is from Santry, moved into our flat right before the year’s midpoint, and when she moved in, everything that was already going swimmingly started going even better. Rachel, Ellen, and I were the only ones in the flat throughout January. We worked side by side on our respective dissertations and projects. Ellen was writing Tiktok anti-vaccine trends, Rachel about disability in medieval times, and me about an ed-tech behemoth. I’d be flying through the future, with cyberbullies and Russian bots, and then I’d pull my head out of my laptop and there they’d be, next to me, with cups of tea, moving slow and trusting that the work would get done. I found a new peace that month: my work was meaningful, even if I was just doing it in our kitchen, outside of the good it may or may not do for others or the recognition I would like to get for it. 

Ellen and Rachel and I, and sometimes Ben, swam together a lot that month, cried laughing, decorated the flat a bit, and also were often quiet together. Since then, every day of being here I’ve been excited to go home from class each day just to see them. Last week, I spent five days traveling in rural Ireland. After about four days, I wanted to go home, not because I was tired of traveling, but because there was something warm to go home to. For St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow, we’re going to Laois, to see the farm where Ellen grew up, and in particular to see the springtime baby lambs. I didn’t know Ellen existed half a year ago, and tomorrow night I’ll sleep on the floor of her childhood bedroom. 

Last autumn, Aisling got accepted to do her master’s and nonchalantly told me the news in the kitchen: “Oh, by the way, Gen, I got into Cambridge…” Of course, I screamed. Then, Ashling got her postgrad contract with one of the most prestigious law firms in Ireland, and I screamed then too, especially happy because she’d asked me to look over her cover letter beforehand and I’d known it was so, so good. Ellen got into the LSE two weeks ago and the whole flat’s mood was sunshine. It’s a privilege to share in the genuine happiness of others like that. Everyone’s getting what they deserve. Rachel was hired by the Trinity Disability Service earlier in the year, and there’s no one better for the role. Even for those who don’t have their next steps as well-defined, I think all will go well. Saskia jokes that she’s going to be a stay-at-home-daughter after Trinity, but I have an inkling she’ll get hired to produce documentaries pretty fast. I’m not sure where Lily will go next, probably home to China to be a teacher, and I know Ben is going to Greece for a few weeks after graduation, but that’s quite fine for him as I think he’s never been the type of person who needs something to do, but rather someone who makes the shape of his life all on his own. I’m not so worried about what’s next for me, personally, either. 

This is a change: I used to be someone who had the next thing in her pocket, always, a scholarship lined up or money or a visa waiting somewhere. And I used to be someone who always went first, vigilant to leave the party early when everything was still raucous and bright colors, so I wouldn’t be the last one and have to see it in lesser form, dull and with key people missing. I’d gather such momentum, and then the feeling of leaving would sneak up on me, because I never gave myself the space to sit with goodbyes. I didn’t realize, in Australia, that that was the last time I’d come in from a party with my friends and we’d drag every mattress into the living room and sleep in a heap until 4. I didn’t realize, in LA, that that was the last time Bre and Umaima and I would make brownies and watch America’s Next Top Model. Of course, I can always see everyone again, and I love them just the same as I always did, but I can’t travel back in time and have that specific memory twice, and indeed it would be selfish to try. That right there was the last time I’d be with those particular people, in this particular way.

This time around, I’m trying to count it. Here, in Dublin, are some recipes Ellen and Rachel and I tried together: coconut pea mint soup, cauliflower tacos, couscous with roasted veggies and dried apricots. Here are some recipes we failed at together: banana pancakes (I didn’t mash the bananas enough so they cooked unevenly and burned), dhal which came out more as broth instead of curry. I think it is worth naming those who played board games and ate with us, even if their names here are divorced from who they are. Here is a list of house guests that sweetened the mood: Courtney, Clíodnha, Emma, Emma, Katherine, Kate, James, Jared, Shane, Maeve, Aisling Lynch, John, Lucy, Ria, Sinziana, Caoimhin, and all of Saskia’s English friends who seem to travel in a pack and that Ashling lovingly nicknamed “Team GB.”

Here are some good memories that happened in our flat: when Courtney showed us how her hearing aids were magnetic by sticking a fork to her head; when Ashling, Saskia and I made three different curries and ate the entirety of a two-story box of Butler’s chocolates; when Ben, Ellen, Rachel and I watched Lord of the Rings until we fell asleep. When Rachel and Aisling threw a dinner party and I learned how four balls of mozzarella can disappear into a pot of pasta sauce and have the slightest effect, and Shane came for an hour, in from a date, and then went back out, back onto that same date. For that party, we bought cheap twisty candles the color of peonies, a basil plant for the pasta, and blush-colored napkins which Ellen made into paper crowns.

The basil plant now lives on our window sill, next to the salt crystal lamp which we plug in at night and casts pink light. That’s my favorite time in our flat; the window panes look like ink and it feels like everything outside of this GMB microcosm is a myth. The kitchen becomes a dreamscape of objects we love: my gold lighter, Ellen’s blue mug that Ben broke and re-superglued, the numerous candles we bought each other, Aisling’s Wheetabix box. 

It feels natural to turn to tabulation at the end of things. When my parents separated when I was a teenager, it was a way to temper and get through the loss. Grief could go by the wayside while we figured out who got these forks, who would keep this armchair no one ever sat in anyways, who would keep this bike now too small for me or my brother to use. Listing can give you a system for coming apart. 

But it’s no framework to account for joy. It’s a bit futile to attempt to take stock of daily, sustained happiness. Instead, I just try to hold onto it and have it in full while I can. I’ve lived in enough places by now that I know there’s always so much for me, anywhere, but I still find it curious how easy it is to grow love in close quarters, and how it usually grows in opposite scope to the size of the space you share. I still really marvel at the very simple and precious magic of being taken as your best self and invariably in good faith. I’m not worried about what’s next for me, because all of these objects and memories and people are how I know I can, without fail, make a home. 

Belfast graffiti is famous for a reason. Depending on where you go in the sprawling red-brick-house city, you’ll get a different set of opinions. In city center, you’re likely to see colorful, de-politicized murals painted by artists hired by the city. A woman with a hawk, inspiring quotes in cursive, funky abstracts, and the occasional wacky portrait adorn the sides of shops. However, if you wander a few miles south, north, east, or west, you’ll get an entirely different depiction of the city.

I have taken to walking the city on weekends, picking a direction and heading that way until it gets dark or the city drifts away into highway. This has taken me to the neighborhoods up the slopes of Divis mountain, into suburban southern streets, into classic red brick northern boroughs, and deep into the industrial east of the Titanic district. The great thing about these walks is that they never get old—the graffiti changes with the political atmosphere and seasons. Where once a painting on climate change stood, now a Palestinian flag replaces it. Along Shankhill road to the north a more permanent assortment of murals (along the peace wall) stands, and shifts occasionally. However, I’ve found that it’s just as exciting to find a painting hiding around the corner in residential neighborhoods and business districts alike.  

On days when I have less time, I’ll wander the streets of Sandy Row, just a few blocks away from me and a staunchly Loyalist neighborhood. Here you’ll come across two-story portraits of William the Orange, Union Jacks tattered from flying, and images of the Queen. Whether here or in a Nationalist part of the city one thing is consistent—murals depicting those who died in the Troubles. Often there will be lists of people living in the neighborhood who were killed, alongside photos of football clubs or brigade units. Some appear to have been recently touched up or are made permanent with adjacent plaques.

I love that the people of this city use the walls to tell their stories. By sharing their visions, artwork, political views, and messages with passersby, they are also sharing their city and what makes it such a unique place to study and live in.

A few photos of murals below.

Tourism Ireland’s global campaign is entitled “Fill Your Heart with Ireland.” According to the press releases, TI invited “a real married couple from Sweden” and took them around Ireland while covertly monitoring their heartrates. The sites provoking the strongest cardiac responses, or as the commercial puts it, “the moments their hearts chose,” were then featured in the advertising materials.

If you strapped one of these bad boys to my skull, it would principally document my climbing cortisol levels as literally every single one of my tourist adventures is ruthlessly derided by literally every single one of my friends. I provide a few choice selections: “What the [expletive] are you doing in Armagh?” “The only good thing in Newry is the pizza with the chips on” and, sickeningly, “Do you have family in Omagh or are you just a bit stupid?” Worse still, there is a social aspect; pillory loves company.

“You do know they have chips and pizzas both in Belfast,” “Would never have figured such a skinny [expletive] for chip pizzas,” “Jesus that’s special: all the way from America to eat chip pizzas and take pictures of a carpark.” My legs tense. The sweat gathers behind my neck. These, dear reader, were “the moments my heart chose.”

With this in mind, I decided to hide my trip to County Louth. My lies were in fact so thorough they attracted suspicion: “I will not be around this weekend because I am catching up on the econometrics, transcribing thesis data, and enjoying some unstructured free time,” I told a friend unblinkingly.

“Uh, sounds grand”

Largely because I have seen pistachios with superior senses of direction, I generally travel with friends. But secrecy demanded I venture into Louth alone. Having pounded the soil of “The Wee County” for 72 hours, I was starving and needed a way out of the rain. I had planned to eat at the first place I found, but my anxieties complicated matters. I slowed outside a McDonald’s but decided against it. “You can eat that in Virginia,” I thought. 400 meters later I considered “Il Forno Italian Cuisine.” A voice in my head drove me away: “You know what they said the last time you travelled and had pizzas.”

I then saw the restaurant of my dreams. It was a building with shoulders, and as I approached through the colored light which leaked from its central tower, I could appreciate the self-assured squareness of the design. It even had a plausibly rustic name: “Garda.”

“This will show them,” I thought, “little old me dining at Garda!” “Next time they start about the chip pizzas I’ll let this slip,” I thought. I’ll say: “Maybe you haven’t heard of it; it’s a bit of a hidden gem, I figure.”

I was halfway up the steps when I realized I was at the police station. My retreat was noticed by those gathered outside. “Changed your mind?” asked some local adolescents. “Thought better of it,” I replied.  

Edinburgh has been on my bucket list of Mitchell-year travel destinations for a while, and I realized a few weeks ago that a three-day gap I had during the first week of UCD’s spring break would be the perfect opportunity to visit. Mitchell friends and pre-Mitchell-year friends who happen to be in Europe this year were unavailable, and I decided to ask some friends in my master’s program if they wanted to go with me. Our friendship had thus far consisted of an active What’s App group-chat and semi-frequent gatherings, but we had never spent an extended amount of time together, so I was excited when they accepted. We all arrived in Edinburgh with no firm plans (very unlike my normal travel style), and I quickly threw together a Google Doc with a robust list of recommendations from the internet in an effort to make the most of our 2.5 days. It quickly became clear, though, that nobody else shared my expectation that we’d be able to see everything in our short visit. Our time was instead spent fitting in what we could and completing activities without the pressure of a ticking clock, enjoying each other’s company over drinks and very long and delicious meals, and learning and joking about all of the similarities and differences between American and Irish (and Scottish!) culture. It was really special to explore and observe a city with history so relevant to Ireland, because I absorbed far more context from concomitant discussions with my Irish friends than I would have otherwise. 

On our last night, we returned to our AirBnb to grab our bags before heading back into city center for a guided Edinburgh Vaults ghost tour. We were already running a bit late and realized we had missed the bus that would have given us a bit more wiggle room for the 6pm tour. I checked to see when the next bus was coming and began frantically doing the mental math: wait time for the bus + time on the bus + walking distance from the bus stop to our destination. I expressed with concern and some mild panic that we were going to be late (the tour cost €17 and I didn’t want to miss its departure!). Luckily, my maps app had only showed one bus option and another arrived earlier than expected, but I could tell my Irish friends were a bit perplexed and put off by my (unnecessary) alarm. We caught the bus, walked fast, made it to the tour spot at 6:01pm, and enjoyed the next 75 minutes spent underground (for those interested: the ghost portion was extremely cheesy, but it was still cool to see the remains of the old city). 

Despite my effort to, for lack of a more formal phrase, chill out about things like this during my Mitchell year, I clearly have some work to do. While my limited experience is far from a robust or representative sample, the Irish seem to rarely get worked up over things like this. I’m not sure if this is due to a trust in things working out or an understanding that it will be okay even if they don’t—or perhaps a bit of both—but the experience served as a good reminder to try and adopt the same mindset for the next several months, and hopefully in the time after I leave this island as well.

This month I started work on my master’s thesis. I am studying the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) and its impact on towns in Ireland. Specifically, I’m looking at the degree to which non-Irish immigrants find that GAA clubs increase their sense of belonging in Irish towns. 

The GAA is an amateur sporting and cultural organization that promotes indigenous Gaelic sports, music, dance, and language. Established in 1884, the GAA has long been associated with Irish national identity and anti-colonialism, and it played an interesting role during the War of Independence. In the 138 years since its founding, the GAA has meant a lot to Irish communities, with some 2,000 local clubs throughout 32 counties. The clubs and stadiums themselves often double as event spaces and community centers. Many clubs are also home to onsite preschools and adult learning centers. Communities often invest heavily in the construction of new stadiums, in the hopes that it will promote sustainable economic revitalization in their areas. 

Something I find super interesting is that while GAA clubs have historically played a significant role in solidifying a sense of national Irish identity in response to colonialism, today they also play an important role as places for non-Irish immigrants to build community and gain acceptance in their new homes. This has been especially true since 2008. The economic crisis caused populations in many rural Irish towns, and membership in their GAA clubs, to dwindle. At the same time, soaring numbers of refugees and immigrants from Africa, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe have found themselves trying to build new lives in small Irish towns. Many clubs are recruiting migrant youth and adults to keep clubs and traditions alive. In turn, many migrants are finding that their participation in GAA helps them acclimate and access important employment, social, and educational opportunities. 

Over the next six months, I will be traveling to GAA clubs throughout Ireland and interviewing athletes, coaches, and volunteers, as well as those impacted by GAA beyond the stadium walls: business owners in the surrounding areas, community organizers, politicians, and especially members of migrant communities to find out whether or not GAA clubs have opened doors for them. I also joined a women’s team at my local club, the Ranelagh Gaels, and have Gaelic football training every Friday. Already, I’ve learned a lot about the role the clubs play in day-to-day community life (especially for newcomers like me).

I am excited to learn much more about this fascinating institution, and to become more familiar with Irish community. When I complete this project, I should have a much deeper understanding of what strengthens neighborhoods, improves people’s quality of life, and opens doors for migrants and vulnerable populations. My hope is that this experience will make me a stronger advocate for valuable community programs in my life and career.

Too often I have found myself too occupied with my own coursework or social advocacy that I’ve been unable to fully explore the arts, creating an experience throughout my high school and undergraduate tenures that seemed to be all-encompassed by long nights studying or planning events. However, throughout my time in Dublin, Ireland I have attempted to go outside the bounds of what is normal or comfortable for me and to meaningfully engage with the artistic culture of the city, listening to the many stories and shared historical understandings about what it means to be Irish through the lens of plays.

Since coming to Ireland in August of 2021, I have attended 8 plays on topics ranging from remembering the Troubles in Northern Ireland and modern renditions of Samuel Becket’s Endgame to stories on familial loss and Jack the Ripper. Although the majority of the plays I’ve seen have been at the Abbey Theatre (the national theatre of Ireland), I’ve also had the opportunity to see plays at the Gate Theatre and the SmockAlley Theatre. Irish theatre, from my experience, attempts to answer fundamental questions about Irish identity and the ways in which Irish people collectively remember their history. Irish theatre asks questions such as: Who are we and how do we choose to represent ourselves? Put simply, Irish theatre tends to deal with the themes of how the Irish are defined externally and they define themselves or their experiences internally; more generally, Irish theatre also tends to deal with how society views individual groups or ideas. To those ends, Irish theatre provides meaningful insights into Irish culture and the ideas or values that are prevalent in the continuous process of creating and disseminating “Irish identity.”

The most impactful theatrical performances I have seen in Ireland have been plays such as “Mustn’t Forget High, Christine, Twinkletoes,” which aims to continue remembering the Troubles and the impact they had on individual lives through a series of three monologues. In addition to the beautiful scenes throughout the play and the brilliantly executed performances by the three actors, the play used humor and dramatic storytelling to historically place Irish identity and experiences within the Troubles. Coupled with my current studies in Race, Ethnicity, Conflict at Trinity and my multiple visits to Belfast, the play masterful showed how far-reaching the Troubles were on the composition of Irish society, family, culture, and history; its impacts were so strong, cathartic, and salient that it continues to resonate in the minds of many Irishmen and is a continual theme of Irish playwriting.

My engagement with Irish theatre has allowed me to engage with some central themes of Irish art, namely the construction and deconstruction of Irish identity, and to enhance my academic studies into conflict resolution based on differences based on identity; for the cathartic nature and memory of Troubles is something that cannot be captured in a textbook or tour but can be, ever so slightly glimpsed, through the artistic lens of Irish theatre.

Happy 2022 to everyone! The end of 2021 was absolutely revolutionary for me as a student as well as in my artistry. On November 8, I started classes in my MFA program at the Lir, and we really hit the ground running. In my course, I am taking four classes five days a week, as well as two 2-3 hour rehearsals each week. All of these hours of in person work in addition to readings and writings in homework has made for a very hectic schedule over the last couple of months.

Amidst this busyness, I’ve felt an unfaltering sense of inspiration and self-assurance because of my classmates and the art that I’ve seen on Irish soil. My classmates are voracious in asking the question “why?” of everything we encounter. I feel that I’ve been pushed to realize that in art, nothing is coincidence. Choices are continuously and meticulously made. For this reason, I feel that my art has been pushed to a standard that leaves no detail unexplored. My thought processes are being teased out, my choices are becoming more definite, and I’m becoming even more willing to speak out about what I believe in an artistic context than I’ve ever been able to before. 

On the first day of my Directing Workshop, Annabelle Comyn, the head of the Directing Program, asked my classmates and I a simple question:

“What type of theatre excites and engages you?” 

At first, this question was very simple. I was quick to scribble down things like “theatre that engages with an audience in a real way” and “theatre that plays with preconceived notions from the audience.” When I told Annabelle my answers, she responded with “what do you mean?” I was immediately caught off guard. She had asked me to describe the ineffable magic of my ideal type of theatre. All I could come up with was titles of plays that I had read and seen that inspired me. After she had stumped the entire class, she asked us all to go home and write a manifesto describing what it is that we make and how we make it. She told us to avoid preambles and apologies and to just speak freely about ourselves as artists. At the time, I found this impossible, but I soon learned otherwise. 

One of my favorite parts of my program has been that the teaching is focused on asking us to explain ourselves as artists. At first, this was extremely stressful. I had never been asked to state my artistic actions and intentions, instead, I have continuously been asked to explain what I think of another artist’s actions and intentions. Harvard had given me the tools to think about art, but not necessarily to talk about my own. However, over the last couple of months, I’ve started to actually take steps to unapologetically state what it is that I do and how exactly I do it, and that has been extremely freeing. 

Throughout my program, I’ve been listening to music a lot as a study aide as well as a way to center myself through all of this meaningful work. Here’s a playlist of songs that have inspired me most recently: 

I’m deeply looking forward to the next several months of my course, as I can already tell it’s going to mature me from the artist I know to the artist that I’ve always hoped to be! Sending good energy and blessings to all! 

Before I returned home for winter break, Maysa—my fellow Belfast Mitchell—bought me a book by Conor O’Brien called Ireland Through Birds. On my flight home, already missing the moody grey-green landscapes, I found solace in O’Brien’s journey to glimpse twelve of the rarest endemic birds in Ireland. His efforts took him into the Wicklows, to rugged, remote islands off the northwest coast, through coastal reserves, and inland to peat bogs. Each chapter and bird is associated with a different geographic region of the island—its history, ecology, and memories. Taking inspiration from O’Brien, I decided to reflect on the most memorable birds I have encountered here.

One of the first birds I saw in September was the fulmar. The fulmar is one of my favorite birds—its deceptively banal, gull-like appearance masks a different lineage, sharing a common ancestor with the great seabirds of the open oceans: albatrosses, petrels, and shearwaters. The rugged Irish coast provides optimal nesting habitat for fulmars, and the Bray to Greystones cliffwalk is a good place to spot them. Unfortunately, during the trip my contacts had clouded over, rendering the world around me blurry. Yet, as I squinted overhead, half-blinded by the sun, I miraculously spotted the stiff-winged silhouette of a grey-white bird coasting effortlessly in the wind. “A fulmar!” I shouted to Abby, half-wild with excitement.

I’ve also come to deeply appreciate the diversity of Corvids in Ireland, and the frequency with which you can spot them. Back in the States, I’m only used to seeing crows and the occasional raven, if I’m out of the city. Here, in the heart of Belfast or Dublin, you can see rooks, hooded crows, jackdaws, and magpies all in the same spaces. Corvids are some of the smartest birds—New Caledonian crows are documented tool-users—and you can see the wheels turning as they cock their head side to side, casually walking along the sidewalk next to us while their brains problem-solve issues more complex than we can imagine. I try and remind myself not to take them for granted; each sighting is its own gift.

Along the many waterways, you can also see Eurasian coots and moorhens. Both belong to Rallidae, the rail and crake family, and appear somewhat like wild swamp chickens. My first time biking along the River Lagan, they were a novelty, and I stopped often to observe them paddling happily in the water while the drizzle had forced other birds to seek cover. As Ireland became more familiar, so did the Rallids. Yet, walking around UCD’s wooded campus while visiting Dublin Mitchells, I became stumped by the immature plumage of a juvenile moorhen. That night, “immature Eurasian moorhen” became a clue in our now-staple UCD fishbowl tournament, eliciting great laughter. It’s harder than you think acting out a young moorhen while hunched under a sheet!

There are so many more meaningful bird-and-place associations already—the common eider Meg spotted along the Causeway Coast, the tufted ducks and gulls of St. Stephen’s Green, the buzzards I see soaring over rolling farmland outside of Belfast, or even the elusive red grouses only alluded to on various signs posted throughout the Wicklows. “I have the whole of Ireland laid out in front of me, ready to explore one valley, forest or country road at a time,” O’Brien writes. I, too, am eager to continue exploring, bird by bird.

The coolest person in my creative writing program is called Margaret. Now nearly 60, in her youth she escaped Mugabe’s regime in her home country Zimbabwe through force of will, spiriting herself and her infant children to Ireland. We get to read samples of her upcoming memoir in class. The way she writes takes no prisoners. She never asks the reader for approval; she only ever says exactly what happened, the propulsive nature of actual events being enough to make the chapters fly. The first sentence of one of her best is: “They wore leather jackets and shades and came in a white Peugeot.”

In December, our professor brought in gin to celebrate the last day of class. Margaret was telling me that gin is nicest paired with Irish strawberries when I noticed one of her tattoos: a tri-colored Celtic knot on her wrist. Part of it was green, she said, to represent springtime, her maiden years. The next third, blue, was linked to motherhood. The final third was purple, signifying the final stage of a woman’s life: cronehood. 

Margaret is now a crone, she says, and it’s great. Her children are all grown up. She’s been through much and knows herself well. She is finally coming into her power, she told me, as she comes upon 60 – something she thinks people don’t often realize, instead seeing her as on the downhill slope. My conversation with Margaret reminded me of a Jenny Slate quote about growing older: “As the image of myself becomes sharper in my brain and more precious, I feel less afraid that someone else will erase me by denying me love.”

Since speaking with Margaret, it seems I’ve been meeting cool older women everywhere I go. One named Gina was swimming nude at the Vico Baths, scaling walls of ocean out past all the men in their wetsuits, her pearl braids shining and flipping as she dove. I was scared to get in the water until she showed me how. The waves annihilated my senses upon contact, and then for hours afterward, I could feel them in my arms and legs, on the train, cooking dinner, even as I stood brushing my teeth before bed. 

Earlier this month, I decided to try out jiu jitsu at a gym in the Liberties. I love the neighborhood, with its street markets and Republican murals. I love being an athlete again after four years, and I love learning something new. Plus, the school’s owner has a dachshund puppy named Toby present at every class who always wants to play. 

At my first class, I rolled with a woman called Ness, who seemed about 40 and had the ropiest biceps of anyone on the mat. Never have I felt so safe in someone’s arms, much less someone ostensibly trying to compress my windpipe. Seeing the gorgeous skill and surety with which she grappled was half the reason I decided to go back to the next class, and the next. 

It is now January, which many say is the harshest month in Ireland because all the Christmas decorations that made the cold romantic get put away. But I don’t agree: we have passed the solstice now, and the sun, though its shine is hard and bright as a diamond, is coming up, imperceptibly, earlier, and setting, imperceptibly, later. I am warm and inside, I have endless free time, and nowhere I need to be. Spring is coming, and then the rest of my life, in which I will hopefully be a crone who needs no one’s approval and belongs among the elements and fights with grace. There is much to look forward to.

Three weeks after I submitted my last blog post, the love of my life landed in Dublin. This began our incredible, bicontinental adventure. I have found so much peace from living each moment in love –love for myself, love for the beauty of the sea and rocks around me, and love that transcends words for my partner (Zidane). I was soooo excited for him to visit Ireland and see the home I made for myself in Dublin as well as explore even more of the world with my adventure buddy.

While Zidane was here, I tried to take him to as many of my favorite Dublin spots as possible, including Merrion Square, Hanzel&Gretel, and ~Howth~. He found a particular home in one of several Mitchell’s favorite Dublin brunch spots, Beanhive. He would go for brunch while I was in class, and must have gone at least 5 times by the time we left Ireland. Beanhive is known for their latte art, and during one of his final visits, they drew him on the coffee!!! I thought it was nuts and so cute.

We took two trips within Europe, one to Paris and Amsterdam and another to a small town in southern Germany. I loved exploring these places with him. I felt I was able to do all the things I dreamed about when I was in middle school – kiss at the Eiffel Tower, run through the snow in Germany, cry in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam – all with my best friend. It was both loving him and loving me. It was the peace of the Liffey flowing lazily to the sea.

After stressing about travel due to Omicron, we arrived in Accra, Ghana safely before Christmas and spent the last three weeks of our adventure in Ghana. In a completely new place, on a different continent and in a different climate, I still found myself finding peace and love in the sea and the sun and, of course, rocks.

I am back in Ireland now and Zidane is back in Boston. I missed the Dublin Bay a lot while in Ghana, and really miss the sun and the warmth of Ghana. I am really excited to spend the first half of 2022 in Ireland, swimming in the Irish sea and running along the cliffs.