Lá Fhéile Phádraig (The Feast Day of Patrick) began for me on Friday evening when I accidentally walked into the St. Patrick's Day Vigil Mass under the assumption that I was going to the Friday daily Mass. But after the briefest of internal debates about whether or not I should turn right round and walk straight out again, it occurred to me: if you can celebrate a Vigil Mass and herald in the Feast Day at dusk the day before, then you can certainly disregard all Lenten resolutions as well! Subsequently, on St. Patrick's Eve I ate chocolate cake and then some chocolate biscuit, danced for two hours at a sets céilí on the Cavehill Road in North Belfast, and went on Facebook for the first time in weeks not on a Sunday morning.
Through the madness of the following day, the official St. Patrick's Day, I had one or two quiet moments. This was partly due to the fact that I wore heels all day and had to sit down for a bit but also due to the fact that I had attended the Irish language Mass at noon and been surrounded by Irish language speakers at the Irish cultural center over lunch and then at the rugby match later in the afternoon--not because of the location but by dint of my company. Apparently, it was my fortune/misfortune to run into Irish speakers the entire day. I suppose you never realise how much you're not ready to let go of something when you're confronted repeatedly by people who very much have that something. It gives you a very odd sort of feeling...a mixture of jealousy, half-inclusion (because I understand at least half of everything people say), and frustration. But I never felt resignation--never mind the fact that I have been acting resigned. Consequently, during one of those quiet moments between the rubgy match and the pub crawl, with tea in hand and my feet resting on a friend's sofa, I made a St. Patrick's Day resolution. I will return to Irish again (again), and I will look at PhD programs that have to do with Irish language.
Sometimes I think St. Patrick was lucky to get kidnapped and enslaved by Irish people centuries ago. It's not because I have a desire to be kidnapped. It's because for three or four years he was immersed in Irish. He became fluent because he had to become fluent, just like Amanda Knox became fluent in Italian while in an Italian prison. That's probably an entirely inappropriate parallel to make, but on a linguistic level, it stands. I have to choose my immersion and make it possible. They didn't. And I am a lazy, lazy person...
My Irish-language learning haiku:
Through the madness of the following day, the official St. Patrick's Day, I had one or two quiet moments. This was partly due to the fact that I wore heels all day and had to sit down for a bit but also due to the fact that I had attended the Irish language Mass at noon and been surrounded by Irish language speakers at the Irish cultural center over lunch and then at the rugby match later in the afternoon--not because of the location but by dint of my company. Apparently, it was my fortune/misfortune to run into Irish speakers the entire day. I suppose you never realise how much you're not ready to let go of something when you're confronted repeatedly by people who very much have that something. It gives you a very odd sort of feeling...a mixture of jealousy, half-inclusion (because I understand at least half of everything people say), and frustration. But I never felt resignation--never mind the fact that I have been acting resigned. Consequently, during one of those quiet moments between the rubgy match and the pub crawl, with tea in hand and my feet resting on a friend's sofa, I made a St. Patrick's Day resolution. I will return to Irish again (again), and I will look at PhD programs that have to do with Irish language.
Sometimes I think St. Patrick was lucky to get kidnapped and enslaved by Irish people centuries ago. It's not because I have a desire to be kidnapped. It's because for three or four years he was immersed in Irish. He became fluent because he had to become fluent, just like Amanda Knox became fluent in Italian while in an Italian prison. That's probably an entirely inappropriate parallel to make, but on a linguistic level, it stands. I have to choose my immersion and make it possible. They didn't. And I am a lazy, lazy person...
My Irish-language learning haiku:
What is my motto?
No more English excuses.
You can drink to that.
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