And I like the tourists here.

The waters turn white from jumping onto the top of the strangely hexagonal rocks. They race in and out, in and out. These pillars of stone form the mythic Giant’s Causeway, a unique formation of rocks that were, as they myth tells it, built and partially destroyed by giants. The ocean’s waves arrive and make their crashing, leaping turn back out into the mass of the Atlantic. The sound booms and the white water sprays upward.

The textures in this place are mad. All of the rocks are in cleanly cut stacks, about a foot in diameter. The stacks are unevenly worn away, forming something like hexagonal checkers pieces stacked one on top of the other because of a kinging. Hop scotch here would be epic. Now this place, this inlet of beautifully strange rocks in front of these magnificent cliffs, is a true wonder. Everyone should visit.

And I like the tourists here. They’ve walked or ridden down the long path below along the ocean or the path above along the cliffs and don't seem to be in a hurry. Upon arrival they stand, wander, play about. Pairs and trios find a spot to sit here on the western, sunny side of the rocks. They feel the warmth of the sun, squint their eyes, scrunch their noses, look at each other, sniff the air clean ocean air and smile.

When we first begin walking on the Causeway I look up and see a sort of mist beginning to cover the land farther from us. Turning to my friends I call out, “Hey, it’s raining over there, I think.” And then warn, “It’s about to rain here, too, I think!” Sure enough, the rain runs right over top of us while the sun still shines. I hear a stranger say, “Look out for a rainbow.” Turning around, I breathe deep and close my eyes in reaction to such beauty. A full rainbow stands between me and the cliffs. There are neither leprechauns nor gold, but a gentle peace in abundance as the bright colors begin to my left in the ocean and arch into the sky, returning at the rocks splashed in tide waters.

I and my friends sit on the rocks accompanied by the sonorous and constant waves. Rhey gently comments, “I think this is, like... good for my soul.”

Bright clouds silhouette a mountain pass, creating the background for a mini inlet between the two small peninsulas of the mysteriously formed rocks. Wet, darkened stones shine bright white and grey as the sun hits them.

People give each other turns standing at the crest of the rocks; their bodies cast shadows onto the mist from the crashing waves. This eerily but comfortingly plays on the dramatic light. When the sun has fully arrived I can barely look to the water it reflects the sun so brightly.

“I’m finally starting to feel happy here,” I say, looking at my friends. This place, this journeying out into a new land, it is good for me.

I talked with an warm older Irish lady as we sat waiting for our bus to leave the Causeway. She had a face that looked as though she’d lived through many dark days but smile wrinkles giving light to her eyes. She said, looking out over the hills toward the ocean, “There’s a peace about this place. It’s the infinity of the sea and the light. It’s brilliant.”

I could see humans planting bombs.

[Looking out over Belfast!]

This past weekend I went to Belfast. On the bus there my friend gave me a full hour lecture concerning Northern Irish history and the current state of political affairs.

The bus was pretty full from the start, and we didn’t know the bus’ political composition. In light of the very real bombing last week here in Derry, this was a legitimate concern to me. While she was talking I glanced around, noticing the elderly people sitting a few seats in front of us. I perked my ears to hear the young men around us quip about the RA (IRA). Though I appreciated it, I wanted to hush her relentless (and enthusiastic) retelling of sectarian violence, terrorism, and oppression. These people lived the troubles. They know the rebels, the paramilitaries, the dead, the fear.

I confessed to her, “I simply don’t see any reason for the violence. I’ve spent the last two years concerning myself with the possibility of legitimate causes for a terrorist’s activity. Now that I’ve seen it happen in real life it seems so useless. So dumb and destructive and unwanted.”

My friend was quiet for a bit, then she said something profound. She said they (these Real IRA members who set off the car bomb) may have grown up in the homes of former IRA members who have a family heritage in the republican movement. She said it’s possible that they want something to fight for. She said they probably want to be a part of something bigger than themselves.

And all of the sudden they weren’t monsters without minds and without families and without dreams. I could see humans planting bombs.

Now. None of this realization makes what they did okay. But, so importantly, it re-humanized them to me. I was afraid because I thought I’d found a situation in which dehumanization was a legitimate response. And that scared me. The potential in me to dehumanize is just as real as within a Ku Klux Klan member. I must guard against this inclination.

[A mural along the Falls Road, a Nationalist/Republican area of the city. The left mural reads: "OPPRESSION BREEDS RESISTANCE]

-----------------------------------

As I spent the weekend in Belfast, as city still wrecked in sectarianism, I continued to think about violence. We watched Michael Collins with our newfound Belfast friends. [Michael Collins is an excellent movie--I recommend it to anyone. Liam Neeson... need I say more?] The movie is about the leader of Ireland’s war for the Republic. It is during these years that Northern Ireland voted to remain under British rule.

I want to believe that violence isn’t useful. But I simply can’t. Violence got Ireland their republic--alongside diplomacy, but definitely proceeding that diplomacy. Though it is hell, war gets plenty done from that hell.

What amazes me is the way in which being part of a cause, especially one worth violence, can saturate a life with meaning. And I find myself longing so deeply to be a part of a cause that demands everything from me. Something bigger than living. Something worth killing for.

It is so easy to get caught up in a pursuit of some greater cause. I confess that, in the past, justice has been my god.

As a person of this inclination I must check myself. Why do I want the things I want? Is it because I want to be near Jesus or because I feel a need to infuse my life with meaning? In my clearer moments, I want to follow Jesus until, if necessary, I lose my life. With the grace of God, those moments will become more and more often.

I still believe that the people of the Way are called to love their enemies: that never looks like killing them. I must remember that this doesn’t diminish the depth of our struggle. We must struggle in the name of our God... in love.

[The Peace Wall between the Unionist/Loyalist Shankhill Road and Nationalist/Republican Falls Road.]

People here find violence neither constructive nor effective...

I heard the huge sound and knew immediately it wasn’t fireworks. I leaned out my window to see what I could see. There across from the L shape of our flat's building I saw Melissa opening her window. “Did ye hear that?” She called across to me with her always enthusiastic voice, “Look! There’s fuckin smoke! Look at the smoke! I felt it shake. It’s a fuckin bomb.”

In seconds there were about 7 or eight people gathering in windows across the way and I could hear more people yellin from their windows below me. Imelda and Emma, my flatmates ran into my room speaking quickly; “Did you hear that? What the fuck was that? Awww, fer fuck's sake, it was a bomb... I bet it was at DaVincis, the hotel.”


More and more smoke was raising into the sky about a mile away. "Welcome to Derry," Emma said angrily, walking out of the room.

(Student's returning to their rooms after gathering post-explosion)

---------

A few minutes later, as dozens of students gathered together outside excitedly responding to the bomb, we heard from our friend Emer who had been driving home when the bomb exploded. She texted Emma, letting her know that she missed the bomb by a few minutes (it's on her route home) and that she was okay but shook up.

---------

Two of my flatmates are from the Republic. They both expressed awe and fear over the attack. "We're not used to this," Rachel said, referring the the people from the Republic of Ireland. Imelda confessed that she'd never been so afraid, "I'm rethinking my decision to come up here for Uni. I'm still shakin'."

The situation here is the following: there are some joint initiatives and power-sharing policies between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, but since 1921 the northern province of the island, Ulster, voted to remain a part of the United Kingdom. There is a Protestant, majority in Ulster, as opposed to an overwhelmingly Catholic majority in the southern part of the island. The ones who are actively seeking to maintain connection to the UK are called Unionists (if non-violent) or Loyalists (if advocates of violence).

Traditionally, the Protestants have maintained the greater amount of political, economic, and social control. In the late 1960s and 1970s a civil rights movement (inspired in part by the US Civil Rights Movement) advocating for just treatment of Catholics in Northern Ireland who at the time had fewer cultural, housing, employment, and educational opportunities than the Protestants. They were often treated unfairly within the justice system and targeted unjustly by overwhelmingly Protestant police forces. Nationalist (non-violent) and Republican (violent) groups wanted separation from the UK and unity with the Republic of Ireland.

Terrorist activities peppered and then saturated the movement against an oppressive system. The Irish Republican Army (IRA) bombed pubs and transportation centers. British soldiers and Ulster police attacked civilians. Targeted assassinations from the Ulster Volunteer Foce (UVF) and the IRA became more and more common. Today, nearly everyone in the country has been affected by this violence.

In the late 1990s and just after 2000 a peace agreement began demilitarization of the armed groups and started initiatives of inter-group reconciliation. Since the Good Friday Agreement much of the violence has disappeared.

People here find violence neither constructive nor effective... Most people. There are still some dissident groups, such as the Real IRA (RIRA), who believe they should use violence as a destabilizing force. They want to stir up a resistance movement for the independence of Northern Ireland from the UK. Thus the car bomb at the Ulster Bank.

Apparently, according to the RIRA "The role of bankers and the institutions they serve in financing Britain's colonial and capitalist system has not gone unnoticed...It's essentially a crime spree that benefits a social elite at the expense of many millions of victims" (http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/sep/14/real-ira-targets-banks-bankers).

Everyone I've talked to from here would say something like what one of my flatmates said: "“Fuckin bastards. Psychotic, is what it is."

---------

As a result of this dissidant attack there's been a flurry of conversation about the terrorism here in Northern Ireland. Most of my friends from here have experiences, either recent or from their childhood, connected to the sectarian violence of the Troubles:
"You know that pictures of the people on Bloody Sunday? The guy with big glasses in the murals? That was my uncle."
"My uncle died in that attack."
"I was just a cadet for the British Armed Forces. We were fucking kids and the IRA were threatenin' to attack us."
"My granny hasn't marched since that day, Bloody Sunday."
"We were supposed to go out to that pub that night, but decided not to. It was bombed later."



If you're interested in more about the car bomb and responses to it:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-foyle-west-11473586

Tattle Tale Socks

At the top of the hill I take my jacket off and sit gently down on the bench overlooking the River Foyle and the old Arts building. The day is a beautiful, a cool-in-the-wind but warm-in-the-sun kind of day. I was on my way to the practice rooms but I just had to take in some sun. (I think I've developed a Vitamin D deficiency since I came to Ireland. When the sun shines, every moment must be cherished.)

The fall leaves crisp by me, carried by the breeze, and I pull out my journal. I look down at these clothes I put on so carefully today: classic yellow cardigan, favorite rusty v-neck, black high waisted pants, kenyan earrings, necklace from my mom, and black hand-me-down shoes.

I try not to care that, when I cross my legs, my white socks are all exposed against my black shoes and pants. They sit there, those dumb socks, like little tattle tales, whining out to the world that I am not nearly as fashionable as I'd like to be.

I also try not to care that my belly noticeably nudges against my high-waisted pants and tucked in shirt. Tucked in shirts are not all that flattering most of them time. In light of this, however, I think I've started tucking my shirts in because my belly pudges a little. I tuck them in declaring, "I won't hide the way I am! I am who I am in this body! I am this!" I say, trying to smile.

After about forty minutes of enjoying the writing and the sun and the leaves and the bench, I put my jacket back on, tug my pant legs down a bit to cover my white socks, tuck my shirt back in, and head happily down to the practice rooms for the next several hours. And I do smile.

Nothing un-thought

I am struggling with this blog.

I've committed to it.
I regularly regret this commitment.

I don't feel I have anything of significance worked out well enough to say. Why should someone take time to read anything that I write?

My writing, I've held, has actual meaning and is significant as it reveals what I believe is true. I never purposefully write falsities, whether for a research paper or a letter or a facebook comment. When I write for other people (and an indiscriminate number of people, as is the nature of online blogs), I feel as though I am bearing a part of my unrefined and unprotected soul.

This soul-bearing is most dangerous because it is really only true in the moment of its writing; I am not a fixed, definable entity. I change. The writing I do now is only a sketch for thoughts and ideas and parts of me. But what I've written here is--as it is permanently available for public access--carved in stone.

The problematic nature of the public is that is is a carving of something that's moving. It's not quite accurate.
What's written here is an eternal display (as if worthy of display) of a mere momentary sketch.

Yet! I will eternally be sketching and my transient conclusions will never be anything but that-changing. Therefore, If I hold to this notion of protection and privacy until some kind of internal conclusion or completion, I will never write anything for others to see...


And would this be such a tragedy? Is it so important that others see and know what I write? Would the absence of my thoughts, my words, my experiences and ideas be any great loss?

All of these experiences I'm having are so complex that any kind of articulated assessment of them seems premature and pretentious. I think nothing novel. Nothing original. Nothing unprecedented. Nothing un-thought as of today.

I am a processor of connections, a linker of worlds. A line drawer. A sketcher, some might say.
But maybe someone will see something useful or beautiful or worthwhile in a sketch or two...

I live in Duncreggan Student Village (the Village).

There's. So. Much.

I've been in Derry for just half a week.

I've met all 4 of my other flatmates and many of their friends (GREAT people, really! They've been takin care of me.)
I've meet about 30 students from China, the States, France, Germany, Spain, the Philippines, Taiwan, India... (O! And one of the other Americans speaks Arabic! He spent the last two years in Morocco and Egypt. I almost cried when I found out)
I've been to the campus pub for a free drink and good conversation, to a club for dancing, to a cafeteria for some cheap food, to Hannah's apartment for dinner with 5 other Americans (breakfast sandwiches!), to Rhey's apartment for cereal, to the three charity shops for cheap clothes, and to the prayer room on campus.

I think I might join the Gaelic team (check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDwXzyZtKp0&feature=related).
I'm pretty sure I'm taking a piano course (along with a module on Genocide and one on Self, Identity and Conflict and in independently researched and specially supervised course with this brilliant politics professor).
I plan to travel nearly every weekend. I only have class Tuesday and Wednesday.


I am just in love with the Irish way of living together. I know I'm going to learn so much about community while I am here.Not only do the girls who are friends with my flatmates come over and eat full meals together (they've always invited me) but even the people who come by and clean the flats know each person they clean for by name. How often does that happen in the States?

Tonight, after I walked back from the international students' event, some people in my hall saw us from their window, opened it, and shouted for us to come up. We did and joined the party, playing guitar, drinkin beer, makin jokes. A very nice time.



I'm pretty excited about the relationships that are all coming so naturally with both the Irish and the other Internationals. Praise God.

Pray that I find a church.


I like this part of my room. I bought that painting at a charity shop in London... love

I am inclined to receive this

Hi all. It's been a few days. I apologize. For a little while there I wasn't able to get on my computer and for a little while I was too busy and for a little while I was sick. . .

On Saturday of last I woke up extremely late. Friday night was my transition from my first host family to the next, a student at Regent's College. Though I was sleeping on the wooden floor of a friend's dorm room, I slept well into the, ehem, afternoon. I was tired, to say the least.

When I finally left the campus for the day, I didn't get too far. I found myself the most-likely-arabic restaurant (Marco Polos, A Taste of Mediterranean Cuisine) and went in, ordered an english breakfast (NOTE: don't order english breakfast from and restaurant that specializes in pita, hummus, and falafel... it probably won't be very english, or very good.) I found out they were arabs and I said something arabic and from that moment we knew we'd be friends. Though, because I am bit better at Spanish than Arabic and the one man is better at Spanish than English, we mostly spoke in Spanish... for hours. We walked together to retrieve a letter I'd written to Teddy (my beau) in another part of town and enjoyed each other's company. At one point it took a good 5 minutes for me to ask "Have you ever eaten in the Eagle and Child Pub?" It's a pub in Oxford where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein used to met. Trouble is, I didn't even know the word for author in Spanish. Good thing we are both patient people.

That night I enjoyed the pleasant company of my hosts friends at Regent's College. We shared music and plenty of laughs.

Sunday morning I went early to Marco Polos and got free toast and hot morning drinks for me and a friend. "There is no money between friends," said Abu Naser when I pulled out my wallet. I love that so much.

I then quickly made my way out to Virginia Water, a place just outside of London, to spend the day with the people who hosted me my last time through London. The father is the vicar of a parish there. The family is just wonderful. They made me feel so at home; after the service I read C.S. Lewis' "A Pilgrim's Regress," drank tea, ate lunch with the family, and fell asleep curled up on the couch. Katie, the daughter I made fast friends with the last time I was there, and I watched Friends and attended the evening youth service together.

Truly God is good. That day was immensely encouraging. Here's an excerpt from my journal:

"I almost unabashedly accept the way my heart feels, beating a small rhythm and pushing life through my chest... And my beating heart, if I think about its presence, I am nearly confident of hope and a little sad of things left behind, across the large sea. Yet I am inclined to receive this. To know this. I perceive hope and excitement and still a persistant hesitation in my heart."

But God has been speaking to me about knowing Him as my first love. Truly as my first love. To read His word as a letter, a connection, with the most dear love of my life. To pray as if speaking and listening to the one I most want to hear from. To love others as a way to show Him love. Oh! May this be true in my heart.