The thing that happens when we go to Ireland is that we power down our work brains completely and see what percolates up to the surface. Some days that means reading by the fire for hours and walking around in a kind of lovely gauziness from all the fictional lives sloshing around our brains. This time, one of the books I read was Away but Amy Bloom, and when I finished, I sat in silence for a long time, in a kind of exhausted awe. Like Lisel Mueller said, "What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives."

Other days, we charge out into the world. But the difference in Ireland is that we charge out with a singular purpose. All of a sudden, the one and only thing that needs to be done is to pull on a pair of wellies and examine hedgerows for jam opportunities. A complicated and beautiful universe reveals itself in the thick greenery growing along country lanes, and a simple plan for the evening trips out ahead of us. Boil blackberries. Strain. Pour into old whiskey bottle and top with brandy. 

Our couple weeks there were studded with these single-minded pursuits. Among the domestic highlights were making a dessert from seaweed, a peppery pesto from nasturtium leaves, and a whole heap of flower arrangements from an afternoon spent collecting armfuls of wildflowers.

I checked a couple books out of the local library, and kept my to-do list, almost like an artifact from another life.