irish n me

march is a good time for me to reflect on genetics. irish culture represents intellect, determination, and poetry.  have been blogging for 8 years now consistently and have only heard an echo maybe not a muse. i only wish i were able to compel the gifts i have received to the level of my ancestry. i have always and will continue to revel in the simplicity and the pageantry that is woven by irish hearts and irish voices.  genetically irish and spiritually sober and earth's blessings abound.... James Joyce .. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

“He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.” 
― James JoyceA Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

march is a good time for me to reflect on genetics. irish culture represents intellect, determination, poetry, and passion.  my perception of the irish contribution to culture is one of documenting the experience.  inspiration, commitment, ingenuity, and tenacity are just a few adjectives that come to mind when i think of the green island nation. i have been blogging for 8 years now consistently and have only heard an echo of these descriptors let alone a muse. i only wish i were able to compel the gifts i have received to the level of this part of my ancestry. i have always and will continue to revel in the simplicity and the pageantry that is woven by irish hearts and irish voices.  genetically irish and spiritually sober and earth’s blessings abound. i humbly bow my head to this culture that has provided so much color and warmth to our  (my) collective experience. happy st. patrick’s day.

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day;  Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. – Dylan Thomas

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