Dublin is to me what a log cabin is to a writer: a place to heal ailments like writers block or inertia. This is the only word I can think to use to describe my state before going recently.
It’s not so much the place; because on this particular trip, other than a couple of airport runs and one visit to the supermarket, I was indoors for the week.
It’s not the place, it’s the people and therefore the experiences.
It’s a place where we once created an impromptu band; with someone playing the keyboard, another a guitar which was missing some strings, someone beating a rhythm on the wooden stool and some singing.
It’s a place where when we hear a particular song on the radio the car groans with the weight and movement of our enthusiastic dancing.
It’s a place where three sisters can spend an entire day reminiscing amidst howls of uncontrollable laughter.
It’s a place where my dad can ask my niece who lives in New York to make a half hour trip to Africa because he wants to take a picture with his grand kids; and mean it.
It’s place where I am reminded of where and from ‘who’ I have come.
It rekindles, reinvigorates, refreshes, re affirms, restores, replenishes me.
Everyone should have a ‘Dublin’ or a log cabin, or both, who’s counting?