Ar Scáth a Chéile a Mhaireann na Daoine

Haigh a chairde. Cad é mar atá sibh? Hello, friends. How are y’all? It has been awhile, but as I told my Telegram group recently: Táim gafa, gafa, gafa, ag scríobh, ag scríobh, ag scríobh! I am busy, busy, busy, writing, writing, writing. I don’t think I have stopped writing all month, and unfortunately it meant not writing for you here. Brón orm. You know how it is, another new priority pops up every two seconds, such is the nature of our capitalist lives. But I have been meaning to write to you, and today in my second day of bootcamp over at the The Mórrígan Academy with Lora O’Brien, our task today was to do something we have been meaning to do and been putting off. So here we are. Sitting down to write this newsletter.

I am also sitting in gratitude as many of the seeds I have sown over the last few months are bearing fruit. (More on that at the end.) These are seeds I wouldn't even have in my hand if it weren't for the many people who helped build me back up when I broke down. Many of you are readers from that fateful trip to Molliefest 2025, the trip to Ireland that I’ve talked about many times over in this newsletter. I’ve told the story of visiting the tobar Bhríde, of my attempts to earn a gold star for my colloquialisms, watching David Keohan lift the stone, and how I cried so much I maybe should’ve gotten an award for it. As most of my friends are mid-Molliefest 2026, I’ll tell a story I’ve been saving: the infamous yoga hike that broke me down.

We started the day making our hourslong hike up one side of Inis Mór, almost to the Poll na bPéist, or the Wormhole. All of it rocky and rough. That was how we spent most of our day, hiking up, lifting the stone, and having lunch. Bhí an aimsir go hálainn agus bhí an ghrian ag scoilteadh na gcloch. The weather was gorgeous, absolute sunshine. I sat on the rock with my partner and we ate our sandwiches. My teacher, Mollie, came and sat with us. It was only day one of the retreat, so I was still a little starstruck. (Not to mention my first time really speaking with her on the island was in the bathroom of the hotel where I finally threw up after a very bumpy ride on the ferry.) So I sat there absolutely gagged with nothing to say except that the Irish really have something with the Tayto brand chip. It was an inspiring, but tiring trek.

In the evening, I went to yoga. (My partner, who had gone earlier in the morning, said that the teacher would be taking us evening practitioners outside because it was such a lovely day.) So myself, my new friend Bernadette, and many others began our walk up the other side of the island. Bernadette said that if she’d known it was going to be another hike she would’ve just gone to the morning one, and I begin to pep talk her: Ah we can do it Bernadette! Éasca péasca. I was quickly proved wrong when what was advertised as a ten minute jaunt to the cliffs, became another hour long hike up the hill, and Bernadette left me in the dust altogether.

I had my backpack that only contained an iPad and my water bottle and my yoga mat under my arm as I climbed in my boots, lagging behind even David Keohan who had lifted a 400lb stone after waking up at the crack of dawn to get to the island and hike to it. Most folks were older than me, and I remember one Irish woman was only in her clogs, but damned if she didn’t climb those hills. And she climbed them all the while telling us about the ravens trying to eat the lambs’ eyeballs when they’re born and how teenagers be tipping over the sheep. She and another group started talking about a news story where a flock of African birds, the Hoopoe, were blown off course directly into Inis Mór and were spotted not long before our arrival. The birds are said to have a unique call like a inside of a tin-can. I listened all while I trudged and wondered what I had gotten myself into.

Now, I’m only 33, I do yoga fairly regularly, but I’m not athletic by any stretch of the imagination. As we get halfway in this climb I think, Oh Brigid help me, I don’t know how I’m going to get down! There was fire radiating in my knees and hips, and when we got to the top of the cliffs, where all the porous limestone lives, I broke down. I knew my body could go no further, not with my weak ankles that threatened to roll with every step. So I stood there watching the Atlantic ocean crash into the island below me and started to cry because I knew I could go no further. Go hálainn, go hálainn was all I could say as Gaeilge. And I could barely voice my need to stay behind because I knew it would mean others would also miss out. If my partner was with me, she would’ve seen the signs early and made us turn around.

Many people came to my aid. One woman took my yoga mat for me as we climbed the stone fences. Sorcha, one of the muinteoirí, stayed with me along with another woman, Michelle, who said she’d like to stay behind because she had fallen earlier in the day during the first hike anyway. We sat on the stone while the others made their way across the cliffs to the yoga spot. I felt rotten.

But Sorcha spoke as Gaeilge about the flowers that only grow on these cliffs and along the equator, and I listened as I tried to pull myself together. I had no cell service, so I couldn’t text my partner who was with the rest of the group at the pub, chatting away and waiting for the rest of us before dinner. We managed to text Mollie that the hotel van would need to come pick us up. The sticking point being that the van could not go all the way up the cliffs. We would have to hike back down a ways before meeting up with the shuttle.

So off Michelle and I go by ourselves. I wish I could remember all of the conversation we had, but what I do remember as we walked was how gentle she was as I sulked with my head and shoulders low and my body in amounts of pain I have not felt since. She talked all the while, and insisted she take my backpack and mat for me. My Southern American sensibilities refused this many times.

I was the young woman! I couldn’t let all these older folks carry the items I brought up the hill, it was discourteous. Not to mention that I had always been taught that to be offered something, anything, wasn’t really an offer. They were just niceties you weren’t supposed to accept. To be a good guest was to make yourself nonexistent to the host. Michelle’s kindly persistence won out in the end, which while it alleviated the physical burden on my body, made me feel like the biggest burden on the planet. I couldn’t stop the occasional tears from rolling down my face, but she never pointed them out to my relief.

The sun was setting as we made our march. The quiet of the island was upon us—not a breeze, a birdsong, voice, or vehicle—until something called out to us. We stopped to listen. Not quite a raven’s caw, but certainly not a songbird, like winding up a toy to zoom across the floor. We wondered if this was the Hoopoe. We stopped to marvel at it many times and hoped to catch sight of it. The sound led us all the way down to the main road and beach.

Along the road, the van pulled up to us as if to say “Táim anseo!” I’m here! We told the shuttle driver to go up further for the others, but since we could see the hotel from where we were we could make it the rest of the way. I had already been pushed to the limit, what was a few hundred more feet really?

Finally, I pushed open the doors to the hotel pub. My partner, our new friends, mo mhuinteoir, all seated around their dinner tables, brightened up: “Sam!" 

I burst into tears.

This part of a long story ends with Mollie treating me to hot whiskey, inviting me to sit at her table, and me saying, “Ba mhaith liom marijuana. Conas a dearfá sin?” (Another muinteoir, Keri, pulled out a tincture from her purse then and squeezed a little into my drink. “This is the Connemara version,” she said.) We all had a laugh and I got the gold star that the eternal teacher's pet in me had coveted. Though, I was disappointed I had not earned it on the merits of language learning. But it was one domino in a line that would continue to fall throughout the week, where I would learn that people are inherently good, which in these times is an invaluable thing to be reaffirmed. It was also the moment that I began to write poetry, which I hadn't written since college. I broke apart so others could help build me back up.

It's where I met Peadar, who sends me hats in exchange for fun post cards; Hannah, who publishes children's books and ribbed me about the oxford comma; Stephen, who gave me my new favorite phrase; Janine, who shared her solidarity with us navigating an increasingly anti-trans world; Tom, who gave me his email because he and my dad are both from Maine; David, who had us all singing "Tomorrow!" as Gaeilge; Tatjana, who told me her Polish-speaking father's story; Jennifer, who sends me voice notes still; Laoise, who is strong as an ox but so kind; and so many more. Everyone had a story to tell and we all had one thing in common: Grá for a language.

I sit here writing this on a rainy Texas day in my office, wishing I was hearing that bird again (turns out it was corn crake and not a hoopoe but still a rare bird!) and that I was sitting in the pub with a hot whiskey and a hippie Connemara tincture. Go raibh míle maith agaibh, a chairde. I miss y’all so much.

There are many reasons why I have probably put off writing this next newsletter aside from the busyness of my life. I mean, I do choose to allow things to supersede it don't I? It's a little bit daunting for one. I also don't want to give off this image of spirituality for content because that's not what this ever was or will be. I suppose it's really just documenting some of this path I'm on (I have to keep some things for me after all) and a way to keep writing when things fall apart. And yes, if you feel so inclined you can give me some money to do it because the job market is rough folks. Of the 100+ applications of the last 10 months, two have called me. My offerings in return are meager, but I hope they satisfy you.

In thanks, I am opening up another discount for supporting my newsletter with the code: Go-raibh-mle-maith-agaibh

This code will give you 6 months of the cairde Bríde tier for the price of the tabhartas tier! (Wink wink: I'm about to drop some new content for that tier in the coming month.) Subscribing to a paid tier helps pay my bills as I continue to look for work, as I continue to pursue my writing career in full force, as I go to school in Galway this summer. I appreciate you all who have stuck by me with this experiment of a newsletter.

 In case you missed it, here is what I have been up to lately: 

• "As Fuel Protests Sweep Ireland, the Left Points to Imperialism as the Culprit" for Truthout

• "There’s a Little Witch in All of Us: The Ritual of Writing" for Okay Donkey literary magazine

• "Swamp Caoin" for Fish Girl Collective's Bruised Knees and Gardenias. Available for preorder in print now and available online everywhere April 25.

And there is much more to come soon!

Slán go fóill,

Sam

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