It’s Sunday morning as I write this last post. Today, I will pack up my little sticks and paintings.Clean my studio. In the afternoon, a group of us will venture back over to the pub in Coothill for merriment and watch a game of hurling — the oldest and fastest field sport in the world. On Monday, I will catch a ride to the bus station and make my way to Dublin. Before I leave, I will walk past the harvested trees, up the hill to get one more smile from Freddy.

But first, I want to show you this picture below. When I came to my studio, there was a dead bird at my door. A short-toed tree creeper had hit the glass. Obviously, it was upsetting to find her. I wrapped her in a paper towel and will bury her under the trees outside my studio door. A close-up photograph of her body was stunning. There, like a fractal of nature staring at me - the forests of County Monaghan.

I finished packing and took a nice long walk. I stopped to say good-bye to the donkeys. And to the cows who inspired my painting sketches. I know - intellectually - that they come to the fence hoping for food but emotionally, I chose to believe that these moments are communion.

The animals have taught me about the rhythm of life here in County Monaghan - how they move through the day as tractors roll up and down the hills. They are the heartbeat of country life. I am thankful for the spirit of the forests, the birds and the soft days of mist. I am thankful for the staff who served us delicious meals and the kindness of strangers as I walked the roads. And, thank you for following along with me.

Early this morning, I sat in the sunroom and read this poem by Patrick Kavanaugh, a farmer-poet who grew up down the road. I am not ready to return to all the noise in America.

October, 1943

And the rain coming down, and the rain coming down!

How lovely it falls on the rick well headed,

On the potato pits thatched on the turf clamps home,

On the roofs of the byre where the cows are bedded!

And the sun is shining down, and the sun is shining down!

How bright on the turnip leaves, on the stubble —

Where turkeys tip-toe across the ridges—

In the corner of peace in a world of trouble.

I expected to be in the company of talented and generous artists but I didn’t know we would have these wonderful evenings of sharing our craft. And that last night, the orange full moon would rise over the lake. Everything and everyone has been such a gift.

And, I never expected to be charmed by a little white-haired Irish man with four legs.

I never saw him again.

He has probably ventured off down another road to break someone else’s heart.

July 20

July 19