My Own Immram

My inspiration for my current investigation in my work began in 2019 when I traveled from my Brooklyn studio to a two-week residency at Cill Rialaig Artist Retreat in County Kerry, Ireland. Staying in a pre-famine cottage on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic coast, I felt the wind and rain come in over Ballinskelligs Bay, and I kept warm by the peat stove. Isolated and removed from the bustling, ever accelerating pace of survival and building a career in NYC, I was reminded of a slower, older time, and more present to every shift in the day and weather and aware of every facet of my own work. I no longer needed to prove myself to the world, I had arrived in my dream life, peacefully making my art in what felt like an otherworld. Above the residency was an east-to-west stone alignment called the Moonstones (Fig. 4.1). I learned about them in the journals left by previous residents. I was advised to walk through a hole in the sheep fence up to the hill, go through the spiral gate, and up to the clearing. The little journey up to the Moonstones felt like entering the fae realm. The air up there felt charged, everything held more weight in a place that time forgot. Standing with these stones which may have been placed there centuries ago for reasons unclear, I looked out to the Atlantic Ocean. The light over many waves took my breath away. Looking at the coast to the south, it felt like the stones were waiting for something to arrive. They created a liminal space, where it was unclear if they were placed by man or natural forces. I spent a few afternoons up there startling sheep while sketching and painting the stones. One sunny afternoon, I ate my packed lunch and took a nap, sheltered from the wind by small boulders and soft grass. I wished I could stay in this peaceful place forever.

Talking with an artist in residence from Ireland, I learned about the stones’ local lore. They were linked to the myth of the Milesians, one of the many waves of mythic peoples to arrive on this island. I realized growing up in the US, I was very familiar with what were called the classics, the Greek myths, and I had heard some Norse mythology, but even as an Irish descendant, I never grew up with the Irish myths. Sure I learned about the saints from my Irish Catholic grandmother (especially her love of Mary and St. Patrick) and even tales of the ‘good folk,’ but not the stories of Lugh or the Morrighan. It was time to find out.

In Dublin after the residency, I purchased Over Nine Waves, a collection of myths retold by Marie Heaney, the wife of prominent Irish poet Seamus Heaney. I read them at the Cobblestone Pub while listening to Irish traditional music. An Irish historical writer there was curious about the text and asked me if it included “Finn and the Salmon of Knowledge,” a story he and those of his generation grew up with. In the story, young Finn meets Finegas, a man fishing for the salmon of knowledge. The salmon lived in the Boyne River and had been eating the hazelnuts that fell from trees around the Well of Wisdom, thus gaining its knowledge. Finally catching the elusive fish, Finegas asks Finn to help cook it and instructs the boy not to eat or touch the fish. While helping, Finn accidentally touches the fish with his thumb and burns it, so he puts his thumb to his mouth to cool it. Finegas sadly tells Finn to go ahead and eat the fish as the knowledge had already passed to Finn in that one accidental move. Gifted with the wisdom of the Salmon of Knowledge, Finn goes on to have many adventures with his band of men, the Fianna, using his clever wit to succeed at many challenges. What interests me about this story is how all worldly knowledge originates from the landscape and makes its way through the ecosystem to us. There is a reverence for the wisdom of the land and perhaps even a belief the landscape has sentience.

Returning to the Moonstones, I also learned the myth of the Milesians and their warrior-bard leader, Amergin. The story goes that in the north of Spain, Ith, a Milesian magician, spots Ireland from the highest tower and sets sail with his men for the island. They explore the beautiful land in awe. He encounters three Tuatha De Danaan kings fighting with each other, so he asks them why fight if they have such a rich land? The skies are blue and sunny, the crops grow abundantly, and the hills and fields continue on as far as the eye can see. At his words they reach peace, so Ith and his men head back to his ship. However, the kings agree that if this leader knows how wonderful their kingdom is, he will come and take it for himself, so they order their men to kill him. His crew vows revenge, returning to their home country to rally reinforcements. They return with the poet and leader Amergin, who challenges the Tuatha de Danaan to the right to their land. They challenge him to give them a fair offer for it, so he agrees to go back to his ship, and if he and his men can sail over nine waves to reach the island, then they will claim it. To thwart him, the Tuatha de Danaan use druid magic to shroud the land in fog and storm, making it impossible to land. Amergin’s ship gets waylaid off the coast and travels so far off course that it sails around the island and, according to local Kerry lore, it makes it as far as Ballinskelligs Bay. Amergin’s brother climbs up to the crow’s nest to look for land, but the storm is so dreadful he is thrown off and dies on deck. In a rage, Amergin calls to the spirit of the land of Ireland, praising its beauty. The storm calms as the island welcomes him. Stepping onto the shore, he speaks his famous poem:

I am the wind on the sea.
I am the wave of the ocean. I am a powerful bull.
I am an eagle on the rock.
I am the brightness of the sun. I am a fierce wild boar.
I am a salmon in the pool. I am the wisdom of art.
I am a spear, sharp in battle.
I am the god that puts fire in the brain.⁵

After they defeated the Tuatha de Danaan in battle, legend states that his brother was buried on the coast overlooking the ocean, marked by the standing stone alignment, the Moonstones. In this story, the landscape choosing Amergin is what leads them to victory, and the Moonstones may mark the coastline where they were said to be first heralded.

Looking out over the coastal cliffs of Kerry, it felt like the border to the otherworld of Tír na nÓg, told about in many stories of Immrama, where a character travels across the sea to a wondrous land. In “ The Voyage of Bran,” Prince Bran is sitting in a sunny field like the one I napped in by the stones. He hears enchanting harp music, which lulls him into a deep slumber. When he awakens, a silver apple bough is lying next to him. Returning to his castle, a beautiful woman awaits him, and tells him of her enchanted Island of Women and how to navigate the seas there. He sets off immediately with his band of sailors, and they go on a journey with slight obstacles, but most reach the shores of this enchanted land. There they enjoy a happy life in paradise with the beautiful women.

Eventually, one sailor misses his home so much, they all agree to return. When they reach Ireland, the homesick man steps on shore and instantly turns to dust. While it felt like only one year had passed, it had been centuries and they realized they would never set foot on the land again, doomed to sail the ocean for eternity. The crew shouts their tale to a wandering scribe on the shore, who records “The Voyage of Bran” for all to remember.⁶ At dusk in the cottage, I listened to waves crash below and the distant call of the curlew. It was easy to believe the cry was their lament.

These stories feel like windows to a previous time that a part of me once knew but has forgotten. In their retelling, I relate to the landscape in a different way, one that deepens my connection to places I innately respond to but don’t yet understand.

In addition to the Irish myths, I sought out Irish traditional session music, like the one I heard at the Cobblestone pub in Dublin. After my time in Ireland, I left New York City and moved home to be closer to nature and family in Austin, Texas. Here I found the local Irish traditional session community. While listening to the musicians play on the outdoor patio under the trees, I read the English Surrealist artist Ithell Colquhoun’s journals documenting her travels through Ireland in the 1940s. At one session, a kind bodhran player showed me how to play the instrument, and the moment I struck the drum, thunder actually rumbled and wind shook leaves as a summer storm began. I was enthralled. Returning every week to play the drum with my session friends, I let the music take us to another time and place. I even dreamt of our session once, returning to our familiar Irish pub generations later, where young people listened and unfamiliar musicians still kept the music alive. Playing my bodhran and learning the harp, it feels important to take part in this legacy, of this living dream of people long forgotten. What origin stories do the jigs and reels hold with names like “Kid on the Mountain” or “Earl’s Chair?” It’s like we are holding onto secrets whose keys we forgot long ago, waiting like the standing stones for someone to return over nine waves to remind us what we have held onto—that ancient remembrance and our belonging to sea and stone.

• Marie Heaney, Over Nine Waves (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1994).
• Heaney, Over Nine Waves.