It is a strange sensation when you have lived in a temporary home for awhile and it is time to leave. Our retirement plans include seeing the world, one rental house at a time. For this month, we have made our residence near the border of Ireland and Northern Ireland. It is a no man’s land where borders are more of a suggestion. A land that has had its fill of the troubles.

Our little farmhouse and its owner have seen firsthand the horrors that can be inflicted one neighbor to another. The past isn’t mentioned or is whisked away with a hand and an Irish smile. The wounds are deep, but they are swallowed by the beauty of the land and the pride of place and the fierce love of family.

While I love every inch of Ireland, this trip has been less about vacationing and more about discovery of what it means to be Irish. And so, I rise early and sip my Bewley’s and nibble my last bits of homemade Banoffee pie purchased from the local church bake sale. I go outside to the porch and I let the morning damp make my hair even more untamed. I feel the chill of the sunrise as I wait for the sun to appear over the mountain.

The sheep visit for one last goodbye and even the cows come down to the gate. An Irish send off of the highest order, as if even the livestock sense our parting. I grieve their loss even before we leave.

It is bittersweet, the leaving. I have come to love this place and its slower rhythm. It is always good to be home, but the USA is in turmoil right now. It has been nice to be somewhere that has seen trouble and still manages to laugh and sing. Family is the tonic that is a constant thread; here and there. Ireland’s lessons continue to resonate.

It is a long drive to Shannon. Along the way we stop at the national farming museum. I am reminded that people have always use their wits to get on with their lives. No longer any wood? Burn peat. An over abundance of straw? Make furniture. Line your shoes with cardboard. Make clothes from cast off fabric. I come from sturdy stock who face life’s challenges head on. Character forged in famine and strife. It resonates.

We settle into the hotel at the Shannon airport and prepare for an early morning departure. I am technically going home, but why do I feel like I am leaving home? From the first day I set foot in Ireland long ago, I felt a sense of belonging. Each time I leave, I feel a sense of loss.

I am heading home to the USA and I am unsure when I will return to the Emerald Isle. But when I wake up on a Spring morning, and smell a light rain on the grass I will close my eyes. And in my memory, I will hear the gentle bleating of sheep and the sound of the wind in the meadow. I will revisit the many colors of the mountain as the clouds pass overhead and maybe just maybe, when I open my eyes I’ll find a rainbow.