Dreaming of Home
Everyday, after waking up, I realized that I had been dreaming about home again. I lay staring at the ceiling for a moment or two. Then, dragging myself from the bed, I walked to the window and threw open the curtains. The wide open space of the New Mexico high desert stared back blankly at me. The cobalt blue skies, peach colored Sandia Mountains and endless waves of sagebrush and juniper stood in stark contrast to my dreamscape. For the past eight years, my first view of the day was this one. But today was different. Today, I was going home.
I grew up in Dublin in the 1970s. To understand how that shaped the person I am today, you have to understand something about Ireland at that time. It has been said by someone a lot more insightful, and perhaps more cynical than me, that the 1960s didn't reach Ireland until about 1975. So I grew up in a time of great change, where the old social norms were being challenged and cast aside. Of course, in my growing years, I didn't always understand this. I viewed Dublin through the eyes of a child. I led a fairly sheltered existence, the eldest of seven children. My parents were country people and had moved here after the birth of my first sibling, Paul. My father worked in the construction industry and construction jobs were much more plentiful here than in the backwaters of Wicklow where he was born and bred. My mother was from the West, born in County Clare and was the daughter of a farm laborer. Her father, Patrick Murray, had moved where the work was too, and had ended up settling and eventually retiring in Wicklow. This was where my parents met and where I had come into being.
Our days in Dublin were regularly punctuated by trips to the country to visit my gr...
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... We were old friends and lovers, learning that what it was to know one another again and tentatively finding our way back into each others lives. I still love Dublin, but I realize now that I love it despite itself and not because of itself. I think, perhaps, that is how it's always been.
And a strange thing happened.
I awoke one morning to find myself back in my bedroom, back in New Mexico. My wife lay sleeping beside me, lost in her own dreams. The house was quiet. I walked once more to the window and opened those curtains. The room was immediately filled with warm, brilliant sunlight. The sky was that same fantastic shade of blue and the Sandia Mountains glistened as ever in the early morning light. I gazed out across the waves of sagebrush and juniper and realized I had not dreamed of home. Looking back to where my wife lay sleeping, I realized I was home.
Every cold Alberta winter, or dry summer, makes me long for the East Coast. When I grow tired of the brown dirty hills of Alberta, I can close my eyes and picture being back in New Brunswick, bright green meadows and clear rivers. I miss how the fog creeps into your yard in the early mornings, the bittersweet smell of the sea that never could be washed out, I miss the feeling of home. As a child, my family and I would road trip, traveling East to the sea. I remember how the vastness of Alberta would change into the golden prairies of Saskatchewan, then shift into the forested hills of Ontario, and finally the calm rocky shores of New Brunswick. I remember the house we lived in, white paint peeling off the sides of the house, a Canadian and Arcadian flag flying on the porch (put there by my historian of a cousin), floral green wallpaper clashing with antique, mismatched furniture. That house has been in my family for generations, each of our stories have been told, beautiful new memories have been made there. I miss it so much. I miss the beach side bonfires, sparks drifting so far away they became stars, the rainy marketplace days, coming home and smelling like fish. The Alberta cold makes my heartache, I want to go home. My home is a comfortable old cabin, where I grew to not be scared of a
Dublin to the speaker is nothing more than a constant bother in his life. James Joyce discusses Dublin, Ireland as being a very lack luster and tight nit city as he says the area “stood at the blind end” (Joyce 2). Which isn't the first time James Joyce went into detail regarding Dublin and all its wonders. His narratives are at a constant repetition regarding this neighborhood. He depicts this fulfilling need when he discusses the “Araby” and the desire for Mangan's sister. Through out the narrative the speaker is stuck with the need to see her or hear her, he often conflicts with himself and those around him on whether or not to pursue the
James Joyce is the author of Dubliners, a compilation of Irish short stories that reflect on the feelings he associates with the city of Dublin, where he grew up in a large impoverished family. After he graduated from the University College, Dublin, Joyce went to live abroad in Paris, France. This action indicates a sense of entrapment that led to his desire to escape. The situations in his stories differ significantly, but each character within these stories experiences this sense of escape that Joyce had. In “An Encounter”, two boys make their first real move at being independent by skipping school to explore Dublin. In “Eveline”, the main character has a choice between taking care of her unstable father or leaving him to lead a new life with a man she has been seeing. In Joyce’s story, “The Dead,” a young man is thrown into deep human assessment, becomes unsure of who he is, and soon after is frightened of this newly discovered truth. The stories in Dubliners implicate this need for independence through characters in different situations and experiencing the feeling of entrapment.
It was 12:00 at night, but I was still wide awake. I was anxious for the trip that was in store for me. The next morning I drove to the airport and took a flight to Colorado. I rented a car and drove to Red Cliffs lodge in Moab, Utah. Moab is a dry, desert town in Utah located right next to Canyonlands national park where I would spend most of my time. Right as I got out of the car I could see the beautiful canyonlands scenery. The gigantic cliffs of the island in the sky loomed over the lodge. The blue waters of the Colorado river ran behind the lodge. My room was spacious and had a great view of the cliffs. The best part of the room was the window right above my bed. That night I fell asleep gazing at a full moon and a sky full of stars.
I jumped out of my bed, rushed to the window and took a very deep breath. The morning air was full of special fragrant. I could not understand that scent; just remember that it was quite special. Now I know that it was a scent of freedom. It seemed like I could see all the molecules that were dancing in the rays of the sun as a little cartoon bulbs: very light and happy.
Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the center of paralysis. I tried to
In a matter of fact, home is a noun that is defined in the -Collins
It was not our first literary pilgrimage, or even our first Joycean pilgrimage. If you ask Jon why he decided to spend his junior year abroad at Trinity College, Dublin, he will first joke about his trouble with foreign languages, and next tell you about the excellent English department.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
Thomas, Steve. "Dubliners by James Joyce." ebooks@Adelaide. The University of Adelaide, 23 Aug 2010. Web. 20 Jan 2011
The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the surrounding, it looks as if it did the last time we were up here.
Fortunately, I wake every morning to the most beautiful sun lit house. I sit on my porch sipping coffee, while I drink in an atmosphere that steals my breath away. Rolling hills lay before me that undulate until they crash into golden purple mountains. Oh how they are covered in spectacular fauna, ever blooming foliage, and trees that are heavy with pungent fruit. Green it is always so green here at my house. Here where the air lays heavy and cool on my skin as does the striking rays of the sun upon my cheeks. I know in my soul why I choose to be here every day. Pocketed in all the nooks and crannies of these valleys and hills are stately homes, rich with architecture resplendent. Diversity is the palate here; ...
As I depart from the kitchen, I walk into the living room. There is a terrifying ugly brown couch with a crocheted throw draped over it. Two more Lazy-Boy chairs sit by it. On the opposite side of the room from me is a stone fireplace with shelves built on either side of it. These shelves are filled with books on every topic one can think of. Subjects range from the Civil War to cooking and mechanics. Above the fireplace rests an old, dependable clock. As it strikes the hour with its dings and dongs, I know I am where I belong. I am home.
This area of the world is so foreign to my Oklahoma life; it infuses me with awe, and with an eerie feeling of being strongly enclosed by huge mountains, and the mass of tall trees. However, when my foot first steps onto the dusty trail it feels crazily magical. The clean, crisp air, the new smell of evergreen trees and freshly fallen rain is mixed with fragrances I can only guess at. It is like the world has just taken a steroid of enchantment! I take it all in, and embrace this new place before it leaves like a dream and reality robs the moment. As I turn and look at my family, I was caught by my reflection in their impressions. The hair raising mischief in the car was forgotten and now it was time to be caught up in this newness of life. It was as if the whole world around us had changed and everyone was ready to engulf themselves in it. The trickling of water somewhere in the distance and the faint noise of animals all brought the mountains to
...t the strange thing was that it wasn’t my cocoon of a home that I missed. I had created a new life in the few short weeks that I had lived in Flagstaff. I found a family in the friends that I made, and wanted to see them again, ask them about their weekends and simply make sure that everything that I made was still there.