004 Her Name Was Ireland, It's Christmas, Catholic Church

She was me.

To my friend Jared,

I was born, Ireland Glen Adgate, into a January blizzard. It was the second time my mother gave birth and the last time a baby was delivered in the old hospital. My performance, from what I've heard, was impeccable and due to the swift closure of the facility we can assume I was a tough act to follow. The aforementioned first born, my brother Sterling, was quite upset when the news broke that he would not in fact get to name the baby. I can't imagine the betrayal he felt towards my mother in that moment. He was six years old. 

I was given the name Ireland on account of the fact that my parents liked it, and they were in charge. The second reason, the longer one, is as follows: 

Mom's mom died young. She had two kids by high school graduation and four by the age of 25, so things were running generally ahead of schedule but here I am sending this email, perfectly on time. She and my grandpa loved each other madly until the breast-cancer took her, although I'm certain his love continued long after that day and her's must have gone somewhere. In all of Earth's curious phenomena disappearing has yet to be discovered, after all.

Grandma Jude is buried on an island off the northeast coast of Lake Michigan alongside a family called the McDonoughs. The 551 population is of the island not the family, however you could see how those lines easily blur and the Irish-Catholic clan certainly has no shortage of cousins, each more prone to a good time than the last. Be it luck or fate, our families were brought together and although grandma and grandpa were summer folk not locals, they kept coming back and that was enough. So on the hillside cemetery accessible by foot, bike, or hitchhike, the McDonoughs gave Grandma Judy a plot to rest with their family and 11 years later, mom gave them a tribute. Her name was Ireland and she was me. She still is.

I could really keep going on the above, and I likely will. There's more story to tell and an underlying theme I'd like to get across on the identity shaping power that our names hold. All of this is inspired by you saying "peace Ida". You may be surprised to know that I've had quite a few nicknames, none of them as lovely as that (none of them really lovely at all...). I'm not sure if you were calling me Ida but I heard it that way and it felt very pleasant. Anyway, that's what got me thinking of my name...

Good luck with the fast today. Hopefully this email nourishes you while food cannot.

From,

Ireland

P.S. There's a book called Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow about some kids who make a very successful video game. I have mixed opinions but you should read it and make your own judgment. For now, I'll leave you with a quote:

There is no more intimate act than play, even sex.

---

Daniel,

Today is Christmas! I'm sure you knew that...

I was awake for the ball drop only because mom and I went to Christmas mass at 10pm and by the time my head hit the pillow it was about 12:05. Santa had not yet made an appearance.

I can remember every other time I've been to church in my life, all six of them, and if you want proof read the following adolescent takeaways:

1. Ornate mundanity.

2. All sleepovers hereafter should be scheduled on Friday nights not Saturday.

3. Am I not supposed to eat the cracker?

4. If the bad kids sit by the parents, where do the good kids sit? 

5. I'm not sure if God can hear you guys even with that microphone, this room is carpeted.

6. In this one, I saw the light. It could have been the New York summer heat, perhaps being a 14 year old ballet dancer prone to light-headedness had something to do with it... or maybe God himself was sending me a sign, but I didn't stick around to find out. I fainted and, on the arm of my friend, left.

We weren't a religious household and not one of the aforementioned church episodes were with family. All six were against my will, a label convenient when having to do anything you don't prefer under the age of 18, and the feeling of nauseous homesickness was second only to betrayal towards my parents. How could they let this happen? What wrong turn did they permit leading to these guilt ridden, drivers-ed esque, curtains up and I don’t know the choreography detentions??? Anyway, I've been wanting to go with my mom for a while because she used to go as a kid. She is a recent orphan and her spirit is very precious; it must be protected. So we went last night and prayed for some other people who lost their parents. 

Mom was very sensitive to my nerves and even offered me a bible to read on the way but I had to drive, so it didn't work out. Perhaps out of fear we both wore white and under my sweater I had to pull my skirt as low as possible so it covered my kneecaps. We weren't sure if those would be allowed or not but mom grew up in this town and according to her, she and the other girls would get hit by real nuns in this exact church for milder crimes than bare knees so I wasn't taking any chances. During The First Noel mom nudged my attention to a set of knees about 8 pews up and we never saw any hitting so... 

I didn't even see any nuns and maybe they save the punishment for after Jesus's birthday anyway. We had a similar policy in our house. I've found a bit of goodness myself recently and this trip also served as a science experiment, testing the hypothesis that if you believe in something you can hear it anywhere. 

Are you in Telluride for the new year? I have some dear friends teaching meditation there — I think you know Michael, and Luna is as lovely as her name suggests.

Merry Christmas,

Ireland

P.S. Please send snow, we are desperate. My inside-out pjs do not seem to be working and I skied on dirt this morning.