And it Stoned Me

October 19th. I awoke to my phone alit with Facebook notifying me of a memory from exactly one year ago. It was a post from a friend that went something like this:

Uh oh, Chelsea is lost in Dublin. Where are you?!

A year passes, and an entire world of change has passed with it, and yet it seems I haven’t moved an inch. I’m still lost in Dublin. And the question remains: Where am I? Groggy eyed, I stared at my phone and drew a blank. I really haven’t a clue. A year ago, I was driving in circles around the greater Dublin area, reading a map that may as well have been upside down, but at least I had a destination. Now I just seem to be driving in proverbial circles, aimlessly. I know I’m a creature in need of instant gratification, and I’m told to hang on, ride it out, that I expect too much too fast. But I’m starting to think this city and I just don’t have what it takes. And I’m losing the will to keep trying.

Days later, following my existential facebook crisis, I had to register as a temporary Irish resident at the Irish Naturalization and Immigration Service. Having not paid attention at customs, I discovered that I was 18 days over the deadline to register; the consequence of which was potential dismissal from the country. As I sat, carelessly awaiting my fate, I scanned the room, in awe of the amount of people trying to reside in this place; even more in awe that I was one of them. After an hour, my name was finally called, prefaced by my nationality: Canadian national Chelsea Beamish, Desk 4. As the kind gentleman carefully eyed my passport and visa, I half hoped he’d refuse me and tell me I had to leave immediately. But he didn’t. Instead, he stated that I had 24 allowable months to remain in Ireland, and added excitedly that Canada is the only country that Ireland allows this long of stay.

“Lucky me.”

“Isn’t that great? Now Chelsea, are you married or single?”

“Single”

“Oh, that’s alright. You’ve got plenty of time to fall in love over here.”

I wanted to punch him in the face.

“Welcome to Ireland, Chelsea. We’re happy to have you. Now if you could just give us your card, that’ll be 300 euro.”

I just paid 300 euro to remain in a country that doesn’t agree with me. Using the phrase, kicking a man while he’s down, would be the understatement of the century. As I waited another hour to have my passport returned to me, stamped a prisoner of the Isle, I observed those around me. All in pairs. So that’s where I’ve gone wrong. Friends, brothers, housemates, lovers, husbands and wives with mixed race babies. Everyone in the room seemed to be coming here in couples. And then there was me. Facing this cold city solo. I consider myself a fairly independent person, but perhaps I never gave the weight of companionship enough thought. I guess I could openly say that I’m lonely here. Very much so. Lonely and lost. So, like any responsible adult faced with such a harsh reality would, I ran away. To London.

When I arrived in Londontown, dawn looming, eyes dreary, I instantly felt this incredible sense of relief; like I had been holding my breath for ages and was finally able to let it free. But with this long awaited exhale, came an even bigger urge to cry incessantly; a feeling I’d grown quite accustomed to these days, but this time on a much greater scale. It was this bizarre mixture of complete elation hung on the heartbreaking reality that it was merely temporary. With the airport behind me, I stood on the Northern Line platform, eyes welling with tears of both joy that I was home, and utter sadness knowing I’d only have to leave again.

I immediately wrapped myself completely in my city, taking in each falling, autumn leaf brushing the definitively hazy skyline, every english accent, and all the time I could with close friends and their words of encouragement. I soaked up every part of London that I missed and felt it rejuvenate the strength inside of me that had briefly been lost.  

Five days later, I would stand on the same platform, eyes still filled with tears but not with defeat. Nothing had changed. I still didn’t want to return to Dublin. My mind wasn’t cleared and renewed with a sense of determination to find hope and life in the city I ran from. What I was bringing back with me was a sense of satisfaction. A decisiveness and acceptance that this isn’t it. I had become ok with the fact that Dublin isn’t where I’m meant to be, and what followed was an overwhelming excitement that wherever it is that I am meant to be is still unknown. I no longer felt scared, nor did I resent this city for not giving me what I had expected. Instead, I was thankful that it had made its purpose in my life so painfully evident that it lit a nuclear explosion-- let alone a fire-- under my ass to explore whatever is next.

While hiding from Dublin in cosy Clapham, I kept hearing ads on the radio promoting tourism in Dublin, which at the time sent unnerving ripples through my skin and left me cringing. When I landed and made my way through customs with a flash of my Irish visa, the airport gates opened to a poster version of the same ad: words strewn across a landscape of calm waves skimming the edges of rolling hills against a grey sky that read,

Dublin is what happens in between

And there it was. In clear, bold print. Exactly what I needed to see, yet already knew. Dublin is my in between. The leap I must take to get from A to Me. To release me from my past and prepare me for the future of my next great something.

The moment I returned to my flat, I packed my things and moved out the next day.

I know less now about my future than I ever have. A week ago, this realization had me crying to the point of hysteria in the queue at the SuperValu check out, and on the 25a busline, and in front of a homeless man waiting to cross O'connell Street, and sat alone in the grass in Parnell Square holding a tear stained donut. Now it stirs something inside of me that is far more powerful than fear. When you get stripped to the bare bones of yourself and your situation, you discover you haven't a single thing to lose. And that, I believe, is when you begin to gain everything.

Not everything in life has to be substantial, or monumental; heartbreaking or life making. Some things are just merely stepping stones. And now that I have accepted Dublin for what it is, I can take a breath, and learn to enjoy it for however long it takes for the next stone to roll my way.