Instead, I drank a pint (or two) of Bulmers cider while my mom resolutely worked her way up to a Guinness at the end of our trip (”it’s better than at home. Not so chewy.”). I soaked up the ambiance in a dozen pubs across the country, while soaking up the rare opportunity to spend so much time with my mother.

Instead, I drove through the Irish countryside,white knuckled at times, as I slide to the left to let a rumbling tractor or tour bus pass on the right. Mom only made her sucked-in air sound that meant she was scared a few times, and gently reminded me I was driving on the wrong side of the road when I forgot where I was.

Instead, I enjoyed a million shades of green, and marveled that any place in the world could be so beautiful. I wondered if the Irish truly could appreciate this beauty, day in and out. The same could be asked of anyone anywhere.

So you’ll forgive me for not entertaining you with travel nonfiction. I was too busy enjoying life.

More pics.

We’ve seen world renowned churches (Westminster) and never-heard-of pubs (Murphy’s) and everything in between. We’ve gotten 15 minutes’ worth of Irish directions that got us even more lost, and we’ve had our ears talked off by 83-year-old Irish priests. All in all, it’s been a great start to our two weeks of Emerald Isle bliss.

This year, we visited The Discovery Cube in Santa Ana, Legoland (an overnight trip for the two), went camping in town, visited the Safari Animal Park, went to the beach, and lazed around playing video games. Yes, I did get some work done too! We’re going kayaking tomorrow to close out the month.

Doing just a few things a week took the pressure off of me to take off a week straight, and it kept everyone from snapping at one another from family overload.

When we travel, April is a great time, as most kids are in school and theme parks and cities are empty. Prices haven’t yet risen for the summer, but the weather’s still good.

And I like that his summer is just 6 weeks; having 3 months stretch out endlessly just isn’t imaginable anymore! Hooray year ’round!

Sometimes la vie quotidienne is taken for granted, like a solid block of mild cheddar. But good travel lingers with the senses like a morsel of artisanal chevre. I savor each crumble. The light dappling my face on a train as it glides through the south of France. The epiphany of my first five-course meal unfolding over some hours, punctuated by rich, gamey sauces and deep blushes of wine. The way my son’s eyes widened as he stood in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, unable to reconcile this real-world hulking behemoth with the pictures he’d seen in books.

All the feigned importance of your daily life is reduced to insignificance in this new place, in this new you. We think ourselves indispensable. We think if we step out of the picture frame of our designated roles to sample the nectar of another flower in a different garden, we’ll disrupt the world we’ve created for ourselves.

But I find that travel makes me more. More resilient, more observant and more grateful.

Lately I’ve found myself mourning the kind of person I’m not.

“I wish I were the kind of person who…”
* Understood the nuances of wine
* Liked to cook
* Always had delicious smelling candles around the house
* Easily kept said house clean
* Could write fiction

One day when I was having one of these wistful moments, The Hub said, “why can’t you be?”

It was an offhanded comment, but one I felt to be profound. The only person keeping me from being any of the things I’m not is…wait for it.. ME.

Huh.

I’m at an interesting place in my life because I’m ready to learn something. I’m ready for more challenges. To that point, I’ve long shied away from writing fiction because it scared me. As a child, I would start stories but never finish them. I guess I fear investing time in writing only to realize what I’ve written is crap, and give up.

Also I realize writing business copy for a living has tainted my creative flow. I haven’t written many good posts here, but I make the excuse that this is my journal, so it doesn’t have to be New York Times Bestseller material. But that is just a cop out.

I’m going to start writing for myself again, with no purpose in mind. I’ve bought oodles of candles that now fill my house with a blend of pleasant smells. I buy one food item each grocery trip that I have no clue how to cook. I’m pushing out of my comfort zone to find out who else I might want to become.

So that means I work a few hours a day now and then have the rest of the day free. For some reason, I feel guilty. I feel like I should be working. But I’m still getting paid, and I got the same amount done, so what’s the issue?

As the Hub says: I run a lifestyle business. What that means is I can work for 2 or 12 hours a day as needed. I can take off in the middle of the day to shop or pick up Max. I can take on projects that I like, and decline ones I don’t. I make enough to support my lifestyle, and I’m not breaking my back to do so.

Jealous much?  

I’ve come to realize I don’t want to build a million dollar marketing firm, at least not at this point in my life. And that’s ok. I can be aspirational in my own way, helping small business owners grow their companies through content. I don’t have to have a giant office with 20 employees to justify my own success.

I’m just telling myself this; not you. Don’t mind my talking to myself.

Photo: Torley on Flickr.

My massage therapist is like a bartender, I tell her. She asks about what’s going on in my life, and as I tell her all my woes, she finds my physical reaction in my body. It’s amazing, the connection between the brain and the body.

I’ve always carried my stress in my shoulders. But now I’m finding I have tight hips, so clearly I’m carrying it in other places.

After a particularly bad bout of stress, my therapist told me to envision a rose, and put the thing that’s stressing me inside the rose. Then blow it up. Watch the rose explode. I began practicing this immediately, and it seems to help keep me from tensing up quite so much.

The older I get, the more valuable I realize my body is. I want to take care of it now so I don’t end up a gnarled ball of tight muscles when I’m older.

Photo: bottled void on Flickr

I arrived a few days before the wedding, not because she needed help in prepping for the wedding itself (she got a lovely all-included package at the bed and breakfast where her new hubbie works), but to take some of the stress out of having more than a dozen family members descending on her home. I was glad I went early; I helped with tasks around the house (Mom, you know how much I hate dusting, so you know it was an act of love) and generally trying to make her job easier.

And when the family came? The fun began. I love my family, and don’t get to see them all enough. My grown nephews came with their girlfriends, making me realize it might be oh-too-soon before I’m attending one of their weddings. My pre-teen niece loved playing with Max. I loved drinking with my brothers and sister-in-law. Throw in a few pounds of boiled shrimp and wine and you have yourself a Cajun party. My new stepfather never knew what hit him!

The wedding itself was absolutely perfect. We couldn’t have asked for better weather, a better ceremony or better food. Everyone was so happy to see how glowing the newlywed couple was!

I’m so happy for my mom, and I welcome Len to our family. If you can eat crawfish, you can certainly hang with us!

I come from Cajun lineage, and I’m proud of it. I (now) eat crawfish, gumbo, etouffee. I didn’t used to. I didn’t understand the cuisine, nor care for it, but now I relish it.

I always complain that white Americans have no culture. Sure, we are a mixing pot of German, French, Italian and more, but we don’t share a common culture. Black Americans, on the other hand, do, by proxy of their struggling history. Since college, I’ve identified with being Cajun as my way of expressing my unique take on being American.

So when I come to the South, as I have this week, I enjoy the spoils of that heritage. Tonight, my mother, her fiance and I enjoyed a particularly delicious batch of crawfish. Cooked perfectly.  Spiced immaculately. Leaving  just the right bit of fiery cayenne residue on our hands. I am in Cajun bliss.

And I have to say: her fiance exceeded expectations. It’s not every non-Cajun who can handle tearing apart miniature lobster to get at the jewel of pink flesh inside, but he did gamely.

Never do I miss being Cajun more than when I’m right in the middle of it.