I liken the people to the place they were born and raised.
Geography is all.
Gorgeous Ireland. Close enough to the north pole, violent swerving winds castigate its landscape and its people, a very old piece of land without mountains to provide natural sources of shelter; the Irish are completely exposed to the elements, the cold rain, the relentless wind, the dark days whose light palette will vary between grayish blue and charcoal grey. A streak of light does break through here and there, mostly in the distance to warm somebody else’ backyard.
The Irish are depressed and if they aren’t, they should be.
So they dance and they sing their blues away.
The circles of nature inspire their ancient art
Which they weave into tight threads
The bareness across their landscape leaves them vulnerable to the whims of the gods above cos they have no place to hide…
Uncertain of what next day will bring ..
The need to fight for survival in this harsh environment grinds their senses ..
To ask the right questions is important to stay alive ..
Spirituality takes hold.
Given this scenario their best social security plan is to have children.
Done over the centuries this is their secret of life.
Pretty babies. Many babies.
For most the only option is to get out.
So, the only way to sustain this high turnover is to have even more children.
I was surprised to spot families of 6, not 4, as is common in most western countries.
The Irish believe that if they want to survive they must multiply!
The passionate agony of its people reflect the island’ temperamental weather, its bare rolling hills and cliffs and its small size. Creative, loving, possessive, subtle, affectionate, cold, spiritual, proud, wicked, expressive, cruel, tender, ruthless, humane, atrocious, loyal and tribal.
They are not English at all, at all…
Random New Yorker – 16/03/2013